Dancing with History, Wandering through Time, Embracing the Earth

Tales from the Road: ‘Round the Lake, Part 2

Posted on July 1, 2023 by admin

I left the edge of Manistee with a supply of muffins and fruit from the continental breakfast provided at the cheapish chain motel. The Lake was calling! It was a beautiful morning; I headed north on M-22, up and down through wooded dunes and beautiful hilly farms and orchards. I had not been in this area for a long time, passed through Onekama on to Arcadia, which did not appear too tourist-tainted, even an old motel or two that I must remember.

The path to its very nice beach was lined with cheery local art and covered with a layer of mesh over the sand–what a good idea! I reveled in the Lake’s swells, how the morning sun shone through the water, how it continually broke into fluffy foam. The beach was very stony at that moment, good waves but not not overly wild. Yes.

My next stop, apart from a quick peak from an overlook (ahhh!) was the beach at Elberta, where the waves were much wilder and singing lustily, with nary a stone to be seen at the water’s edge. The Lake has many moods.

Elberta lies south of the inlet–to the Betsie River, I believe–across from Frankfort. Frankfort, a most charming town with aspirations higher than its station, is a “city,” if you please. Whatever it calls itself, I could stay a long time, sit and write for hours, dance with the waves, or wander the streets. I think I could live here.

There is a New Deal-era post office and a real movie theater. And charm in spades–and people who walk. Lake people. Of course, I wandered over to Frankfort’s beach as well. The Lake was quiet, peaceful. For now.

Oh, I love it all, but onward to Glen Haven, Glen Arbor, not to mention Sleeping Bear! First, a stop at Point Betsie Lighthouse, not far north of Frankfort. I think this must be one I had missed.

It’s a lovely complex of red-roofed white buildings nestled amidst twisted birches on the windy shore. The museum is closed, alas, which is one of the downsides of traveling in the off season, especially on weekdays. I linger awhile in shady spot amidst those trees buffeted by the wind off the Lake. Sleeping Bear called, so I turned inland, winding through forested dunes until I arrived at the Pere Marquette Drive, which I had not driven in years.

*The Lake and the Sleeping Bear in the far distance*

The views were spectacular and I stopped several times to drink it all in on this, yet another glorious day of sun and breezes. After making that circle I headed ever northward to Glen Haven, once a thriving lakeport. It was a ghost town when I first saw it decades ago; the National Park Service brings it to life seasonally. The old cannery is a museum; there is plenty of interpretive signage throughout the site.

*The former cannery at Glen haven MI now houses a museum.*

They were working on the old hotel that day; people will soon be able to reserve overnight stays in the tiny village amidst its many ghosts. Glen Arbor, on the other hand, is a small town between Glen Lake and THE Lake (Michigan), and determinedly caters to locals and tourists alike, tipped a little toward the latter, it seemed. I did not stop; I had remembered it with fewer “attractions” and more charm.

I was starting to get awfully hungry but Leland was not far. Alas, a very likely place had just closed and the town seemed too touristy. Onward. I reached Northport and lunch at last, at the funky New Bohemian Cafe. Still too many tourists, but not so bad. I know, what am I? Well, a Lake-wanderer, as I have been all my days. I left the lighthouse for another day and started down the west side of the Grand Traverse Bay, still faithfully following M-22, one of the prettiest “highways” (barely!) in the Midwest. The lake lapped on my left, and I passed through Suttons Bay, which even had an active theater. Michigan folk around here love their arts!

I had hoped to stop for coffee in Charlevoix with a woman from Freshwater Future, an environmental organization I support (who isn’t for clean water?) but I was fast running out of time to make it. I hit Traverse City, which I have enjoyed in the past, but it is losing its funky 50s motels, where I had often stayed years ago. Still, despite the crawling traffic and behemoth hotels and condos, the lakeshore drive retains some of its magic. Perhaps it’s because I can still hear the lake singing. US31 along the east side of the bay is not prettiest drive. In my memory it always has seemed a bit torn up, even as development continues marching northward alongside it. The sun was beginning to sink and I grew frustrated by the traffic. I passed by, but not through, Elk Rapids, where many a time in the past I’d had breakfast after spending the night in one of those funky motels in Traverse City that I mentioned. I was too late for my tentative meeting, so I slowed down and began to enjoy the road again as I reached Charlevoix.

*world’s largest cherry pie pan, south of Charlevoix MI*

There I stopped to behold the World’s Largest Cherry Pie–or at least the pan in which it had been baked. Yes, this was a “thing”–a stunt for the nation’s Bicentennial in 1976. The pie was fourteen feet in diameter and contained nearly 5000 pounds of Michigan cherries! According to the signage this was one of the Top 20 USA Bicentennial events and is listed in the Guinness Book of Records. Fame is fleeting, however, and the site languished until renovated as an Eagle Scout project in 2009.

Continuing through Charlevoix now with Lake in view, I stopped in a narrow park at Big Rock Point near the former site of a nuclear plant that closed in 1997 after 35 years, then the longest running nuclear plant in the country. Consumers Energy–owner of the plant–later restored the site. It is named for a landmark that identified an important gathering place for the Odawa (Ottawa) tribes. I lingered awhile; it was so pleasant poking about the rocky shallows with the Lake muttering in the distance. Onward to Petoskey, where I spotted an abandoned or at least underused New Deal (almost certainly) building that I had to stop and admire.

*former county highway garage near Petoskey* MI

Getting into fudge country, so stopped at Kilwin’s for a disappointing chocolate soda, then elected to head up old 31, a straigher shot to Mackinac than M-22, and the light was fading. It has its own charms, still many old motels and tourist cabins.

*former depot at Pellston MI, now a museum*

Passed through Pellston, which I remember well from years past–goodness, I remember when the railroad was still there. Happily, the depot remains and is now a museum.

*Big Mac, the magnificent 5-mile-long bridge that crosses the Straits of Mackinac*

I reached Mackinaw City around sunset and paused again to admire the grandeur of the Bridge, now sporting colored lights, before looping around to cross it, always an adventure.

*crossing the Mackinac Bridge at night!*

I’d called ahead to make a reservation at the Moran Bay Motel, which proved to be, happily, one of the few remaining funky motels in St. Ignace (it used to be full of them!), overlooking the bay.

It was a tiny 50s room into which the owners had squeezed two queen beds, so it was actually difficult to maneuver within the space. No matter. It was cozy and I saw there was a pot for coffee in the morning. I took a look at it and could not figure out how to turn it on! I’d never seen anything like it. Gave up but just before I headed to Dreamland amidst the snuggly flowered sheets I picked it up again and spotted a button on the handle. I was stunned when it glowed a beautiful cobalt blue! Psychedelic dreams of the many Lake encounters that day.

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Tales from the Road, The Wonder of It All | Tagged Lake Michigan, Michigan, New Deal, nostalgia, roadside attractions | Comments Off

Tales from the Road: ‘Round the Lake, Part 1

Posted on May 5, 2023 by admin

For years I have been wanting to drive all the way around Lake Michigan, exploring. Never enough time. And this journey, along with my truncated excursions on the Lincoln Highway, tells me that I must make the time–while I can. But at least I did finally go around my Lake, and I have that. If I can go back and do it right, I’ll not be sorry.

After dithering about whether to go clockwise or counter–originally I had planned the former–I decided to head up into western Michigan in a hurry, passing areas I already knew so well, since I had only four days. It did not escape me that this all would have been so much easier if I had been living in Michiana where my heart dwells. My first stop would be Dee’s, north of Glenn.

