Welcome to Forgotonia

Have you heard about the new play on Broadway that was written by the South Park dudes (and the writer of Avenue Q?)

If you haven’t, you should catch up here:

‘Book of Mormon’ opens on Broadway
(from CNN ‘Belief’ Blog)

That’s right; the South Park writers (who already took on Mormonism in an episode) have now written a Broadway musical about the religion. The article linked above summarizes the plot of the new production, as well as some of the thinking behind the writers’ motivations. And I have to say, I utterly and completely relate to this line of thinking:

Mormonism originated with Joseph Smith in upstate New York in the early 1800s. This not-so-distant past was attractive to the writers, [Avenue Q writer] Lopez told CNN, because they thought it added to the far-fetchedness of the religion’s claims that God had anointed Smith as an American prophet.

“A prophet who lived thousands and thousands of years ago in the Middle East is veiled in antiquity,” said Lopez. “But a prophet finding God’s word on golden plates just a few hours drive from New York City is ripe for satire.”

Also, if you’re curious about how the church feels about having its sacred beliefs turned into satirical song and dance, the article includes the LDS official statement—and I have to say, it sounds calm and rational.(However, one wonders if the church’s feathers will get increasingly ruffled as the play’s run continues, especially considering that one of the main characters, according to the article above, “succumbs to his doubts about faith and God after having the Book of Mormon stuck in a very uncomfortable part of his anatomy.” Ouch.)

But the real question, of course, is whether my beloved home stomping grounds—the tiny town with one blinking red light at the four-way stop—is mentioned anywhere in the script? For it was in Carthage, of course, that in 1844 a mob stormed the jail where Mormon leader Joseph Smith was incarcerated, and where he was shot and fell to his death.

With this high-profile production making headlines and perhaps becoming a legendary moment in the history of the Great White Way, stop to think about how funny and fascinating it is that the entire Mormon saga—the migration out west, the settling of Salt Lake City, in fact the very foundation of one of the world’s fastest-growing religions—wouldn’t exist as we know it without the chapter that took place in Carthage and Hancock County.

If I had been a co-writer with Matt Parker and Trey Stone, I would have tried to work in a line—or a whole song—about the holy site being located just catercorner from the DQ. (Feel free to help provide rhymes.)

Or who knows, maybe Carthage and Nauvoo are mentioned in the musical? I hope to find out five or six years from now, when an off-, off-, off-Broadway production plays in Peoria.

According to my hometown paper, the weekly Journal-Pilot, there’s big news in the town of Carthage.

Behold:

“Plans proceed for traffic light to replace four-way stop“

That’s right. The blinking-red-light-on-a-wire in the middle of town—that would be on Highway 136, right between the DQ and the Hardee’s—is going away.

Of course, to those of you who aren’t from my hometown, this might seem like less than interesting news. (And okay, it’s not exactly “breaking”—it’s from last week’s paper. And you have to scroll down to the sixth paragraph of this story to find it. )

But the red light in the 4-way stop—and that’s what it’s called, by the way; not “the intersection of such-and-such streets,” but just “the 4-way stop”—is an icon. It’s a symbol of small-town life, in a place where traffic is so scarce, my driver’s ed teacher actually used to use lines like this when we were practice-driving in the taupe Taurus:  “Okay, try to pretend there’s a yellow light,” or the classic, “Now, if you needed to switch lanes, and let’s say someone was behind you– what would you do?”

(And my college friends wonder why I was always too chicken to drive in Chicago. Or Peoria. Or…Monmouth.)

Anyway, there’s no information in the newspaper story about what would necessitate an actual stoplight in Carthage. This is all you get, before the story moves on to another subject in the next paragraph:

“Bidding on the four-way stop expansion and installation of automated traffic lights [was] at 7:30 p.m. on Nov. 5. The project, originally drawn up in 1995, is expected to cost around $1 million.

Obviously it hasn’t been too pressing an issue if they’ve been working on it for more than 15 years.

But now that it’s on it’s way, it’ll be the second stoplight in the entire county (Hamilton can claim rights to the first). Next thing you know? Urban blight.

UPDATE: Mea culpa: As a certain unnamed reader helpfully pointed out, this entry below (originally published Oct. 3)—or at least its reference to a certain movie —is a bit of an anachronism, since the tower didn’t go up until the 00s. However, said reader, who also happens to be a longtime friend from my home stomping grounds, says, “I say we get a 12-pack and give it a try.”

Over the weekend, C-Nor and I took a walk around the hamlet of Ferris, Ill., which is about a stone’s throw from the farm where I grew up. (It’s just a few miles north of Carthage, Ill., and its young people have been bussed to the Carthage school system for many years.)

Chris took this picture of the water tower. As he was doing so, it struck me as surprising that, having grown up here in the 80s, in the era of the iconic teen movie, none of the bored teens (including me) ever felt inspired to climb atop it and paint the word “SAVE.”

(It would have been a lot cheaper and easier than emulating the movie by taking a day trip into Chicago, that’s for sure.)

Bueller? Anyone?

