Welcome to Forgotonia

Things I Love About Davenport, cont’d:

2)… and just a few feet down the street, you can pick up some beauty supplies…or maybe not.

1. That you can pick up a bottle of black vinegar (as Chris and I often do here) and an inflatable Pooh, if you should so choose, in one stop.

Midnight Assassin: A Murder in America’s Heartland by Patricia L. Bryan and Thomas Wolf

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

My holiday/vacation/part-time-employment-status reading blitz continues!

I was intrigued by this book from the moment I heard about it, not only because it takes place in Iowa (where I just moved) and on a farm (which is the way I grew up), but also because I discovered that I have a few small things in common with one of the authors, (namely that we both once lived and worked in the same small-ish town, and we graduated from liberal arts colleges located a stone’s throw from one another).

Anyway, in addition to having the true-crime hook, the story ends up being quite moving and creates a human picture of the alleged assassin, who, you begin to realize, was in many ways a victim. I appreciate the huge amount of work on the part of the authors’ having worked-in the social and historical research from the time, creating a rich picture of what life must have been like for people (especially farm women) involved in the story.

After the initial draw of the true-crime element, I did start to feel that, in the section of the alleged assassin’s trial, there was less of a hook-y mystery than maybe I had been hoping for. But it was still a compelling read.

And on top of the personal/local connections I mentioned above, it turned out that part of what inspired the research on this story was that it had been reported on (for a Des Moines newspaper) by a young woman who went on to become an award-winning author who was a contemporary of Eugene O’Neill–and she was from Davenport.
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Chris and I joined some of his co-workers for a small gathering at the Bierstube in Davenport, during which I consumed:

1. Blue-cheese burger (on a pretzel-roll bun),
2. Waffle fries (whole serving, nary a crumb left behind), and
3. Three–three!–of these tall boys. (I am part German, [and part Irish], you know).

Oh, and then half a cheesy pretzel (split with C-Nor).

In other words, B’DANKA! That’s the sound (in German) of my big ol’ butt falling off the Weight Watchers wagon. Ouch!

It was delicious, though. No regrets. (Until I try to put on my jeans tomorrow…)

Now this is an interesting approach to marketing.

Care for an empty, already-opened beverage?

These crunched-up cans have been sitting in this Propel Water-brand machine in the “courtyard” of our apartment complex for quite some time. I haven’t seen anyone make a purchase…

Recently I shared with you that I got hitched after many years of single-hood.

And I also told you about how, subsequently, I left my animal-infested rental cabin (in rural, small-town Illinois) to move in with my husband in semi-metropolitan “Quad City” area in Iowa).

Hence, it’s time to share with you some thoughts about crossing the state line and becoming an official Davenportian, as I like to say.

(I also like to call Bettendorf [one of the cities in this area] “B’dorfadorf,” in the style of “badonkadonk.” You may call it that as well.)

1. DMV Delight

My transformation became official on my second day here, when–upon realizing I was about to become an illegal driver in two states (my IL sticker set to expire)–I shucked out an arm and a leg and got my vehicle registered in Iowa.

Thankfully, I’ve got an aging Honda. They charge you by year and size of vehicle here. (Yet another reason not to drive a tank.)

my proof of purchase

When I opened the door to the Davenport driver’s facility, I wasn’t upset when I saw how many people were seated in the waiting area. Cool, I thought. Now I can get all those jokes on the sitcoms!

Where I grew up, in rural Illinois, not only did I not have to take a number at the DMV, but, the person at the desk would usually wave me over, call me by my first name and ask me what my mom has been up to lately.

So I have to admit I was almost disappointed when the Iowa DMV workers whipped me through one line to the next and I was in and out in under an hour. No chance to build up cred as someone who has finally lived a “big city” experience.

But I did take away one memorable moment: I discovered that the state of Iowa has some kind of weird dental discrimination.

When it was time to get my new license, as I stood in front of the blue background cloth, the lady manning the camera commanded me to brush my bangs off my forehead. “No problem,” I told her.

“No teeth,” the lady said.

“Huh?”

“You can smile, but you can’t show your teeth,” she said.

“Oh…okay,” I said.

What’s the state of Iowa got against a toothy grin? I don’t get it. But I didn’t want to argue. This lady might have had the power to deny me residency.

So I grinned, weirdly, and now I have a very Kermit-the-Frog face on my ID.

