Welcome to Forgotonia

Allow me to share with you the mental wrestling I’ve been doing over something as seemingly insignificant as choosing the place to exchange (and celebrate) one’s marital vows.

Chapter One: A Little P.C. for You and Me

Over the last several months as I’ve been researching the how/where/when and best ways to put together a fairly low-key, low-budget-and-yet-not-too tacky wedding and celebration for me and my future husband, (or FH), I’ve come across some good advice on blogs and in magazines about making choices that reflect your values.

And I think, for the most part, I’ve/we’ve done that so far.

For example, it’s ridiculously important to me, for some reason, to not create tons of waste, either financially or materially. I want as little stuff as possible to end up in a landfill or as clutter in the back of closets (tiny picture frame favors, anyone?).

I’m planning to purchase little pop-up recycling bins to place throughout the reception area for anything that will be recyclable.

I’ve chosen items for the ceremony that can be re-purposed: paper flowers; a suit Chris can wear again; asking friends and family to wear what they want, rather than buy matching taffeta dresses.

I even got a little feeling of satisfaction when one of those articles pointed out that, by having the ceremony and reception in the same spot (as we will be), you create less of a carbon footprint. (Never mind that some guests will be flying here, and none of the out-of-town guests will be carpooling. I want Brownie Points for being green!)

The only problem is, we’ve picked a venue that comes with…well, shall we say…”interesting” decor. Here’s how it happened.

Chapter 2: The County Courthouse Called…

In the early days of planning, we talked seriously about going to the courthouse, and then inviting close family and friends go out for dinner afterward.

But in my hometown, there are exactly 4 restaurants (and that number includes the Dairy Queen and Hardee’s).

And the number of family and friends to invite after the Signing of Documents started to grow too large for one restaurant. So, then it seemed like I was actually planning a wedding reception.

Which then led to: why don’t we just have one, then?

Well, the first answer is this: I tend to get a wee bit stressed when it comes to orchestrating social events. Instead of having fun, I worry about pleasing everyone, so I end up a wreck. (I know, I need to listen to Ricky Nelson.)

But the larger reason is that FH and I live two hours apart, both of us with solid jobs and careers (and in a bad economy), with no easy answer about how to bring ourselves geographically closer together. After the initial engagement excitement, the idea of planning a wedding seemed almost silly when compared to other priorities.

But the more we talked about courthouse’n it, the more I started to feel like we were being too businesslike. It hit me that—even if we would have a lot going on as a couple, like potentially moving and/or starting new jobs—it was making me sad to think of sealing the deal in such a private, ho-hum way. Meeting Chris has been the greatest stroke of luck I could have ever experienced, and I wanted my closest friends and family to be part of the act of he and I taking this step in our lives.

So the next thing we knew, we were planning an actual wedding.

We could have looked into venues in FH’s area, like the Quad City Botanical Center, for example. Or Vander Veer Park (where we often took walks when we first started dating, and where there’s a perfect setup for outdoor weddings).

And, of course, we could’ve chosen to be married in the beautiful, historic church in my hometown where I was baptized, confirmed, and spent nearly every Sunday of my youth (and where I still consider about half the congregants to be honorary grandparents).

But no. Instead? :

Chapter III: Goin’ to the Chapel…of bucks

We chose a hunting cabin in Forgotonia. One that just happens to be adorned by several startled-looking, deceased deer.

And does that go along with our “values”?

Considering that I shiver at even the sight of the word “gun,” the answer is um, no.

(And, while I do understand the purported benefits of thinning out the deer population in rural Illinois, I’m also such a softie that I think I got Disney-induced PTSD from Bambi.)

When I think about those Ethical Wedding blog suggestions, I tell myself that the tucked-away cabin (and lake next to it) are located on a family farm. The property is owned by close friends of my family, with something like 30 years of shared history between us. I used to babysit for the owners’ now-almost-grown grand kids.

And choosing this spot is a way for us to have an outdoor wedding next to water (which feels really “right” to me) but also have an indoor back-up plan (the cabin) if it rains (did I mention I’m a worrier?).

Still, it’s a choice I’ve been feeling the need to justify lately. Not just because we’re not exactly camo-clad, but also because it’s located in an area that might best be described as “BFE.”

Our out-of-town guests (mostly on FH’s side) will have to drive at least 40 minutes just to get from the venue to their hotels in Macomb or Keokuk. 

