Welcome to Forgotonia

This would be just one of the many cards I found in this Reebox box stuffed full of cards, as part of my ongoing process of trying to get moved in and pared down. This would be, more specifically, a card from my 8th-grade graduation, May 1991.

Chapter 1

Lately, I’ve found myself counting syllables. Lying in bed at night, I’ll press my fingers down ever so lightly on an invisible surface, not unlike I did in second grade the night before my piano recital.  “Dum-da-dum/da-dum-da-dum-dumdum,” you might catch me  sounding-out to myself these days. “I guess that’s not too horrible.”

I tap out my possible new name: “Alison McGaughey-Norton.” Eight syllables. It’s not that bad. It’s not like I’m marrying a Stephanopoulos or a Boutros-Ghalli.

Still, I scan my brain for examples of women I know who don’t “just” have hyphenated last names, but who’ve also got at least one clunker in there.  (Surely Smith-Jones types didn’t have to think too hard about this decision, right?)

“Doc/tor Can/dace Car/dell/i/ni – Mar/ti/nez*,” I count out, landing upon the name of a woman who taught at a school where I once worked. Nine syllables. I feel the tiniest flutter of smug satisfaction knowing that mine would be a whole beat less. Then I move on to my little checklist:

Did I ever heard anyone mock Dr. Candace Cardellini-Martinez for hyphenating, when she clearly knew she’d have a long-ass name?

Did I ever hear anyone call her a feminazi or pretentious granola hippie?

No.

So, okay. Score one for “Maybe.”

But still. I barely knew this woman, and I can easily recall her name because it drew attention to itself.

Do I sincerely want to add more syllables onto my already cumbersome, vowel-laden, phonetically incorrect last name? (It should technically rhyme with “McLaugh-y,” but somehow we got a long A in there, McGay-hee.)

My fiance and I are getting married this fall. Recently, when I called a hotel to book a block of rooms for our out-of-town guests, I had to spell out my current name to the receptionist. I’m used to doling out each letter slowly and with extra articulation, but it rarely helps.

“M, c—wait, what is it?” the lady said.

In moments like these, I worry that people will think I’m nuts for not wanting to just take “Norton” and clean out that phonetic clutter. That once they see I’ve insisted on keeping “McGaughey” around, certain relatives or others might judge me for being high maintenance or egotistical somehow.

And then I try to practice giving them an explanation, and I find myself thinking, “Wait, why am I doing this, again?”

Chapter 2

My childhood self would want to kill me right now for even thinking about this possibility.

In kindergarten, a little red-headed boy named Mikey used to skip down the hall during bathroom break calling out “McGay-hee-hoooo,” his voice bouncing off the cavernous walls of the old school building’s basement, where the kindergartners dwelled. As I waited my turn in the pink Raggedy Ann bathroom, I could hear the boys at the opposite end in the blue Raggedy Andy-painted version, answering Mikey”s call with their own chorus of “hee-hoooo”s.

By third grade, this version of other kids having fun with my name would seem innocent–nostalgic, even.

Our class had inherited a new member, a tough-looking kid named Zeke who’d been held back the previous year. (I mention this because, in our tiny town, there were almost never “new” kids. My core classmate group remained more or less unchanged from preschool to the day we graduated high school.)

By the end of September  it was clear that Zeke’s thing was coming up for a nickname for nearly everyone in the class, some mean and others more innocuous. The heaviest girl in our grade was Donut. The kid whose older brother was already becoming a star on the JV high school football team was Tackle Junior. My friend Dorrie, who one day during art class revealed (via stencil) that her full first name was actually Dorothy, became Toto. (Later, in high school, Toto Tits.)

And one day, at the drinking fountain, I received mine: “gayades.” Huh? I didn’t even realize, at first, that Zeke was addressing me, but after awhile I realized he hollered it every time he brushed past me at the drinking fountain.

