• 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.)

the nephews making weird faces, July 8, 2011

• 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.

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

Screen shot of Prairie Winds photo by Dave Jordano

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

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

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

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

screen shot of Plymouth on NYT blog

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

photographer Dave Jordano's website

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

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

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

NYT Lens blog

Maid Rite, Macomb, IL

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

Do not be jealous of my day home from work.

So of course I made the right choice.

When we got to my house and I opened my present– a leapoard-print Snuggie– I laughed and told her I’d love it, and of course I had to try it on. (Perhaps I should say here that despite having heard all about this year’s fad and its accompanying commercial, I’ve never actually seen the ad, since I don’t have TV). As I modeled it for her, her face fell for second, and then she looked at me like I had said the moon is made of cheese. “Not like that,” she said, coming over to adjust it. “You’ve got it on backwards.”

Chapter 2
Ashamed, but determined to right myself in her eyes, I then got out the stuff for us to make a “homemade” pizza (the Alison version: pre-made whole-wheat crust, Ragu sauce in a jar, etc.);  and let her pick her activity for the night. She chose making homemade soaps for people in her family.

A bit of explanation: a couple of years ago, I decided–in the spirit of wanting to give people practical Christmas gifts, ones that didn’t cost much, that didn’t use up a ton of resources, and that I actually made with my hands, (vs., you know, something I bought at Miley-Mart that was probably made by a child in a factory), I decided I would look for a way to create some Christmas gifts.

So I found, like, the easiest possible idea out there– buy block of soap, melt chunks of it in microwave, add color and scent, pour into mold, viola!

(But then, of course, in my typical fashion, I began hunting down more and more materials at Hobby Lobbies and Michaels’ and other places I can’t reach without using up lots of gas, and spending a bunch of money on fish- and frog- and turtle-shaped molds for my nephews …)

Chapter 3
Anyway, because I have a galley kitchen with about 2 inches of counter space, we  moved the microwave to the center of the dining room table; cleaned up from supper;  dusted off all the soap-making supplies (yeah yeah, so there may have been a cat hair or two in some of the  molds. What can I say? I’m a busy woman);  and let the crafting commence.

At first I thought we’d make soaps for her to give to her mom and aunt.

But as we got started, J. started making a list of all the people she wanted to make one for, and she began adding cousins and teachers and church people to her list…and even as it got later, and later,  I couldn’t say no.

I have to admit, I had been secretly planning to have her home by no later than 8:30-ish so I could have my own little wind-down night. But she was so in the Christmas spirit, she even wanted to make a soap for a nurse at a local nursing home who helps take care of her grandma.

So we called her mom and got permission to keep going until 10.

But here I was, after having just the day before finished a semester of taking six hours of graduate credit, plus working full-time; house a mess;  Amazon packages and wrapping paper in piles everywhere; cat trying to destroy the curling ribbon; my back starting to hurt and my mind wandering to how nice it would be to have a glass of wine; and J. and I melting, pouring, stirring, melting, pouring, stirring, then wrapping all of her creations–I think we made close to 20 soaps– at 10 o’clock at night.

I was absolutely freaking exhausted. But at the same time– sap alert, sorry– it really made me see the excitement and spirit of Christmas through a kid’s eyes, rather than in my usual Christmas-is-just-a-consumer-event Grinch-yness. When we headed out to my car after 10, everything was blanketed in snow and it was beautifully quiet. It was a wonderful night.

(The only downfall: I got Ragu  on my Snuggie.)

Madre y Padre

I’m feeling very thankful today for the fact that I not only have two intelligent, funny, loving, and kind parents, and not only that they’ve stayed married for 40 years, but also that they seem to be happy about that decision. ;) It is almost easy to take for granted how truly lucky I am.

Saturday
We met up to celebrate last night for some fine dining, a la Aurelio’s in Macomb. (Pizza and playroom = not a bad idea when taking small kids out to eat.)

Serendipity, baby
In retrospect (1 day later, I mean), meeting up here seems appropriate for a different reason: my parents actually met in Macomb. They were students at WIU in the 60′s, (Dad a local farmboy studying horticulture, and Mom a northern-IL gal studying Spanish). They got engaged here in Macomb, too; if I have my story straight, Dad proposed to Mom under a tree on West Calhoun Street, just in front of the former Haeger Pottery, and across the street from a somewhat scurvy apartment where he was living with his friends (and which is quite possibly still very scurvy, but which fact I cannot prove). And now here I am more than 40 years later working for, and studying for a master’s degree at, the university where they met.

From ‘Frisco to…
For the first year after they were married, my parents lived in the San Francisco Bay area while Dad was stationed in the Navy (and did his subsequent Vietnam tour). But  farming awaited for my dad back home.

The fact that they lived in California–or that I didn’t get to–was something I used to c them about when I was a teenager.  “You guys lived in California and you came back here?” On purpose?!?

Now, though, I’m pretty glad we’re all right here in Forgotonia.

My parents opening their gifts

My parents (on the right) with me, my nephew Carl (1), my sister Melissa, my bro-in-law Andy, and my nephew Curtis (4). (My bf, Chris, took the pic. And, btw, we via the Internet.)

mi familia

(From this week’s Journal-Pilot.)

Surveying the customers

By Joy Swearingen

Hancock County Farm Bureau president, Rod McGaughey, surveyed customers at the biofuel promotion day Friday. Ethanol and biodiesel fuels were sold at a discounted rate to promote their use, and to show drivers how to use the 24-hour fuel station at West Central FS just west of Carthage. In his survey, McGaughey asked two questions* related to the use of E-85, a higher blend of ethanol fuel. In response to asking if drivers would use E-85 fuel if a pump were available, he received 49 “yes” and 40 “no” answers; 15-20 percent already drive a flex-fuel vehicle [....]

* And no, in case you’re wondering: when he was done surveying them, he did not lean in the car window and serenade them with some karaoke Cash!:)

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!”