And our choice has created some logistical challenges, such as: will the DJ booth fit in that corner with the 16-point buck? And while we’re standing under a gazebo saying our vows, if there are local fisherman on the lake, will they realize they’re behind us (and therefor refrain from, say, taking a leak off the side of their boat)?

But more than that, I’ve been asking myself why I wanted for everything to be in my hometown (or 10 miles outside it, actually), in the first place.

We could’ve picked a bright, shiny space in the Quad Cities with lots of amenities (and little to no taxidermy), in a city where there were multiple choices for a rehearsal dinner and after-hours nightcaps, chain hotels… not to mention four-lane highways to get there.

And even though I don’t believe the wedding should be “all about the bride [only]“—I guess I just wanted this day to be about home, for me, on multiple levels. And this location is just a few miles from the farm where I grew up and where my parents still live.

So I guess the answer I’ve landed on is: it’s just me. And it’s just us. Because, like FH and I, it’s casual, authentic and comes with plenty of character.

Epilogue: Ah yes, character.

Early this spring when we drove out to this spot to visit with the owner and ask about renting it for our wedding day, we asked a ton of questions about catering, the DJ set-up, etc. The owner stressed that we could do whatever we wanted. He didn’t even require a deposit.

But as we were leaving—after we’d told him we were pretty sure we wanted it but would let him know—he held up a finger and said, “Wait, now, there is just one thing.”

FH and I looked at each other.

“The only thing I ask,” the owner said, “is that whatever fish you take out of the lake, you pay for.”

Luckily, I don’t plan to do any fishing during or after our nuptials. So at least there is one aspect of the rustic location that I won’t be worried about at all.

Well, I guess I can no longer claim to be from the smallest town in the world.

Behold! :

Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes, people; Carthage, Illinois is getting a stoplight!

This is a big deal because the  signature characteristics of my tiny hometown, since the beginning of time, were:

1. being home to a man named Wendell who greeted every single person he saw, giving them their own nicknames like “Little Darlin’ ” (or, depending on your lineage, “Alvin’s Son”),
2. sending high school sports teams to state championships, and
3. a red light at the 4-way, hanging on a wire between the Hardee’s and the DQ, blinking away at the non-existent traffic.

Now, as I told you previously, this project has actually been in the works for quite some time. In fact, construction on the intersection was supposed to start 15 years ago, when the Methode car-parts factory was still functioning at full steam and there might be a stream of cars when a shift was letting out. (You can read all the details on the Hancock County Journal-Pilot online.)

But, with all due respect to the mayor, who tells the paper, “I think we’re very lucky that we haven’t seen accidents where people have been seriously hurt,” I respectfully submit that we’re still talking about Carthage, here:  population >2,800.

Have you heard about the new play on Broadway that was written by the South Park dudes (and the writer of Avenue Q?)

If you haven’t, you should catch up here:

‘Book of Mormon’ opens on Broadway
(from CNN ‘Belief’ Blog)

That’s right; the South Park writers (who already took on Mormonism in an episode) have now written a Broadway musical about the religion. The article linked above summarizes the plot of the new production, as well as some of the thinking behind the writers’ motivations. And I have to say, I utterly and completely relate to this line of thinking:

Mormonism originated with Joseph Smith in upstate New York in the early 1800s. This not-so-distant past was attractive to the writers, [Avenue Q writer] Lopez told CNN, because they thought it added to the far-fetchedness of the religion’s claims that God had anointed Smith as an American prophet.

“A prophet who lived thousands and thousands of years ago in the Middle East is veiled in antiquity,” said Lopez. “But a prophet finding God’s word on golden plates just a few hours drive from New York City is ripe for satire.”

Also, if you’re curious about how the church feels about having its sacred beliefs turned into satirical song and dance, the article includes the LDS official statement—and I have to say, it sounds calm and rational.(However, one wonders if the church’s feathers will get increasingly ruffled as the play’s run continues, especially considering that one of the main characters, according to the article above, “succumbs to his doubts about faith and God after having the Book of Mormon stuck in a very uncomfortable part of his anatomy.” Ouch.)

But the real question, of course, is whether my beloved home stomping grounds—the tiny town with one blinking red light at the four-way stop—is mentioned anywhere in the script? For it was in Carthage, of course, that in 1844 a mob stormed the jail where Mormon leader Joseph Smith was incarcerated, and where he was shot and fell to his death.