One day at recess, my classmate Gretchen stormed back into the building in tears as a result of Zeke’s name-calling.(Hers: Oscar, for Oscar the “Gretch.”) I followed her inside and found her in the bathroom, angrily wiping away tears. “I hate him,” she seethed.

“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “He’s so sure he has to make fun of everyone, he made up a name for me that doesn’t even mean anything.”

Gretchen looked down her glasses at me. “Yes it does,” she hissed. “‘Muh-gay-hee’?” she sounded out slowly, like she was trying to get me to understand that C-A-T spelled “cat.”  She rolled her eyes when I didn’t respond. “Gay?” she said. “And the ades disease? Duh.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I knew that.”

(Sometimes, I wish I could remember the discussion at the dinner table when I surely asked my parents what both “gay” and “ades” meant.)

A few years later, in sixth grade, I started getting attention in the classroom for something that had nothing to do with my last name.

The social studies teacher, Mr. Kestler, had a habit–in a kind of reverse of Zeke’s–of giving everyone in the class attention some kind of role or nickname that linked them to a historical character time period.

That year, when we were talking about kings with their harems, I got riled up one day and made some grand, passionate statement (after raising my hand, of course) about how women should be treated just like men.

Maybe it was just that one story that set me off. Maybe I was simply born with an inherent sense of equity. (Or, more likely, I knew that this young, popular male teacher would make a point to call on me and rib me a little bit if there was something in our textbook about women not having rights, and I just wanted the attention.)

Whatever the case, I would have forgotten entirely about this little role as budding feminist–this small sign that double standards stuck out to me, even as a kid–if it weren’t for a piece of tangible proof that I unearthed many years later.

One summer when I was home from college, I unearthed in my bedroom closet a bumper sticker–given to me by Dorrie during our punch-and-cookie party on the day before Christmas break—that read “A woman’s place is in the house—and in the Senate.”

Chapter 3

I didn’t meet Chris until I was 31 years old, and we are getting married next months after being together three years, which means I’ll be getting married at age 34.  Which in itself isn’t all that strange, but by which point my sister, all of my best friends from childhood and college–and even several girls back home that I had babysat–became married women.

Now that I’m getting married 10 or more years later, I find myself dealing with questions and decisions that, while I know my friends faced them as well and we discussed them, I wished I’d recorded and could replay.  With the caterer’s brochure in one hand and my computer’s calculator pulled up on the screen, I ask Emily and Jane how many people they each invited vs. how many actually showed up, I hear, “Let’s see…I don’t even really remember…did we invite 200?”

I do remember–barely–that when my friend Susan, and later Jane–got married and didn’t change their last names, they expressed a few anxieties about offending future mothers-in-law. I think I remember hearing that they each fielded questions about answering other peoples’ seemingly- innocuous questions like “But what about when you have kids?”

But what I’m remembering a little too clearly now is that during these discussions, I’d wave my hand and say, assuredly, “It’s your choice. It’s not about anyone else. If you don’t feel like you should have to do it, then don’t.”

In giving them these pep talks, it started to dawn on me that, while I’d never given it a lot of thought, there had been something nebulous forming inside me–that seeing two of my best friends make the choice to keep their “maiden” names was a confirmation of what I wanted for myself, when and if I ever found someone (and the longer I went through my 20s and into my early 30s, it started to seem like a moot point).

So it never occurred to me that I was making the decision from safely solitary perch.

One day not long after we were first engaged, we were playing the Wii when my future husband suddenly sounded out, “Alison Norton.” He repeated it again, and landing upon those two repeating “nn“s at the ends, offered, “You could go by Ali. Ali Norton. That sounds cute.”

I froze.

It had never occurred to me, in our two-plus years together, that he would assume I’d take his last name.

Worse, when I told him I’d always planned on keeping my own last name, I was shocked that this news seemed to bother him.

“Why wouldn’t you want to take my name?” he said, seeming a bit wounded. “Doesn’t it sort of seem like, in a way, that you’re telling the world you’re only halfway into the marriage?”

Now, before I go any further, allow me to explain some reasoning for being shocked.

