Welcome to Forgotonia

One of the windows in my car was all messed up–when I tried to roll it up or down, the glass came out at angle and got stuck all cockeyed . So I took it to a place someone recommended to me, George’s, in Macomb. It turned out the place is still a neighborhood shop, located at the back of a house on MacArthur Street.

When I got there early one morning when it was still somewhat warm, I was greeted by a big guy who had a long-ish gray beard and who happened to be wearing bib overalls with no shirt underneath.

But despite his burly appearance, the guy–not the original George, apparently, but his son–drove me to work and was happy to answer all my chatty questions. He told me about his hobby of restoring old cars. He told me his father started the business in Macomb more than 50 years ago, and his brother works there, too, doing air conditioning repair, which gives them enough business to stay afloat.

I wanted to ask the seemingly gentle-giant guy  if I could take his picture, but, for some reason, as nice as he was, I chickened out. So at least here’s a pic of the sign, instead.

Have you noticed that a new business has moved into the strip mall just west of Wally World?

Apparently the sandwich shop with the Groucho-Marx-ish-sounding name, Ferpo’s, (which had replaced the defunked Quiznos), has disappeared, because a Sally Beauty Supply is now in its place.

On the one hand, it’s too bad we lost another option for eatin’. Especially if it was independently owned. (I never made it out there to check out the place.)

On the other, I like having the option to get stuff like nail polish and hair curlers on the cheap, (since, of course, I always toss them aside after one miserably failed attempt at application/use).

And apparently Sally’s offers lower prices on salon-type stuff. (My co-worker highly recommends the Generic Bed-Head.)

Recently I told you about how I read from To Kill a Mockingbird at Western Illinois University as part of Banned Books Week. The day after, I was publicly outed as a liberal do-gooder, and am feeling like a bit of an unintentional celebrity. (My friend shoved a copy of the local paper into my hand when I met her for lunch today. “I told everybody at work, ‘This is one of my BFFs!’”)

Today, via Twitter, I saw this Google Map marking places where books have been banned or challenged. I zoomed in our chunk of the Land of Lincoln, and it looks like the most recent challenges—the documented ones, anyway—are against books I’m not familiar with or haven’t read: Margaret Walker’s Jubilee (in Jacksonville, Ill.); and, in Beardstown, (where the banners were especially busy), Robert Heinlein’s The Day After Tomorrow and Jodi Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes. But whatever these books may contain, I think young readers ought to be able to judge them for themselves.

I don’t remember any book-related skirmishes in my own hometown, but I do remember that when I was a student at Monmouth College (Monmouth, Ill.), some parents at the local high school were trying to ban a book, which, if I’m remembering correctly, was Slaughterhouse Five. My English professor told us about it in class one day, because he was going to the school board later that night to try to fight against the attempted censorship. I remember thinking it was very heroic, very Kevin-Costner’s-wife-in-Field-of-Dreams of him, even though I had never read anything by Kurt Vonnegut.

Also, being part of Banned and Determined this week made me realize this issue has actually mattered to me for a long time, even though I was lucky to have parents who let me read freely. (Letting me watch the movies and TV I wanted however…well, that’s another story. It took a long time for me to finally get over the fact that I didn’t get to watch The Breakfast Club until I was almost college-aged. Well, I’m almost over it, anyway. Sniff.) When I was a senior in high school and assigned to write a term paper, I for some reason chose the topic of banned books. I think it might have been because I’d recently finished (and fallen in love with) The Catcher in the Rye (which I read on my own, rather than for an assignment) and had somehow heard that schools often banned it. It angered me to think of parents—those awful, phony adults—trying to silence Holden Caulfield’s voice, which would be a true injustice to young people.

What about you? Where you grew up (or are currently living), have you experienced book bans or challenges? Do you remember any time in childhood when an assigned book, or one in the school library, caused a stir?

It’s a tough thing to support—like not hating puppies or kittens.

Even so, I bravely participated in last night’s Banned and Determined event, Western Illinois University’s celebration of the freedom to read (held in conjunction with the American Library Association), at Western’s Malpass Library.

(But no, I did not carry an NPR tote bag or wear vegan shoes.) Here I am, extolling the virtues of Harper Lee’s unbelievable book, To Kill a Mockingbird. (It’s a tough job…)

Alison, being determined about not banning

University Libraries' display of some banned or challenged books

Seriously, though, it unnerves me when parents try to ban books, robbing their kids of the ability to think for themselves. Especially when it’s a work of literature like To Kill a Mockingbird or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, whose very messages (despite what some might consider to be crude portrayals or insensitive language) involve children developing their own abilities to see past racism and intolerance.