With this high-profile production making headlines and perhaps becoming a legendary moment in the history of the Great White Way, stop to think about how funny and fascinating it is that the entire Mormon saga—the migration out west, the settling of Salt Lake City, in fact the very foundation of one of the world’s fastest-growing religions—wouldn’t exist as we know it without the chapter that took place in Carthage and Hancock County.

If I had been a co-writer with Matt Parker and Trey Stone, I would have tried to work in a line—or a whole song—about the holy site being located just catercorner from the DQ. (Feel free to help provide rhymes.)

Or who knows, maybe Carthage and Nauvoo are mentioned in the musical? I hope to find out five or six years from now, when an off-, off-, off-Broadway production plays in Peoria.

As I told you recently, the Kibbe Museum in my hometown of Carthage, Ill., once seemed like the product of a dark imagination back when I was a kid.

But then, at some point in the late 90s or earl 00s, (I believe), the museum moved to the old city hall building in Carthage. So now, not only is in a one-story building conveniently located across the street from the historic Carthage Jail, but it’s also bright and open  and easy to navigate, with all kinds of interesting displays, (including one about church history that I couldn’t help but pore over, since it contained a stained glass window and other items from the church where I grew up,  one of the oldest structures in the county). I’ve been meaning to write about this museum visit for months, but I keep getting sidetracked…sigh. So for now, here’s a link to the Kibbe blog. I was going to tell you all about how, with its displays on Carthage College, the Mormon Temple, etc., it’s now more of a history-of-the-area museum than a random-collection-of-strangeness.

However.

Yesterday, I learned from my hometown paper, The Hancock County Journal-Pilot, that the museum has recently acquired materials from the History of Funeral Customs in Springfield.

This caught my eye not because of the somewhat strange subject matter, but because I recognized the name of this museum from having read about it in a book called Assassination Vacation. In other words, the contents of a museum that caught the attention of one of my all-time favorite contemporary writers, Sarah Vowell (who also happens to be known for her distinctive voice), have been moved to my tiny hometown, of all places.

Wow.

Anyway, I’ve been wanting for a long time to write a post about how, as Chris and I and two friends toured last fall, Chris went from “why are you dragging me to this place” to “hey, can I have the car keys? I want to go get my camera out of the trunk.”

Here are some of his shots, from the museum’s displays on

• medical history,
• a faux general-store complete with checker-game in progress, and
• old-fashioned offices and mail delivery:

(You can see more of Chris’s photos from our photography adventures on his Flickr page.)

I’m sorry to say I’m never going to get around to that post I’ve been meaning to write about the Kibbe’s other intriguing elements–including the influx of Mormon visitors from all over the world. But if you’re from the area and, like me, become more aware of its rich history as you get older–or you’re new and looking for something to do– you should check out this lovingly curated, interesting conglomeration of stuff. Find hours and directions here.

If you’ve already been to the most recent incarnation of the Kibbe, please share your memories, thoughts, impressions below!

On the last day of school in fourth grade, my class was treated to a grand finale of the school year: a field trip, capped off with a stop at the Tastee Freeze.

The field trip would be on foot rather than on-bus. Our destination was only a few blocks away from Lincoln School. (Actually it was across town, but in a town like Carthage, everything is just a few blocks away.)

It was liberating to be outside on that warm spring day rather than behind our desks. In a single file line, we trekked to the Kibbe Museum, a place that—in theory—was perfect for providing kids with an educational experience.

The museum, it turned out, was actually just a house, a two or three story white house that, on the outside, looked no different from any others in the neighborhood.

I am now aware, as an adult, that this place had been the home of Alice Kibbe, a renowned biology professor at the once-prestigious, but by then defunct, Carthage College. (Read more about the legendary Kibbe here). The place housed all of the  scientific and historical artifacts she had collected over the years.

But when our tour guide explained Mrs. Kibbe’s legacy to our little group, I was probably focused on other, more important things, like whether the boy I liked was ever going to ask me to skate with him. As we meandered through that dark, dusty place, I was more and more anxious for the last part of our trip, which was a visit to the Tastee Freeze across the street.