First, this is the same guy who, when he proposed, presented me with a specially-ordered fortune cookie with a personalized proposal inside–and called my parents to make sure they were there to witness the moment–but did not present engagement ring. He had started a travel account for an international honeymoon trip, he explained during the proposal, and I was ecstatic–not only to have found someone I loved so much, but also that he knew me so well that he assumed correctly I would rather not wear an expensive bauble.

I should also point out that, on only our second date, I managed to not only not offend, but connect with, this man on such fun and date-friendly topics as abortion, religion, and Sarah Palin (all during a game of darts in a bar).

And, Chris is a guy who worries so little about standing on ceremony and other peoples’ expectations that, though he works in a professional setting, he wears flip-flops and t-shirts to work every day of the week, (including the one that shows a cartoon bar of soap saying “Rub me on your butt!”)

So, perhaps needless to say, his displeasure at my desire to go the somewhat non-traditional route was not entirely in keeping with his personality and values.

“If you were worried that I’m telling the world I’m not committed to the marriage,” I tried, “then why doesn’t it bother you that I don’t have an engagement ring?”

Chris considered this thoughtfully. But still, his resolve on the issue surprised me. “It’s just… I don’t know. When I hear of women who do that, I think, ‘Well, they’re just keeping their own name in case they end up getting divorced. It’ll be easier for them.’”

I was stunned. If this thoughtful, otherwise-progressive guy saw it this way, could other people out there actually think think that way, too?

I tried several counter-arguments to the “not-all-the-way committed” thing, like the fact that my feminist aunt has been married to my uncle for more than 40 years, and their child seems to have grown up entirely unscathed by having a last name that matched her father’s but not her mothers.

I try pointing out how much he likes Susan and Jane, and how healthy their marriages seem and how little their last names even matter.

And, most importantly, I try reminding him how much I absolutely adore him, how my time with him has been the happiest and healthiest in my life, and how utterly and deeply I know that I never want our time together to end.

To all of this, he listens, considers, and then thoughtfully replies, with a small shake of his head, “I see where you’re coming from. But…I don’t know. I still just don’t like it.”

So, for almost all of our long engagement, we’ve been agreeing to disagree, and/or avoiding the topic altogether. But there’s only a little bit of time left to decide.

Chapter 4

The funny thing is, as I’ve tried to explain to him why keeping my last name is so important to me, I’ve had to ask myself why I’m not relenting, and I’ve had a surprisingly hard time articulating my beliefs to myself, let alone to him.

I want to provide some concrete reason, some specific moment that “caused” me to be a feminist. I try to define what that troublesome word even means to me. Ironically, I’ve discovered that one of the parts of the definition to me has always been this very thing–that when a woman gets married, she’s supposed to give up a big part of her identity, but the man is not. That a woman is “given away” like a piece of property and is expected to wear white. That all the details that were supposed to  enthrall me with Cinderalla-ish dreams as a little girl have honestly always made me prickly.

But somehow, trying to make these arguments as an adult woman (not to mention one getting married later on in life than most) feels akin to sticking my fingers in my ears and saying, “nyah, nyah, I’m not changing my name ‘less you have to do it, too!”

So, setting my nebulous definitions of feminism aside, I try to pinpoint when it was, exactly, that family history started to matter to me.

Was it when I started out as a newspaper reporter and had to type up obituaries, and the concept of lineage started to take on a weird importance (as I tried to imagine the typist of my own obit however many years from now)? That, since there are hardly any males amongst my small rank of cousins, the McGaughey name will disappear from the tree?

But just as I work up the courage to say I’m sticking with the name-keeping decision I made when I was single, I ask myself, if things like legacy and future family members studying their genealogy are important to me, then why am I nearly definite that I don’t want to carry, (let alone raise through the torture of teenage years), children? (And so excited to have met a man who feels the same way?)