2. All Moody, All The Time

(And no, I’m not talking about my husband discovering what I’m really like now that we live together. Ha!)

I wonder what Elvis Costello could come up with if he were asked to update “Radio, Radio” after spending just one day in Davenport, Iowa in 2011.

Ever since high school, (or, for the past 15 years up until now/ having access to Spotify), I’ve envied my Seattle family members, college friends from Chicago, and others who lived in a place where there were radio stations playing music that was actually recorded in the current year.

As a kid, I had no problem getting access to the tunes I loved, because, first of all, I had no concept that there was anything other than Top 40 radio, and because second, I actually loved what was mainstream and popular, from Whitney and Bobby to Wham! and Belinda Carlisle.

These days, whenever I listen to Top 40 radio, in any location, I hear myself saying things I (of course) swore I’d never say: “Gah, what is this crap? That little Katy Perry is just another flash in the pan, you wait and see.”)

But now that I’ve moved to a place that actually has some population–a place I totally assumed would have at least one decent radio station, if not several–I find myself actually excited when I land on a station that’s playing anything recorded after 1978.

When I run errands or drive to work, and it happens to be a time when I’m not interested in listening to NPR, (i.e., news over, classical music begins), I scan the stations and it goes a little something like this:

“I can’t drive fifty-five” (skip) “…I was born on the bayou” (skip) “Today’s Tom Sawyer …” (skip) “…I ain’t no Fortunate Son” (skip) “…hold on to that feel-ay-ee-ay-in’… ‘” (skip) “….please join us in prayer here at Moody Bible Radio–”(skip)…”…I ain’t no senator’s son…” (skip) “…welcome to the Women’s Connection, where today’s focus will be: ‘How can be we work Jesus into our morning carpools?’” (skip)

 

Now, mind you, I love Credence and Journey and Rush. (Sammy Hagar, though, not so much). And I’m fully aware that ClearChannel owns the entire world and the days of varied radio are long over. But why can’t I find at least one station playing something other than classic rock?

Oh wait. I can.

Between every snippet of 70s-era guitar solo, I land upon admonitions to stop sinning and get with God before He smites me down right then and there in the automatic car wash.

The other day in my 5-minute drive between dropping off recyclables and stuff to donate to Goodwill, I got yelled at so vehemently by a guy declaring that life. starts. AT. CONCEPTION, I was starting to feel guilty for something I hadn’t even done.

3. Cross-Town Traffic (Brought to You by Big Brother)

At the risk of making myself sound like a serious hick, I have to admit that I’m still culture shock over the fact that there are two, four, even six of everything here: Hy-Vees, Targets, Wally-Worlds, Paneras, etc. There are two shopping malls, a “north” and a “south.”

And, while I haven’t really patronized any of those too much since I moved here, I have been running around a lot doing errands–partially related to moving/getting settled in, and partially to be a helpful housewifey type (since I’m only partially employed and my husband is double employed). So, whenever I ask my him how to get to some business or facility, I love that I can legitimately use phrases like, “Is that downtown?” Ooh, so urban.

On the other hand, I am so not used to actually having to wait (more than 3 seconds) at stoplights.  Or the fact that, on my drive to and from work, I pass through no fewer than three “photo-enforcement zones,” otherwise known as intersections through which, at any time, I could be videotaped and subsequently mailed a mean-ass letter saying I was going too fast (or interpreted a yellow light as “speed up.”)

My husband, Chris, has already received at least 2 of these evil letters in the mail in the last year or so, complete with a link to a video of himself behind the wheel. (And no, he claims, he was not caught picking his nose.) And a co-worker at my new part-part-time job told me she’d received a few as well, but, hey, “There’s a silver lining. They don’t affect your insurance.”

Well, I’m used to living in a place where the only “stoplight” in the entire county was a blinking red light on a pole.

4. The Final Nail in my Coffin of Nerd-dom

I have always–always–thought that if I lived in a place of any size, I would patronize the local music clubs and go to shows whenever anybody decent was in town.

But, in the weeks since I’ve lived here, I’ve already missed a couple shows of note: a group of Communion folks performing at the club with the weird name, and Paul Simon at the big arena (i Wireless). And the talented singer/songwriter M.Ward will be in town in a couple of days at RIBCO.

Question 1: Am I a drooling fan of any of thee above? No.