Suddenly, the boys at the front of our group were really interested in something—I heard “Cool!” and “Whoaa!”—and everyone was gathering around something the guide was showing. I made my way to the front, and sure enough, there it was: the thing Timmy Grissom had been teasing me about all week, but that I swore up and down he was just making up. After all, I was a farm girl and we had a farrowing house, so I knew there was no way such a thing could really exist.

But there it was, staring out for eternity: a two-headed baby pig, nightmarish in its murky formaldehyde bath.

There was a whole animal-fetus collection, I believe, but I’m sure I walked with my head down for the rest of the way so I wouldn’t have to look.

So perhaps I can be forgiven if, for many years after that, I thought of The Kibbe as a kind of carnival fun-house of creepiness.

Now, many years later, the museum is in a different location, is in its second or third incarnation as a tourist destination, and for the last decade has been a place I keep hoping to return to. And there’s a unique item at The Kibbe that helps drum up so much business, the place has been able to build up a strong stream of revenue. Hint: it has nothing to do with freaks of nature. Find out the answer and more in my next post.

According to my hometown paper, the weekly Journal-Pilot, there’s big news in the town of Carthage.

Behold:

“Plans proceed for traffic light to replace four-way stop“

That’s right. The blinking-red-light-on-a-wire in the middle of town—that would be on Highway 136, right between the DQ and the Hardee’s—is going away.

Of course, to those of you who aren’t from my hometown, this might seem like less than interesting news. (And okay, it’s not exactly “breaking”—it’s from last week’s paper. And you have to scroll down to the sixth paragraph of this story to find it. )

But the red light in the 4-way stop—and that’s what it’s called, by the way; not “the intersection of such-and-such streets,” but just “the 4-way stop”—is an icon. It’s a symbol of small-town life, in a place where traffic is so scarce, my driver’s ed teacher actually used to use lines like this when we were practice-driving in the taupe Taurus:  “Okay, try to pretend there’s a yellow light,” or the classic, “Now, if you needed to switch lanes, and let’s say someone was behind you– what would you do?”

(And my college friends wonder why I was always too chicken to drive in Chicago. Or Peoria. Or…Monmouth.)

Anyway, there’s no information in the newspaper story about what would necessitate an actual stoplight in Carthage. This is all you get, before the story moves on to another subject in the next paragraph:

“Bidding on the four-way stop expansion and installation of automated traffic lights [was] at 7:30 p.m. on Nov. 5. The project, originally drawn up in 1995, is expected to cost around $1 million.

Obviously it hasn’t been too pressing an issue if they’ve been working on it for more than 15 years.

But now that it’s on it’s way, it’ll be the second stoplight in the entire county (Hamilton can claim rights to the first). Next thing you know? Urban blight.

UPDATE: Mea culpa: As a certain unnamed reader helpfully pointed out, this entry below (originally published Oct. 3)—or at least its reference to a certain movie —is a bit of an anachronism, since the tower didn’t go up until the 00s. However, said reader, who also happens to be a longtime friend from my home stomping grounds, says, “I say we get a 12-pack and give it a try.”

Over the weekend, C-Nor and I took a walk around the hamlet of Ferris, Ill., which is about a stone’s throw from the farm where I grew up. (It’s just a few miles north of Carthage, Ill., and its young people have been bussed to the Carthage school system for many years.)

Chris took this picture of the water tower. As he was doing so, it struck me as surprising that, having grown up here in the 80s, in the era of the iconic teen movie, none of the bored teens (including me) ever felt inspired to climb atop it and paint the word “SAVE.”

(It would have been a lot cheaper and easier than emulating the movie by taking a day trip into Chicago, that’s for sure.)

Bueller? Anyone?

When my Seattle family members were here in Forgotonia this past weekend for my grandmother’s memorial service, we spent some time walking around the courthouse square in Carthage (my hometown).

Among the many, many interesting items we saw in the display windows of the sad, now-empty stores (or the weirdly re-purposed ones),

(a geode display in the old Royalty’s, for one example;

a spooky sleep-apnea-mask display in the old Sherrick’s Drug Store for another,

oh! And the bedpans right up front in the still-functioning McHugh’s Drug Store)

was this rather entertaining sign for…well, g’head, give it a read:

Um, thanks..?

I’ve been trying for quite some time now to tell you the strange story about what happened to the old Carthage College campus.

I’ve tried to tell you–in words–why the story is kind of a big deal, and just how drastic things had become at the former college in my tiny hometown (Carthage, IL). But lo and behold, the cliche comes true: a picture tells a thousand words. Or in this case, a set of photos.