*86-year-old Dee at her farm market north of Glenn MI*

I’ve written about octagenarian Dee before. I’ve been stopping at her farm for thirty years or more. She has always seemed ageless, energetic and independent. But this (this time for sure!) was to be the last year for Dee’s Lakeside Farm market, and I wanted to get my winter’s supply of apples. As always, she greeted me with a cheery “Hi, Honey!” and threw in some extras of a different variety with the half bushel of Romes that I bought. Then she offered me a piece of blueberry pie–she grows those, too. I left inwardly shaking my head, not wanting to believe I would not be seeing her the following year.

I had not yet greeted the Lake, so I paused for awhile at Pier Cove a few miles to the north, where once there had been a thriving town, although no evidence of it remains. A couple, carrying buckets, was poking about in the surf searching for “lightning stones,” they said. I had occasionally picked up stones such as they showed me for years, brownish with vivid white streaks, but I never knew they were called that most appropriate name. Apparently tourists buy them!

Then onward, flying past Holland, Grand Haven, Muskegon–towns I had explored often and to which I would return, but I was hellbent northward to reach the soda fountain of the pharmacist’s daughter, who makes the best traditional chocolate sodas in the state. Lipka’s had originally been a corner drugstore on the main street of Montague, “twin” town to the larger Whitehall on the opposite side of the river. After the pharmacist Mr. Lipka died, his daughter returned and reopened the store as a cafe, centering on the 1948 soda fountain. One wall of the restaurant, which is quite the local hangout, is covered with displays of old drugstore items and other historical memorabilia. Alas, it was only 4 in the afternoon but Lipka’s had just closed as I dashed in. I’ve been stopping here for years, too, so Patti Ream, the afore-mentioned pharmacist’s daughter, let me in long enough to order a soda to go. It’s better in the traditional fountain glass, of course, but the styrofoam cup diminished its yumminess only a little, and I continued on my way.

Some 25 miles north of Montague, along the twisty and tricky Shoreline Trail, is Cherry Point Market, yet another destination I try to reach at least once a year. My earliest vague memory of it is passing by while traveling with my parents on a weekend jaunt up to Wilderness State Park. I’ve observed the surroundings change over the decades that I’ve been stopping there. Once completely filled with orchards, both apple and cherry, the land is more open now; Cherry Point today boasts an adjacent herb-filled labyrinth surrounded with lavender and a gathering area for fish boils, a favored local custom. When owner Barbara Bull is on hand, we have comfortable philosophical chats about the land and the Lake. Several years ago, Barbara wrote a memoir about her family farm and from there went on to become an award-winning fiction writer of novels based in the area.

*the clear waters of Lake Michigan at Petit Pointe Au Sable Lighthouse*

A few miles north is the Petit Pointe Au Sable Lighthouse, completed in 1874. I lingered awhile, sifting the cool sand through my fingers and noting the sun slowly heading down toward the singing Lake. I had been hoping to spend the night at Manistee, so it was time to head north. Still, I did not want to miss the sunset. I paused at Pentwater and headed to its beach. Pentwater, which I’ve passed through often, holds a warm childhood memory of a row of hollyhocks alongside an old drugstore long gone, but over the years it has become upscale and touristy to my eyes. The beach already had its winter fences installed, cramping the space. It was surprisingly crowded–although perhaps not so surprising. In my past experiences, Pentwater always had a community of sunset people migrating to the beach late in the day. Before I got there, I tried to call the Lakeside Motel in Manistee, but the phone just kept ringing. As it was still a 40-mile drive away and the northern Michigan dark was enveloping me, I looked, reluctantly, for other options.

Manistee. Talk about change over time. I don’t remember when I first discovered it, but I fell in love, and it was always my destination if I made it that far north. A once thriving lumber town with a secondary major industry of salt, it boasted a beautiful historic downtown and a plethora of 19th century houses once occupied by bankers and lumber barons. Early on I stayed in a rundown old frame hotel on the “wrong side” of the river. It was fine; I was young and it was cheap. Manistee has a lovely beach, dunes, and two lighthouses. At the edge of the beach was the charming 1950s Lakeside Motel that I had always thought, given its prime location, would be too expensive. But I dreamed of staying there. I discovered another very old motel on a lake (actually a sort of delta of the Manistee River) on the north edge of town, the Moonlight. Indeed, I stayed there one night when the moon turned the surface of the lake to silver. It’s long gone. But the beachfront motel lingered on, and finally one year I decided to stay there. The town was beginning to change: all kinds of upscale new restaurants and bars, but some of the old charm remained. What a surprise to discover the price for a night at the Lakeside was so reasonable! Very basic, the room, but two entrances, one directly to the beach, with Lake providing lullabies all night. I was charmed beyond measure. Stayed one more time a few years ago.

And then, when the pandemic began to lift in late 2020, I took a run up to the area and called, but they said they didn’t even have linens; they hadn’t opened. Now,two years later—oh, it brings tears to think of it. It is gone. The time warp, timeless experience will never be mine again. A new 5-story monstrosity is taking its place, with a bar open to the beach. Manistee is lost to me.

Never mind. I would do better next day after a good night’s sleep in a cheap chain motel–more Lake, more walking, more wonder.

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Tales from the Road, The Past is Ever Present..., The Wonder of It All | Tagged Lake Michigan, Michigan, nostalgia, roadside attractions | 2 Comments

Preservation Tales: The House No Longer a Home

Posted on March 29, 2023 by admin

Oh no. Not another one! I have written before about National Register buildings I have lovingly researched and gotten listed, only to see them threatened and even demolished years later. A listing will not save a historic structure, and we must remain vigilant!

Now it is Portage Manor on the northwest side of South Bend, the St. Joseph County Infirmary (its original name). County homes in general are a particularly endangered species. Once upon a time, every one of our 92 counties had one. At the time I wrote the nomination 20-odd years ago, there were about thirty still in existence and in use; today there are fewer than ten! The county commissioners almost certainly have been planning this move for a good while. Surely it is obvious to anyone that they want to sell off the land for development, since sprawl has been galloping up Portage Avenue at a furious pace in the last twenty years, and that beautiful rolling farmland on which Portage Manor sits would be oh-so-much better with yet another subdivision or big box store surrounded by pavement. The commissioners did not renew the lease on the farmland that had given the home at least some stable income. Needed maintenance has been held off with temporary fixes, an old trick well known to those of us in preservation. But Portage Manor is a handsome building that houses a community of people living out their lives with dignity and compassion. It should not be closed; it must not be destroyed.

*Portage Manor in 2000, when it was listed in the National Register of Historic Places*

In 1905 South Bend architects Freyermuth and Maurer prepared plans for a new county infirmary that would replace a smaller, earlier facility in a different location. The St. Joseph County Infirmary built the following year was the last of a series of care facilities established by the county for the elderly and incapacitated indigent. By the turn of the twentieth century the St. Joseph County Asylum, or poor farm, as it was commonly known, had long since ceased to serve the needs of its residents. Inspectors from the State Board of Charities sharply criticized the facility and its “antiquated and inadequate buildings.”