Question 2: If any of these acts had come to any of the small towns where I previously lived, would it have been thee biggest moment of the year? YES.

The truth about my new life is that, instead of spending time at rock shows, I’ve been…(tucks head down in shame)… hanging out at the library. Actually, make that libraries.

Did you know that there are places in this country that you can go to and find books and music and movies and that they let you take them home for FREE??? And that some of them even have coffee shops inside?

The linked library system in these quad cities is amazing. I can’t stop checking stuff out. And wondering aloud, “Why did I ever used to buy books, again?”

(Oh, and speaking of the driving situation earlier?? This sign at one of the Davenport libraries was definitely a first for me.)

In Conclusion and In Sum

The verdict, in the big picture, is this: I absolutely love living here so far. So much so that, with frequency, I’ve been shaking my head and going, “What took me so long?”

I have creative interests, so of course I need to live in a place where there are art museums, concerts (I will go, eventually), actual downtowns.

I do wonder, though: As I start to get more and more comfortable in a place where, (as you can kind of see in the background of the library pic linked above), there are cookie-cutter houses popping up everywhere, and where I can hit a Target just by throwing a rock, (but also where the neighbors in our apartment complex are not only strangers, but people who seem to attract the police on a daily basis), will I miss at least some parts of living in a small town?

What if I lose a part of my authentic self by becoming less rural and more suburban?

Mostly, I feel I’ve already gained so much by living here. (And, no, not just weight from better restaurants).

The journal Creative Nonfiction, as some of my readers might already know, has an ongoing Twitter contest, in which writers are encouraged to create micro (true) stories, consisting of 130 characters or less, and tag them #cnfonline.

A few days ago, I decided to try my hand at such a “tiny truth,” and I got one “accepted” last week (whoo-hoo!) on the journal’s Twitter feed.

My 22-word story is from a small moment I observed in a certain local venue (at which I may or may not have been walking laps with white-hairs).

Now that I’ve had a Tweet “favorited,” maybe I can work up the confidence to complete some actual full paragraphs (i.e., a “real” essay) and try to submit it.

But until then, here’s my entry:

No one is on the train. Each time she passes the Chick-fil-A, she, bandana-clad, reaches up and clangs the little bell anyway.

According to article from the QCTimes.com, the leader of the free world stopped in at Ross’ 24-Hour Restaurant, of all places, during his visit to the Quad Cities. This greasy spoon located near (almost underneath) the I-74 Bridge happens to be the place where Chris and I met up for our first face-to-face date in 2008 (although we actually just met up in the parking lot, since I was coming over from Illinois and he was coming from Iowa, and we went for lunch elsewhere).

I took a photo of Ross’s sign awhile back because I liked the old diner style. It’s not too great of a shot, but it should give you some idea of what the place is like.

Palatial, eh? (More of my Flickr pics from area places here.)

In other presidential-visit ephemera:

Be sure to check out the luxury port-a-potties the are apparently presidential-worthy. And, (in what is surely the picture of the day) :

“Alcoa protester believes Obama is an alien.”

I was intrigued to learn that one of the entries on the recently released list of the “10 Most Endangered” historical sites in Illinois is an old house in Moline.

I happened to be in the Quad Cities not long after I read about the home, so I got C-Nor, (a.k.a. my fiancee, Chris), to program the address into his GPS.

We navigated from Davenport (IA) to Moline, (with the British lady on the Garmin directing/annoying us the whole way), until we found the lonely structure that was once owned by John Deere (the man). Read about the history of the house here.

I’m not sure why the house and /or property are called “Red Cliff.” I definitely get the “cliff” part, and you will, too, if you check out the photos I took. But the house is, um, green. The house stands out literally and figuratively; it looks out over Moline from a dramatic little look-out point while the rest of the neighborhood is un-remarkable. Chris and I walked right up to the house and looked in the windows. There are some sawhorses and tools inside, not to mention a sign out front that says “Restoration in progress,” that hint at a promising future. But the “10 Most Endangered” list says the restoration effort has been abandoned and the property is now in foreclosure.

Play the slide show for more details, or view the pictures via Flickr to get all the cutline-y goodness.

P.S. On a related note: Time.com recently published a list of the 11 most endangered national places, on which some of the causes of “danger” are proposed Wal-Marts and condo developments. (I will try to think of something non-depressing for my next post!)