Allow me to share with you the mental wrestling I’ve been doing over something as seemingly insignificant as choosing the place to exchange (and celebrate) one’s marital vows.

Chapter One: A Little P.C. for You and Me

Over the last several months as I’ve been researching the how/where/when and best ways to put together a fairly low-key, low-budget-and-yet-not-too tacky wedding and celebration for me and my future husband, (or FH), I’ve come across some good advice on blogs and in magazines about making choices that reflect your values.

And I think, for the most part, I’ve/we’ve done that so far.

For example, it’s ridiculously important to me, for some reason, to not create tons of waste, either financially or materially. I want as little stuff as possible to end up in a landfill or as clutter in the back of closets (tiny picture frame favors, anyone?).

I’m planning to purchase little pop-up recycling bins to place throughout the reception area for anything that will be recyclable.

I’ve chosen items for the ceremony that can be re-purposed: paper flowers; a suit Chris can wear again; asking friends and family to wear what they want, rather than buy matching taffeta dresses.

I even got a little feeling of satisfaction when one of those articles pointed out that, by having the ceremony and reception in the same spot (as we will be), you create less of a carbon footprint. (Never mind that some guests will be flying here, and none of the out-of-town guests will be carpooling. I want Brownie Points for being green!)

The only problem is, we’ve picked a venue that comes with…well, shall we say…”interesting” decor. Here’s how it happened.

Chapter 2: The County Courthouse Called…

In the early days of planning, we talked seriously about going to the courthouse, and then inviting close family and friends go out for dinner afterward.

But in my hometown, there are exactly 4 restaurants (and that number includes the Dairy Queen and Hardee’s).

And the number of family and friends to invite after the Signing of Documents started to grow too large for one restaurant. So, then it seemed like I was actually planning a wedding reception.

Which then led to: why don’t we just have one, then?

Well, the first answer is this: I tend to get a wee bit stressed when it comes to orchestrating social events. Instead of having fun, I worry about pleasing everyone, so I end up a wreck. (I know, I need to listen to Ricky Nelson.)

But the larger reason is that FH and I live two hours apart, both of us with solid jobs and careers (and in a bad economy), with no easy answer about how to bring ourselves geographically closer together. After the initial engagement excitement, the idea of planning a wedding seemed almost silly when compared to other priorities.

But the more we talked about courthouse’n it, the more I started to feel like we were being too businesslike. It hit me that—even if we would have a lot going on as a couple, like potentially moving and/or starting new jobs—it was making me sad to think of sealing the deal in such a private, ho-hum way. Meeting Chris has been the greatest stroke of luck I could have ever experienced, and I wanted my closest friends and family to be part of the act of he and I taking this step in our lives.

So the next thing we knew, we were planning an actual wedding.

We could have looked into venues in FH’s area, like the Quad City Botanical Center, for example. Or Vander Veer Park (where we often took walks when we first started dating, and where there’s a perfect setup for outdoor weddings).

And, of course, we could’ve chosen to be married in the beautiful, historic church in my hometown where I was baptized, confirmed, and spent nearly every Sunday of my youth (and where I still consider about half the congregants to be honorary grandparents).

But no. Instead? :

Chapter III: Goin’ to the Chapel…of bucks

We chose a hunting cabin in Forgotonia. One that just happens to be adorned by several startled-looking, deceased deer.

And does that go along with our “values”?

Considering that I shiver at even the sight of the word “gun,” the answer is um, no.

(And, while I do understand the purported benefits of thinning out the deer population in rural Illinois, I’m also such a softie that I think I got Disney-induced PTSD from Bambi.)

When I think about those Ethical Wedding blog suggestions, I tell myself that the tucked-away cabin (and lake next to it) are located on a family farm. The property is owned by close friends of my family, with something like 30 years of shared history between us. I used to babysit for the owners’ now-almost-grown grand kids.

And choosing this spot is a way for us to have an outdoor wedding next to water (which feels really “right” to me) but also have an indoor back-up plan (the cabin) if it rains (did I mention I’m a worrier?).

Still, it’s a choice I’ve been feeling the need to justify lately. Not just because we’re not exactly camo-clad, but also because it’s located in an area that might best be described as “BFE.”

Our out-of-town guests (mostly on FH’s side) will have to drive at least 40 minutes just to get from the venue to their hotels in Macomb or Keokuk. 

