Way Down South in Dixie

Now it's fiesta time in Akron, Ohio,
But it's back to old Guadalajara I'm longing to go.
Far away from the strikes of the A.F. of L. and C.I.O.
How I wish I could get back
To the land of the wetback,
And forget the Alamo,
In Old Mexico. Ole!

--Tom Lehrer

Teasel with Web in Morning Mist
Taken 9/28/07 near Scio Ohio

Well, I didn’t get to Akron, and the strike was the UAW, but the truth is I almost lost it in Ohio. As in ready to sell the Volvo and fly home lost it. Part of that was the weather. Part of it was a cheap motel bed. Most of it was three weeks on the road and still no closer to resolving my issues.

I had one goal for Ohio—Mount Vernon, the seat of Knox County. According to the genealogical records I have, my great-great-great-grandparents lived in Knox County in the 1840s and had the first four of their children in this central Ohio location. What I didn’t have was the name of my 4^th great grandparents. For the sake of simplicity, I’m going to refer to them as 3 and 4. 3 is William Spellman who married Celia McKown in 1842. They proceeded to have four children and then moved to northwestern Ohio. The 1850 census shows them all living in Defiance County, Ohio. My great-great-grandfather, William Allen Spellman, was born in Alliance, Ohio, in 1857. Alliance is in northeastern Ohio near Canton, and yes, Akron. The family moved around.

The major stumbling block I faced was that Ohio did not require any kind of legal documentation (birth records, marriage records, death records, etc.) before the end of the War Between the States. It’s all well and good to go hunting for bits of paper to prove lineage, but if those papers don’t exist, and NEVER existed, you’re pretty much SOL.

There was a Nathan Spellman who appears in the 1820 census in Coshocton County, Ohio, the county just east of Knox County. Inasmuch as one of the children of William (3) and Celia was named Nathan E, and inasmuch as the 1820 census shows that Nathan had two boys under ten, I made an educated guess that Nathan was 4 and father of William (3). Unfortunately, unless someone comes forward who has already done this research, I can’t prove a thing.

I did find two pieces of paper in the Knox County records. Nathan left a will which I read. He died in 1852 and left his estate to his unnamed wife and to one son, James. Not a word about any other children. This does not mean he had no other children. I already had found records that another ancestor had disinherited his entire family. It’s not unheard of. It could also be that Nathan had already given gifts to other children. Who knows.

The second paper I found was the written record the Justice of the Peace made when he married William (3) and Celia. This is major, especially since no record was required by law, but unfortunately, no parents were listed. Ohio records list the parents of the bridal couple only when those being married are under age. Still, I now know for certain that the marriage took place in Knox County.

Dome of the Coshocton County (Ohio) Court House
Taken 9/27/07 in Coshocton, Ohio

Driving across Indiana and now Ohio I had found that the roads bypassed the towns. This led to me driving across two states and never seeing a motel. Knowing that I was going to be spending a couple of days in Mount Vernon, I grabbed the first motel I saw, the Harcourt. I probably should have been concerned when the East Indian man who checked me in followed me to the room and kept asking if it was “ok.” All I want from a motel is a roof, clean sheets, and a bed. This room had all that, but the bed was so soft that by the second morning I could barely move. Everything that could hurt, hurt. My eyebrows hurt! This is not a condition I’m familiar with. It was at that point I felt like throwing in the towel.

I will also say that there may be good restaurants in Mount Vernon, but I didn’t find them. Breakfast was ok, but the coffee tasted like colored water. For lunch I stopped at an Italian restaurant that promised an “all you can eat” buffet. It has to be the worst Italian food I have ever eaten. One trip through the buffet line was more than enough. Dinner, purchased by an on-line friend, was Little Caesar’s pizza. I had wondered why everyone kept recommending the national chains. Now I knew.

On the other hand, I met wonderful people. After checking into the motel, I pulled the phone book out of the bureau and turned to the S section. There were eight listings for the name Spellman, four of them in Mount Vernon. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I called the first listing only to find that I was calling a widow who kept her husband’s name in the book. This is the same reason I still get calls in California asking for my father who died in 1988. The woman I spoke with was very helpful, but told me that she didn’t really know any family history. She suggested that I call her nephew, Larry.

Grave site of Daniel Decatur Emmett
Author of "Dixie"
Taken 9/26/07 in Mount Vernon, Ohio

Larry’s wife, Shirley, answered the phone and was very friendly. She had heard various family stories, some of which were the same stories I grew up with. We couldn’t prove anything, but my guess is that somewhere back in history, Larry and I share a common ancestor—maybe Nathan. Larry and I spoke on the phone, and he invited me to breakfast the next morning.

When Larry picked me up, he took me to a restaurant telling me that you could never count on getting a good meal. After breakfast, he took me on a tour of Mount Vernon, showing me the library, the records center and the main cemetery where his parents and his uncle are buried. We drove by the Rolls Royce factory. Rolls Royce? In Mount Vernon Ohio? Larry wasn’t sure what they did, but it was one of the largest factory compounds I’ve ever seen. He also showed me the grave of Daniel Decatur Emmett, Mount Vernon’s most famous native son. Emmett is the man who wrote the song “Dixie.” He was born and died in Mount Vernon. I’m not sure just when central Ohio became the “land of cotton,” but old times there are definitely not forgotten.

Larry retired from Flxible, the hearse and bus makers, and has enjoyed his retirement by traveling. He told me he was ready to continue on my journey with me. He also has become immersed in lapidary work, and pulled out a sample of bolo ties with polished stones. Handing me the bundle, he told me to take my pick. I now am the proud owner of a beautiful white and gold bolo with a polished pink granite stone.

