Last night, after work, I drove from Macomb to Jacksonville, IL, to meet up with my sister, (who lives in Springfield), for a scrapbooker’s convention (long story. Short version: she scraps, I don’t).

As I drove along, I enjoyed every second of that gorgeous gorgeous afternoon: farmers out in the fields; my moonroof actually open for once, wind blowing my hair every which way; the new Neko Case blasting from my car stereo.

As usual, this experience of taking the …. uh…. ‘scenic route’ ….led me to marvel at my surroundings.

When I turned south at Beardstown to head down Hwy 67/to 104, I noticed I was getting low on gas, but thought, “Well, surely there’ll be a station in the next town.”

(Thankfully, this does NOT turn into a story of me running out of gas in the middle of a two-laner in the depths of Forgotonia.

BUT.

Let’s just say, the next town over, Meredosia, is not a booming metropolis.)

As I drove along, anxiously eyeing my little gas-pump icon, I was still taking in all the sights around me–little oil wells pumping, irrigation systems everywhere (which seemed strange, considering the recent flooding), the broken-down little shacks; the picturesque landscape. I coasted into J-ville on “E,” but it all worked out ok.

Later, after our event was over and it was time for me to head back to Macomb, I again found myself focused on my surroundings, but this time for a different reason.

This time it was dark, and as I drove back toward Beardstown, I was focused not on the scenic surroundings of this path to Jacksonville that I’d never navigated before, but the fact that the narrow, two-lane road happened to be undergoing construction (“Rough Grooved Surface,” as the sign astutely put it), practically all the way back from Jacksonville to Beardstown.)

I passed a dead deer on the side of the road–and then, a few yards later, a young couple over on the shoulder giving a statement to a state cop.

Then, as I continued to squint and try to find my way down the un-striped highway, I got into a somewhat treacherous game of chicken with a farmer whose giant, lighted planter seemed like a spaceship in the night (but who, like most in his profession, was simply heading home from his workday at 10:30 p.m.)

It struck me that because I’ve stayed in this area my entire life, I might never know what it’s like to get stuck in traffic in the suburban sprawl.

And I may still lack the skills of knowing how to maneuver a car in downtown Chicago.

But I guess I can say I have braved through white-knuckling it, in the darkness, on an un-striped two-laner, through the truly BFE-ish location of Meredosia, IL.
–
Chapter 2/ Postlogue

Thankfully, I made it home just fine.

But get this.

As I was reading the paper, trying to relax, my eyes landed on an an obit that just happened to mention the very (obscure) hamlet through which I had just navigated (and happened to include a somewhat strange connection to my hometown):

 ”[...]Cleo was a graduate of Carthage High School [...] During his years with the railroad he became quite a collector of railroad antiques. He even dismantled the Carthage Depot and restored it as a cabin at Smith Lake in Meredosia, with the help of his sons.”

Yeah.

I kid you not.

(But it gets even better.)

Today, I consulted Wikipedia for more info on Meredosia, the tiny little bump in the road that has caught my attention.

And what did I learn?

Apparently, little Meredosia is “the catfishing capitol of Illinois.” Charmingly, according to Wikipedia, “it is also home to the nuisance fish, Asian carps. There have also been reports that these same fish are kept as pets in many of the local pools throughout the Meredosia area.”

(If you’re so inclined, you can read about the existence of something called the Chicago- Meredosia Gun Club.)

(That’s right, folks. You read it here first.)

–

(post edited significantly on March 20, 2012)

Robert Morris College, the institution that was once located in my hometown, (and that was housed in the former Carthage College campus, which I’ve blogged about a bunch’a times, and which is pictured at right), is in the news today.

Robert Morris College has become a university.

Ok, got ya so far. But check this out:

Robert Morris College becomes Robert Morris University

PEORIA —

Graduates from Robert Morris College now own a piece of history.

The college, first established in Illinois nearly 45 years ago, now is a university – having officially changed its name to Robert Morris University.

…And Robert Morris College – turned Robert Morris University – shouldn’t be confused with the already established Robert Morris University.

