Welcome to Forgotonia

Ever since I was a teenager, I have been obsessed with the legend of Vishnu Springs—the site of a once-popular resort that’s now a ghost town, hidden deep in a ravine in McDonough County.

Despite having grown up just a few minutes down the road from the place, I’d never heard of it until my late teens, when my aunt and uncle—who had gone to nearby Western Illinois University at the height of the hippie era—were reminiscing about how they’d hung out at a commune in the woods, a building that had been the Vishnu Springs hotel, when they were students.

The site, they told me, was completely hidden from the road, and it wasn’t really near anything, but was a few miles north of the village of Tennessee, Ill.—just down the road from my hometown of Carthage, and only a few miles west of Macomb and WIU.

You go out in the country, they said, you get to this certain spot, and then you have to crawl back through the brush, walk a long way through the trees and down into a deep ravine.

And then, after you’d hiked back quite a ways, there stood the old hotel— a place where legendary Chicago mobsters may or may not have stayed.

Vishnu had been a resort in the early 1900’s, a place where rich folk came to bathe in the natural spring because they believed it held magical powers.

It was once so popular that the railroad even built a line directly between Vishnu and Chicago, they said. And now there was nothing left but the old hotel buried deep in the woods.

I sat spellbound as they described the place to me. It was like finding out the Titanic itself had been lying at the bottom of our farm pond all these years and no one had ever thought to mention it.

I thought about Tennessee—which I knew to be nothing more than a spot in the road on the way over to Macomb, a smattering of crumbling houses and trailers with seemingly permanent yard sale set-ups in the front yard—and the whole thing sounded as magical as if my home stomping grounds had once been connected to Oz.

Over the years I’ve hoped for the chance to see the place, but the property was privately owned. I knew the general location but wasn’t sure exactly how to find it.

And, if I were not afraid of getting in trouble, I would admit here that finally, a few weeks ago, I got a chance to see it. Please, don’t prosecute me. I mean, like they say, forgive us uur trespasses, right? But if, hypothetically, I HAD been there, these were the pictures I would’ve taken:

(more below, after the photos)

I’ll just say that if you ever did happen to get to see it, you’d find the spot to be not much to look at itself.

I mean, it’s really just a dilapidated, unremarkable building.

It’s only if you’d try to imagine the life that had once come through the place that you feel like you’d seen something special.

Then, you’d be angry at the idiots who have felt the need to leave their mark there. Because, unfortunately, as the hotel has sat idle, it’s been a graffiti magnet.

If I had been there, I would tell you that I couldn’t understood how a place of such historical significance could be left in such disrepair—why no one has ever undertaken the project of at the very least getting a historical marker made.

But this week there’s a bit of news in the local media about Vishnu Springs.

Last weekend, the local historical society took a trek to Vishnu, bringing some local news reporters along, and one local paper mentions the possibility that the place could, eventually, come back to life some day.

According to the Macomb Eagle, “…WIU received the 220 acres as a gift from the granddaughter of the early 20th century owner, Ira Post. Brush has been cleared, the hotel has been inspected, trails have been made and plans are being forged to restore the ghost town into a site of natural and archaeological studies.”

While so far the plans to do something with the grounds sound rather nebulous, it’s good to know there are at least people thinking about what can and should be done.

I just hope that while the plans are taking shape, the hotel and grounds can be protected from further damage.

It’s not much to see, but it’s something worth saving.

Because, if I had been there, I would say I could almost hear the train whistle as I walked around the grounds. The bustle of women in big hats and dresses. The bubbling spring. The breath of life once breathed in this rural, remote Forgotonia.

[The following is a radio essay aired on NPR member station Tri States Public Radio some time in 2007, I think-- when the "Looking for Lincoln" Heritage Coalition, based in Springfield, announced plans to put up more than 150 historical signs across central Illinois that point out places where Lincoln made history.]

Commentator Alison McGaughey tries to envision who, exactly, is “looking” for Lincoln.

I was surprised to read in the news recently that one of the fancy new “Looking for Lincoln” signs will be placed in Fountain Green, Illinois— just a few miles down the road from where I grew up.

All my life, I only knew the village of Fountain Green for one thing: that it was home to a giant vehicular graveyard—the place where my high school cruising car was laid to rest.

But it turns out some of Lincoln’s relatives are buried there.

And Fountain Green isn’t the only place in Hancock County were signs will be going up.