Leaving Larry and Shirley, I headed to the Knox County Library where I found the reference librarians to be very friendly and helpful. The library had a good collection of Knox County histories and good genealogical records, but nothing that would help me either connect Nathan and William or disprove any connection.

After lunch, I headed to the Knox County Service Center where the Clerk and Recorder’s Office keeps all the old papers. The Genealogical Society also has an office in the center, and again the people were helpful, but my search was fruitless. The folks staffing the Genealogical Society office told me that on Thursday they would be in Newark, the seat of Licking County, and would be glad to help me with research there. Lots of Spellmans were active in Licking County history, and the third mill in the county was the Spellman Mill. One man, Timothy Spelman, was even involved in a scheme to print paper money back in the first part of the nineteenth century. Whether he was related to me or not, I have no idea.

One thing I did learn was that spelling is unimportant. I had been told this previously, but as every Spellman I know spells the name with two “l”s, I wasn’t sure if those who used only one “l” were actually related. Well both Nathan Spellman’s will and the marriage record I found for William and Celia, spelled the name with one “l.” Other records, including the census records used two. I guess back then people weren’t terribly concerned about spelling.

When I arrived in Mount Vernon, it was raining. Hard. There was lightning all across the sky. The rain continued off and on all the time I spent in town. I had a few moments when I would have been comfortable getting the camera out, but I didn’t take advantage of the dry moments. I’m sorry because the architecture in Mount Vernon is fascinating.

Newark had equally fascinating architecture, and equally hard rain falling, so since I could not find the library, I continued on to Coshocton where Nathan had appeared in the 1820 census. The library there was easily found but the reference librarian was a bit more suspicious than any I’ve ever met. She eventually let me into the “Local History” room with my notebook, and told me that Bonnie would help me. Bonnie did, indeed, help, and eagerly pulled book after book off the shelves searching in vain for any thing that might help my research. We found lots of Spellmans mentioned, but nothing of Nathan’s family. I’m about ready to give up.

The Serenity Tea Shop at 611 Main Street in Coshocton was everything I was looking for. Quiet, cozy, friendly, and a wonderful menu. I ordered the ham, mushroom, artichoke crepes with a cranberry salad and fresh-baked lemon bread. To drink I had a pot of Queen Catherine blend tea. Lord help me, it was all so good I had to order dessert too—half of which I left on my plate. The total bill, including tip, was a little less than $17.00.

There was even a floor show. The rain was falling so hard that the street in front of the tea shop (Steep Yourself in Serenity) flooded. It was great fun watching people pull up to the curb, get out of the car and sink calf deep in water. One woman we watched was walking barefoot up the street, holding one pump and feeling around in the deep water for the one that had washed off her foot. She never found it, as near as any of us in the restaurant could tell, and we all said “That poor woman” as we laughed at her dilemma.

First United Methodist Church
M.E. Church, built 1900
Taken 9/28/07 in Carrolltown, Ohio

I spent the night at the JJ Ranch south of Carroltown—the only gay guest ranch I’ve visited where I would be hard-pressed to find anything good to report. The ranch does have a nice hot tub, steam room and pool, and I took advantage of them all to work out the pain in my legs.

Friday morning dawned bright and clear, and as I was the only person alive in the campground for the first six hours, I took advantage of the weather and the solitude to do some hiking on Ohio’s back roads. Most of the pictures I took in Ohio were taken on this walk. Then it was back to the ranch to pack up, head out, and leave Ohio.

US 22 Bridge Crossing the Ohio River
Taken 9/28/07 in Steubenville, Ohio

I crossed the Ohio River at Steubenville, driving through Weirton, West Virginia and noting that Pittsburgh was only about forty miles distant. As West Virginia is only five miles wide at this particular point, I drove on into Pennsylvania, then headed south on Pennsylvania Highway 18, re-entering West Virginia east of Wheeling. I’ll save my West Virginia adventures for future “issues” of the blog. For now, I’ve spent entirely too much time boring you with my fruitless family searches.

Hoosier Daddy?

I have always been a wand'rer

Over land and sea

Yet a moonbeam on the water

Casts a spell o'er me

A vision fair I see

Again I seem to be

Back home again in Indiana,

--Ballard MacDonald and James Hanley

Sumac in full bloom
(I haven't seen Sumac since I was a child)
Taken 9/23/07 near Bloomington, Indiana

Leaving Priapus Pines, the Volvo turned east then north to catch US 50 at Xenia, Illinois. I have no idea why this particular small town rang a bell in my mind, but for some reason I was drawn to Xenia. Doing my best not to get lost in this town with three streets, I never quite figured out why the name seemed familiar.

Heading east on US 50, I crossed the Wabash and entered Indiana at Vincennes. If Illinois was mostly flat farmland, Indiana really felt (and looked) like suburbia. I’m sure there are plenty of farms across the state, but the routes I took seemed to be lined with houses, one after another.

Even though I had been seeing signs warning of horse drawn wagons ever since southern Iowa, I had yet to see any real Amish. That changed as I pulled into Bedford, Indiana. Two bearded men in a small buggy smiled at me as they headed in the other direction. I couldn’t say for sure that they were Amish, but they certainly had the look. I just wasn’t expecting them to smile. By the way, to date they are the only plain folk I have seen.

I left US 50 at Bedford and took Indiana state highways that led me through the Hoosier National Forest and across Monroe Lake, the main source of water for Bloomington, home of Indiana University. In keeping with my desire to avoid cities as much as possible, I passed through a bit of suburban Bloomington, and was back out in the country in no time. My goal for the night was Camp Buckwood, a gay men’s resort in central Indiana, located almost equidistant from Bloomington (to the west) and Indianapolis (to the north).