“Yes, there is one in Pennsylvania but we are not connected to that institution,” Donahue said.

[Uh.... ok....Can you keep that straight?]

Robert Morris’ main campus is located in Chicago, with seven other campus sites, including Peoria, Springfield, Orland Park, Bensenville, DuPage, Lake County and Schaumburg.

The Peoria campus hosts about 150 undergrad and graduate students. Seven different degrees are offered, including business administration, computer information systems, applied sciences and management.

Changing the school’s name has been discussed for about a decade, Donahue said.

The switch from college to university became official May 1 and was shared throughout the campuses with celebratory events, including an official unveiling of the new name in the university’s State Street Art Gallery, “logo parties” with the new name on cookies and candies, and the distribution of newly branded T-shirts for the entire Robert Morris University community.

“It is important to involve everyone in celebrating our new identity,” said university President Michael P. Viollt. “Our name has changed a bit, but our commitment to our students remains the same.”

Over the next few months, the university will complete the task of changing its signage on everything from campus signs to the Web site to athletic jerseys. The university’s phone messaging system still announces it under the old moniker.

Robert Morris College was first established in Illinois in 1965 at the site of the former Carthage College. It expanded to Chicago in 1975 when it acquired the Moser School of Business, whose origins go back to 1913, and it opened the additional campus sites from 1988 to the present.

For those graduates who want their diploma to match the university’s new name, Donahue assured that’s not a problem. “All they have to do is send it in and for a nominal fee they can get a new one,” she said.

[full story here.]

Huh?!?

(I guess I shouldn’t talk, though, since I’m a graduate of Monmouth College, IL— no connection to the one in New Jersey!)

I know that this is a sad, sad commentary on my life, but: I am obsessed with reading obituaries from my hometown paper. And not just of the people I know—I even pore over the obits of strangers.

But check out the story of this guy, who grew up in Hancock County, and you might see why I find this weekly exercise so fascinating:
(from last week’s Journal-Pilot)

Rolland Hardy
Friday, April 3, 2009 2:57 PM CDT

May 2, 1920 – March 25, 2009
Rolland L. Hardy, 88, of Wisner, Neb., formerly of Carthage, died on Wednesday, March 25, 2009, in Wisner.
He was born in Hancock County on May 2, 1920, near Bentley, a son of Bryan and Gladys (Timberlake) Hardy.
[....]
Rolland graduated from LaHarpe High School as valedictorian in 1938. He began college at Western Illinois University. In 1941 his National Guard unit was activated, and he spent 19 months in the Pacific Theater as a First Lieutenant of rocket artillery. After World War II Rolland remained in the Army Reserve, retiring in 1971 as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Corps of Engineers.

He worked as an engineer for the U.S. Geological Survey 1947-1955, and private consulting engineer from 1955 to 1958. During 1958-59 he served in the Bureau of Public Roads where he helped in the original design of the interstate highway system during the Eisenhower administration. During 1959-61 he worked in Africa for the U.S. State Department’s Agency for International Development as geodetic advisor to the director of the Sudan Survey Department. After leaving Africa he moved to Germany where he earned his doktor der ingenieurwissenschaften (Ph. D. in Engineering) degree from Universitat Karlesruhe in 1963.
In 1963 he returned to the United States where he worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in Washington, D.C. There he worked on projects involving cold-war satellite photography, the first lunar-orbiting satellites, and the first attempts at lunar landings.
In 1967 he moved to Iowa State University as professor of civil engineering and head of the Survey Engineering Program, where he remained until retiring in 1988. During his tenure at Iowa State he served for extended periods as senior scientist in geodesy for the National Research Council, consultant to the American Council on Education, and was awarded an endowed research chair at the Naval Postgraduate School.
During his 50-year career in engineering he invented and patented three automatic-levelling surveying instruments and self-indexing theodolites. His greatest scientific contribution was in the area of mathematical geophysics where he is known as the father of multiquadratic equations. These equations have become important tools for cutting-edge scientists studying areas as diverse as black-hole gravitation, ocean currents, data-mining, and computational nanotechnology.
Rolland enjoyed playing the harmonica, accordion, and keyboard. He was also a fan of country western music and visiting Civil War battlegrounds.
[full obit at online Journal-Pilot....]