The mission of these county institutions in general had begun to change in the 1890s, and while far from enlightened by today’s standards, poor farms and asylums (essentially interchangeable terms) were attempting to become something other than dumping places for society’s unwanted. The degree to which they succeeded over the next several decades is questionable; admission records from the mid-nineteenth century through the first few decades of the twentieth do not suggest a great deal of change as to whom the institution accepted. Initially poor farms provided minimal refuge for an astonishing variety of indigents, including those who were elderly, chronically ill, convalescent, mentally ill, disabled, injured, unwed mothers, or simply homeless. Ages ranged from infants (when in the company of a needy parent; orphans went elsewhere) to people in their nineties. Those who could usually were expected to work, and there was little if any effort to distinguish among them to meet their needs. The common denominator was poverty. As other public institutions geared toward specific needs were established by local and state governments, some inmates were sent to these other types of facilities, or else went there initially. In the early twentieth century, for example, many epileptics were sent to the state’s new Epileptic Village near New Castle. Nevertheless, many who might have been better served elsewhere still ended up in the county asylum, especially those diagnosed as insane. State facilities were too crowded to accommodate them all.

In 1905 the St. Joseph County Board of Commissioners bought the Rezeau Brown farm northwest of South Bend, just past the Riverview Cemetery on Portage Avenue. The property included several farm buildings, a wooded area, and land that was largely level and proven quite suitable for general farming. Little time, then, need be wasted in establishing the new poor farm’s self-sufficiency. Over the next few decades old buildings were remodeled and additional farm structures were erected, such as a hay barn, a large hogshed, and a small building for butchering.

The St. Joseph County Infirmary–its name reflecting the Progressive-Era changes in the theory, if not the fact, of the facility’s mission–opened with great fanfare as “a model poor farm” in February 1907. The new asylum was to house “those who [were] so unfortunate as to be left alone in the world without money and without friends or who are afflicted with the ravages of disease and who are unable to procure the necessary hospital service without money.” Records indicate that indeed, among others, anyone from abandoned pregnant women to severely injured laborers to those of any age who were “feeble-minded,” found temporary or permanent refuge within the county infirmary.

Certainly the new facility was vastly superior to the previous poor asylum, but life at the St. Joseph County Infirmary was no bed of roses. Anyone who was capable was required to work (although the records imply this was not always the case), rules were extremely strict, and occasionally residents were “dismissed for disobedience.” A few even ran away; many more may have wished to if they could. Men and women were segregated; those diagnosed “insane” were locked in metal cages in the area termed the “insane ward” near the boilerhouse, part of the original accommodations offered at this new “model” facility. Conditions grew so crowded in the 1930s that beds were crowded nearly head to foot in the cells to house inmates who were often, at worst, merely “feeble-minded.” In the 1950s patients diagnosed with severe mental illness were transferred to the new Beaty Memorial Hospital in Westville. The cells, however, remained in use through the 1970s for inmates who tended to wander and sometimes for residents who broke the still-rigid rules. (For example, talking was not allowed during meals.)

In 1947, by act of the Indiana General Assembly, the name of the facility became the St. Joseph County Home, again reflecting changes in care and management philosophy. The average population of county infirmaries had grown older and less able-bodied; this, along with the fact that mechanized farming was rapidly replacing earlier, more labor-intensive practices, suggested that “productive employment of residents is futile” and should be performed only on a voluntary basis. As early as the mid-1930s the idea of discontinuing farming at the county infirmary was considered, but still it remained in place for several more decades, until the late 1980s. Thereafter, the land was leased to a local farmer.

The new idea of the county home was to be just what the name implied: “a congenial place of abode,” a safe haven. Once again, the mission remained more theory than fact for some decades, although conditions overall had improved greatly since shortly after the turn of the century when the facility first opened. By the early 1970s the name had changed yet again, to Portage Manor. In the late 1980s Portage Manor became a state-licensed health care center and underwent a major renovation that preserved much of the building’s historic character while creating a cheery, home-like interior–the mission fulfilled at last!

I visited Portage Manor this week. I was not allowed past the lobby but it still appeared cheerful and welcoming to its residents, many of whom were outside sitting amidst the lovely wooded grounds enjoying the early spring day, grey but with soft breezes. This is their home, not just a bland and boxy institution. Portage Manor is among the best of Indiana’s surviving county homes and retains a high degree of integrity. It stands as a three-dimensional document of the history of social welfare in St. Joseph County. More than that, it is in fact a true home to a community of people who need it–and each other–and it reminds us of the better angels of our nature, which is something the county commissioners seem to have forgotten.

Posted in Preservation Tales, The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged #savingplaces, county homes, preservation, St. Joseph County IN | 1 Comment

GJ in LA, or a Midwest Girl in LaLaLand

Posted on March 13, 2023 by admin

Last fall I embarked on a plane to Los Angeles. We won’t go into my fear of flying. I had not been in a plane in 30 years. The experience has changed, to put it mildly. What passes for first class–oh, excuse me, “business class”–these days is tighter than the ordinary seats were back in the day. And the extra rows they’ve squeezed in? I’m not even five-foot-two and even I couldn’t stretch my legs out. The airlines may not have required masks anymore, but I was danged if I’d get Covid, so I donned my N-95, along with a face shield for this four-hour torment. I figured I made a good call when the woman next to me displayed symptoms of whooping cough throughout the entire flight. We arrived “only” about four hours late; there had been several delays getting started. Picked up a Lyft at the airport for the miles-long drive into town.

Heavens, it was hot. Temperatures were well over 100 during most of the visit. It was very late when we reached the hotel in Hollywood, which did not have a restaurant. Famed Hollywood Boulevard was four blocks away.

We walked to Mel’s, a legendary all-night diner, very pricey, as was everything here. The street was filthy, the air fetid. The shadows were filled with homeless whose dreams had failed them. The magic of Hollywood is clearly gone.

*stunning but empty buiding near Hollywood Boulevard*

Except–even in the dark I could see gorgeous historic buildings, many empty, derelict (hmm, so many unhoused people, so many vacant structures. . . ). Massive palm trees loomed, shoving out of the pavement and straight up to the sky; exotic flowers trailed into the street. I felt like Dorothy in a dystopian Oz.

The next morning I headed off to see the Griffith Park Observatory. Did I mention it was hot? It felt as if the heat would melt me into a puddle on the pavement. The walk from the parking lot ($10!) to the observatory (free!) was almost too much to bear. Long had I wanted to visit this art deco masterpiece, funded in part by the New Deal’s Public Works Administration, location for numerous cheap science fiction movies as well as key scenes in James Dean’s Rebel Without a Cause.

The views from the site are spectacular, the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign in plain view. Inside the observatory was a vast array of astronomical exhibits, but the building itself was the greatest attraction, despite the crowds.

We headed back down the mountain and into Los Angeles proper–if there is such a thing; it seemed an endless jumble of new buildings crammed among parking lots and historic structures, with freeways ramming through from all directions. Had a quick glimpse of Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall, opened in 2003.

*interior, Bradbury Building, Los Angeles*

Stopped to see the Bradbury building, famous setting for many a movie and TV episode, but the guard refused to allow me to climb even to the second floor on the beautiful stairways within that surround a vast atrium.

*the once grand Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard*

The next day, still enveloped in murderous heat, we walked to Hollywood Boulevard. It was shabby and crass. The once-stunning Egyptian Theatre stood vacant. The trash-filled street was overrun with tourist shops of tacky souvenirs all along the “Walk of Fame.” The glitter rubs right off, and this is nowhere.

*90-year-old George Chakiris signing his memoir*

That evening, dancer/actor George Chakiris, most remembered for his Oscar-winning role in West Side Story over 60 years ago, was appearing at a film convention. He was soft-spoken and moved like a panther, belying the fact he was 90 years old. Never mind, I still went a little gaga.

*interior, Roosevelt Hotel, Hollywood Boulevard*

The last full day there, we walked over to the Boulevard again and this time went northward. Still trashy, but better, if you squint to avoid all the tourist trappings. Saw the stunning Roosevelt Hotel (built 1927), site of the first Oscar ceremony and still redolent of old Hollywood glamor.