Like many people, I first encountered To Kill a Mockingbird when I was assigned to read it in high school English. I’ve re-read it once or twice as an adult. And as I read aloud from it last night, I was, as always, struck by the sense of voice—that of the smart, spunky “Scout” Finch—and the rich detail of small-town life, more than anything else. The fact that Harper Lee never published another work seems to somehow add to its perfection, as if it’s something to never be spoiled.

After the reading last night, (highlights of which you can see on University Libraries Facebook page), the organizer led a brief discussion about book banning, asking if there was ever a time when any of us present might see a reason for restricting access to any books or in any situation. And I do ask myself if there’s a possibility that, if I were a parent, I could quickly become a hypocrite on this issue.

I mean, sure, it’s easy to champion Mockingbird, but…what about material I truly find objectionable? How much of a freedom-of-speech-er will I be if my little nephews grow up to start liking gangsta rap, with its despicable portrayal of  “bitches and hos“?

And I completely empathize with the two women in the audience who expressed their concern the Twilight series, specifically about the female protagonist Bella constantly dismissing herself as “unimportant” while she swoons over a guy.

So I do see both sides. But I stand on the side of freedom to read ‘em.

ALA graphic for Banned Books Week

If you live in Macomb, you’ve probably by now received the new Righteously Huge Recycling Receptacle to put on the curb.

In theory, this is something that should make me happy. Ever since the city voted to have matching Behemoth Buckets and small recycling receptacles delivered to each house a couple of years ago, I’ll admit I’ve had this thought: doesn’t it send a subliminal message if your landfill-bound bucket is twice the size of the one that lets you be environmentally friendly ? I mean, I’m enough of a tree-hugging type to feel physical pain when a certain friend of mine throws our empty beer bottles in the regular trash (saying it’s “cheaper to not recycle,” which still makes no sense to me and which I am still mad at her about. Ahem.)

So I do actually like the idea of the new Righteously Huge Recycling Receptacles being delivered to everybody in Macomb. (You can get more of the trash-y details, ha ha, in the story from the McDonough County Voice.)

But there’s just one thing: now that we’ve got more capacity to store our plastic 1s and 2s, they’re only gonna pick up the recycling once every two weeks. Meaning I have to remember, on trash days, whether it’s its a Yes week or a No week to haul the Righteously Huge Recycling Receptacle to the curb.

doggone it, it's trash day

For most people, this is probably a non-issue.

For people like me, however—people who struggle endlessly with things like finding the other damn sock—this is not a happy announcement.

The company that picks up Macomb’s trash, to its credit, did send out a calendar that’s supposed to help me remember which day is recycling-pick-up day. A calendar which I promptly tossed into my recycling bucket. Why?

Recently, I’ve embarked on a journey: an attempt to slowly but surely improve my living space, to de-clutter, and, well, to not end up on Hoarders. As part of this de-cluttering process, I’m trying to allow as little paper to cross the threshold of my front door as possible. (BY THE WAY, CITY OF MACOMB AND TRASH CO., EVER HEARD OF E-MAIL? JUST WONDERING. THANKS.)

Since my brain will likely be occupied with other things, and never able to remember which week it is—Recycle Yay? or Recycle Nay?—I suspect I will be employing this plan along with many other Macombians: “Let’s see [craning neck toward neighbor's house], Bob’s got his yellow-topped one out… He’s a stand-up guy. I’m sure he kept his calendar. [Decides to schlep recycling bucket to curb].”

It will be follow the leader on the curbs across Macomb.

Who can tell me anything about this sad cafe—which is apparently now home to a salvage yard and a rather…um, interesting used car business—along Highway 136 between Macomb and Carthage?

I’ve driven past it for years and finally stopped to take a picture on Labor Day Weekend. I was greeted by the property owner who, when I asked how long the cafe had been closed, said, “…’bout 10 years.” I beg to differ, however.

What’s the real story of the Midway Cafe?

You can see more of my photos of local stuff here.

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.)

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.

Q. What do all those things in the subject heading have to do with one another?

A: Answer: we’re all linked by a new tune about a train.