For example, one sign will explain that Lincoln tried, and lost, a case in the Hancock County Courthouse in Carthage.

Another will point out a place where he likely stayed the night, and another, where he gave a speech.

How could it be that until this sign campaign was announced, I had never known any of this before?

I knew there was a big rock on the Courthouse lawn that had something to do with Lincoln, but had no idea my tiny hometown had so many connections to one of the most significant men in American history.

When my friends and I were teenagers, we made more loops around that courthouse square (in that aforementioned car) than… well, more times than is worth mentioning.

But I guess I never discovered these facts about my surroundings because I had never been looking for them.

Which prompts the question: who is?

As these signs go up, I know there are history buffs who will come to track down historical tidbits and trivia.

And they will bring bucks to town when they do.

That’s what local developers and the Looking for Lincoln program promoters are banking on.

According to a story from the Peoria Journal-Star, the program is an effort to spread Lincoln history, and related tourism, beyond just Springfield.

But is it a little idealistic to think there are people out there who care enough about Lincoln history to hit the road?

When families decide to spend their hard-earned money and vacation time on a road trip, aren’t they more likely to make an excursion to Disney World than to Fountain Green, Illinois (“Where Good Cars Go to Die”)?

But just as I begin to doubt, a vision comes to my mind—an image of a great man.

Not Lincoln behind a courtroom lectern.

But my dad—behind the wheel of a brown station wagon.

And the vision speaks to me, saying that the Lincoln signs will have an audience— if families like the one I grew up in still exist. Families who venture not to Disney World, but to…DeSmet, South Dakota.

One year, on our way out west to Mount Rushmore and the Badlands, we made a special venture to the tiny, out-of-the-way town of DeSmet—which I remember being about as lovely as its name—all to see, and get our pictures taken in front of, one of the places Laura Ingalls Wilder had lived, and her grave marker.

We spent money in DeSmet, too, because we stayed the night there in a truly Mom-and-Pop hotel. ( Although, at least one potential tourism dollar went down the drain, when Dad realized he had forgotten his toothbrush—and there was no place open at 8 o’clock at night to buy a replacement.)

So, each time I see one of the new Looking for Lincoln signs, I will be reminded of all the times I would just be settling into a nap—a Dramamine-induced nap—only to hear Dad call over his shoulder, “Look out the window, kids: another historical marker! ‘Hysterical marker’ coming up!!”

If there are families out there who still take road trips together, I hope the parents will take time to stop at all the turn-outs for historical markers.

I hope they do force their kids to learn a bit of trivia and history.

But I also hope they do remember to bring their own toothbrush.

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

(This was originally a column  from the August 11, 2006 edition of the Galesburg (IL) Register-Mail. The column no longer exists online.)

I can pinpoint the exact moment my childhood ended.

It was my 21st birthday, and my parents gave me my gift: luggage. Instead of being grateful, I was utterly depressed.

Usually, my parents gave me CDs for my birthday. But they seemed to be sending me a message. I wanted a copy of “Sticky Fingers” but got Samsonite instead.

So I tried to defy my parents, and society, by continuing to pursue my teenage passion for rock ‘n’ roll.

I decided I would show them all by becoming that rare, rock-’n'-rolling adult who stays hip with the times – instead of becoming like my parents, whose interest in pop music seemed to have stopped somewhere circa Neil Diamond.

I went to concerts in Chicago as often as I could. My friends and I packed into clubs like the Metro and the Riviera to see our favorite bands. We returned home scarred and sweaty, but alive with the thrill of having “experienced” live music.

I’d look around at these concerts and wonder why there was never anyone there over the age of 30.

Then it hit me.

“It” being a wave of sweaty bodies that nearly squished me to death.

My friend and I were at a Radiohead concert in an enclosed section of Grant Park in Chicago. I wanted to be near the stage so I could really see the show rather than stand back and watch from a large screen.

But there were 40,000 other young hipsters there with the same intention.

The crowd surged forward when the band took the stage. I was smooshed up against a stranger. My chin rested on his sweaty back.

A girl in platform shoes was standing on my right foot.

As the band played its opening song, the crowd pushed forward more. My breathing felt constricted. Sweat ran down my back. I could taste the hair gel of the guy in front of me.

I tried to keep up with the crowd. Must! Hang! On! Must! Stay! Hip!

But the crowd surged forward again and I was squeezed between two guys who looked like they might be stars of their college wrestling teams.

