Welcome to Forgotonia

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.

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.

Maid Rite, Macomb, IL

Originally uploaded by Rural Rose

IDoT Devil and protest signs

Originally uploaded by the HPB

Ok, remember how I told you awhile back about the “NIX336″ signs cropping up in Fulton County yards and fields?

Well, looks like we aren’t the only place in Illinois in which some people wanting to keep their two-lanes…

I found this pic of an inflatable devil via an Illinois Flickr group. The devil is guarding over [?] signs that seem to be complaining about a road  around Marion/Carbondale. You know, because Carbondale is such a notoriously easy place to reach! (Okay, only from the Forgottonia area does it seem to require about two eons of twisting and turning directions in order to get down there…. )

One question remains: When are we going to get an inflatable demon-slash-farm-animal for the anti-336 movement? (‘Cause this looks sort of like a flaming pig, am I wrong?) Can it be a rabid cow?

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!)

The Local Natives put on a low-key, tuneful show, playing most of their debut album, Gorilla Manor, (including their Talking Heads cover of “Warning Sign”) during their set Saturday (May 15, 2010) at the Rock Island Brewing Company (RIBCO) in the District of Rock Island*.

(*Which, because of Daytrotter studio sessions and concerts, should officially change its name to the Island of Rock. Who’s with me?)

I tried to capture a couple of shots. See more pictures here.

Read about, or listen to, Local Natives here.

Behold the Adair Cafe and the Adair Pool Hall/Barbershop. I wish I had the money (and a justifiable reason to) buy these little old buildings.

I took this picture on a Saturday last June when Chris and I were out scouting around for some scenic photography shots.

We were on 136 going East out of Macomb, and I actually had my sights set on going to Fulton County, IL, but this little spot in the road caught my eye and I had to stop.

These tiny, empty buildings in the almost-ghost-town of Adair, IL,  stand out on the prairie–such concrete evidence of an earlier, forgotten time.

And now the former pool hall/barber shop (on the right) and a former mechanic’s  garage next door (not shown in this pic) are for sale, according to an item that  ran recently in the McDonough County “Choice” a.k.a. the shopper).

According to that piece, both buildings date to the 1860′s, and the architecture on the old garage is actually somewhat unique; it’s a “Mesker” building, which means it’s a specimen of a now-extinct pre-fab style that you can read more about here.

Also, according to the un-sourced item in the Choice, the old barber-shop-slash-snooker-hall looks like time stopped on the inside; it still houses snooker games-in-progress, the old barber shop chair, and even a can of Brill cream.

Who will buy these buildings?

I fear that they, like so many other little relics that dot the Illinois prairie–including countless one-room school houses, family-owned stores, and farm houses, for example–will either become someone’s junk-filled “out buildings,” or eventually get burned or torn down before they become a liability.

I hope I’m wrong.

(But if I suddenly do come in to some money. . . you think I could get people to come out to an art gallery and coffee shop in the middle’a nowhere? The Forgotonia Cafe? Anyone?)

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.

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!

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.