Here’s the story:

As some of you already know, I have a new obsession: the Chicago Public Radio show “Sound Opinions,” which is broadcast locally on Tri States Public Radio, but which I tend to save as a podcast so I can listen to it while making the drive up to the Quad Cities to visit C-Nor.

Listening to this show—on which two respected rock critics review new albums, analyze old ones, and interview artists they think are worth your attention—is like my version of following sports. It’s hard to explain, but … I need rock/pop/music industry chatter and following-of-facts-and-analysis in my life the way Cubs and Cards fans seem to need theirs. (I couldn’t tell you who is playing in the World Series if my life depended on it, but ask me who is producing the next Regina Spektor album and well, I will either know or at least want to know.

Yes, this show is rock-nerd heaven.)

Anyway, driving back from Davenport on Sunday and catching up on a podcast, I have to admit I wasn’t overly excited when DiRogatis and Kott started their review of the Jay-Farrar/Benjamin Gibbard collaboration. This album, released in 2009, features music set to lyrics inspired by a Jack Kerouac novel. It’s called One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Music from Kerouac’s Big Sur.

Normally this kind of project would be up my alley; I mean, hello, English major-y enough? Like a lot of Farrar/Gibbard fans probably do, I’ve got both Uncle Tupelo and Death Cab albums in my stack and several Kerouac books on my shelves.

But,

1. I’m kind of so-so on the Jay Farrar front: he’s obviously got an incredibly unique voice, but I’m not sure I like the sound of it enough to listen to whole albums of it.
2. Even though I was obsessed with Kerouac during my late high school/early college days…well, the sincere awe I used to feel over Kerouac and the life he lived and the way he wrote has been tempered by the voice inside me that says, “Ok, how many women are you going to brag about screwing in this section?”
3. And on top of that, do we need another Picking-Up-Where-Dead-Hero-Left-Off Project? (“Hey Jay, ever heard of Mermaid Avenue? The name Jeff Tweedy ring a bell…?”)

However—and even though the critics on Sound Opinions seemed to agree with my issues about Farrar’s voice—they deemed it a “Buy It” record (out of “Burn It, Buy It, or Trash It”), and you can read more about that on the Sound Opinions web site. (You have to scroll down to footnote #7).

And then they played a song from it, and my ears perked up—and now the album is on my Amazon wishlist.

The song, “California Zephyr,” describes, and is named after, a certain country-crossing vessel which has an important local tie and also plays a big role in my life. (It also pays homage to a song by the same name written by Hank Williams, I think.)

The train in the tune:

The real-life California Zephyr route stops in nearby Galesburg and Burlington, Iowa, and of course at Union Station in Chicago, before heading westward to cross the plains and then head for the Rocky Mountains.

I have taken the California Zephyr out west a small handful of times. And while it may be a bit schmaltzy and sentimental, I consider my trips on this train to be some of the most awesome and important moments in my life.

When I was a kid, the summer after sixth grade, my mom planned a trip for us to visit her brother and his family on the west coast. My dad decided that we were going to do things the old-fashioned (i.e. cheaper, and non-up-in-the-air) way.

Please let me stress what this means: my family and I rode a train, sitting next to each other for several days in a row, all the way from Burlington, Iowa to Seattle, Wash.

(And yes, we are still speaking to each other.)

I’ll save the tales of that trip for another day. But allow me to say I remember it vividly and always will. I got to see the world through those train windows, and through watching the actions of so many other train-travelers from all over the map.

Later, when I was in college, I got on the Zephyr in Burlington and rode out to Winter Park, Colo. (And yes, both my mom and my sister thought I was crazy for choosing to take the train again. Apparently I have a higher tolerance for not bathing, and for sleeping upright in a coach seat, then most.)

In 2004 or so, I also took the train from Galesburg to White Fish, Mont., to meet my family at Glacier National Park, only to discover that it was on fire (but yes, that too is another story.)

All of this is to say, I was delighted to find that one of the songs on the Kerouac-inspired album captures the feeling of sitting in a lounge car, watching the fields and lonely towns and cows and streams and pickup trucks go by, taking in something about American life that feels like it might not always be there. (And yeah, really wishing for a shower.)

What about you? Farrar fan? Death Cab lover? Fan of taking the train despite lavatory facilities being a bit lacking? Know any more about the Hank Williams original? Leave me a comment below.