*entrance, (formerly) Grauman’s Chinese Theatre*

Nearby, the (formerly Grauman’s) Chinese Theatre, the one with all the footprints and handprints in the cement out front, still stood, very much a tourist attraction. I found 1930s bombshell Jean Harlow’s prints in remembrance of my mom, who was surely her biggest fan.

Sneaked a peek inside the restored El Capitan Theater, courtesy of the guard who happened to be from the tiny birthplace of my grandfather!

*entrance, El Capitan Theatre. Hollywood Boulevard*

Toward the end of the day it became cooler–amazing how lovely 95 can feel! I took another walk up toward the Hollywood Bowl and discovered a museum (after hours, unfortunately) housed in a former barn from the old Lasky-Griffith studio. There are a few pieces left of those old golden days.

*barn from Lasky-Griffith studio, 1910s, now part of a museum*

Over 40 years ago my mom and I traveled to California to see the sights. We drove all over LA in a rented car, visiting some of those same places–the Chinese Theatre, the Walk of Fame, and so much more. It was fun, exciting, no problems. The memories are bright; the city has faded.

*view from Hollywood Boulevard toward HOLLYWOOD sign*

Posted in Country Girl in the City, Tales from the Road | Tagged architecture, hollywood, los angeles, nostalgia | Comments Off

Preservation Tales: “Progress” Goes Before a Fall

Posted on February 7, 2023 by admin

“It’s a historical building, but I guess it’s progress,” said Marv Blessing, an alumnus of Pine Village High School, in a recent interview with IndyStar. After decades of work in historic preservation, little pains me more than this continuing assertion by many that demolition is necessary for “progress.” Why have we bought into this fallacy? I ask this every time I hear it said–either in celebration or resignation, as in this case. It breaks my heart.

I went up this weekend to Pine Village in Warren County to see this wonderful gym that is slated to be torn down in March. New Deal-funded and constructed in part by the Works Progress Administration in 1940, here is a building still much loved and much used, a three-dimensional document. It was built next to the old high school, which succumbed to fire in the 1940s. That school’s replacement stands in front of the gym and is soon to be demolished as well.

The town is very small, only a little over 200 people. It’s a farming community. You can stand in the middle of the intersection of highways 26 and 55, and the edge of town is just a couple blocks away in all directions. Much of the town’s identity and heritage are tied into this building, a place where the community still comes together (but not for much longer). It was home to the tiny but mighty Pine Knots basketball team, who won the sectional in 1972–the smallest team to do so–the year before Pine Village’s high school was consolidated. Most folks in town think it’s shame to lose the building, but what can they do?

*interior, looking north, Pine Village gym*

As I ran excitedly around the building trying to get some photographs of the interior through the entrance sidelights, a young man walked up and offered to unlock the door for me. Turns out he is the school custodian and like everyone I talked to in town, an alumnus. The gym was immaculate––after all, there is one more basketball game on the schedule this week. I felt a shimmer and I was back in my long-gone high school gym, also a New Deal project with a similarly designed interior. The stage was still framed with deep blue curtains emblazoned with “P V” at the center. Behind the stage off to the sides were two classrooms, one the former bandroom. The other room was filled with art supplies and projects in various stages, ready for pupils to return.

*interior, looking south, Pine Village gym*

Stories vary as to why this beloved building must go, but it boils down to money. Still, many would see saving this gem, clearly eligible for the National Register of Historic Places, as a good investment. The roof is only a few years old, yet the custodian showed me the black mold on one wall of the bandroom and leaks elsewhere. I may be an outsider, but this suggests a problem that should be taken up with the contractor who installed the roof. There may be boiler issues; in the town’s quick stop gas station a woman, who also had attended the school, said there were sewer problems, although I did not run across this issue mentioned elsewhere. Why isn’t Indiana Landmarks involved in trying to find alternatives to demolition? It seems the school corporation had not mentioned tearing down the gym when plans for removing the non-historic school came out, and apparently no one thought to seek help from the organization when the plans grew to include it. And so another beautiful New Deal structure, not one that had stood abandoned for years, but a well-used building that is the beating heart of the community, disappears. It breaks my heart, too.

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Preservation Tales, Tales from the Road, The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged historic architecture, Hoosier basketball, New Deal, Pine Village IN, WPA | Comments Off

Running North to Save My Soul

Posted on October 11, 2022 by admin

So last week I ran away for a day. To Michigan. Just because I needed to visit my heart’s home, the Lake. If it is only for a day I usually end up in the vicinity of South Haven and Glenn, following what once upon a time was US31, hugging the Lake as closely as possible. While I’ve long known the various city and county parks, in recent years a number of lakeside nature preserves have been set aside to protect the unique and fragile ecological wonder that is the dunes. These areas discourage any invasive activity save immersion in nature.

I have been wandering this area for over 40 years, and the changes over time have been dramatic. I watched an abandoned farm with a handsome barn south of Glenn become a golf course, then stand abandoned again–and now it is a high-end gated subdivision with huge rolling lots. Indeed, I have seen too many gated communities spring up along the Lake over the decades, making those nature preserves all the more important.

I have watched South Haven evolve from an ordinary town that happened to be on a big lake into quite the tourist mecca with hardly any downtown businesses geared toward the local populace, unless they are addicted to fudge and off-color tee shirts and overpriced doodads. With its mounds of flowers on bump-outs that make traffic on the main street difficult, South Haven is undeniably attractive, but I avoid downtown because it is wall-to-wall tourists from May through October. Once upon a time, wandering around in October, even in September, I rarely ran into crowds. No more. In my younger days, I could even wander during summer, and if it was late and a motel had too many empty units, they might give me a discount on a modest room. Those days are gone.

I got a late start and ran into construction delays that seem particularly rampant this year, so I immediately headed to the South Haven area, stopping at a township park just to greet the Lake. Oh yes, yes. Peace flooded my soul in a moment. Walking along the Lake’s edge as its waves snatched at my feet, I gave in, tore off my shoes, and splashed in the dancing water. Soon my jeans were soaked past my knees as stones jumped into my pockets.

But I had an additional mission on this trip besides connecting with the Lake. For probably 30 years I have been stopping at Dee’s Lakeshore Farm, just north of Glenn. In fall, my usual time, I lay in my supply of fresh-picked apples–at an impossibly low price–and perhaps other produce she may have available. I may pick up some odd or end at her ongoing garage sale. Dee is a delightful, feisty, and shrewd businesswoman whose energy and appearance belie her 87 years. She gives me discounts or will throw something in free. We chat about everything and nothing. I left with a bushel of apples, a hodge-podge of tomatoes, a mum plant, and the news that finally, this is her last year. I will miss her beyond measure.

*Dee, matriarch of Dee’s Lakeshore Farm*

I headed a few miles north to a county park I knew for some more Lake time. I scrambled down to the beach and the Lake, warm and enfolding. How it sparkled! The horizon disappeared into the sky with scarcely a visible line.

The tide was going out and I had the Lake nearly to myself. A gull approached on the possibility that I had food. Seeing none, it toddled off. I walked for awhile as again stones jumped into my pockets.

*township nature preserve north of Glenn MI*

Although I had packed an overnight bag just in case, I realized it was time to return. I stopped at a preserve to gaze at the Lake from a high bluff and was delighted on the way by the antics of black squirrels, who are clearly growing their winter coats, and several frolicking blue jays.