It’s hard to argue that I want to keep the history of the McGaughey name alive, when there’s no one coming after me to care about that choice. (And wouldn’t the kid probably do just as little Mikey had? “McGay-hee, that’s a funny name! Muh-gay-hee-hooo!”)

I’ve even tried arguing that I’m proud of my Scotch-Irish and German roots, and in a way this is true. But what is so ethnic about me that would be lost if I take another name—especially since the most Irish/Scottish/German thing I know about myself is that I’m Lutheran by heritage and that I sunburn easily?

Finally, when my fiance and I are eating dinner and the last-name thing comes up, I mumble something like, “I’ve always worked and written with this last name. It’s my professional identity.” (And though that is true, the most public writing I’ve done has been for the local newspaper, or hitting “publish” on this blog.)

So the best I can come up with is, “I don’t know. I’ve just always figured I’d keep my last name. So…uh, have you gotten in touch with your best man about his tie yet?”

One day, after thinking about how otherwise reasonable my fiance is on everything else, and how dearly and gently he treats me and our relationship, I decided to offer a compromise.

“I could hyphenate,” I said. “If it really bothers you that much to see me keep my own last name, I don’t want it to become a sticking point. I don’t want you to have to cringe every time you hear it.”

Of course, in my next breath, I said, “But I’m not gonna change it, either, and be resentful every time I have to say my own name. I just can’t turn into an entirely different person. It’s just… it would feel too weird. Alison Norton.”

So I proposed the hyphenate.

And Chris seemed pleased.

“That would be a good compromise,” he said.

And I felt proud of myself for doing this new adult thing, this healthy compromising, that I’ve never had to do before.

But almost immediately after that conversation, I wondered if I had made a mistake.

Chapter 5

As I lie in bed sounding out syllables, it’s more than just subjecting myself, and others, to having to say and spell out that long of a name, that has me worried.

Really, it’s this: do I want to tell the world–especially my best friends who I so championed on their choice to keep their last names (and to say nothing of my sixth grade classmates who might remember my role as little Hillary Clinton)–that I’m such weakling, I “flip-flopped” on my own beliefs and added my husband’s last name?

Do I want that little hyphen to be a punctuational salute for 1950s-era standing by my man?

For right now, I’m trying to tell myself to stop caring about that “telling the world” part. It’s really not any of “the world’s” business, right? (And doesn’t the world have more important stuff to worry about, anyway?)

I want to stay true to myself.

But I also need to learn how to do that as part of a happy, healthy relationship. Thankfully, that’s a good problem to have.

And thankfully, one of the perks of being an adult is that whatever I choose–whether I hyphenate or stick to my last name standing on its own–I won’t be stuck in the social realm of school. If anyone’s going to make fun of  (or disapprove of) my name, they’ll thankfully do it behind my back. And even if I find out, I’ll be grown up enough to not really care. (Though, hopefully, they’ll leave gay people and AIDS patients out of it.)

 

*some names changed to protect the innocent and/or guilty.

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.

 

 

 

Thursday, June 30

• drove to Rochester, IL (just outside Springfield) to meet up at my sister’s place with my aunt and uncle from Seattle, who were briefly in Illinois. We had an…interesting lunch at a local joint called the Buckheart Tavern (air conditioner dripped onto my mom’s shoulder as we ate, and the waitress was actually kind of pissed at us for being there, seeing as how she already had her regular lunchtime crew (guys in overalls and mullets, truly) and we just made her busier. Then we just sat on the back porch at my sister’s new place, visited, and enjoyed the summer breeze. And the sangria that my aunt made (which I promptly spilled down my leg and onto the porch.)

 

• I got to play with my nephews and have a grand day. But then on the way home I got pulled over in a speed trap outside Springfield and got fined $120. Yeeouch. Oh, those $75-ticket days of yore…

Friday, July 1

• worked. (Okay, so, my actual vacation didn’t start until the next day, but I had to include that family visit above). Chris arrived from Davenport in the evening, and after I rushed around trying to tidy up the house and pack, I/we

Saturday, July 2

• Drove back* to Springfield, but this time on the way to St. Louis to visit one of my BFFs and her husband. This was the first time bringing Chris with me to visit these friends, and a mini vacay for both of us.
• On the way down, we listened to an audiobook of the latest collection of essays by Sloane Crosley, and I was bummed to find (especially since I was the one in the role of, “Oh, her last collection was really funny. You’ll love her!”) that I couldn’t really get in to it.