And while I’m on the subject of interesting people from Forgotonia, here’s another update (from the PJ Star) on the American Indian from Hancock County–who knew?–taking his religious-freedom complaint about the smoking bill to the higher courts.

The effort by a Hancock County American Indian to amend the state’s 15-month-old smoking ban has cleared a hurdle in the Illinois Legislature.
On Wednesday, senators voted 53-0-1 in favor of an amendment allowing smoking indoors when it’s part of a religious ceremony, ritual or activity.
State Sen. Dale Risinger, R-Peoria, voted present on the measure.
The bill will now be considered by the Illinois House.
The amendment was introduced in February by Sen. John Sullivan, D-Rushville, who was initially approached by American Indian Larry Cooper of Hamilton.
Since passage of the smoking ban, Cooper and other American Indians who want to use smoke indoors for tribal ceremonies have been told those portions must be done outside because of the state’s new ban. Some smoke in the ceremonies include burning prairie grasses or the use of ceremonial pipes.
The proposed amendment protects the rights of American Indians to practice any recognized religious ceremony, ritual or activity that is in accordance with the federal American Indian Religious Freedom Act.
“It is important that any legislation passed by the General Assembly does not infringe upon basic religious freedoms,” Sullivan said. “The intent of this legislation is to ensure that the smoking ban passed last session does not negatively affect the religious rights of American Indian citizens protected under the First Amendment.”
Last month, Cooper testified in support of the amendment at a Senate committee.
On Thursday, Cooper said the wording of the passed amendment isn’t exactly what had been discussed because a reference to recognized ceremonies leaves out the word “native,” but he said he’s been assured that will be corrected in the House.
Cooper said he supports the amendment, “as long as it goes statewide and everyone understands it.
“It’s not exactly the way it was agreed upon, but as long as it’s clear that we do have that right, we’ll go along with it.”
Sullivan has said that if all of the necessary approvals are garnered, the amendment could become part of the act by May.

I used to go to rock shows. What does it say about me that I wish I could asking off work in order to attend THIS??????

Latter-day Saints to commemorate ‘Mormon Exodus’

(from the Deseret News)
NAUVOO, Ill. – The public is invited to a commemoration of the famous river crossing known as the “Mormon Exodus.”

On Feb. 4, 1846, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints began crossing the icy waters of the Mississippi, eventually to complete their well-known trek to the Rocky Mountains.

In honor of those pioneers, modern Latter-day Saints, along with their friends, will re-enact the march down Parley Street* on Wednesday, Feb. 4. They will wear nametags for those who made the actual historic crossing. At the water’s edge, in a short ceremony, the marchers will pay tribute to those who were part of the exodus and to the thousands who died along the Mormon Trail.
.
Missionaries from the Illinois Nauvoo Mission will portray or relate the stories of some of those individuals who survived the river crossing and made the trek west.

Shirley Land, one of the organizers of the event, expressed her hope for the commemoration.

“Most years Feb. 4 turns out to be a really cold day, and to be honest, I hope it is this year, too,” she said. “I’m not sure we get the full sense of what those people suffered if we don’t feel a little uncomfortable ourselves.”

Lest we forget, that aforementioned exodus was started because of the kicking-out of the Mormons from Hancock County, which commenced with the murder of a certain leader in a certain person’s hometown.
Now, just for the record. I’m not saying I’m all in with Mormon goings-on (or that I’m the most open-minded person in the world when it comes to religion in general.)

BUT, I do find it absolutely fascinating that this major chapter in American history started right here in Forgotonia.

And it feels me with a sense of awe to stop and think about what it would have been like to live in those pre-Carhardt times and trek across the frozen Mississippi–and everything that journey entailed (and led to afterward).

