Welcome to Forgotonia

Chapter One

The one and only time I ever agreed to help, I was on edge every time I heard a car slowing down on the highway.

The sound of the bell on the door—which I could hear from the living room on the other side of a cubicle wall—put me in a panic. Please don’t be a customer please don’t be a customer.

My older sister, the cool-headed one of the two of us, usually watched the front office of the motel, and babysat my cousins at the same time, on weekends when my aunt and uncle went out of town or out with friends on a Saturday night. But she was about to graduate, and now that I was in high school, I could perhaps be her replacement, was the thinking.

The babysitting part on this Saturday night just meant hanging out with my three younger cousins. The scary part was that these cousins’ home—a living room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms—was in the “living quarters” of a motel. The motel entrance, a small office from which to book customers, rent rooms, and distribute keys, just happened to be behind a small partition in their living room.

Chapter Two

My aunt and uncle ran the Prairie Winds motel, a one-story brick business on Highway 136 on the edge of town, about 15 miles east of the Mississippi River. I wouldn’t know until many years later that I had had legitimate reason to be freaked about facing whoever it was that might come in and cause the bell to jingle. Growing up, I had no idea that the motel’s original proprietors—my grandparents—had once been robbed there in the middle of the night.

No, what had me trembling that night was not man, but machine: if any of the travelers who stopped in for the night paid with a credit card, I was going to be in trouble. My aunt had tried, patiently, to show me how to swipe the card through the little box with the keypad on it and complete the complicated transaction. But after the third time, (as I am still guilty of doing when it comes to anything with numbers), I nodded and pretended to get it. “Oh there, I see,” I said, smacking my forehead. “You guys go ahead and go to your dance, don’t miss it on account of me!”

As soon as they left, my cousins got out a board game and I said a secret prayer. Dear God, please don’t let there be any customers and if there are please let them write a check.

Chapter Three

Luckily, the few times someone did come through the door over the course of that Saturday evening, it was just a friend of the family stopping by to say hi, or maybe a deliveryman for the ice machine. I never had to use the credit card machine. But the next few times my aunt and uncle asked me to babysit the kids and the office, I was relieved to have legitimate excuses to be unavailable on a Saturday night: pep band, marching band, or play practice. (Oh and yes, um, dates.)

In today’s Google-map era, there is perhaps little reason to worry late at night about how much further down the road the next gas station or motel might be. But back then, the Prairie Winds was the only place to stay–with maybe one or two sketchy exceptions–in the area, with the next option 30 miles to the east, or across the Mississippi into Keokuk, Iowa to the west.

So it actually a pretty genius idea when my grandpa, a farmer, decided to go into business for himself, (in addition to farming), and build a motel on the edge of Carthage, just near his home and farm. If I’m remembering correctly, Grandpa built the place himself. This shouldn’t be surprising, considering that this is the same man who, today, at 89, is still farming. And the same man who, as a teenager, left school to take over his family’s farm after his father went blind. My grandma would spend many years helping run and clean the place. She was the one who chose the romantic name.

I never heard either of my grandparents mention the story of the robbery; as is perhaps typical of their generation, they saw no need to talk about it. But I eventually learned from my dad that my grandparents suffered a harrowing, nightmarish experience one night when what seemed like just another traveler coming off the highway turned out to be a man who would hold them up at gunpoint and leave them bound and gagged. They lived, thankfully, but apparently not “to tell the tale.”

Chapter Four

By the time my cousins were in their teen years, at some point in the 90s, my family sold the motel to an Indian family from Chicago, and it has been sold again at least once since then. The place is a bit of a lighthearted Carthage joke now; if you’re back for a wedding or a reunion, you might hear, “Where you crashing tonight, the Prairie Winds?”

And the sight of the place in its current state, along an off-interstate stretch of the Midwest, was enough of a story-in-itself to capture a noted photographer’s attention. In August, the New York Times photography blog, Lens, highlighted a series of photos from rural Illinois called Prairieland by Dave Jordano.  There, in the collection of sad places that have seen better days, was the Prairie Winds. (You can read more about that in my initial post here.)

Screen shot of Prairie Winds photo by Dave Jordano

Even though I’m now aware of what happened to my grandparents on that terrible  night, the motel still conjures pleasant memories for me,  not just of spending time with with my cousins in their home in the living quarters, but also of eating Sunday dinners at the buffet when there was still a family restaurant attached.

It might not be much more than a sign of another era now–another symbol of the left-behind feel of west central Illinois. But because I know who built it, it will always be a symbol of two other things to me:  my Depression-surviving grandparents’ sense of industriousness, and their strength.