*township nature preserve south of Glenn MI*

One more stop at a township park where a path of diamonds led to the distant horizon. Beneath the bluff far below the Lake murmured farewell, the overwhelming of all my senses making it all the more difficult to leave. But always, I return. I must.

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Tales from the Road, The Wonder of It All, Uncategorized | Tagged Lake Michigan, Michigan | 2 Comments

Preservation Tales: Crying in My Beer

Posted on September 10, 2022 by admin

Some weeks ago I stumbled on the news that yet another building in South Bend listed in the National Register of Historic Places–this one was also a designated Local Landmark–was demolished. Someone had posted a video on a South Bend Facebook page of the destruction of the former South Bend Brewing Association taking place and it broke my heart. I had gone through a lot of trouble trying to save this building, crunching through dead pigeons and scaring up live ones on the top floor so I could reach and photograph the vat at the corner of the building–at the very top because brewing used a gravity process. A huge copper kettle was encased in the fourth floor tower that gave the structure its castle-like appearance.

Former South Bend Brewing Association in 2013

In 1903 a group of mostly German, Polish, and Hungarian (then the three largest immigrant groups in South Bend) tavern owners formed the South Bend Brewing Association to manufacture and distribute beer. They built a large brick building on what was then called Michigan Avenue, later renamed Lincolnway when the Lincoln Highway was routed on it. Opened in 1905, the imposing structure housed a complete manufacturing facility. The process of brewing depended on gravity flow, and the building was a visual representation of the procedure. The chief products were Tiger Beer and Hoosier Beer. Immediately to the west, a bottling facility was built in 1910, later enlarged to accommodate the brewery’s offices.

Prohibition, effected in 1919 by the Volstead Act, forced the South Bend Brewing Association to change its line of manufacture. The renamed South Bend Beverage and Ice Association made non-alcoholic beverages (among them Hoosier Root Beer and Hoosier Sweet Cider), candy, ice cream, and in the non-food line, denatured alcohol for industrial purposes and ice. When Prohibition ended, the company resumed brewing beer for regional sales, producing around fifty thousand barrels yearly. After World War II business declined, at least in part because of a hefty federal excise tax on each barrel brewed that placed smaller breweries at a disadvantage. While the firm continued its ice manufacturing section, Polar Ice and Fuel, for a few additional years, the brewery closed in November 1950. Over time, various businesses used portions of the building: the White Way Glass Company in the 1950s; the I.W. Lower Company (paints) in the 1960s; a Harley-Davidson service and showroom facility in the 1970s and early 1980s. At the time I wrote the nomination in early 1999, a resale shop occupied the added-on storefront, and a glass manufacturer, Indiana Glass Company, used much of the first floor level. The rest was vacant. And now it’s gone.

*The remains of the South Bend Brewing Association on Lincoln Way*

I’m beginning to take this personally! South Bend’s other brewery, for which I also wrote the National Register nomination, is gone now, too, and its roots were much older with buildings to prove it. The multi-structure complex had started out as the family-run Muessel Brewery in 1852, and a couple of the buildings dated to the 1860s. German-born Christopher Muessel arrived in South Bend about 1852. His business soon outgrew its original location, so in 1865 Muessel purchased just over 136 acres of land northwest of town (west of what became Portage Avenue) and erected a larger complex of brick structures. His sons all assisted their father in the business; finally in 1893 the Muessel Brewing Company was incorporated, with patriarch Christopher Muessel as president. He died the following year at the age of 82, and his son Edward succeeded him, with other brothers and their sons all officers of the company. They brewed Standard and Bavarian beers and sold it in barrels to taverns; they bottled Arzburg Export for home consumption. Expansion of the plant followed incorporation, including a new bottling house; an attractive new brick office building was constructed right after the turn of the century that soon sat in the shadow of a mammoth brewing building to the west, constructed in 1911. It was in that particular building that I nearly got killed in my efforts to document it; a wall on one side had been knocked down in order to salvage the huge copper vats on the third floor level, leaving massive round openings in the floor and the interior open to the weather. It was winter and the floors were a veritable skating rink. I nearly slid into the black void where once a vat had been.

During Prohibition, Muessel briefly attempted to keep going by producing non-alcoholic beverages but was forced to close about 1922. Before the plant reopened after the repeal of Prohibition, the company enlarged the facilities and constructed a new bottling plant east of the office building. But the Muessel Brewing Company faltered, and following an announcement to their stockholders in 1936, they reorganized and became a significant part of Drewry’s, Limited, a Canadian company that had just begun distribution in the United States. Drewry’s was Canada’s first brewing company, started in Winnipeg, Manitoba in 1877. Its newly acquired South Bend plant became its first in the United States, headquarters for nationwide distribution as well as manufacture. The company indicated that major ingredients used in this plant were to be purchased mostly in the United States, all news which surely boded well for the region gripped by the Great Depression. Drewry’s also announced that the plant would be completely unionized; there was “a spirit of good fellowship and cooperation in South Bend.” Since this was to be the center for nationwide distribution, the plant was yet further remodeled and enlarged, adding more truck terminals and case storage facilities as needs required. Among the Drewry’s brands (besides Drewry’s itself) produced were Pfeiffer, Schmitt, and Old Dutch. Drewry’s later merged with Associated Brewing Company out of Detroit, but continued to keep its own identity and its ties with South Bend.

But in 1972, Associated sold Drewry’s to the G. Heileman Brewing Company of LaCrosse, Wisconsin. The new owner chose to phase out the South Bend plant, and brewing ceased in the fall of that year. After 120 years, the city no longer had a local brewery. There were efforts to maintain local distributorship of Drewry’s beer, but not unexpectedly, there was a great deal of local backlash against the product. A few years after the brewery closed, a new owner acquired the site and named it “Omniplex,” a startup facility for small businesses. At the time of my work on the National Register nomination, the complex was less than half occupied with various enterprises. Evidently, no one cared when the complex was listed; indeed, it seemed to be largely unknown, even though the work was commissioned by the city’s Historic Preservation Commission! In 2017, the majority of the complex was demolished to great fanfare; those that remain are scheduled to be torn down this fall, again, sadly, a matter of celebration to the neighborhood.

*former Kamm & Schellinger Brewery. Mishawaka (photo: Indiana Landmarks)*

Now only one of the triumvirate of local breweries in South Bend-Mishawaka remains standing (abandoned), but for how long? This one also had origins in the 1850s, in a small operation begun in Mishawaka by a man named Wagner. Adolph Kamm, along with some partners, purchased the brewery in 1870; in the 1880s, Kamm’s brother-in-law Nicholas Schellinger became a partner and it was incorporated as Kamm & Schellinger Brewing Company. It closed in 1951 but had a second life, opening in 1968 as a festival marketplace called the 100 Center. That languished in the 1980s.
Today this mostly intact brewery complex of several substantial brick structures along the St. Joseph River is greatly endangered, despite its listing in the National Register–that will not save it! But Indiana Landmarks placed it on its Ten Most Endangered List, which has a really good track record of saving historic buildings as the bulldozers approach. There is hope. But the lesson here is that placing historic buildings in the National Register is not enough. We must keep watch and keep working!