And I guess getting interested in history when you get older is nothing to really feel bad about.

[But, you know. I still wanna rock!]

* I wonder if Parley Street in Nauvoo is named after the guy my dad was addressing when he got a one-line speaking part in the Mormon movie “Exodus.” The line, which I like to repeat at family gatherings as often as possible, was “Confound it, Parley!”

Quite belatedly–I’ve been meaning to post this forever–but: this article kinda makes you want there to be something all Da Vinci Code going on:

(ps I totally wanted to go to the little festival thing-y but had other plans. Yeah I’m cool like that.

Did you go?)

An ‘architectural marvel’

Community celebrate[d] 100th anniversary of Hancock County Courthouse

CARTHAGE —

An “architectural marvel” from the pages of Hancock County history will be the heart of an anniversary celebration.

Residents will gather Saturday to mark the 100th anniversary of the Hancock County Courthouse, the third constructed in county history.

Standing three stories high in the center of downtown Carthage, the structure has survived fire, trial and storm to remain one of the area’s most unique and beautiful courthouses. Many features original to the 1908 structure still remain, including tiny hand-laid tile floors, marble stairs untouched by time and several art glass works on the ceilings and walls.

Walking up or down the building’s east stairs, visitors are greeted by a glass depi

ction of Lady Justice. She also stands atop the courthouse’s exterior dome, holding the scales of justice.

The faces on the four clocks in the clock tower were fake until the local Kiwanis club replaced them in the 1980s. The building’s original plans called for clocks, but builders didn’t want to go over budget for the construction by paying the $2,000 needed to add them.

Anniversary event co-chairwoman Kris Pilkington also serves as the county’s treasurer. She and 17 other committee members have been meeting for more than a year to organize the anniversary events.

She said Hancock County’s history has included three courthouses, the first an 1830s log cabin on the south side of the square and the second a smaller building on the current site. The current building was dedicated Oct. 20, 1908.

“A quote in the Hancock County Republican called the courthouse an ‘architectural marvel,’ ” Pilkington said. “The building had indoor plumbing and electricity from day one, which was almost unheard of.”

The finished building had 17 restrooms, one in each office and one public restroom. Pilkington said the front of the Hancock County Courthouse faces south but the reason for that is open to debate.

“There’s one speculation that the south side of the square was more prominent in the 1900s; the hotel was there and it was more developed,” she said. “The second idea is that it looks to the south because of the defeat of the South in the Civil War, but I hope that’s not the case.”

Over time modern adjustments were made to the building such as air conditioning and adding computer wiring. Pilkington said care was taken to hide the impact of those modernizations.

Some courthouse artifacts are typically on display at the Kibbe Museum in Carthage, but many will be brought back for the anniversary event.

Attempts were made to free the building’s cornerstone on its northeast side to reveal a time capsule believed to be hidden behind it. But those efforts were unsuccessful when the capsule couldn’t be reached, despite using an available copy of the building’s original blueprints.

Organizers said a new time capsule will be planted as part of Saturday’s celebration. It will include information supplied by each of the county’s townships.

Pilkington said two books have been compiled to mark the 100th anniversary and are being sold to help pay for the celebration’s expenses. Both include drawings by Havana artist David Alan Badger, who will be signing copies.

Saturday’s events also include tours of the courthouse by guides in period costumes, a parade and a historical program. The grand marshals of the parade are nine Hancock County residents who are at least 100 years old, and the program will include an address by retired Circuit Judge Max B. Stewart.

Pilkington said so many pieces of the courthouse’s history were learned through planning the event, and she hopes local residents take the chance to mark its anniversary.

“How many times are you alive at the right time to celebrate something like this?” she said.

How cool is THIS?

Last night, during the Oscars, Javier Bardem’s speech was one of the night’s first heartfelt, sincere-seeming moments; after starting out in English, he then thanked, in Spanish, his family and the people of Spain—which got my attention because I thought he was from Mexico.

During a commercial break I called my mom to say hi, and we chatted about the show, Bardem’s speech, and how our weekends had been going.