*Chris has a GPS, and apparently the Way of the GPS is to take the most direct route, even if it means sending you on two-laners when you could, ahem, just as easily get on 55. While the thing barked at us all the way from Rushville to Beardstown that we needed to turn around immediately, I barked back that “that’s not the way to get on 55!” Much gentle and passive-aggressive arguing about the worthiness (or lack of) of the robot ensued.

• Arrived in St. Louis, where our hosts treated us to the most absolutely amazing meal at Modesto, a tapas restaurant. (If I ever commit a crime, please make sure that my last meal is…appetizers. Specifically, Spanish ones, like tortilla espanola, and some bread dipped in goat cheese and tomato sauce….and red wine, too please.)
• Walked from my friend’s house to a park nearby, where their neighborhood fireworks show proved to include, in one night, about a decade’s worth of the booms and flashes that go off in my hometown. Oh, and, for some reason—either because we were sitting too close or just in a weird spot downwind—we were showered with little papery pieces of firework casing. But we didn’t move. Drunk? No. In a heat/humidity coma? Yes. (I soaked through my clothes in sweat more than once on this trip. Did I mention that I’m a cranky, irritable child who hates to sweat, and that it was 100 degrees? I am, and it was.)

Sunday, July 3

• Went to breakfast at a place called Local Harvest, where, upon our friends’ recommendation, we commenced in eating THE ABSOLUTE BEST BREAKFAST IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. That would be the chorizo and potato potpie, with a fried (locally produced) egg on top, served with fresh fruit and other delicious sides (that I shamefully ignored because I could not stop eating that damn pie). Delicious iced coffee, great service and nice people running the place…awesome.

• Drove around (or, rather, were chauffeured around by our friends), getting a tour of neighborhoods all over the city and what kind of characteristics each is known for.
• Took a tour of the beautiful, grand old home our hosts recently purchased in the city and will soon be moving into/fixing up. Proceeded to be extremely happy for my friend (and do my very best to tamp down feelings of inadequacy, what with my ongoing status as renter of a cabin that attracts possums, and all).

Monday, July 4

 

• Toured the Missouri Botanical Gardens, which I knew were going to be amazing because my friend had told me so, but which still made me go, “Wow, this place is so cool!” at every turn. Commenced in sweating like a disgusting sweaty pig. Fell in love with the dreamy, peaceful Japanese garden area and vowed to imagine this space in my head next time I’m anxious (oh wait, that’s always!).

• Waited in a line that snaked for what was surely a half mile at Pappy’s, a BBQ joint that features pictures of Man vs. Food host Adam Richman and other celebrities, and ended up getting theee best pulled pork sandwich my mouth has ever known. (Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes, we really did eat this many “best evers” in such a short time. Oh and the Midwest is totally known for its lightweight fair. Ha!)

Tuesday, July 5

• Reluctantly said goodbye to our friends and drove back* to Macomb.

*By way of about 10 wrong turns, courtesy of the robot. I’m just saying.

Wednesday, July 6

• My one day at home. Got to spend some nice leisurely time with Chris on a weekday, enjoying a big breakfast together and just hanging out. Later, rented The Company Men starring Ben Affleck, Chris Cooper, and Tommy Lee Jones, (which was nothing too earth-shattering but still pretty decent; I’d stay 3.5 stars).

Thursday, July 7

• Ran around doing errands, (but one of those, at least, was a much-appreciated pedicure).
• Got back in the car and drove to Springfield (third time’s a charm!). Passed the cop who pulled me over in Pleasant Plains; subtley giving him the bird by “scratching” my head with my middle finger. Got to my sister’s house just in time to watch the end of The Incredibles with my nephews and then read them a Bearnstein Bears book before bed.

