Welcome to Forgotonia

What’s there to see in Blandinsville, Ill.?

Well, not a heck of a lot, to be honest. But like so many other small towns in Illinois,  it’s a little self-contained unit–not quite a ghost town, because there are homes and churches and bars–that has survived for years and years despite not having much to go on.

When you drive down through the heart of town, you can’t help but feel a sense that time has passed in a way that this is a place that once was; that there won’t really be any growth to speak of.  Indeed, as the local history book (below) notes, there are more grave stones in town, by far, than living people.  But,

(More to read, below these photos)

Blandinsville Masonic Temple

here are some interesting factoids about this tiny town in McDonough County (follow the links to see the old black-and-white historic shots:

• It was started as gathering of log cabins, named Job’s settlement, in 1826, but officially platted in 1842 by Joseph Blandin  (a man who apparently did not have eye-rolling teenagers when he decided on the name Blandinsville.)
• The town was developed by, or because of,  the  Toledo, Peoria, and Warsaw Railroad, which came through town.
• A farming center, little B’ville once had a RR depot, a seminary, and a hotel featuring a fairly grand veranda.

The Masonic Temple is still there (pictured above), as are some of the other original Main Street structures. One building in the slide show above, the empty shop that’s for sale, appears in the lower left-hand corner in this street view of Blandinsville in the early 1900s.

(Historical facts taken from the book Images of America: McDonough County Historic Sites by John E. Hallwas,  WIU English professor emeritus  and author of The Bootlegger, [and guy so nice that when I told him I was a fan of his work, he hugged me]).

Just another little slice of the Midwest that seems worth taking a second to notice.

Even though I initially told you I wasn’t going to be able to make it, I actually did trek out to the rural, remote, hidden-from-plain-sight ghost town of Vishnu Springs on Sunday with C-Nor.

(more below, after these photos).

The second year of the “open house” was an absolutely heavenly fall day. And in addition to sharing the feeling of taking it in with all the other people interested in the intriguing history of the place, I ran in to lots of friends from my hometown of Carthage. (Though, I couldn’t get any of them to own up to having done this!)

Once again, I’m going to have to miss it this year. But if you’re looking for something to do this weekend, and an excuse to be outdoors, you should think about attending the “open house”—(a.k.a permission to visit legally)—at the property once known as Vishnu Springs.

As loyal readers know, the legend of Vishnu Springs—a once-bustling little resort that became a ghost-town, an invisible-from-the-road spot in the remote-est of places in McDonough County—has long been an obsession of mine.

But before you go, could I please offer a[nother] piece of unsolicited advice?

I encourage you to steep yourself in the idea of the place first.

This week, a co-worker (formerly a suburbanite) asked me if she and her kids would get anything out of the event. I thought I should answer honestly that, once you find the place, there really isn’t all that much to see.

(more below, after the photos I took when I was **definitely not trespassing there** in 2007)

Vishnu Springs Capitol Hotel backside (north)

But, if, like me, you get the chills from standing in a certain spot—an almost entirely forgotten spot—and thinking about all that once took place there, you’ll get more from the experience.

In other words, think about the fact that out in the middle of nowhere, there was once a town so popular, it included a railroad stop that brought tourists from Chicago. That it was rumored to be a hideout for Al Capone. That WIU students from the counterculture era made their way out there to live communally and play music and…do other things. And that every person who spent time there, all those years ago, thought his/her own time in the world was just as important as believe ours to be.

So yes, I think anyone who has an interest in history and ghost towns and local legends can “get something out of it.”

Here are the open house details (from the Facebook event page, where one respondent—perhaps reflecting the spirit of his time there in a certain previous decade—wrote that even though he can’t be there, “Smoke one for me!”

The second opportunity for the public to visit Vishnu Springs (Ira and Reatha T. Post Wildlife Sanctuary). A short historical and educational update will take place at 1:30 pm. Take this opportunity to come visit Vishnu without the risk of having to “trespass” to do so. More information about Vishnu Springs is at www.vishnusprings.org.

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.

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.