Then, like totally as an afterthought, she goes, “Oh, listen to this.”

She told me that several years ago, a guy from Carthage, (a guy whose father is a well-known Carthage businessman) lived in Spain for awhile working as an English tutor and teacher, and one of his former students? None other than Javier Bardem.

And what’s even cooler than that?

The person who taught Javier Bardem’s tutor how to speak Spanish?

Mi madre!

Finally!

Decades after it was hijacked (well, okay, not hijacked, but

• purchased by some shifty characters who gave it a wack-job name [World Christian Ambassador Mission, Inc.],
• put up fake web sites advertising non-existent programs,
• then disappeared, leaving the formerly thriving place to rot),the old Carthage College campus (the saga of which you can read more about here) is finally being taken care of, refurbished, and renovated.

It’s fabulous news, considering it’s just been sitting there looking depressing for the longest time.

Next, I think officials in Kenosha should send funds! You owe it to us, you know you do!

(You can read all the deets about the awesome plan to breathe life back into the place here).

The following piece was originally a commentary on NRR member station Tri States Public Radio, about the ongoing saga of the old Carthage College campus.

It was announced last month that Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, will close its doors. Commentator Alison McGaughey says that when the halls of academia begin to crumble, there’s only one solution: pray for pigs.

I couldn’t help but feel a kind of pang when I heard on the news that the once-prestigious Antioch College is set to shut its doors. Not because I, too, am a private-school grad–I went to nearby Monmouth College—but because I grew up in a town where a once-successful college closed its doors.

When I heard the news about Antioch, the first thought that came to mind wasn’t “what will happen to the students and faculty?” but:

“What will happen to the town?”

According to an Associated Press story, the non-traditional liberal arts college is being forced to close its doors because of a lack of funds and declining enrollment. Antioch officials say they do, at least, hope to re-open in four years.

But some schools—or should I say, some towns—aren’t so lucky.

My hometown of Carthage, Illinois was once home to a private, liberal arts school: the aptly named Carthage College. But because the town was far-removed from interstate access— located in a region once dubbed The Republic of Forgotonia—college officials voted in 1962 to move the campus to Kenosha, Wisconsin.

When I was a kid in the 80s, the campus was inhabited by a business school, Robert Morris College. But then Robert Morris moved, too—in this case to multiple locations in Peoria, Springfield, and the Chicago area—and I watched as my town slowly began to lose population, businesses, and, in some ways, hope.

The campus was sold to a South Korean man in 1994. But he neglected to do anything with the property.

By the time I was a teenager, when my friends and I would cruise the main drag through town for the millionth time, it was hard not to wonder what it would’ve been like to live in Carthage when a college was still there. There would’ve been an abundance of young people. Professors and their families. Theatrical and musical performances.

There would’ve been boys.

But instead of having a lively cultural center, my hometown had a miniature ghost town—buildings with broken windows and leaking roofs, a campus of thigh-high weeds. This is the depressing site that greets visitors who enter Carthage on the east side of town.

When I left home to attend college myself– to the small private Monmouth College– I learned that one of my English-major/theatre buddies, a guy from the Chicago suburbs, had transferred in to Monmouth–from Carthage College in Kenosha. When I excitedly asked him if he knew where Carthage College got its name, I was actually, like, mad at him when he said he had no clue.

Over the years, Carthage community leaders have tried to do what they could about the declining campus. One city leader even tried pitching the story of Kang Moo Lee’s extreme absentee landlord-ism to national news shows, but to no avail. Rumors have circulated for years that Mormons with ties to local history would buy the property. Nothing ever materialized.

But late last month, a local vet announced that his investment group, consisting of Carthage Veterinary Service, Ltd. and Professional Swine Management LLC, has purchased the property.

At least three of the 12 existing buildings are beyond repair and will have to be demolished, according to one news report.

But the group plans to turn at one former hall into office space for the veterinary clinic and swine management operations. They might also refurbish another building into temporary housing for new employees, and possibly for starting a small-business incubator.