Posted in Preservation Tales, The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged #savingplaces, historic breweries, Indiana history, Lincoln Highway, Mishawaka, South Bend | 2 Comments

Tales from the Road: Seeking the WPA in Historic Harrison County, Indiana

Posted on June 8, 2022 by admin

Some 34 years ago I traveled to the National Archives in Washington D.C. to go through Indiana’s WPA records. Perhaps the last WPA project was to compile the project records, each of which had an identifying index card, onto microfilm. What a boring, endless job that must have been! The cards themselves disappeared; all we had was the microfilm, catalogued by year. Within each year, projects were listed alphabetically by county, then location within each county. So at the end of several grueling days, I had eight separate handwritten lists (1935-1942) that later I conflated into one, my first effort using a computer, which was a required skill to enter the graduate school to which I had just been accepted.

That list has been a useful tool all these years since, but I soon discovered it was not complete, and so if a suspected WPA project is not on it, that does not mean it is not WPA, only that I need to search harder for another source if the building itself does not yield clues. And, of course, the list tells what was there in 1942, not today. Needless to say, the percentage of those structures still extant continues to dwindle.

Recently learning of a WPA shelter that had been rehabbed down in Corydon, Indiana’s first state capital, I perused the list to see what else might be in Harrison County that I had not yet checked. (The shelter in question was not mentioned on the list.) There were a number of other structures that I had never gotten down to verify; several seemed unlikely survivors (schools, gyms) but certainly worth seeking.

On the way down to the bottom of the state I passed through Seymour, in which stands the WPA-built Shields Memorial Gym that is currently on the 10 Most Endangered List compiled by Indiana Landmarks, our statewide preservation organization. This building, too, is not on my list compiled from the National Archives, but I have verified its WPA pedigree through other sources. I was not prepared to find such a magnificent basketball palace (this is Indiana, after all), once home to the proud Seymour Owls with seating for 3500(!) in such a distressed state. It stands forlorn and desecrated, the only structure in a grassy block in a residential area that is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. The 1910 school it once adjoined is long gone.

*interior, Shields Memorial Gym, Seymour*

Reaching the line of counties bordering the Ohio River, I passed through Floyds Knobs (Floyd County) in search of the WPA-built clubhouse for Valley View Golf Course.

*much altered and expanded WPA-built clubhouse, Valley View Golf Course, Floyd’s Knobs IN*

The building is actually still there, but scarcely recognizable unless you’ve seen a lot of New Deal buildings. It’s been altered and expanded, but the core of it is the original. Beyond that, the town park in Georgetown had nothing left of its WPA improvements, save a concrete slab that likely was the base of the original shelter, since replaced by one with a smaller footprint.

On to Harrison County, where much to my delight I found the 1936 community center in Crandall still intact and clearly still used for its original purpose. Vinyl siding hides the original clapboard, but the little building reflects that vaguely Williamsburg influence so popular when it was built.

A few miles farther on I entered Corydon, which contains one of the oddest WPA projects, that of a sturdy memorial shelter for the creosoted stump of Indiana’s revered Constitution Elm that had died the previous decade. Under its sheltering leaves in a sweltering summer, Indiana’s first state constitution was created in 1816. The sandstone used for the memorial shelter was quarried in the nearby Harrison State Forest (now Harrison-Crawford and O’Bannon Woods State Park) by members of CCC Company 517. WPA workers completed the memorial in 1937, with the bronze plaque placed upon it in January 1938.

I had come to Corydon specifically to check out a shelterhouse attributed to the WPA that, again, was not on the list. It was located in a recently revived park and was built of sandstone similar to that of the Constitution Elm memorial. It indeed was very likely a New Deal structure but I am still seeking documentation, although there is a recently placed sign on the property indicating it was built by the WPA in 1937 in what was then a recreation area serving the high school. I was disappointed to see the inappropriate metal roof and frou-frou shutters and doors. Ironically, the original stone riprap along the banks of the creek, almost certainly WPA work, was still in place and blessedly authentic.

*Rice Island park shelter, recently renovated, Corydon IN*

The WPA built several schools and gyms all over Harrison County, but I held out little hope, since these sorts of buildings tend to have a poor survival rate. A gymnasium in Mauckport on the Ohio River is gone–as indeed, is Mauckport for the most part. (It never truly recovered from the great flood of 1937.)

From there I passed through tiny Laconia and noted a suspicious-looking former school–an unexpected find–that was beautifully rehabbed into a community center and apartments for the hamlet. I later discovered a secondary source that identified it as WPA, built as a replacement for a previous school that had burned in 1932, but while I have not yet confirmed this absolutely as New Deal, it almost certainly is.

*former school in Laconia IN, now a community center and apartments*

Upon reaching the little town of Elizabeth, my last stop, I was thrilled to see the former WPA school and gym, completed in 1939, was still serving the area well, now containing a branch of the Harrison County Public Library and a well used community center.

*former school in Elizabeth IN, now a community center and public library branch*

The gymnasium is centered in the building with former classrooms on each side. The gym has changed little since it was built; indeed, I spoke with a woman who had attended the school some decades before who confirmed that it appeared just as it was when she went there.

*gymnasium in former school in Elizabeth IN*

So much New Deal activity in one county! (And I did not even mention the considerable CCC activity in the state forest, today much of which is O’Bannon Woods State Park!)

*shield on former school in Elizabeth IN*

Nearly 90 years on, the New Deal still lives!

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Preservation Tales, Tales from the Road, The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged Harrison County IN, Indiana roads, New Deal, WPA | 1 Comment

Tales from the Road: The Lincoln Highway in Illinois

Posted on May 11, 2022 by admin

Sometimes I just have to run off. And so, even though I had done little preparation, I headed out to hit the Lincoln Highway in Illinois. Actually, full disclosure, my original plan was to do Illinois and Iowa, but fate had other plans. I was late starting out. Originally I was going to begin at Plymouth, Indiana, and take the second iteration of the road westward. But I thought that instead I had better take I-65 so I could get up there faster. I hit endless construction and delays, finally reaching the 1913 Lincoln Highway east of Merrillville, which I had not driven in some years. Here it is called 73rd Street, and the 2-lane was pleasant enough, with little traffic. The rural-ish road leads through the original downtown of Merrillville when it was just a small town, not the behemoth of sprawl to the south that most people think of when they hear the name.

*original Lincoln Highway just east of where it joins 6-lane US30, Schererville IN*

Eventually it makes its way through older parts of Schererville to US30, preparing for its jump from Dyer across the stateline. 30 is six crowded lanes wide here, hardly conducive enjoying the Lincoln Highway scenery, what little is left. Past the junction with US41, where Teibels, a long-lived restaurant, still appears to be thriving, is an Ideal Mile, which the rest of road has caught up with and surpassed. There is also the monument to Henry Joy, but ironically not an inch of space for even one car to stop to appreciate it.

I crossed the border, and soon after US30 turned northward, but the Sauk Trail, the original Lincoln Highway route, continued westward. Ah yes, where the gangsters dumped the bodies (my grandparents lived on Chicago’s southside early on and told me this!) The wetlands are still there–nice to see! No menacing gangster ghosts, at least in daylight. Arrived at Illinois Highway 1 in south Chicago Heights, and for a short time was on the Dixie Highway (or I should say one of the Dixie Highways–it had many fingers) as well as the Lincoln. Turned west with the Lincoln and soon was on six lanes through massive commercial sprawl–very disheartening. Just nothing left of the old road to see, all a blur of wide lanes and endless chains. New Lenox is an interesting old railroad town, though, where I noted one of the many murals celebrating the highway that dot the route.

Reached Joliet, crowded with awful traffic, and noted some interesting old buildings that there was no hope of appreciating. Did cross a very cool iron drawbridge built in the 1920s, but my enjoyment of it was marred with construction. After that, with few exceptions, nothing but suburbs and 4-6 lanes.