Randolph House

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

The downtown courthouse square in Macomb has fallen on some hard times.

In addition to a recent fire on the the south side that destroyed two businesses, several stores have closed and still sit empty. And, (while this is just my opinion and preference as a consumer), stuff that IS moving in seems less-than-friendly to college students, their parents and professors in a university town, such as a shop selling items related to …being Catholic (?). (Um, yeah.)

The Randolph House on the east side–which was once part of a grand hotel where Abraham Lincoln spent the night and gave a speech–appears to be somewhat neglected. Lately I’ve been wondering: who owns the building? Are there any plans for restoring it? Does it fall under the historic preservation protection?

I haven’t done much digging around for the answer, but thought I’d throw it out here and see if anyone might know the score.

former Carthage College/Robert Morris campus field house

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

I’ve posted some photos of the current state of the former Carthage College/Robert Morris campus in Carthage, IL on my Flickr page.

Carthage College was the site of the first Circle K club in the U.S., had several prominent alumni, and was home of legendary biology professor Alice Kibbe. But the college eventually was moved to Kenosha, WI, and the former campus in Carthage (my home town)  fell on hard times, including being bought by a mysterious Korean absentee landlord who could not be found for most of the 90′s and 00′s.

• Read more about that weird legacy and see some photos of the destruction inside one of the buildings here.
• Find out more of Carthage College’s history here.

Please leave comments if you remember life at Carthage College or Robert Morris and have any details or memories to share.

I was intrigued to learn that one of the entries on the recently released list of the “10 Most Endangered” historical sites in Illinois is an old house in Moline.

I happened to be in the Quad Cities not long after I read about the home, so I got C-Nor, (a.k.a. my fiancee, Chris), to program the address into his GPS.

We navigated from Davenport (IA) to Moline, (with the British lady on the Garmin directing/annoying us the whole way), until we found the lonely structure that was once owned by John Deere (the man). Read about the history of the house here.

I’m not sure why the house and /or property are called “Red Cliff.” I definitely get the “cliff” part, and you will, too, if you check out the photos I took. But the house is, um, green. The house stands out literally and figuratively; it looks out over Moline from a dramatic little look-out point while the rest of the neighborhood is un-remarkable. Chris and I walked right up to the house and looked in the windows. There are some sawhorses and tools inside, not to mention a sign out front that says “Restoration in progress,” that hint at a promising future. But the “10 Most Endangered” list says the restoration effort has been abandoned and the property is now in foreclosure.

Play the slide show for more details, or view the pictures via Flickr to get all the cutline-y goodness.

P.S. On a related note: Time.com recently published a list of the 11 most endangered national places, on which some of the causes of “danger” are proposed Wal-Marts and condo developments. (I will try to think of something non-depressing for my next post!)

I have posted a couple of entries in the past about the Spoon River Bridge (located in an area made famous by the Spoon River Anthology) being listed as one of the “most endangered” historic sites in Illinois.

Two weekends ago, I set out to take in the sights of the bridge and anything else interesting along the way.

Taking in the turns (and the little towns) along Highway 136

As we left Macomb and headed into Fulton County, the charmingly self-contained, yet ghost-town-y feel of one of the first little towns on the way, Table Grove, IL, was heightened by the cold wind and gray sky.

The “Antiques” shop had (for some reason) a sheet of plywood nailed above the door with the hand-stenciled words BOYCOTT SPEED LUBE. But it and most of the other stores around the small square seem to be abandoned and /or filled with loose junk, the kind of which that might be left over after a garage sale. The little store advertising “The future of TV” on its sign appears to have ceased operations decades ago, at least judging by its storefront contents. Only the bar, Rick’s Place (with its marquee outside stating “It’s mushroom time,” which the locals understand), appeared to be open and drawing customers.

See some highlights below from this mini-venture into our “forgotten” land.

(Or check out this and other Forgottonia-region shots on Flickr.)

Awhile ago I told you about a new book that just happens to include the Forgotonia region as the topic of one of its chapters.