The song features Gibbard alone (without Farrar), and here’s what I found when I Googled the lyrics:

Up the Hudson Valley across New York State to Chicago then the Plains
All so easy and dreamlike crashing the salt flat daybreak
I hear “I’ll Take You Home again Kathleen” sad fog winds out there to blow
Across the rooftops of eerie old hangover San Francisco

Now I’m transcontinental 3000 miles from my home
I’m on the California Zephyr watching America roll by
Now I’m transcontinental 3000 miles from my home
I’m on the California Zephyr watching America roll by

I’ve hit the end of my trail can’t even drag my own body
I’ve been driven mad for three years
Too much fame keeps a body busy and the mind full of tears
Terrified by that sad song across rooftops
mingled with the lachrymose cries of the salvation army meeting
on the corner saying, “Satan is the cause of it all”

Now I’m transcontinental 3000 miles from my home
I’m on the California Zephyr watching America roll by
Now I’m transcontinental 3000 miles from my home
I’m on the California Zephyr watching America roll by

So I finally got around to watching Public Enemies, the Michael Mann film based on John Dillinger, who robbed banks and became a kind of folk hero during the Great Depression.

I have to say, I don’t like watching violent movies, but I gave in to this one since

1. it’s historical,
2. it took place in the Midwest and Illinois in particular, and
3. …. okay, because it stars Johnny Depp.

And as my esteemed readers may remember, I’ve been interested in this film since I read/posted that story about a guy from nearby Galesburg, IL who is connected to the movie via a 1930s car.

So: I liked it. Three stars out of four, maybe. But the reason I’m blogging about it is this:

I couldn’t believe it, when it was over and the credits rolled, that there were three rather young, rather notable, rather…comely actors in the film who I hadn’t recognized at all. In other words,

1. Billy Crudup played J. Edgar Hoover. I mean, this is the same guy who played the rock star in Almost Famous! That guy played this guy! I was truly shocked when I saw his name listed as the actor playing Hoover. (All this is to say, that guy can act. And the make-up/costume people who made him look like ….well, not a rock star, they were good too, obviously.)
2. One of the main Dillinger cronies was played by Stephen Dorff. I have actually never seen anything with Stephen Dorff in it. But, here’s the deal: I kind of pride myself on recognizing actors in movies, especially the littler-known character actors. In other words, I am really annoying to watch TV and movies with. Because every time a new character comes on the screen, I’ll say to whoever I’m watching it with, “Well, hey, there’s Jane Adams from Happiness. I’m so happy to see her again.” Or, “Say, there’s the guy who used to play Chip on Kate & Ali.”
3. But the real kicker was the fact that one of the gangsters’ names that came up on the credits was Rory Cochran. I was like, “Wha? Where was he?” (The answer is that he had played one of the FBI guys under Melvin Purvis, played by Christian Bale.) For the uninitiated, Rory Cochran would be the guy that my friends and I, in high school, went around imitating for months and months after seeing him play a squinty-eyed, small-town stoner dude in Dazed and Confused. (He of “Are you cool, man?” fame.)

After I finished the movie, instead of thinking about gangsters and violence and history, I was more thinking about my own history and pop culture (and obsessions with the combination). Like, how could it be that this skinny, long-haired kid from Dazed could be this adult, round-faced guy with …wrinkles???

This triple shock of non-recognition makes me think one of two things.

I didn’t recognize any of these actors onscreen because

A) I have a tiny, crappy little TV and the screen was very dark throughout many of the scenes,

or,

B) I and the actors from my generation are getting round-faced and wrinkled and old.
(I like the former rather than the latter. How ’bout you?)

A new photo essay about small-town America,

“Empty places. Empty spaces”

by my good friend and amazing photojournalist Kent Kreigshauser,
(a former colleague from my days as a reporter for the Galesburg Register-Mail, where Kent continues to rock.)

This photo at right shows the former Wal-Mart, which sits gapingly empty right on the main drag (Henderson Street). The new Super Center is just a mile or so away, on the edge of town. This building has been empty for several years now.)

For my non-local readers:  Galesburg was the birthplace of poet Carl Sandburg. If you own a Maytag appliance, it was more than likely built in Galesburg, before the town lost the major Maytag plant to Mexico several years back.

This photo essay gives a bleak but honest picture of what’s going on in a lot of Forgotonia (and the country in general).

Check out Kent’s photo essay here.