Lake Monroe Indiana
Taken 9/23/07 near Bloomington, Indiana

Before reaching Buckwood, I drove through Nashville then Bean Blossom. Nashville struck me as a community-wide tourist trap, similar to Jacksonville Oregon or Ferndale California, but on a grander scale. The architecture was certainly interesting, but there was so much artsy-fartsy hype every where I looked that I refused to stop and investigate things more closely. I’ve since been told that the town really is worth a visit, and that you can find good art amidst all the tourist kitch. I suppose I’ll have to go back sometime and see for myself.

Bean Blossom, on the other hand, is a wide spot in the road with a large opry house named for country music legend Bill Monroe. In fact, the highway passing between Nashville and Bean Blossom is the Bill Monroe Memorial Highway. Apparently the opry house has sold, and a big concern is whether it will keep Bill Monroe’s name.

Immediately after passing through Bean Blossom, I turned on the Spearsville Road. I had been given directions which indicated that I should follow the road for four miles to find the resort. All I can say is that is an awfully long four miles. Yes, my odometer agreed with the given directions, but it felt like a good ten or twelve miles on a regular road.

Upon checking in, I was given a set of instructions, or rules, governing conduct while at Camp Buckwood. The list had at least twenty items, and all of them were of the Thou Shalt Not variety. Damn, I was staying at gay resorts trying to get away from the fundamentalists. Eventually I found a campsite, and was able to get the tent up and the bed made before dark. Wandering around the circle of tents, I was welcomed by a handsome man visiting from Louisville, Kentucky. I’m not sure how long Michael had been at Camp Buckwood, and even he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d stay. I’d venture a guess, however, that he was going to spend at least a month camping in total. A retired English teacher who has lived most of his life in the Louisville area, Michael was a true southern gentleman, and immediately offered me both a chair by his campfire and my choice of mixing bourbon or sipping bourbon. I chose the sipping variety, and thus began what I think will be a long and close friendship. Other campers joined us at the fireside, and we talked into the night. One decision made was to drive into Morgantown for breakfast the next morning.

When I awoke, I found that Michael had been up for hours (and I thought I was an early riser). I also learned that Derrick and Lincoln were going to join us as well. Hmm, Michael’s car was even more heavily packed than mine. Oh well, just pull out the big stuff, throw everything else in the area behind the rear seats and we’ll all fit. In Morgantown, Michael directed us first to a family-style restaurant—the kind where the farmers all meet over coffee each morning. Once we were seated in the “smoking area” (What? They still allow smoking in restaurants? I thought my experience back in Minnesota was an anomaly.) The waitress immediately came to our table with a large glass of orange juice for Michael, and a smile and menus for the rest of us. It seems Michael is practically a regular at this particular restaurant. I noted that Michael had directed us to the table under the sign “Grumpy Old Men.”

Portions were large, and the orange juice was considered part of the breakfast. I finally pushed my plate away telling myself that I don’t care how many children are starving in Ethiopia. I don’t have to clean my plate. Actually, in some respects I am lucky in that regard. Mother never threatened me with starving children. The warning I got was that the only way to have a clear day “tomorrow” was to clean up my plate today. Yes, it was still a guilt trip, but one that eventually you realize you can live with. After all, maybe it’s a way of doing something about the weather, instead of just talking about it.

Back at the campground, I grabbed the laptop and headed for the pool—one of the few places where electricity was available. Yep, that’s right. Let’s have electricity available where there’s lots of water. I was able (barely) to catch up with some e-mail, but the glare on the screen was so bad that I feared I was going to ruin my eyes. There was just no way I could work with my photographs in this setting.

Air temperature was in the 90s, and I found myself putting a towel over the computer and climbing into the pool every few minutes. Eventually I gave up on the computer altogether, and packed it back into the car. What’s the use in fighting the elements. The pool was cool and refreshing, and much more interesting than anything that could possibly be discerned through the glare of my screen.

Real, Honest-to-God, Indiana Farmland
Taken 9/25/07 off Indiana Highway 44

This being Monday, there were only a few “campers” left at the resort, and two of them were day-trippers—arriving in the morning and leaving in time to return home before evening. Most of these men were Camp Buckwood regulars, and quickly let me know that the no-no rules were really there to be broken, and were honored more in the breach than taken terribly seriously. I was able to relax and enjoy myself after all.

I’d like to be able to talk more about the resort, but frankly there’s a lot there I just didn’t see. Tuesday morning the sky was threatening, and as I packed up, I ended up throwing things into the car in an attempt to get the tent down and safe while it was still dry. As I closed the tailgate, the rain began. It followed me the rest of the way across Indiana and into Ohio.

Leaving Buckwood (which, by the way, the resort owners spell as Camp BUCKwood), I drove north to catch Indiana Highway 44, which I then followed on east and out of the state. I had become used to seeing signs for United Methodist Churches every few miles, but in Franklin, Indiana, I passed the Franklin United Methodist Community. The web tells me that this is a retirement home, which is what I had assumed, but I’d never heard of any such thing before—at least not referred to as a “community.”

I had lunch at Don and Dona’s Restaurant and Bar. Don and/or Dona apparently is in some fight with the local authorities, and there were various petitions to sign and news articles to read. Not being a local, and not likely to ever find my way back to this particular establishment, I ignored it all, and set up my laptop on the table while waiting for lunch. Meanwhile it continued to rain, at times hard, and people ducked into doorways as they made their way down the street.

From Franklin, I passed through Shelbyville, Rushville, Connersville, and eventually Liberty—each the seat of their respective counties. In keeping with my penchant for photographing government buildings, I took shots of the respective courthouses as I passed through town, stopping finally in Liberty, the seat of Union County, and the last town in Indiana on route 44.