As you might guess from its subtitle, True Stories of Texlahoma, Transylvania, and Other States That Never Made It, it’s filled with fun bits of trivia. Like the fact that we might have made Cuba a state if it weren’t for oh, you know, pure racism. Or the fact that Chicagoans once thought that downstate farmers held all the political power—a direct opposite of the feelings behind the Forgotonia movement—and wanted their own state.

Each proposed state is featured in a short, dryly humorous write-up and a corresponding map created by the author, whose career has focused on documentary filmmaking and teaching before publishing this book. Trinklein was a writer and producer for the Emmy-nominated PBS documentary Pioneers of Television, as well as The Gold Rush (1998) and The Oregon Trail (1993).

Lost States gets you thinking about how we define ourselves as a nation and as state citizens. And about how arbitrary some of the decisions behind our concrete-seeming realities really are. (Case in point? The recent news that legislative districts in Illinois are still determined by whichever political party pulls the winning slip of paper out of a hat.)

The book and its author, Michael Trinklein, have recently been featured on NPR’s All Things Considered, C-SPAN, and many other media outlets. As I read the book and began following the author on his blog, I really wanted to know more about him. How he got the idea for the book? How had he heard about the Forgotonia movement? Did he visit this region? And if so, what did he think of it?

So I dialed him up. (Well, the e-mail way.) And Trinklein, whose book was featured in The New Yorker, was gracious enough to grant a phone interview to this blogger.

(So it was a tad embarrassing when I didn’t know the answer to the one thing he really wanted to know from me: should “Forgotonia” have one “T” or two?)

Learn more about how the idea for the book took shape, what he thinks about life in the Midwest, and more—and leave me your thoughts, proposed statehood suggestions, or questions—below.

A Q&A with Lost States author Michael J. Trinklein

So, what state are you from? You’re talking to me now from Wisconsin. Is that where you’re from originally? Tell me about your life leading up to this book.

Well, I was born in Illinois; we lived in Evanston until I was five. But I grew up in Wisconsin. I went to college at the University of Wisconsin, and after that I went to the University of Iowa for graduate school. I majored in filmmaking in both, and I then took job teaching filmmaking at Idaho State University, and I was there for 20 years. That spurred me on to do the book, partly, because the geography of Idaho is really screwy.

So in looking at the list of documentaries you’ve worked on, and then at this book, it seems like the common theme of your research or general interest is history. In the films you made, how did you get inspired to pursue those subjects?

For The Oregon Trail, I think it was something about…well, growing up in Wisconsin and Illinois, history can seem a little bit further away than it is in Idaho; I mean, I knew people in Idaho who were older than the state! [laughs]. I remember very distinctly being on family vacation out west and seeing the [still visible] ruts [from wagon wheels], and hearing about how “those are actually from the Oregon trail.” It was so fascinating to me that we could walk in the same steps as people from history. That kind of got me started.

You thank your parents in the book for dragging you through practically every state in the country. So do you really credit those childhood car trips with sparking your interest in geography?

You know, when I was growing up, interstates were still young. We went to California on a four-day trip, we went to Mexico, to Texas. And in the era before iPods, you had to look out the window, you had to see the land. It was always kind of fascinating how… Living where I live now, and where you live now, when you’re driving west toward Denver, it’s fairly flat. And then all of a sudden the interstate starts to double back on itself, twisting back on itself [as you approach the mountains]. And  I remember saying to my grandfather, ‘They can do that?’ So yeah, we went everywhere, and it was fascinating to see the land change a bit.

What initially got you thinking about doing this book project?

Growing up, I was always kind of interested in maps. As a kid, when I was young, they’d give away free ones at the gas station; I kind of collected them, and as I would study them over, I wondered, “Why are they running a road through there and not there?” I remember, in about 1975 or so, as a teenager, there was an article in Newsweek about the potential State of Superior [the secession of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan from the rest of the state], and I remember just being blown away by that; I couldn’t even believe you can do that. I mean, in my generation, we haven’t seen any new states added, so I remember thinking, “Can you really do that?”