The shots below were taken inside the old Carthage College auditorium, which is finally being restored after having been left for dead in the 1990′s, a fact which I have blogged about rather extensively.)

I recently discovered (via Flickr) this set taken inside the abandoned auditorium building (quite awhile before the restoration was being planned). They tell, on their own, the destruction that was allowed to happen at this once-prosperous place: (please check out this slideshow below)

Like I said, the pix say it all. But here’s a super-quick re-cap:

1. Carthage College (now located in Kenosha, WI), was originally located in my hometown (Carthage IL), but picked up and left town because the existing location was so out-of-the-way (so deep in the Forgotonia region) that Chicago students couldn’t get there easily.
2. Carthage College had been a fairly prestigious little school. Interestingly, (as this week’s news story says), the first-ever chapter of Circle K was started there. Most people who know of the liberal arts school now located near Chicago have no idea where its name comes from.
3. After the campus closed, Robert Morris moved in and then left, and then a strange, strange saga began (including the “Carthage International College” chapter), eventually ending in the campus being left to rot and crumble for many years. There’s even a photo in this set of a luggage tag left behind by the seemingly on-the-lam Korean “owner,” who virtually disappeared after buying—and abandoning—the campus property.

The photos were taken by Craig Finlay, one of my  fellow WIU English-program graduate students.

Craig has a hobby of, um… trespassing in abandoning buildings to shoot the decadent art that lies inside. If you haven’t already watched the slideshow above, check out the set here (to read the cutlines and get some details).

I am so that happy that leaders in my hometown are investing the time, money, and concern into fixing the place up. Last week’s Hancock County Journal-Pilot (my hometown paper) featured an update on the progress of restoring the old auditorium building.

Do you remember the old Carthage College, or Robert Morris, or Carthage International College, or made-up-university-that-solicited-funds-via-the-Internet? Tell me in the comments below!

Virginia Cherill

Yesterday, side-by-side on the obituary page of my hometown paper, were two un-related women who, by all appearances, were just everyday members of this tiny, rural community. But these two senior citizens—who died on the same day—were relatives of some noteworthy Hollywood stars.

Six Degrees from Charlie Chaplin
Mary Agnes Habben, 91, of Carthage, was born on March 19, 1918, at the family home in Carthage, a daughter of Lawrence C. and Stella (Paris) Cherrill.

…which means she is a direct relative, one of the last remaining in the area, of Virginia Cherrill, who was Charlie Chaplain‘s leading lady in the classic silent movie City Lights. Virginia Cherill, who played the blind ingenue in the film, was originally from Carthage, and was just profiled in a new biography by British writer Miranda Seyour.

I had never met Mary Agnes Habben, but I think she was a pretty well-known lady in the community (especially because, well, everyone is.)

One Degree from Frasier’s Father
Vera A. Jones, 82, of Carthage “….is survived by [among many others] two brothers, John Mahoney of Oak Park and Bernard Mahoney of England….” making her the sister of “Frasier’s dad” John Mahoney. (Or for you 80′s film fans, that would be the father of Lloyd Dobler’s girlfriend).

I didn’t really know Vera, but she was one of my regular customers during my five years as a cashier at the grocery store in Carthage during my high school days and college breaks. I will always remember her because she was the only person I ever knew in Carthage with a British accent.

But I also probably took a bit more notice of her than other customers once I heard the rumor that she had a famous brother.

In the era when her brother was on NBC’s “Must See TV” every week during “Frasier,” this little lady would come in to the store for her Pall-Malls and to get quarters for the paper machine outside, never giving away a single clue to her status as the sibling of someone famous.

For a long time I thought it might just be a rural legend. I mean, John Mahoney doesn’t appear to have a British accent. And even if he did have one but controls it in his acting, how did he and his sister end up in rural Illinois?

I still don’t know the answer to those questions, but I do know that John was a master’s degree student here at WIU in Macomb, and that he got his first break in the Midwest (during his theatre days in Chicago).

Makes you wonder…
Looking back, Vera now reminds me a bit of Louise Harrison, (the sister of the Quiet Beatle), who was also a British lady in small-town Illinois, (Galesburg) and who (as I discovered while researching for my newspaper column) was also quiet about her ties to fame.

R.I.P., Vera and Mary Agnes; Carthage will miss you!