I looked at my friend and admitted defeat.

“It’s over,” I said. “I’m officially too old to tolerate this.”

So we gave up trying to jockey for position. We found a place with lots of personal space – back by the port-a-potties. We watched the show on the movie screens.

I couldn’t see the lead singer, but I could breathe.

“So,” I said to my friend, “how long do you think it’ll be before we start going to shows wearing fanny packs and bringing portable lawn chairs?”

I felt like I’d already grown a pair of Bermuda shorts.

From that night on, I’ve been apprehensive, rather than excited, about going to concerts.

I’m reluctant to see a show unless I know I have a guaranteed place to sit down. When I hear the words “General Admission” I think “Generally Miserable Experience.”

If I’m going to pay for a ticket, I want a seat and aisle number printed right next to my name.

As a teenager, I’d have viewed this decision as “selling out,” choosing comfort and safety over the thrill of feeling so ALIVE.

But I guess that’s what happens when you start to get older. You arrive at a club after a three-hour drive, take one look at the sea of sweaty bodies crammed in front of the stage, and think to yourself, “Actually, I’d rather be dead.”

–

The following entry was originally in my “Six Degrees from Galesburg” column for The Galesburg (IL) Register-Mail. The online version of the column is no longer live on the newspaper’s re-designed web site, so here it is as a post.)

(Friday, August 4, 2006 edition)

My dad got a part in a movie once. It was the winter I was in eighth grade.

Normally, his announcement at the dinner table – “I got a part!” – would’ve been thrilling news. Especially since we couldn’t have lived further from Hollywood, at least culturally speaking.

But this was to be no Hollywood movie.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone at church about this if I were you,” I said.

“I hope none of my friends find out that my father is converting,” my sister said.

“Girls,” Mom said. “Just because your father is going to be in a Mormon movie doesn’t mean he’s going to become a Mormon.”

But lately he’d been making us nervous. Dad was supposed to be Lutheran, after all – a leader in our congregation, too – and he’d been spending all his time reading books about Mormons. And now he was going to spend all his time acting like a Mormon – an 1840s-era one, complete with top hat, cane and pancake makeup.

No way was I telling anyone about this at school.

Dad had read in the Hancock County Journal-Pilot that a film crew was going to arrive in nearby Nauvoo to shoot a historical drama. The movie, “Legacy,” would be about the Mormon pioneers who settled in Nauvoo before being driven out by religious persecution. In the winters, with no crops to tend, Dad liked to work at part-time jobs or take on creative projects. The movie would qualify as both.

At first he was only going to be an extra. But when he showed up for work on the first day, they’d asked if he wanted a bit part, the role of Willard Richards.

After he got the part, I hardly saw him. He got up early and drove to Nauvoo in the dark to be on set by 6 a.m. He didn’t return home until after we’d finished supper without him.

And when we did see him, it was weird.

” ‘Confound it, Parley!’ ” he’d say, thumping his fist on the kitchen table, practicing the one line they’d given him. “Or … maybe I should be more thoughtful,” he’d say, looking off into the distance and letting out a sigh. ” ‘Confound it, Parley.’ ”

I worried that Dad had let the life of movie acting go to his head. But real life got in the way.

When he got the chance to appear as an extra in the climactic migration scene – when the Mormons move their wagons west over the frozen Mississippi – he had to miss it for a Farm Bureau meeting.

It wasn’t until after the movie had wrapped that Dad found a Mormon history book that explained who Willard Richards was.

Like my dad, the real Willard Richards had been something of a writer. He’d been one of Joseph Smith’s “scribes,” in charge of writing down everything the latter-day prophet said. The book also said Richards had come from the East Coast.

“Now I wish I’d have said it more like ‘Confound it, Paahley,’ ” Dad said, doing his best Kennedy.

In the end it didn’t matter. Dad’s line didn’t make it into the movie.

None of us knew this, however, for years. When the film wrapped, it was never shown in the area, and Dad never got to see his work.

But last year – some 15 years after the fact – Dad met a Mormon couple from Utah at a Farm Bureau convention and they told him where to get it.

When he finally got his own copy, he paused the DVD to show me the scene where he appears. He stood in front of the screen and pointed out a small figure in the background.

“I can hardly see you,” I said.

Then he looked kind of hurt. I felt guilty.

“But you look really dignified in that top hat, Dad,” I said. “And you can hardly even tell you’re a Lutheran!”