When I reached Plainfield I drove a bit of the fabled old Route 66. Years ago when I lived in Chicago and worked in radio, a good friend of mine, artist Mary Selfridge, lived in Plainfield. She was just starting out and later rose to some notable heights. Back then, long ago, Plainfield was just a nice small town. Its beautiful commercial district is still largely intact and very upscale now. Gone the agricultural center, where perhaps the wealthier farmers lived after they retired. Now it’s boutiques and coffee shops. But this is a way we save historic downtowns these days. With so much sprawl beyond, it took forever to leave Plainfield, ultimately on the historic route, now Illinois 126. Enroute to Aurora and virtually no open country, immensely unsatisfactory. Am I whining? Well, as I work in historic preservation, all this ungodly sprawl is anathema to me. On my right, the ugliest sort of new houses had just mushroomed in the past year; on my left the land had been farmed only the year before, but this year, who knows? Please, do not tell me there’s a housing shortage.

Somehow back on 30 with the Lincoln Highway, Passed a few old motels and cabins whose future appeared in doubt and at last reached Aurora, population now over 200,000! Ay! Not the Aurora I once vaguely knew in my younger years.

*refurbished early auto camp shelter outside Aurora IL*

Marked was a Lincoln Highway shelter from the early days of autocamping, now at the edge of a golf course. In opposite corners were fireplace ovens. Stopped for a bit to read the signage placed there. And in North Aurora stopped for a milkshake at Bruno’s, highly recommended! I needed that.

I followed northward the Fox River Valley through Batavia and on to Geneva, past the most magnificent 19th and early 20th century mansions surrounded with large estates. This has not changed much; I was through here many years ago. My mother’s generation-older cousin, whom I called “Aunt,” had married well and lived in St. Charles, the next town north up the river. I remember we visited her on my 12th birthday and she treated me to ice cream, whatever flavor I wanted, at a little shop in Geneva. (I chose pistachio, which then was rather exotic.) I turned westward through the lovely downtown of Geneva. Lovely, but crowded, and the afternoon was wearing on.

*historic theater building, downtown Geneva IL*

At last, open roads! Endless farms, small agricultural towns at intervals along the road like beads on a chain. The REAL Lincoln Highway. The hour was late but the threatening clouds had mostly given way, so I felt hopeful of making the Mississippi by dark, my new goal. Reached DeKalb, a city worth exploring more. Decades ago, in my afore-mentioned radio days, I had made a public appearance at a dance at Northern Illinois University here. Likely I had driven I-80 to get here; of course, I did not recognize anything, but did pass the campus and spotted another Lincoln Highway mural.

The road soothed me; this was much more like it! Eventually I reached Rochelle, where I had been before a couple of times.

*Mural depicting Emily Post who took a cross country auto trip in 1915 and bogged down in mud outside Rochelle IL*

Another mural, and of course the iconic gas station, happily marking a turn of the route back westward.

refurbished historic gas station, Rochelle IL

Just a little out of town is a roadside park–probably built by the New Deal in the 1930s, as so many were–at a place where another road meets the highway at an angle. What a nice old road, very rural, paved with old concrete that’s doing just fine, thank you. I noted daffodils blooming in several yards, while back in Indy ours are all done. Waves of spring. About here is where I started seriously thinking about making the Mississippi River my goal and heading back next day to catch what I missed going out. (And plan for Iowa another time.) Spend more good road time–and find a route back to Indy far away from the greater-greater Chicago mess.

Continued on through the tiny town of Ashton, struggling a bit to keep to the route here, when I turned onto the aptly named Track Road, which runs straight and true along the railroad and was the Lincoln Highway’s original route. It was gravel still, and I was enchanted. In my mind my Ford Ranger morphed into a Model T. The train running alongside carried some types of cars a T wouldn’t have recognized–and no doubt the crop fields were surrounded by fencing 100 years ago, but–close enough!

*Track Road*, heading westward out of Ashton IL

Soon arrived at Franklin Grove, with the national headquarters of the Lincoln Highway housed in–what else–the Lincoln Building, which actually was constructed by a distant cousin of our revered Abraham. It was closed, unfortunately, as was the Lincoln Way Cafe, which appeared definitely to be my kind of place. Oh well, I thought. I will catch these on the way back tomorrow.

*Lincoln Highway National Headquarters, Franklin Grove IL*

Onward through Dixon, through its famous Victory Arch. These arches built on the main drag were not uncommon in small towns in the early 20th century (whether to commemorate victory in the World War or simply to boost the town), but few survive. Dixon has made a decision to keep its iconic structure, which is now in its third or fourth iteration. Dixon boasts some wonderful buildings downtown, but in truth, I had simply had it with cities. Besides, the sun was descending.

Onward to Sterling, another city and worse, lots of sprawlmalls. Westward Ho!

*somewhere west of Sterling on he Lincoln Highway*

It was barely still daylight but Iowa was within reach. The route here was a little confusing and I turned onto 136, but before I got into Fulton proper I THOUGHT I saw a sign that the Lincoln Highway turned south and ended up crossing the US30 bridge directly into Clinton.

Tomorrow was another day! Just at dark I found the Timber Motel, right on the Lincoln Highway, with an incredibly spacious, clean, and reasonable room. The only typical amenity missing was coffee, but I wasn’t complaining. I later learned that this motel is a favorite of Lincoln Highway scholar Russell Rein.

In the morning I headed back into downtown Clinton, which has a lot of great buildings that are largely empty, unfortunately.

I was paralleling the river northward when I came to the huge historic courthouse, and shortly after, the 136 bridge, which is a few blocks south of where the original Lincoln Highway bridge was. Both bridges across the river (US30 and 136) rise up from the bank toward the supports; both are two-lane. Let’s just say I was glad there wasn’t much traffic at either crossing.

*east into Illinois, Highway 136 bridge*

I was instantly attracted to Fulton, which is very proud of its Dutch heritage, featuring whimsical sculpture in several places and an honest-to-goodness Dutch-built windmill standing right where the approach to the old Lincoln Highway bridge had been.

*authentic Dutch windmill overlooking Mississippi River at Fulton IL*

Walked a bit on top of the levee along the mighty Mississippi, which is more narrow here than one might expect and thus a good place for a ferry and to locate a town, and that is its origin story.

The town was clean and attractive, and I spotted a very nice bakery and restaurant–Krumpets–perfect for breakfast. And oh it was! As I entered, the 1940s tune “Ruby” was playing, one of my mother’s favorites. (Yes, she’s have liked this place, too.) I wandered about for a bit then returned to the Lincoln Highway and took a few minutes to check out a hamlet, Union Grove, that was bypassed by the construction of a bridge over railroad tracks. Passed through Morrison, which I barely remembered from the night before, and much bigger than it appeared because the Lincoln Highway runs a block north of the extensive and very historic downtown. Arrayed on a bluff above the highway itself are mansions galore, each more fabulous than the last, in an assortment of 19th and early 20th century styles. This town had some money, and judging by the excellent condition of the historic downtown, still does. Having just spent quite a lot of time in Fulton, I left exploring Morrison for another time. Not far eastward was a former roadside park now abandoned and fenced off.

*eastbound Lincoln Highway, Sterling IL*

My disregard for cities had not abated when I reached Sterling, but I did look around a little and discovered an odd thing: what had once been quite a lovely park on an island in Rock River, a great picnic spot (at least at one time) and numerous abandoned buildings. I wonder why this lovely place, I believe called Lawrence Park, is not kept up? Onward on the original Lincoln Highway route, Palmyra Road, which I’d missed going west. Near Prairieville was the Midway Drive-in movie theater, still in use. (Midway between Sterling and Dixon, I assume.)