And our choice has created some logistical challenges, such as: will the DJ booth fit in that corner with the 16-point buck? And while we’re standing under a gazebo saying our vows, if there are local fisherman on the lake, will they realize they’re behind us (and therefor refrain from, say, taking a leak off the side of their boat)?

But more than that, I’ve been asking myself why I wanted for everything to be in my hometown (or 10 miles outside it, actually), in the first place.

We could’ve picked a bright, shiny space in the Quad Cities with lots of amenities (and little to no taxidermy), in a city where there were multiple choices for a rehearsal dinner and after-hours nightcaps, chain hotels… not to mention four-lane highways to get there.

And even though I don’t believe the wedding should be “all about the bride [only]“—I guess I just wanted this day to be about home, for me, on multiple levels. And this location is just a few miles from the farm where I grew up and where my parents still live.

So I guess the answer I’ve landed on is: it’s just me. And it’s just us. Because, like FH and I, it’s casual, authentic and comes with plenty of character.

Epilogue: Ah yes, character.

Early this spring when we drove out to this spot to visit with the owner and ask about renting it for our wedding day, we asked a ton of questions about catering, the DJ set-up, etc. The owner stressed that we could do whatever we wanted. He didn’t even require a deposit.

But as we were leaving—after we’d told him we were pretty sure we wanted it but would let him know—he held up a finger and said, “Wait, now, there is just one thing.”

FH and I looked at each other.

“The only thing I ask,” the owner said, “is that whatever fish you take out of the lake, you pay for.”

Luckily, I don’t plan to do any fishing during or after our nuptials. So at least there is one aspect of the rustic location that I won’t be worried about at all.

I know this is a little crazy, but I’m actually a tiny bit relieved that we’re getting another cold snap before spring is ready to have officially sprung. Every year at this time, I get a little panicky that winter is officially over.

When I see the flowers coming up in my front yard (planted by a previous tenant, I should note), I find myself thinking things like:

But I’ve only used my crock pot twice!

I never wore those cream-colored tights!

I never used the fireplace! And I still need to burn that sugar-cookie-scented candle I got for Christmas!

Yeah, I know. Crazy. I may be the one person in the entire Midwest who is actually chagrined when it turns nice outside. (Then again, T.S. Eliot did say April was the cruelest month. I think it’s because, like me, he was pale.)

The real cause of my angst is that whenever I drive to work or go to the rec center, I pass by what feels like a parade of college girls who’ve apparently spent every free minute of their winter solstices simmering in a tanning bed. The first day it’s a few degrees over 50? Flip-flops and short-shorts everywhere, and everyone is so tan.

Yes, I know these girls will look like burnt ‘taters by the time they’re my age, and I should feel virtuous and lofty for keepin’ it pale and abstaining from the coffin-shaped-cancer-causers. But still. I can covet the color of a caramel thigh, can’t I?

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.

Seriously, I’m not laughing about the damage done to Gulfport–I’ve had reason to pass by there several times over the last month, and the damage done to peoples’ homes is heartbreaking. The last time I drove by, most homes were still submerged up to the roof.

But I just gotta know: will there be a re-build of the pole-dancing business?

(From WGEM)

Gulfport Residents Finally Return Home

Posted: Aug 16, 2008 08:33 PM

Featured Video Gulfport Residents Finally Return Home

More than one hundred Henderson County homes were inundated by the swallon Mississippi River on June 17th, when the Gulfport levee broke.

Saturday, residents of that area got a glimpse of the devastation left behind by the Mighty Mississippi.

When residents in Gulfport returned to their homes for the first time, they knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight. But the flood was so fierce, what it left in its path was a little worse than expected. This home was completely knocked off its foundation. This porch is now lodged up against a van. And black mold can be found almost everywhere.

“Gone,” describes homeowner Steve Eaton. “What can you do? Rebuild.”

Eaton has lived in Gulfport his entire life. In 1989, he finished building this home, one he has lived in since. But after years of craftsmanship and years of memories, he says he’ll have to rebuild nearly all of if.

“I lost 20 years of my life of building it,” says Eaton. “That’s a big thing. I built it and to lose it? I guess I’ll just start over.”

The floodwaters in Steve’s home reached as high as the ceiling. He estimates that he faces $165,000 worth of damages. But he says he is not letting it get the best of him.

“I am always positive. I work every day so I have to keep a positive attitude.”

Just a few blocks away, Roger Brockett was checking out his brother’s home. Roger helped convert this garage into a home for his brother, but like all the other residents in Gulfport…he will have to start over.