Postlude: That car in the picture is very much like the kind I used to cruise around in when I was a high schooler– a blue 1985 Crown Vic, to be exact. As you can imagine, this also played a role in the status of my Saturday nights.

Yesterday, I told you about the Chicago-centric publication Newcity publishing a “postcard” from the Forgottonia region, (including a stop in Plymouth, Ill.), which I raised a couple of questions about here. Interestingly, only three days after the Newcity story, the same Hancock County hamlet of Plymouth—AND a piece of my own family’s history—was featured in the New York Times‘ photography blog.

Lens Blog- NYT.com -”A Prairie Wanderer in Search of the Human Touch“

screen shot of Plymouth on NYT blog

I couldn’t believe my eyes when a friend sent me the link to this blog via a Facebook message. This was a friend who (like any good writer) has a deep abhorrence of exclamation points.”OMG!!” She wrote. “Check it out: Prairie Winds!!!!!!” But before I explain the Prairie Winds part, let me tell you about the other things I found when I went to the link above. The blog, Lens: Photography, Video, and Visual Journalism, which “present[s] the finest and most interesting visual and multimedia reporting,” was on that day highlighting the work of Chicago-based photographer Dave Jordano. The former adman returning to his early roots in documentary photography had traveled around rural Illinois in the fairly recent past, capturing scenes of rural Illinois for a series called Prairieland. I was pleasantly surprised to find that, in his journey through the tiny dots on the

photographer Dave Jordano's website

Illinois map (many of which I’ve never heard of), Jordano had cast his photojournalistic and artistic eye on several spots in our immediate region. (Although what he has documented is not, of course, entirely “pleasant”). If you’re at all interested in photography, photojournalism or documentaries, or how our region is seen through others’ eyes, you should check out the photographer’s web site, where you’ll see stirring shots that capture

• a young man in Bardolph, (in McDonough County, Ill.)
• a series documenting the destruction of Gulf Port during the Flood of 2008
• a set of trophies from a no-longer existing school in Plymouth (shown above)
• and many other sad, self-contained mini stories, like this one.

It turns out that one of the Prairieland shots, too, captures a piece of my own family history. Of all places in the world, this photographer had cast his photojournalistic and artistic eye on the Prairie Winds Motel, which just happens to be the little mom-and-pop business that was built by my grandpa—and co-operated by my grandma—back in the early 60s in Carthage, Ill. More on the motel—including one rather terrifying tale—to come.

NYT Lens blog

Thanks to a tip from a fellow Flickr-er who landed on my photostream, I learned that the publication Newcity: Street Smart Chicago recently ran a feature about the Forgottonia region. Intrigued, I discovered that the Aug. 3 item features photos and an interview with a resident of Plymouth, Ill., the tiny village near my hometown of Carthage.

“Postcard from Forgottonia: The land that time chose not to remember“

Newcity's "postcard" from Forgottonia

The story is well-written. And I’m always fascinated to read any “outsider’s” take on this area. But I have to admit a bit of confusion and frustration with this piece. There’s a whole lotta “land that time forgot”-type generalizing:

“Forgottonia is a kind of negative image of urban America—which from the Forgottonian perspective presents itself as the indifferent republic of… well, let’s call it Oblivia for lack of a better term…Nobody sets out purposefully to explore the region of west central Illinois known colloquially as Forgottonia. The place creeps up on you as gently as a childhood memory, and it is only later that you realize you have set foot in this unmarked republic of corn, dust and melancholy. As its name suggests, it is less a place than a feeling—a sense of having slipped away from the present moment into some other time stream, which has been dammed up by indifference and neglect and now registers only as a trickle.”

And until I reached the Plymouth part of the story, I began to wonder if the writer had even visited the region he was describing. I was also intrigued by the fact that the only source the writer acknowledges (other than the interview with a resident) is the feature on the origin of the Forgottonia movement that appeared last spring in the publication produced by WIU students, Western Illinois Magazine.

I’m familiar with Newcity, but only familiar. [Readers: Does this Chicago-centric publication typically do "downstate" features? And in its "News" section?] What about you—when you see objective descriptions of the “forgotten” place you call home, do you feel fascinated, too? Excited? Annoyed? Insulted? Let me hear from you.

Plymouth, Ill.

Maid Rite, Macomb, IL

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

Randolph House

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

The downtown courthouse square in Macomb has fallen on some hard times.

In addition to a recent fire on the the south side that destroyed two businesses, several stores have closed and still sit empty. And, (while this is just my opinion and preference as a consumer), stuff that IS moving in seems less-than-friendly to college students, their parents and professors in a university town, such as a shop selling items related to …being Catholic (?). (Um, yeah.)