Union County (Indiana) Court House
Double click on image to view full screen and see the carvings
Taken 9/25/07 in Liberty, Indiana

The Union County Court House was an attractive stone building with some amazingly carved details. It also had two cannon at the front corners of the square, memorializing the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR)—the Union forces in the War Between the States. As I circled the building, capturing another United Methodist Church in the process, I noticed a young man grooming the Court House lawns. At the back of the building, he approached me and asked, “Taking pictures?” I fought down the urge to be snide, and told him “Yep.” He asked if I were “from these parts,” and I allowed as how I was from Montana. That got him going. He wondered what Montana was like? Did we have a lot of trees? What was hunting like? He liked to hunt, and would really like to hunt elk and bear in a place like Montana. But just as I was having trouble adjusting to the deciduous forests in the Midwest, I couldn’t make him understand what a coniferous forest was like.

Then the conversation took a turn that had me depressed for the rest of the day. I’m going to share it with you. Why should I be depressed all by myself? Two weeks previously, this young man had enlisted in the Marine Corps, and was waiting to be sent to Missouri for basic training. Now don’t get me wrong, I think service to country is an admirable thing. It’s just that at this present time and place, I feel that enlisting in any branch of the military is most likely a one-way ticket to Iraq or Afghanistan. I did not share my concerns with the young man, however. He wants to be part of the Special Forces, “They’re the best.” I asked if I could take his picture and asked him to stand by one of the GAR cannon. I showed him the picture on the camera’s viewscreen, and he responded “that’s ok.” I left him to his work, climbed back in the Volvo, and headed for the Ohio line. I’m still depressed when I think of him and all our young people being sent to fight a senseless, and seemingly endless, war.

Cannon Fodder
Taken 9/25/07 in Liberty, Indiana

I don’t have an answer for this particular Pottery Barn war we’ve gotten ourselves into. I fear that any immediate withdrawal will mean the certain destruction of Iraq as that country gives in to its own particular demons. But I hate the thought of us being there for the rest of my lifetime, as I fear will be the case. I want my country back—without the ignorance and hubris, a most dangerous combination.

By the way, Hoosier refers to a person from Indiana. There are many suggested etymologies for the word, but no one seems to know for sure what exactly the word means. Most versions seem to suggest that the term was at first derogatory and has been taken over as a term of pride. People from Montana are Montanans. People from Oregon are Oregonians. People from New York are New Yorkers, but people from Indiana are Hoosiers. Go figure.

The Rhythm of the Road

There are human societies so simple and unadorned as to possess no clothing other than the loincloth, no tool other than the stick or stone, no permanent dwelling place, no carving or other plastic art. But nowhere on this planet can you find a people without music and dance.

--George Leonard, The Silent Pulse: A Search for the Perfect Rhythm That Exists in Each of Us. E.P Dutton, New York, 1978.

The Missouri State Capitol Building
(Click to enlarge, then tell me what the statue is on top the dome)
Taken 9/21/07 in Jefferson City, Missouri

I was late getting out of my motel room in Columbia, Missouri. Fortunately check out was noon. I had not done my writing the night before, so even though I awoke at my usual 6:00 a.m., it was still almost 11:30 before I handed in my key and turned the Volvo back onto the road. If you’ve been following my travels, you know that I have done my darndest to avoid the interstate highway system. According to my map, I could cross the city on Providence Avenue which fronted my motel, and meet up with US 63 on the far side of town. Driving south, I saw the Café Berlin (and yes, they used the acute accent), which promised international cuisine. Pulling into their parking lot, I grabbed a book I had purchased in one of the used bookstores in Rapid City, South Dakota, George Leonard’s The Silent Pulse. I had first come across Leonard as an undergrad when his book Education and Ecstasy grabbed my attention. Seeing his name on the shelves of a Rapid City bookstore, I jumped at the chance to renew our acquaintance.

The Café Berlin offered several different coffee and tea drinks, as all such places do these days, and the breakfast menu had a compendium of various egg dishes. I chose “Menemen Turkish Eggs” which turned out to be three eggs scrambled with cherry tomatoes, onions, green pepper, and feta cheese. Four slices of pita bread were also on the plate. It didn’t resemble anything I had eaten for breakfast in Turkey, but it was good. While waiting for my food to come out of the kitchen, I picked up Leonard’s book, and opened to page one. After a quote from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, chapter one began with the paragraph I quoted above. I was hooked. The final sentence in that paragraph spoke to something deep within me. “But nowhere on this planet can you find a people without music and dance.”

I have often said that there are three things important in life: eating; dancing; and some third thing that begins with “s.” At times I have felt that dance was the only thing important in life. My greatest regret is that I never pursued a dance education, but then, as my father always told me, “Men don’t dance.” Oh poppa!

My eggs were delivered to my table, and I put the book down. I then noticed a card on my table—one that was on every table in the café. The card convinced me that I was in the right place. Let me repeat it verbatim here.

Welcome to

Café Berlin

We want you to know what you are
paying for when you buy a meal here at
the Café.

Our coffee is fair-trade organic, our
milk and meats are local, the soda we
offer is free of high-fructose corn syrup
(so is our pancake syrup and our
jams!), and we use as many local fruits
and veggies as we can get!

Our food may take longer to get to your
table than some other places, but it is
prepared to order with love by our
staff (who are paid a living wage), so it
is always fresh.

You should feel good knowing that your dollars
Spent here are supporting our community.

We love you!

OK. I’m a sucker for a good line, and that was a great one. As I listened to the customers around me, it became apparent that I was in a place filled with “regulars.” These people apparently loved the Café Berlin as much as the staff of the café loved them. And the food was good.

