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.

I learned recently (from my 85-year-old grandpa) that my paternal great-great- grandparents (Mattie A. and William C. Icenogle) are buried just down the street from where I live.

While I was out walking on Saturday I thought I’d snap a picture of their grave. I have no idea what that marker on the left stands for. I’ll have to do a little research.*

Also, the spelling of Icenoggle here has an extra “G.”

(Who knew?)

Apparently that letter got lost somewhere along the way.

(Wonder if there used to be even more vowels and /or consonants in “McGaughey” ?!?)

[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 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.)

I had no idea my dad had gained a reputation in the bars – or that he even went to bars, for that matter -until one Sunday night a few years ago.

I’d called home like I always do to chat with my mom, but my customary question of “So, what’s Dad up to?” was met with a strange silence.

“Mom?” I said. “What is it? Is Dad ok?”

“He’s fine. He’s just … not here right now.”

“Oh,” I said. “Church meeting or something?”

“Not quite …” Mom said. “He’s in town. At the bar.”

“Dad’s in a bar? On a Sunday night?” I said. “Did … you guys have a fight or something?”

Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “Sunday night is karaoke night.”

“Oh Lord,” I said. “It’s worse than I thought.”

“Actually, he’s quite the singer, or so I hear.”

That night I couldn’t fall asleep. When I did drift off, I had a nightmare: my dad was standing up in the middle of church and crooning a slurred version of “Love me Tender” into a beer bottle.

The next Sunday, things seemed to be back to normal. When Mom and I had covered all our usual ground, I said, “So, how’s Dad?”

“He’s fine. He’s at a bar in Dallas City. They have karaoke there now.”

“Mother,” I said. “Do you hear yourself? Dad is not ‘fine.’ Dad is in a bar, on a Sunday night, singing KARAOKE.”

“Now, don’t be hard on him about this,” she said. “I’m not crazy about it either. But he works so hard on the farm all day, I want to be supportive of his hobby.”

“Hobby?” I said. “I had hoped this was an isolated event.”

It took six months of Dad pursuing his new hobby before I could work up the nerve to go out with my parents and listen to Dad sing.

I was nervous for him. Each time it was his turn, the patrons at the bar yelled, “Whoo-hoo, all right Rockin’ Rod!” My dad had earned a nickname – and a following – in a place called the Double Deuce. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or mortified.

But he was good. He sang songs by Johnny Rivers, Roy Orbison, and – after a couple of Budweisers – the Rolling Stones.

His voice was pleasant. He put emotion into it. And even at the end of the night, he could still carry a tune – which is more than I can say for the lady who nearly passed out during her rendition of “Margaritaville.”

I clapped loudly and cheered for my dad. Still, I stole looks around the bar to make sure I didn’t see anyone I knew from high school.

“Dad,” I said when it was some other guy’s turn to sing. “… tell me something. Why karaoke? I mean, why now? It just seems like … karaoke come out in, like, the ’80s, didn’t it?”

He was quiet for a minute, then said something that surprised me. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’ve always wanted to try it. I’ve always wanted to sing. But … I guess I wanted to wait until you and your sister were … out on your own.”

“What do you mean?” I said. But then I got it. “Oh, Dad,” I said. “Just because you didn’t want us to feel embarrassed? You didn’t have to worry about that.” But we both knew that was a lie. I’d have locked him in the closet before I’d have let him ruin my high school reputation by attempting to sing in public.

I was touched, and ashamed, at the same time. “Dad -”

“Come on, Rockin’ Rod,” some guy called from the bar. “Let’s hear ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down.’ ”

“I’ve got to get back up front,” Dad said, patting my hand. “Rockin’ Rod is taking requests.”

–

(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!”

(The item below was originally one of my weekly columns for the Galesburg IL Register-Mail, from July 21, 2006)

Pool of sweat

When I found out my parents had bought a pool, I was ready to throw a fit. Kind of like I did when they bought a satellite dish-the day I left for college-after I’d spent my youth complaining about missing out on MTV.

Then I saw the thing and calmed down a little.

It was one of those blue puffy-looking ones that have started cropping up in so many back yards over the last year or two. It was an adult baby pool.

I wrinkled my nose at it.

“Is it even a real pool?” I asked my mom. “I mean, does it even have chlorine?” This was my euphemistic way of saying, “am I going to get your germs?” (Never mind that I came out of this woman’s body.)

“It’s got chemicals in it, yes,” Mom said.

Still, I was reluctant to get in the thing.

Until the first hot day of summer. I called home with the intention of inviting myself over.

“You in that pool yet?” I said.

“No, it’s not warm enough,” Mom said. “The water needs to warm up.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I thought the whole point of a pool was that the water in it is cool.”

“You’d be surprised how cold it is,” Mom said. “The pool came with a solar cover to put on top, and you have to wait for the sun to heat it up a little bit.”

This sounded suspicious to me. How, I wanted to know, would the pool cool back off once it got warmed up? I wondered if the designers of these solar-covered pools had ever spent a July or August in Illinois.

The next time I saw my parents, I was disturbed to notice a large bandage on Mom’s ankle.

“What happened?” I said.

Mom looked away and pretended not to have heard me.

“Your mother scraped her foot on the pool ladder,” Dad said. “So when you get in it, make to use the ladder VERY carefully. You don’t want to let your foot linger on the step. …”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I thought the whole point of a ladder was to … oh, never mind.”

I had no intention of going near the thing anyway.

But last Saturday when I went home for a visit, I gave in. It was sweltering. And Mom, my sister, and my nephew were all going to get in. So I donned my suit and headed outside, where Dad was already in the water.

“Now, just so you know, it’s a little warm,” Dad said as I started to climb the ladder, being careful not to use any of the rungs for their intended purpose.

I plopped in and let out a yowl.

“DAD!” I screamed. “This isn’t a pool, this is a hot tub!” I felt like I’d just dunked myself into a vat of chili soup. The water felt was as warm as, if not warmer than, the muggy 90-degree air.

“We had the solar cover on to keep the leaves and bugs out. …”

My sister then arrived poolside. She set my nephew in his little inflatable boat and then stepped into the pool herself. “Jeeze!” she cried. “This thing is like a sauna!”

Soon Mom stepped in, and all of us sat there, sweltering, up to our chins in hot water.

But we were together. And it was worth staying in and sweating it out, I decided, once I saw how cute my nephew looked in his little inflatable boat, never mind that the thing was melting.

–