Yesterday, I told you about the Chicago-centric publication Newcity publishing a “postcard” from the Forgottonia region, (including a stop in Plymouth, Ill.), which I raised a couple of questions about here. Interestingly, only three days after the Newcity story, the same Hancock County hamlet of Plymouth—AND a piece of my own family’s history—was featured in the New York Times‘ photography blog.

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

Thanks to a tip from a fellow Flickr-er who landed on my photostream, I learned that the publication Newcity: Street Smart Chicago recently ran a feature about the Forgottonia region. Intrigued, I discovered that the Aug. 3 item features photos and an interview with a resident of Plymouth, Ill., the tiny village near my hometown of Carthage.

“Postcard from Forgottonia: The land that time chose not to remember“

Newcity's "postcard" from Forgottonia

The story is well-written. And I’m always fascinated to read any “outsider’s” take on this area. But I have to admit a bit of confusion and frustration with this piece. There’s a whole lotta “land that time forgot”-type generalizing:

“Forgottonia is a kind of negative image of urban America—which from the Forgottonian perspective presents itself as the indifferent republic of… well, let’s call it Oblivia for lack of a better term…Nobody sets out purposefully to explore the region of west central Illinois known colloquially as Forgottonia. The place creeps up on you as gently as a childhood memory, and it is only later that you realize you have set foot in this unmarked republic of corn, dust and melancholy. As its name suggests, it is less a place than a feeling—a sense of having slipped away from the present moment into some other time stream, which has been dammed up by indifference and neglect and now registers only as a trickle.”

And until I reached the Plymouth part of the story, I began to wonder if the writer had even visited the region he was describing. I was also intrigued by the fact that the only source the writer acknowledges (other than the interview with a resident) is the feature on the origin of the Forgottonia movement that appeared last spring in the publication produced by WIU students, Western Illinois Magazine.

I’m familiar with Newcity, but only familiar. [Readers: Does this Chicago-centric publication typically do "downstate" features? And in its "News" section?] What about you—when you see objective descriptions of the “forgotten” place you call home, do you feel fascinated, too? Excited? Annoyed? Insulted? Let me hear from you.

Plymouth, Ill.

The old school house in McCall, IL

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

When I was a kid, there was a sign just near here that read “McCall, IL — Population: 8.”

This little old school house is just a mile or two west of my parents’ house (where I grew up).

My dad went to school in a one-room country school house just like it, and just down the road from here. He says he remembers playing in a baseball game against kids from this school.

I wanted to capture it because, even though it’s always been a landmark down the country road I grew up on, I know it won’t be there forever. One of those things you look at a million times and don’t pay much attention to, but then feel surprised and a little saddened when it’s gone.

(There was another one less than a mile from home to the east, and it got torn down a couple of years ago, just a few months after I went to take pictures of it.)

This schoolhouse is located along what is now being called the Mormon Martyrdom Trail. More on that later.

Chris Benedict, 21, of Nauvoo, is in the national news for hacking, but he’s not in trouble.

Check out the story on CNN.com.

(Thanks to “Hancock Hustla’”  M.T. for the tip, via Facebook.)

I’ve been trying for quite some time now to tell you the strange story about what happened to the old Carthage College campus.

I’ve tried to tell you–in words–why the story is kind of a big deal, and just how drastic things had become at the former college in my tiny hometown (Carthage, IL). But lo and behold, the cliche comes true: a picture tells a thousand words. Or in this case, a set of photos.

The shots below were taken inside the old Carthage College auditorium, which is finally being restored after having been left for dead in the 1990′s, a fact which I have blogged about rather extensively.)

I recently discovered (via Flickr) this set taken inside the abandoned auditorium building (quite awhile before the restoration was being planned). They tell, on their own, the destruction that was allowed to happen at this once-prosperous place: (please check out this slideshow below)

Like I said, the pix say it all. But here’s a super-quick re-cap:

1. Carthage College (now located in Kenosha, WI), was originally located in my hometown (Carthage IL), but picked up and left town because the existing location was so out-of-the-way (so deep in the Forgotonia region) that Chicago students couldn’t get there easily.
2. Carthage College had been a fairly prestigious little school. Interestingly, (as this week’s news story says), the first-ever chapter of Circle K was started there. Most people who know of the liberal arts school now located near Chicago have no idea where its name comes from.
3. After the campus closed, Robert Morris moved in and then left, and then a strange, strange saga began (including the “Carthage International College” chapter), eventually ending in the campus being left to rot and crumble for many years. There’s even a photo in this set of a luggage tag left behind by the seemingly on-the-lam Korean “owner,” who virtually disappeared after buying—and abandoning—the campus property.

The photos were taken by Craig Finlay, one of my  fellow WIU English-program graduate students.

Craig has a hobby of, um… trespassing in abandoning buildings to shoot the decadent art that lies inside. If you haven’t already watched the slideshow above, check out the set here (to read the cutlines and get some details).

I am so that happy that leaders in my hometown are investing the time, money, and concern into fixing the place up. Last week’s Hancock County Journal-Pilot (my hometown paper) featured an update on the progress of restoring the old auditorium building.

Do you remember the old Carthage College, or Robert Morris, or Carthage International College, or made-up-university-that-solicited-funds-via-the-Internet? Tell me in the comments below!

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.