Having finished “brunch,” I drove through downtown Columbia and off into a gated community by a large lake. Minnesota may be the land of 10,000 lakes, but Missouri certainly has an abundance of them. The homes in this area were large and well maintained, as befits the covenants undoubtedly in force here. Beyond the fancy homes, I found myself driving through a conservation area. I’ll have to come back and spend time in Columbia. Between the colleges, the green spaces and at least one very good restaurant, this is a place worth spending some time.

First United Methodist Church
Taken 9/21/07 in Jefferson City, Missouri

US 63 is not part of the interstate system, but I had four lane divided road for the entire way from Columbia to Jefferson City. Chatting on line the night before with a fellow from Jefferson City, he suggested that I be sure and get a view of the capitol building from the riverside. Missouri’s state capitol dominates the skyline, built on a hill overlooking the Missouri River. Across the street were the grounds of the Governor’s mansion. Several other architectural marvels were within walking distance. I parked the car in a free zone (amazing! free parking across from the capitol?), grabbed my camera and started walking. All that slowed me down were the steep hills all around me and the heat. It had to be close to 90 out, and the humidity was getting to me as well. Still, I walked for several blocks getting the historic First United Methodist Church, the modern First Baptist Church, and the Cole County Court House. The sidewalks had several well tended flower beds per block and what I saw of the town was neat, well cared for, and visually fascinating. I would definitely like to spend more time in Missouri’s capitol city, and if anyone would care to serve as Native Guide, I’d jump at the chance to learn more about this town.

I had reservations in central Illinois for the night, so back in the car, fill the tank, and, oh no. The key won’t turn in the ignition. This has been an intermittent problem, and the guys at Swede One know that when I return to Portland, they’re going to have to replace the ignition cylinder. This is a major operation, and involves ordering the part direct from Sweden where the cylinder has to be matched to my car’s VIN. It takes at least three weeks once the part is ordered. My only concern is that I finish the trip and make it back to Portland with no further complications.

After what seemed an eternity, and several tries at taking the key out, turning it over, reinserting it, opening the door, locking all the locks, unlocking all the locks, etc. The key finally turned and the ignition took. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled away from the gas pumps and headed east.

So far I hadn’t seen any flat land in Missouri, and the hills were beginning to get even steeper. Deciduous forests are a novelty to me—they don’t exist in the West—and everywhere I looked were trees in full leaf, with some just beginning to turn color. This bodes well for my chances of seeing a real fall spectacular once I get to West Virginia. I was on US 50 heading toward St. Louis, and driving along the Gasconade Ridge. Passing one sign, I wondered whatever would possess someone to offer, as the sign did, “Bland Antiques.” Well, sure, I think antiques are pretty bland, but I’d bet my friend John in Missoula wouldn’t agree with me.

The side of the tractor/trailer rig next to me
They look so young. Why are we sending them off to be killed?
Taken 9/21/07 in East St Louis, Illinois

As I got closer to St. Louis I noted that there is no way to cross the Mississippi unless you’re on an interstate. Truth to tell, I was getting tired of driving through endless suburbs at 35 mph, so when US 50 merged with I-44, I gladly got on the highway and accelerated to the posted 70 mph.

No, I didn’t stop in St. Louis, and in some respects I’m sorry. The city has lots to offer and I will return. For now, however, my trip isn’t about cities. I crossed the Mississippi and the Illinois state line, and saw the Arch only from a distance.

Central Illinois as seen from Illinois Highway 161
Taken 9/21/07

Priapus Pines, the clothing optional gay male campground where I would be spending the weekend is about 60 miles east of Saint Louis off Illinois Highway 161. Driving east on this two lane road I finally was in flat land. There are the occasional hillocks, but for most of the drive I was crossing farm land that stretched on as far as could be seen. I was beginning to wonder if the only crops grown in America are corn and soybeans. Since I left the sunflower fields of South Dakota, all I have seen are corn and soybeans, corn and soybeans, and then more corn and more soybeans. This worries me as much as the monoculture vineyards that are taking over California.

Which reminds me. In Iowa, my hosts had pointed out vineyards south of Des Moines, or rather they told me that there were vineyards “over there.” In Missouri, and now in Illinois, I saw signs indicating that down this road is a vineyard, but I haven’t seen a single grape arbor since I drove through Kennewick Washington almost three weeks ago. Then again, I haven’t heard anything about tasty Iowa, Missouri or Illinois wines. They haven’t filled the shops in the stores I visit.

Driving through Centralia, Illinois, population 14,000, I looked in vain for a Wells Fargo Bank ATM, but no luck, so I paid the $2.00 fee and got my cash from some other bank. Priapus Pines is just twenty miles east of Centralia, and I arrived in time to get my tent set up before dark. The campground consists of 60 secluded acres with lots of trees (mostly oak), lots of very loud insects, lots of ants, and a great deal of privacy. I’ve been alone and naked for twenty-four hours now, and have enjoyed the hot tub this morning (Saturday) and the pool this afternoon. I’ve finished one book, and started another. I’ve had the place to myself. It’s quite a change from the week I spent at the Raccoon River Resort, and there’s nothing here that makes me feel “at home.” Still, it’s a lovely spot, and I can see how I could do something very similar with my land in Montana.

There is no cellular service here, either for my phone or for the internet, so I’ll have to wait to post this until I can get a good signal. That will be sometime tomorrow (Sunday), for unless something extraordinary happens tonight, I’ll be heading on into Indiana once I’m up in the morning.

Yes, I am camping!
Priapus Pines Campground
Taken 9/22/07 near Iuka, Illinois

By the way, it’s now officially fall and the weather is dry and warm—around 90. I miss the coolness of the coast.