“It might be salvageable,” says Brockett. “More than likely, I’ll put a mobile home in for him and just salvage the metal structure.”"=

Roger says the cleanup will take a lot of work, especially because the flood damaged the home a lot more than he thought.

“It pulled them right out of the ground. The back part of that garage, and it stood straight up in the air at the end.”

And while Roger and other residents continue to check out the damage in Gulfport, they are reminded with one thing.

“You can’t mess with nature. What nature does, nature is going to do.”

But even though Mother Nature physically destroyed Gulfport, it has no match for the perseverance of its residents.

(Or vegetables, actually.)

I grew these!That’s right! ME! I grew these!

It’s official: I no longer have a black thumb! (Although whether or not I can keep an indoor plant alive remains to be seen.)

Perhaps I really am a true farmer’s daughter after all.

Knock on wood—and potential raccoon invasions notwithstanding—but my tomato plants, pepper and zucchini plants, celosia, begonias, vincas, petunias, zinnias, impatiens and lemon thyme are still flourishing. (The once-thriving verbena, however, which I purchased at, um, Aldi, has apparently bit the dust.)

I feel like I could now belong amongst those women (like my late Grandma McGaughey) who know how to can things. And sew curtains. And knit afghans.

But instead I still have cereal or frozen dinners for supper. And the other day I actually cut my finger open and caused it to bleed just by lifting back the foil on top of a Jell-o Pudding Cup.

Sigh.

One thing at a time, friends; one thing at a time.

As I mentioned previously (in the Tale of Detouring through Iowa When Already an Hour Behind Schedule), poor little Gulfport is still almost entirely underwater—the rooftops poking out not too far above the water level.

This article (from today’s Journal-Star) does a nice job of summarizing the situation– but seriously, I wanna know:

what about the strippers?

No word on what has happened to the hard-working pole dancers and/ or whether the, …er, “stripping community” will re-build.

Gulfport slowly re-emerging

Crews working around the clock to return floodwaters to Mississippi

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JODI POSPESCHIL

Hoses connected to industrial pumps snake to the Mississippi River levee just outside Gulfport in Henderson County. The county recently hired a contractor to ‘de-water’ the town by using 36 industrial pumps.

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By JODI POSPESCHIL

OF THE JOURNAL STAR

Posted Jul 22, 2008 @ 08:48 PM

Last update Jul 23, 2008 @ 01:01 AM

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GULFPORT —

Twenty-six workers running 36 industrial pumps 24 hours each day are ridding Henderson County of billions of gallons of muddy Mississippi River water.

The workers have been in Gulfport for more than a week. On Tuesday, they continued the daily process of pumping about 75 million gallons of floodwater back into the river through enormous hoses hooked to industrial pumps. The result, according to project manager Paul Williams, is a water level drop of about one inch per day- if it doesn’t rain.

“But in this big of a pool, one inch is a lot of water,” he said.

Williams works for Readiness Management Support, a Florida-based company hired by Henderson County to remove water that breached the levee south of Gulfport last month. Another way the county is trying to return water to its rightful place is by creating a man-made breach in the levee at Gulfport by digging a trench, allowing water to flow back out.

Residents of the community of about 200 people, just over the river from Burlington, Iowa, still can’t return to their homes or businesses [...ahem, cough cough..] because most town roadways are still underwater. As the level recedes, the tops of submerged property, such as sheds and cars, continue to pop up.

Williams said residents frequently stop by the company’s office trailers to talk with workers about their homes and possessions.

“We can’t let them in because this is a construction zone,” he said. “But you have to have a lot of empathy for those who have lost an awful lot.”

Henderson County Board Chairman Marty Lafary said Tuesday the hope is that federal funding will help pay for bringing in the private contractor and subcontractors. He said the price tag for the “de-watering” is not yet known.

“It’s one of those things we’ll have to wait to see,” Lafary said. “But we needed to get something done, and we took it upon ourselves to do it.”

Officials are not sure how long the workers will remain in Gulfport.

On Friday night, a section of U.S. Route 34 approaching the river bridge was reopened to traffic [literally 10 minutes after I was forced by a state cop to turn around, double-back, and head for Niota, but that's beside the point...] after about one month of being underwater. One lane of the road is opened, built up above the water line by rock and run by a traffic signal that lets 10 to 15 vehicles through at a time [and like I said, you really don't want to drive across it in a 1985 Crown Victoria.]

Water still lapped at both sides of the roadway Tuesday, and nearby Carman Road, south of Route 34, remained closed and underwater.