Friday, July 8

• Went to Knight’s Action Park with my sister and the boys, spending the morning and afternoon in the wave pool, floating in innertubes on “The Lazy River,” and going down the long curvy water slides (this latter at the urging of my oldest nephew). I hadn’t been on one of those slides in ages, and the sheer, intense joy of that 30-second or 1-minute ride had me spewing lots of cliches about feeling “like a kid again.” Loved it. (Sunburned scalp at the end of the day: not so much.)

• Drove back to Macomb at the end of this long, fun day in order to be able to leave the next morning for Davenport to help Chris pick out his suit for the hitching day.

 

Phew.

Wonderful, fun, too short. (I have to say that the next headline I see about “Recommended Summer Reading” or the “Books for Those Hazy, Lazy Days of Summer…,” I’m just going to break down and wail.)

But I’m thankful for the days I got and all the fun things I got to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

The first time I ever saw such a concept was on the Knox County Scenic Drive. My sister and I laughed about it all afternoon. Where we were grew up, these ugly little bombs seemed to be as common as the rocks on our gravel road, or acorn caps scattered under the trees.

Hey, wait a minute….
ACORN CAPS, 80 CENTS APIECE!
…anyone?

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.)

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.

Here’s me remembering the goat named after The Gloved One, if ya wanna read/ take a listen.

Check out some of my other radio essays here.

The following was originally aired as a commentary on Tri States Public Radio, the NPR member station for Macomb, IL.

(Listen to the audio version online on Tri State Public Radio’s web site)

Every summer during fair season, I want to be a kid again. But it has nothing to do with cotton candy or riding rides. It’s the kids in the livestock barns. When I see little girls who know how to lasso, I want a re-do of my own childhood.

I had every opportunity to develop farm-cred. My parents put me and my sister in 4-H. And I actually lived on a farm, unlike the rest of the kids in our club, which was called the Peppy Peppers.

But the town kids, somehow, were the ones who showed hogs and cows come fair-time.
Me? I did Drawing. And Photography.

My sister didn’t show animals, either, but she did crochet and counter-cross-stitch her way to the state fair. The best I ever did was a blue ribbon for a latch-hook rug but I made it from a kit I bought at Ben Franklin. (All my 4-H work, I made sure, could be done in front of the AC and the TV.)

Dad must have begun to notice his daughters were getting away from the fundamentals of farm life. Because one day he came in for supper announcing he had a surprise for us.

We ran out into the front yard, me hoping for a new 10-speed. Or a pool.

But it was a goat. A little black billy goat.

And instantly, it charged at me. It was being affectionate, but I screamed. “Get it off me!”

My sister laughed. She thought it was cute. So we’ll say she was the one who picked out his name.

Dad came outside with an old Pepsi bottle he had filled with milk and topped with a gray rubber nipple. He got hold of the goat, tipped back his little head, and gently yet forcefully got it to suckle.

I guessed it was kind of cute (standing still).

Later, there was a knock at the kitchen door. (That’s a big deal when you live out in the country.)

Mom went to see who it could be. But no one was there.

She was still looking out when there was another knock.

“Wait a minute.” Mom peered down through the top half of the screen door. “Aha!”
Michael Jackson had gotten out of his pen and was bashing his little head against the metal.

“It’s the goat!” we giggled. “You’re so silly, Michael Jackson!”

Later in the summer, my sister and I had an official chore: to rub a stinky ointment on the goat’s head twice a day. I guess it was like goat Orajel for horn cutting pain. Or maybe horn control.

But we couldn’t get it on him. It was impossible to get him to stand still. He was like a four-legged, black-furred junebug, banging constantly against his pen and against the kitchen door, because he always got out.

Soon, Dad was the one doing horn-deterrent duty.

We didn’t have him a whole summer. Did we even have him a full month? I think Dad finally foisted him off on our cousins, who were also farm kids though I’m not sure why they were expected to do better at keeping him in his pen than we had.