The Randolph House on the east side–which was once part of a grand hotel where Abraham Lincoln spent the night and gave a speech–appears to be somewhat neglected. Lately I’ve been wondering: who owns the building? Are there any plans for restoring it? Does it fall under the historic preservation protection?

I haven’t done much digging around for the answer, but thought I’d throw it out here and see if anyone might know the score.

former Carthage College/Robert Morris campus field house

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

I’ve posted some photos of the current state of the former Carthage College/Robert Morris campus in Carthage, IL on my Flickr page.

Carthage College was the site of the first Circle K club in the U.S., had several prominent alumni, and was home of legendary biology professor Alice Kibbe. But the college eventually was moved to Kenosha, WI, and the former campus in Carthage (my home town)  fell on hard times, including being bought by a mysterious Korean absentee landlord who could not be found for most of the 90′s and 00′s.

• Read more about that weird legacy and see some photos of the destruction inside one of the buildings here.
• Find out more of Carthage College’s history here.

Please leave comments if you remember life at Carthage College or Robert Morris and have any details or memories to share.

I have posted a couple of entries in the past about the Spoon River Bridge (located in an area made famous by the Spoon River Anthology) being listed as one of the “most endangered” historic sites in Illinois.

Two weekends ago, I set out to take in the sights of the bridge and anything else interesting along the way.

Taking in the turns (and the little towns) along Highway 136

As we left Macomb and headed into Fulton County, the charmingly self-contained, yet ghost-town-y feel of one of the first little towns on the way, Table Grove, IL, was heightened by the cold wind and gray sky.

The “Antiques” shop had (for some reason) a sheet of plywood nailed above the door with the hand-stenciled words BOYCOTT SPEED LUBE. But it and most of the other stores around the small square seem to be abandoned and /or filled with loose junk, the kind of which that might be left over after a garage sale. The little store advertising “The future of TV” on its sign appears to have ceased operations decades ago, at least judging by its storefront contents. Only the bar, Rick’s Place (with its marquee outside stating “It’s mushroom time,” which the locals understand), appeared to be open and drawing customers.

See some highlights below from this mini-venture into our “forgotten” land.

(Or check out this and other Forgottonia-region shots on Flickr.)

Behold the Adair Cafe and the Adair Pool Hall/Barbershop. I wish I had the money (and a justifiable reason to) buy these little old buildings.

I took this picture on a Saturday last June when Chris and I were out scouting around for some scenic photography shots.

We were on 136 going East out of Macomb, and I actually had my sights set on going to Fulton County, IL, but this little spot in the road caught my eye and I had to stop.

These tiny, empty buildings in the almost-ghost-town of Adair, IL,  stand out on the prairie–such concrete evidence of an earlier, forgotten time.

And now the former pool hall/barber shop (on the right) and a former mechanic’s  garage next door (not shown in this pic) are for sale, according to an item that  ran recently in the McDonough County “Choice” a.k.a. the shopper).

According to that piece, both buildings date to the 1860′s, and the architecture on the old garage is actually somewhat unique; it’s a “Mesker” building, which means it’s a specimen of a now-extinct pre-fab style that you can read more about here.

Also, according to the un-sourced item in the Choice, the old barber-shop-slash-snooker-hall looks like time stopped on the inside; it still houses snooker games-in-progress, the old barber shop chair, and even a can of Brill cream.

Who will buy these buildings?

I fear that they, like so many other little relics that dot the Illinois prairie–including countless one-room school houses, family-owned stores, and farm houses, for example–will either become someone’s junk-filled “out buildings,” or eventually get burned or torn down before they become a liability.

I hope I’m wrong.

(But if I suddenly do come in to some money. . . you think I could get people to come out to an art gallery and coffee shop in the middle’a nowhere? The Forgotonia Cafe? Anyone?)

Oops!

Check out this snafu in this article about the Vishnu tour in the Western Courier on Friday:

(I try not to be too harsh in poking fun at any newspaper, student or professional, because I’ve been in their shoes. But this one made me truly LOL. Couldn’t resist!)

The Friends of Vishnu want to respect the wishes of Ira Post and keep it a wildlife sanctuary, where no animals are harmed. The current caretaker of Vishnu Springs is Morris Wells, who helped get people to and from the parking area.

McDonough County sheriff Johnny Carson was also on site to help. He estimated that throughout the six hours that Vishnu was open to the public, roughly 1,000 people attended.

Former WIU archivist Marla Vizdal has started a Facebook group for Vishnu Springs.

Check it out to see pictures of the size of the crowd from last Sunday!

(Something like 1,500 people got to go inside the old hotel. I’m so jealous!)