Across the Wide Missouri

Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

--Traditional

One of the Bridges of Madison County
Not one that's in the book
Taken 9/20/07 at Margaret Guye County Park
Madison County Iowa

Thursday, September 20^th, 2007

By 9:30 the car was packed, I had said my goodbyes, and was on the road, leaving the Raccoon River Resort after a delightful six days. I almost cried. It felt like I was running away from home. The first line of the song Iowa Stubborn (which song gives us the “Join us at the picnic” line I used in my write up of the Tom Harkin’s Steak Fry) are “There’s nothing half-way about the Iowa way to greet you,” and that had certainly been my experience. Everyone I had met while staying at the Resort went out of his way to make me feel a part of the group.

My goal for the day was to visit the Court House in Carrollton, Missouri, which my Garmin Etrex Legend GPS receiver told me was less than two hundred miles away—if you’re flying with a crow. I, however, was riding with a middle-aged Volvo and my mileage would vary. After stopping in Adel to wash the car, I turned back onto US 169 and headed south to Winterset, the birthplace of cowboy actor John Wayne. Winterset is also the seat of Madison County—where all the bridges are. I would see some of the bridges of Madison County as I had programmed several geocache waypoints into my GPS unit.

Wayne’s birthplace is a rather non-descript house on a corner lot. There are brown highway signs directing you to the location, but I would have missed the place altogether were it not for the long line of fans waiting to go through. Immediately I was transported back to Efes in Turkey. Legend has it that after the Crucifixion, St. John took Mary to Ephesus where she lived out the rest of her life. Gary and I had stood in a similar line waiting to go through Mary’s house, and once inside we were herded along by a nasty little priest who kept barking out “No pictures,” and “Keep moving.” I hope the Wayne fans got more for their money. I didn’t stick around to find out for myself.

A More Traditional Bridge of Madison County
Taken 9/20/07 in Winterset Iowa's City Park

Instead, I headed for the City Park where a virtual geocache promised a spectacular view of the countryside. I should probably explain that a geocache is something that has been hidden. The person hiding the cache then notes the geographical co-ordinates for the hiding place, and uploads those to the Web. Geocachers such as myself go to www.geocaching.com and make a note of those co-ordinates. In fact, I connect my GPS unit directly to my laptop and download the co-ordinates into my GPS receiver. These co-ordinates are called “waypoints.” You can, of course, enter the information manually, but as a waypoint looks like this: N 41° 19.197 W 094° 00.249, there’s lots of room for error in the data entry. One typographical error can send you off on a wild goose chase. I speak from experience. Most caches have some sort of container which contains a log where you note that you’ve found the cache. You also go on-line and record your find there as well. The owner of the cache compares the on-site log with your on-line notation to keep people from claiming to have found caches they have never visited.

A virtual cache has nothing hidden and no log. Its purpose is to get people to see things, visit places, or learn local history. As an example, a virtual geocache in my hometown, Missoula, Montana, is located at the Missoula City Cemetery. Its name is “Sky King’s Final Landing Site,” and it is the tomb of the actor who starred in the 1950s television show, Sky King. To prove that you have actually been to the cemetery and seen the stone, you are asked to e-mail the cache owner with the name on the tombstone just to the right of the one you’re looking for.

The cache in the Winterset City Park was a virtual cache which required driving a long, narrow, steep dirt road (there are hills in Iowa) emerging at the top by a stone tower built by early residents. If you climb the tower, you can see for miles across the rolling, wooded hills of Madison County. In another couple of weeks, the colors should be phenomenal as this is all deciduous forestland. The dirt road had many puddles from recent rains. So much for washing the car back in Adel.

The Hills of Madison County
Taken 9/20/07 in Winterset Iowa's City Park

Not too far south of Winterset is the wide spot known as Lorimor. A highway sign informs you that Lorimor is the divide between the Missouri and the Mississippi Rivers. I suppose that some place has to be.

South of Lorimor is Afton, where I saw the first of several signs warning me to watch for horse-drawn vehicles. All the farmyards I passed seemed to have large pickups in the drive, but I suppose the Amish could be hiding out somewhere in the back country. I also passed a business just east of Afton whose name gave me pause: Still Living Taxidermy. Maybe it’s just me, but I’d prefer any taxidermy to be done on critters that are already dead.

Afton is also home of the Sugar and Spice Café where I stopped for lunch. It was immediately obvious that everyone in the place knew everyone in the place, except for me. Every person turned to stare at me as I walked through the door. I began to wonder if I’d grown a second head. But the people were very friendly, and I joked with the waitress, asking for her recommendation. She admitted that she hadn’t had the day’s special, a roast pork dinner, but she’d heard it was good. Several people chimed in to tell me that it was, indeed, very tender and tasty. I ordered it, along with Iced Tea and a piece of coconut cream pie. The total, including tip, came to $11.01. Such a deal. And it was both tender and tasty. It’s just a guess, mind you, but I think the cook was also the owner, and probably a relative of my waitress. I asked them which one was Sugar and which Spice, and before the cook could say a word, the waitress told me she was “spicy.”

Forty some miles south of Afton, I crossed the Missouri State Line. (That’s what their welcome sign said, “Missouri State Line.”) No welcome, no state motto, nothing but a statement of fact. Driving south on US 169, I had noted that Minnesota was kept like a country club. Every blade of grass was cut to exact specifications. God forbid that anything be out of place. Crossing into Iowa, the landscape looked “lived in.” Now, having crossed into Missouri, things looked unkempt. Judging simply by what one sees off US 169, I’d say that Iowa is not as prosperous as Minnesota, and that Missouri is on the way to being poor. Had I stayed on that highway, I’d have driven through St. Joseph, Kansas City, and eventually ended up in Tulsa Oklahoma.