Now I realize the Michael Jackson episode was a foreshadowing of the poor excuse for a farmer’s daughter I was to become. The few times I was ever asked to do chores like walk beans I whined my way out of them.

I could have learned a lesson about raising animals, a small step in keeping our family’s farming tradition from fading away. But what I really cared about was getting into town, where my friends had cable, so I could watch MTV.

The next summer at the fair, I showed not a cow or a sow but a comic strip about a little girl who tries to get out of doing her homework.

These days, I regret that I never learned any of the 4-H skills that would come in handy in real life. (Last time I checked, you can’t latch-hook a button back onto your blouse.) But I have to accept the fact that when I was actually in 4-H and had the chance to learn about farm life, it just wasn’t me.

I guess I couldn’t help it any more than Michael Jackson could help not wanting to stay in his pen.

What I really wanted was to moonwalk, not walk beans.

The following was originally aired as a commentary on local NPR-member station WIUM/WIUW Tri States Public Radio.

Children in the region will be out and about knocking on doors this week. Commentator Alison McGaughey says that’s exactly what gives her fright.

Tomorrow night, I will be participating in trick-or-treat—my first time as an adult.

Not as a parent taking kids from door-to-door, but as a citizen, opening my door to the treat-seekers.

I should be excited, but I’m nervous.

I’m not afraid of the ‘trick’ part. It’ll be the children of friends and co-workers who’ll be stopping by. And I’m going to be generous. I’ve got full packs of bubble gum to give out, which isn’t too shabby, I don’t think. So I’m not worried about anyone throwing eggs.

I’m nervous because this is a big step for me. This is my first time participating in Halloween as a city dweller. (Well, “city” in terms of being aMacomb resident who lives within city limits.)

You see, I grew up on farm a few miles outside town, which you could only reach by driving down a bumpy gravel road. In my entire youth, we had exactly one visit from kids seeking candy. For people who live out in the country, Halloween is a silent night.

We only lived a few miles outside town. Even if any of my friends had thought to come all the way out to our house for a fun-sized Snickers, their parents would have discouraged it. “My dad says it’s too hard on the tires.” Or, “My mom wants to know if your mom will bring you into town instead, because she just washed the car.”

At least this meant Halloween got to be all about me. My parents drove me in to town and I got to hit up everyone we knew. I never had to sacrifice a single second of loot-gathering time by staying home to return the favor.

And really, we weren’t all that cracked up on people popping in, anyway.

When you live in the country, a knock at the door is something to fear. If it’s not the Culligan man or the meter reader, chances are it’s some drunk dude who staggered for miles to the first light source he saw after he slamming his car into a ditch five miles away. (We never were quite the same after that one.)

The one Halloween that some kids did come to our door, I was long past the age of being a trick-or-treater myself. It was my senior year of high school, and I was doing homework at the kitchen table when my parents suddenly appeared in the adjacent dining room, peeking out through the blinds and looking concerned. “What’s going on?” I said.

“Someone’s coming down the road, and they’re slowing down,” Mom said. “They’re stopping. I think we’ve got trick-or-treaters!”

Sure enough, the car stopped, and a little witch and a fairy princess stepped out, followed by their mother. Family friends of ours. Mom darted to the kitchen. “What am I going to give them?”

“I don’t know,” I said, jumping up and searching through my bookbag for stray pieces of gum. But all I found were cough drops. “Don’t we have any…chocolate chips or anything?”

But we were out of time.

“Trick-or-treat!”

I went to the door. “Um, just a sec,” I said. I tried to think of something to stall them, as I heard cabinet doors banging behind me.

Then Mom was behind me. I was just about to say, “Sorry, kids,” but I watched in horror as she dropped packages of instant oatmeal into their plastic jack-o-lantern buckets. When they looked up at her with somewhat bewildered thank-yous, this was her reply:

“Hey, at least it’s brown sugar!”