Admittedly, a swine operation can’t promise the cultural boost that a college would.

But it’s the end of an eyesore—and an era of neglect and disrepair—and that’s the best shot in the arm my hometown has received in a very long time.

I can only hope the best for the town of Yellow Springs. And maybe now, if I happen to meet any other people who tell me they are alumni of the current Carthage College, I can ease up on them just a bit.

–

The following originally aired as a local commentary on NPR-member station WIUM/WIUW Tri States Public Radio. You can read/ listen to more of my essays here.

I’ve never been big on the idea of going back home for Homecoming.

In all the years that I’ve been out of high school, I’ve never felt a need to return to my hometown to watch as the most popular girl and guy are adorned with crowns.

Four years of that was plenty for me, thanks.

But this year my sister called me and talked me into going.

This Homecoming was being billed as the “last ever” for Carthage High School.

Like so many other small towns in Illinois, the one I grew up in has had to face the fact of declining population. Next year, Carthage High School will have a new name, a new mascot, and a new crop of students—as the high schools in neighboring Dallas City and LaHarpe converge with Carthage.

To commemorate the last Carthage Homecoming, a group of longtime Carthage residents put together a celebration, complete with a street dance, a sports memorabilia auction, and a self-guided tour of all the buildings in the district.

I didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

It seemed silly to commemorate the “end” of Carthage High School—after all, it’s not like the town itself is going anywhere. There will still be a “Carthage high school,” it’ll just have kids in it who grew up a little further down the road than our bus routes traditionally stretched.

I mean, a building is just a building.

That’s how I felt, at least, until my sister and I took the tour.

When we got home to Carthage, we drove south of town to the lonely prairie spot where the old Union Douglas grade school—or “UD” as we called it— still stands. There was a business set up in the gym. The place where I played so many games of freeze tag now houses a car-detailing shop. It was a little surreal.

We made our way through the rest of the building, and I entered my second grade classroom. Even though more than 20 years had gone by, the room looked just as I might’ve imagined it—cinderblock walls, beige-tile floors, dust—and, about everywhere I stepped—dead crickets. I remembered the sticky spring days just before summer break, when grasshoppers used to jump in through the rectangular windows along the east wall.

We went back to town to visit the next building, which stands just off Highway 136 in the middle of town.

For my sister, this building was simply “the junior high”—where she’d attended sixth through eighth grade— but by the time I attended there, it had been changed to “Central Elementary,” a middle school.

Inside that building (which now has some other name), everything was bright and clean, because this one is still actually occupied by grade-schoolers. As we toured the rooms, I marveled at how tiny they were in comparison to my memory. My sister and I took turns photographing each other in front of ridiculously un-remarkable objects. Each hook in a coatroom, warped spot in the floor, or fire-escape door held different meanings for us.
“Get me in front of this pencil sharpener,” I’d say, in the room where I’d spent my sixth grade days. “This is right next to where I sat.”

“No, no, this was the art room when I went here,” she’d say. “Get one of me over here in front of the old art-supply cabinets.”
As we were leaving, an elderly Carthage woman entered the room with her granddaughter, who goes to school in the building now. “ …and this is where I had Home Ec,” she told the girl. “This was the high school back then, you know.”

By the end of the weekend I would realize that even though the convergence in Carthage signals the end of an era, the school district has actually been morphing and shaping all along. And each of us has this stubborn sense of ownership—as if those buildings existed solely for our own time in them. I realized that one of the great frustrations of small-town life—the feeling that nothing ever changes—can also be one of its greatest perks: everywhere you turn, you’re surrounded by tangible pieces of your history. And you’re free to go in and take a tour of them.

The last stop on our building tour was the high school. In the gym, pastel pink and green streamers were strung from the ceiling for that night’s school dance. The podium was prepared for the crowning of the king and queen.
“Here,” I said to my sister, handing her my camera. “Get one of me up here. Look, I’m the queen!”

So now I have proof that things do eventually change in small towns; it just takes time.

daydream believer