The Aliens are Landing
Wind Turbines on the Farm
Taken 9/20/07 at King City Missouri

Since I was heading east this trip, I turned off US 169 and began my acquaintance with Missouri back roads, most of which seem to be designated with letters, not numbers. I took Highway D until I turned off on Highway E, for example. Looking at my watch, I decided to skip the last three geocaches I had programmed into my GPS unit, as I wanted to get to the Carroll County Court House before it closed at 5:00 p.m. I didn’t expect to be able to do any research, but at least I should be able to find out if it would be worth my time coming back in the morning.

I arrived in Carrollton, the Carroll County seat, about 4:40 p.m. It wasn’t hard to find the Court House. The largest structure in town, it towers over the city and can be seen from miles away. It also closes at 4:30 p.m. There were a couple of women chatting on the sidewalk—women I judged to be clerks working in county government, so I asked them how far back the records go. Birth records go back to 1883, I was told.

I’ve often said that the song “Shenandoah” is the story of my great-grandfather. Born in a family who had settled in the Shenandoah Valley in the 1600s, Henry L. Stephens left that part of Virginia sometime after 1850 to move to Carroll County, Missouri. The family lost several children at birth, but the oldest of my grandfather’s surviving sisters was born in Carroll County in 1857 and was named Virginia Missouri Stephens. If the Court House birth records only go back to 1883, there would be no sense in me waiting around. The women directed me to the public library which has a good genealogical collection, but while I found plenty of mentions of folks named Stephens, I found nothing on my own family.

Great-grandpappy didn’t linger in Carroll County. By the time of the 1860 census he was back in Virginia, this time in the Ohio River Valley, on a farm near the city that would become Parkersburg, West Virginia in 1863. I didn’t linger either. If I wasn’t going to find records to add to my genealogical collection, then there was no purpose to staying—not while I had daylight and miles to travel.

Crossing the Wide Missouri
Taken 9/20/07 in Miami Missouri

I set Columbia as my next goal, and perused the map looking for ways to get across the state without taking the Interstate Highway System. As most roads leading into Columbia are interstates, this turned into an interesting venture. I crossed the Missouri first at Miami (Miami Missouri that is), then again at Glasgow (no, not Scotland). Fayette, the next town east of Glasgow, is the home of Central Methodist University and Linn United Methodist Church, which sits on the campus of the University. If not the largest UMC I’ve ever seen, Linn is certainly the most ornate, looking like it would be more at home as an Anglican Cathedral in England than a college-town church in Missouri. The homes in Fayette were also large, beautiful, and altogether in keeping with a college town atmosphere. They looked about a hundred years old, but I don’t pretend to be an architectural historian.

East of Fayette, I turned onto Highway E (my second Highway E) which led me past country-club type homes into the northeastern corner of Columbia. This is the first place I’ve seen evidence of current capital in Missouri. Mind you, it’s also the second largest city I’ve been in since I left Missoula two weeks ago. Columbia claims a population of 84,000, and is the home of Columbia College, Stephens College, and the University of Missouri. It was getting dark as I approached town, and as I was feeling both hungry and very tired, I pulled into a strip mall to check the map. The question would be whether I would stay in Columbia, or press on to Jefferson City. None of the restaurants in this particular mall looked terribly appealing, but I ordered a sandwich and Iced Tea, and sat down to contemplate the immediate future. The sandwich helped with my hunger, but it did nothing to make me less tired, so I pulled into the Red Roof Inn where the desk clerk quoted me a rate ten dollars lower than what the AAA Tour Book said. I took the room.

Tomorrow it’s Jefferson City, Missouri’s capitol, doing my best to skirt St. Louis and still avoid the interstates, and crossing into Illinois. I have reservations at the Priapus Pines campground for tomorrow night, and I’ll be spending the weekend there. I have no idea whether I’ll have any internet access or not, so, be patient. I’ll be back on line at some point with further adventures from my travels.

Join Us At The Picnic

But what the heck, you're welcome,
Join us at the picnic.
You can eat your fill
Of all the food you bring yourself.
You really ought to give Iowa a try.
Provided you are contrary...

--Meredith Willson

Snaking our way through Indianola
(By this time, we had parked and were walking)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

Each year, the Des Moines Register sponsors a bike ride across Iowa designed to prove that the state is not flat. Having driven a little more than half way across the state myself, north to south on US 169, I can vouch for the fact that there are definitely hills in this state. Sitting on the front porch of the Raccoon River Ranch, the horizon is quite close due to the tree covered hills across the river. Because of my work with BikeCentennial years ago, I was familiar with RAGBRAI (the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa). In fact, RAGBRAI and all the trouble in River City was all I knew about Iowa before crossing the state line. Well, that and the importance this state has in the early stages of presidential election campaigns.

Iowa is the smallest state west of the Mississippi. With just shy of three million Iowa residents, there are twenty-nine states that have a larger population. Yet every four years, Iowa becomes the most important state in the country for those wanting to be President. As it turns out, I’m not the only person visiting the state this week. Sunday I had the chance to rub elbows with six different presidential wannabees.

For the past thirty years, Senator Tom Harkin (D, Iowa) has hosted a fund-raiser called “The Steak Fry.” In 2006, Barak Obama attended the Steak Fry and had such a positive response that he decided to run for President. The 2007 Steak Fry was held on Sunday, September 16^th, and I attended it. It was the first major political gathering I’ve attended since the 1964 Republican Convention in San Francisco. Yes, I’m that old.