Over the years, I kind of collected stories of states and borders. Some people collect baseball cards…[laughs] I collected those kinds of stories. It was kind of a fascination. I had a file of these stories for decades, but I guess I didn’t really start working on it in earnest until about 2005. It wasn’t something I did full-time.

But you really had mentally or physically collected the stories that make up the content of this book since you were a kid?

Absolutely. I’ve had this huge filing cabinet labeled “maps.”

Can you describe how you went about most of the research for the maps and the book?

I tried, wherever possible, to go to primary sources, and for me that generally meant newspapers from the era. Some of these states—Boston’s a good example—basically it was just [one source], the Boston Globe from 1919 [that was available], and nothing else. That’s one problem with a topic like this; the problem with talking with people from over a hundred years ago is that the people are not still around.

But [like the book states in the introduction], the point with these was not to do an exhaustive review, but to be light, to get people interested in maps, history, and geography.

For a few of them, it was really hard to find good information on. Others I didn’t want to do because there was already so much on them, like Puerto Rico, or splitting California—there are whole books on splitting up Texas. But I don’t think anyone’s really gathered these stories up before.

I was glad to see that you had included Forgotonia in the book, because I think mostly it was tongue-in-cheek, more of trying to make a point than anything.

What I’ve found is, in any of these proposals, there is a certain number of people who are dead serious, there are others who think it’s funny, and it’s hard to sort out which one’s the greatest number. Some of them started out as kind of a joke, but . . . I think all great ideas start out in life in somebody’s head, and they might sound crazy, but then they become reality.

Lost States was published by Quirk Books—and your book is quirky. Because of the sort of unusual subject matter, did you ever have a hard time getting people to understand why you were interested in this? Did you have a hard time pitching it to publishers?

Yeah, you know, I think I worked on it for awhile without even telling my family, [laughs], because they’d be wondering what I was doing …But a lot of these things had never been mapped, so it was kind of fun to do. I worked on it on the weekends, that’s kind of what I do for fun, as odd as that sounds. I did a sort of self-published version at first, but it sold, like, five copies [laughs]. But honestly that was okay, because the point was not to make a lot of money or anything. I did it because I thought it was fun. But yeah, it’s not easily compartmentalized. Some publishers would say they thought it would be a good childrens’ book. But then Quirk Books said they liked it, but that I’d have to expand the content. So I added more states.

You hear those classic stories a lot of times, about how they try to get something published and it’s “No one likes your book, then all of a sudden one publisher likes it, and it ends up doing really well.” Well, not to try to compare myself [to those writers], but that’s kind of how it works in real life.

So how did you first hear about the Forgotonia story?

I think I found it on the web. Only three or four of the stories in the book came that way; the others were through clippings or books actually. I think it was one of the stories I found when I was looking for “51^st state” proposals, when I had to expand the book.

What did you find about Forgotonia that surprised you?

Well, just that…growing up with the freeways and seeing them built, I was fascinated that … [the proposed interstate] still isn’t done, and that everyone wants that road [laughs]. I looked into the highway legislation, and you know, it’s in there, and then they’re taking it out, and it’s like you can just kind of see everybody go [imitates frustrated cry] “oh, no!” … I think sometimes we forget how important those freeways are to commerce.

Since you did most of the research for the Forgotonia section by reading about it, have you ever had reason to actually visit the region?

I have driven back and forth to St. Louis a lot, so I have been on the fringes of that area many times.

So are there any observations about the area that stand out in your mind?

Well, [laughs], as you know, there’s corn. And I think that…I like that part of the country. I basically live in it. And Wisconsin and Iowa are not that different [from Illinois], of course. I like rural places… it’s kind of appealing to me. And part of the larger point of the book, I think, is that there’s a lot more to America than the just the coasts. [This region is] rural, but that’s a good thing.

It’s interesting to me that, when we were doing the Pioneers of TV series, and we were doing interviews with people in LA and New York, people in those places are not as happy, a lot of times, as people in the “flyover” states. We have this inferiority complex because we’re not on TV every night. But I think we’re a lot better off. When people are pushed together, they’re more stressed out. Here, there’s plenty of free parking [laughs]. So… it’s a pretty good lifestyle.