One positive rebuilding sign was visible Tuesday as workers framed up walls for the Ayerco gas station at the junction of the two roads. But the station remains surrounded by water, and workers had to drive their trucks through about 18 inches of water to get there.

On Tuesday, Lafary said he credits the de-watering project with getting Route 34 open much earlier than previously estimated.

“It would probably still be under six feet of water,” he said.

As I reported recently, my house is being encroached upon by critters—raccoons—and I’m trying to ward them off via …closet freshener.

I went to Wal-Mart on Sunday and bought a $5 box of mothballs, then promptly returned home and tossed handfulls of the stinkbombs under my desk. I took the last hand-full and placed them strategically around my tomato, pepper, and zucchini plants.

Take that, I said, brushing my hands together in satisfaction.

But now my entire house reeks of mothballs—both inside and out— and the neighbors probably think I’m [more] nuts [than they already do].

And guess what.

When leaving for work this morning, I emerge from the house to find none other than TWO fresh swirly piles of poop on the deck. Right up next to the house.

I think these things are looking in my windows at night and watching me sleep.

The other night, I was sitting at the table eating dinner–at 7 p.m. to be exact, and that’s important because it was still bright as day outside–when I heard a scratching at the screen door.

My cat, the divine Ms. Sally O’Mally [who likes to kick and stretch and kick] is constantly using the [nasty-looking] vertical blinds [that I really, really need to clean but don't know how to take down/am too lazy to figure out how to mess with] as scratching posts of sorts, so without looking up from the newspaper I was reading, I swatted in the general direction of the screen door and said, softly, “Knock it off, Sal.”

A few minutes later, it happened again, and again I muttered, “Quit scratching” and did another absent-minded swat.

Finally, the third time, I turned toward the screen door to physically pull the cat off the blinds.

But she wasn’t there.

She was across the room, curled up a chair.

Something was on the other side of the screen door, scratching to get in.

Carefully, I approached the door and pulled back the blinds. And there sat the fattest, most complacent looking raccoon staring up at me from the deck.

“Blehhh!” I hollered, completely startled (and, then, afraid the thing had rabies or something, since it was out so early at night and so unafraid to come up so close).

Then again, word on the street—literally, as in, amongst the few neighbors in my little villa—is that an old lady who used to live here until she died a few years ago used to feed raccoons in the neighborhood.

Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but… thanks, lady.

Anyway, I clapped my hands and stomped and made other idiotic motions, but it still just sat there, looking at me with big dumb eyes.

This little scene repeated itself a few times, and then the fat little beast lumbered away–and then scurried underneath my deck.

Where I’m afraid it is now living.

Before this episode, I’d already been wondering if there wasn’t something furry trying to make a home a little too close to mine.

Twice this spring I found little piles of swirly-looking poop on the deck, and it was right up against the house, so whatever left it there was obviously feeling comfortable.

Then I found a perfectly paw-sized swoop taken out of one of the pots in which I’m attempting to grow tomatoes. (Last year, something—probably this same little booger, who knows) stole the one tomato I was able to successfully grow.)

I wasn’t that concerned about the raccoon taking up residence under my porch until I mentioned it at work and someone said, “You better hope it’s not a female. You don’t want her having babies down there.”

Another person at work suggested that I place mothballs under the deck. Apparently raccoons don’t like the smell any more than we do when we are given the Guest Linens at Grandma’s.

But now I can’t decide what to do.

First of all, the moth balls I have on hand aren’t really moth balls, but little packets of lavender-scented moth-ball-like tablets. Which, frankly, seem a little too expensive to drop between the slats on my deck.

So do I make a Wal-Mart run for actual, cheap-o, stinky mothballs? Or would it be just as expensive, with gas prices, to run to the store for this, when the lavender ones would be just fine? Is the moth ball trick even going to work?

And aside from my own annoyance with errand-running… I suppose the bigger question is, what if some other, dumber animal tries to eat the mothballs? I’m still feeling guilty enough, as it is, about my recent roadkill incident.

And if something died down there, I’d really be screwed.

Tornado Ali ran over a squirrel on her way to work this morning.

She has committed roadkill.

It was a horrible feeling. She can’t stop thinking about it. And wondering how many times she will have to see it lying in the street for the next couple days.

R.I.P., little buddy. Even if you are kind of like vermin.

(White Christmas at my family’s farm, 2008)

Check out more of my photos of the region on my Photography page or via Flickr.