Six presidential candidates attended the Steak Fry this year: Obama was back, with a reported 3,000 supporters attending with him; New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson; former North Carolina Senator and Vice-Presidential candidate John Edwards; and Senators Joe Biden (Delaware), Chris Dodd (Connecticut), and Hillary Clinton (New York). A reported fifteen thousand tickets were sold to the event at $30.00 each, and the crowd was estimated at over twelve thousand. I couldn’t say, I didn’t count either the people or the money.

A few (very few) of the political signs we saw
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

My host at the Raccoon River Resort, Harold Wells, is heavily involved in local Democratic Party politics and is a part of STAR*Pac dedicated to stopping the arms race. Because Harold was expecting to staff the STAR*Pac table, we left the river early in the morning, stopping briefly in Des Moines.

The event is held on a field set aside for hot air balloons just east of the town of Indianola, Iowa. Indianola has fourteen thousand residents and is located sixteen miles southeast of Des Moines. The Steak Fry was scheduled to begin at 1:30, and we hit the city limits of Indianola at 11:45, which should have given us plenty of time to get to the balloon field, set up the STAR*Pac table, and get our bearings. Instead, we hit a solid wall of traffic. Two hours later we were still crawling along Main Street, not even having reached the cross road we needed to take to reach the Steak Fry. It became a game watching the people in the cars in front and behind us, and wondering what they were doing to pass the time. We were in the left hand lane, knowing that eventually we were going to have to turn left, and we watched many, many drivers pass us in the right lane, only to sneak into the left as a light changed. “Cheaters,” we yelled out. “That’s not ethical!”

Over two hours after driving into Indianola, we turned onto Iowa highway 92 and headed east toward the balloon field. Traffic was still crawling, and we began to see cars making U-turns and heading back toward town. We also began seeing people walking up the hill. Some we saw park their cars in front of businesses closed for Sunday. We wondered if we shouldn’t do the same.

By the time we reached Indianola High School, we were tired of moving one car length at a time, and decided that it couldn’t be that much further. We parked the car in the school’s parking lot and began to walk ourselves. As we encountered people, we’d ask how much further. The answer was always “one mile.” No matter how far we walked, we always had “one mile” ahead of us.

This donkey apparently supports John Edwards
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

We also met people walking back downhill. “Aren’t you going the wrong way?” we’d ask. “We ran out of time,” one group answered. “We’ve already been there,” said another. One group, wearing Obama stickers, told us they’d been to the rally and didn’t feel the need to stay for the bigger event. We trod on.

Three hours after we first entered Indianola, we handed our tickets to the gate keeper and entered the balloon field. I noticed a few of the cars we had seen around us in the parking lot, but they were in the section most recently filled. In other words, we could have stayed in the car and arrived about the same time as we did walking—but we would have burnt a lot more gasoline.

Once on the grounds, we saw tables full of volunteers for all of the presidential candidates, several local candidates, and various progressive groups. People were wearing stickers for Hillary, for John Edwards, for Obama, and some were wearing stickers for all three. On the way through town we drove through a gauntlet of political curb signs. Hillary won that battle hands down, but John Edwards had the most (and the cutest) volunteers leading cheers on various street corners. Obama had few curb signs, but his large signs promising “HOPE” were visible throughout town.

After our hike (not to mention the two and a half hours we were captive in traffic), we were ready for food and drink. That meant getting in a new line, but we found the shortest line and in little time we had baked beans, potato salad, a roll and either steak or chicken. The drinks table had water, lemonade and, my favorite, Iced Tea. Another booth was giving out free beer, but solicited donations. They ran out of beer fairly quickly. Yet another booth was selling soft drinks. There was no reason for anyone to go away hungry or thirsty.

With that crowd, however, you could forget about getting very close to the candidates, although I did read later that at one point the candidates were flipping steaks on the grills. Apparently one of the servers told Hillary that while the beef was all from Iowa, the chicken came from Arkansas.

Listening to Hillary
(Double click to see this full screen. Hillary is talking
and the other candidates are seated on the platform in front of the flag.)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

Having eaten, we felt the crush of time. Harold was supposed to introduce Obama to a crowd gathered at a church in Des Moines, and we still had to get back to our car and then back to Des Moines. Fearing that we may be caught in another traffic jam, we spoke with a few folk while heading back toward the parking lot.

Along the way, we were able to hear Hillary speak about how she was not going to wait for the inauguration (should she be elected), but would put together a group of ambassadors immediately after the election. These people she would send around the world to let it be known that “the era of cowboy diplomacy is over.” The crowd roared their appreciation.

Chris Dodd stated that as a father of two small children, he is the only candidate who gets solicitations from both AARP and diaper services. As we headed out the gate, John Edwards began his speech, but I wasn’t able to hear any of it.

Debatable.
(The shirt says "Best Ass on Campus)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

We were not looking forward to the hike back to the High School and the car, but Harold wasn’t at all concerned. He knew we’d be able to hitch-hike back, and sure enough. The second couple he spoke with was not only willing to help us out, but were headed to the same meeting Harold was trying to get to. We had a good conversation with our Samaritan helpers, and were back to our car in nothing flat. Good thing too as my knees were beginning to let me know that I’m out of shape.

As we drove back into town I realized that as good an opportunity as I was offered—the chance to meet Barak Obama and shake his hand—I would probably fall asleep during the meeting. Keeping that in mind, we dropped Harold at the church and Fred took me on a driving tour of Des Moines.

All in all it was a day I wouldn’t have missed. Reading Monday’s Washington Post on-line, I saw an article about the Steak Fry and was able to crow “We’re in the Washington Post!” Well, we were at an event that made national news. That’s close enough.

An evening in the hot tub followed by bed made for an almost perfect day. It’s all about being in the right place at the right time.