*Midway Drive-In, Palmyra Road (old Lincoln Highway) near Prairieville*

Always great to see those still going. I was enchanted at a whimsical herd of Holsteins fashioned from old gas tanks and stopped at the business, Palmyra Greenhouse, for a souvenir plant. (It’s doing fine.)

*“cows” created from gas tanks and milk cans, Palmyra Greenhouse near Prairieville IL*

Back through Dixon, under the arch. Only many miles later did I realize I’d forgotten to seek out the famous Lincoln statue there.

I reached Franklin Grove, eager to visit the national headquarters, to discover it was open only on weekends. Well dang! That’s when I try to avoid traveling. I did stick my head into the Lincoln Way Cafe, but was still so stuffed from the fabulous breakfast in Fulton that I simply couldn’t eat anything.

Back along the Track Road, which delightd me so, to Ashton and on to Rochelle. There I went south a couple of blocks to see Railroad Park, where two main lines cross in an X. There was signage explaining the history, a shelter–all in all an attractive place. I pondered what next to do; the farther east I traveled, the fewer viable options heading south I had: I simply could not face all that Chicago sprawl again. I elected to take the interstate south from Rochelle, but what a miserable experience, sucking away all my Lincoln Highway joy! Eventually I got off and took Illinois 116 eastward, and it was heavenly, running straight and true through the former prairies on old over-engineered concrete, endless fields and farms, even crossing Route 66 at Pontiac. Everything spoke to me. I reached US52 and took it almost all the way home. How I love old roads, three-dimensional historical documents spinning out their stories.

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., Preservation Tales, The Past is Ever Present..., The Wonder of It All | Tagged Illinois, Lincoln Highway, nostalgia, road food, roadside attractions | 1 Comment

On the Road Again: In Search of the Lincoln Highway in Pennsylvania, Part FOUR

Posted on March 30, 2022 by admin

My last day on the road, like the three previous, dawned beautifully sunny and pleasant.

*Lincoln Motor Court, view from Cabin 11*

I was ready to take on the Alleghenies! This time in daylight! I headed west back to Schellsburg, where I passed the grocery that had saved me from hunger my first night out.

Little had I realized that I passed that night Little Boy Blue (or the Pied Piper, depending on what source you believe), which marked the entrance to the long-defunct Storyland, a 1950s roadside attraction that closed in the 1980s. Evidently many of its features are still there, hidden back in the woods, but it is private property. And, to reduce my temptation further, I was still nearly 500 miles from home.

*Former entrance to Storyland*, west of Schellsburg

But I did try to get on some of the original alignments where possible. This one, west of Schellsburg, was lovely in the morning sun.

And it passed an 1806 log church that is listed in the National Register and evidently still used, at least occasionally.

This fairly short stretch of the road was especially scenic with a quite a lot of roadside attractions, past and still present.

*former Shawnee Cabins west of Schellsburg*

*Heading west a few miles west of Schellsburg*

Apparently I somehow passed the overlook where the long gone and much mourned Grand View Ship Hotel once stood. It is not commemoratively marked, but I recalled a sign indicating an overlook at something over 2900 feet. That must have been it. I was too busy careening up and the mountains to go back, flying past runaway truck ramps and signs warning them to use lower gears. That caution applies equally to baby pickup trucks, too. The sights I missed in the dark a few days before now were before me, and I had fleeting thoughts of how fortunate it was that I hadn’t gone tumbling down a mountainside in certain spots. In the dark I had certainly adhered to the posted 35mph limit, and I didn’t run too far above it in daylight. I caught some of roadside artifacts the books mention: a bison farm, abandoned tourist cabins, derelict buildings that once might have been inns–a glorious morning! The stretch between Jennerstown and Laughlintown was particularly wild and woolly–and spectacular.

Then I hit the sprawl stretch northeast of Pittsburgh, which is singularly unlovely and boring with chain names one can see anywhere in the country. I did spot a nice stretch of the original road about to the left and I followed it for a bit, but as with so many of these, it was insufficiently marked and I was not certain where I would end up. I made my way back, which afforded me the opportunity to cross the later Lincoln Highway route across the massive George Westinghouse bridge, constructed in 1932 (mentioned in chapter one of this blog series).

*George Westinghouse Bridge, hading west into Forest Hills*

I would have thought I was crossing one of Pittsburgh’s three rivers, but no, it was Turtle Creek, far down in a broad valley where the huge Westinghouse factory complex, begun in the 1890s, once sprawled. Some of the buildings survive and at least some of them are used for manufacturing.

I swung around Pittsburgh, realizing from my first day’s experience that I had not the time to try to follow the old route through nor to pick up the original iteration that skips West Virginia entirely.

*Lincoln Highway looking west, west of Pittsburgh*

But I picked up the second iteration on the other side of Pittsburgh via the Steubenville Pike, and this time enjoyed the few bits of roadside artifacts to be seen without following a poky box truck. An occasional flying leaf skittered across the road or smacked into my windshield, adding to the joyful feel of it.

*Lincoln Highway in Pennsylvania, west of Pittsburgh*

Seeing the sign for the Homer Laughlin factory, I decided to diverge south from route just a little to see it. (And besides, the original Ohio River crossing had been farther south, so I wanted at least to see where it was.) The town of Newell, where Homer Laughlin is located, once had many pottery factories, but for the most part only vacant lots and crumbling ruins remain, not dissimilar from those of the auto-related industries in Indiana. I made my way back north to Chester where the bridge is and stopped at the iconic World’s Largest Teapot, moved from its original location farther south to where it can be seen from the approach to the bridge on US30. Starting life as a root beer stand, in 1938 the barrel-shaped structure was moved to a spot on the recently reconfigured Lincoln Highway and remodeled into a giant teapot in homage to the local pottery industries. The owner had a china shop behind it and sold refreshments and souvenirs from the Teapot. Eventually it languished and suffered multiple owners, but the town of Chester eventually received it, and local groups moved the Teapot to its current location and refurbished it. (It is, by the way, smaller than the giant coffee pot about 150 miles east on the Lincoln Highway.)

The area where the bridge approach is now had been a popular amusement park called Rock Springs, built in 1897. Like most of these from the trolley park era, it was fading by the 1960s, conveniently so, for the builders of the new bridge wanted the land. Still, its loss is much mourned even today, and souvenirs from Rock Springs are highly prized. A commemorative marker notes the site. Had I my druthers, I would probably have spent a day just around here on both sides of the river, including a revisit to the ceramics museum.

I crossed the bridge into East Liverpool and tried to follow some of the old route through there, stumbling onto the largest Carnegie Library I had ever seen. (I come from Indiana, which boasts the greatest number of such libraries built in the country, some 164. I have seen nearly all the extant ones.)

*Carnegie Library, East Liverpool, Ohio*

I somehow missed the old route out of town into rural Ohio, but I did stop in the beautiful Riverview Cemetery that overlooks the Ohio Valley and where Henry Ostermann, a name known to Lincoln Highway aficionados, is buried. He was the Lincoln Highway Association’s Field Secretary and among its most effective promoters. Ironically, Ostermann was killed in Iowa while merrily speeding on his road.

Eventually finding the Lincoln Highway again, I returned to Lisbon and another look at the Steel Trolley Diner. Famished by this time, I still hoped for a diner–one that was open, that is–or a small town cafe. West out of Hanoverton I spotted a tired little cafe called the Avalon Family Restaurant.

Avalon Family Restaurant, west of Hanoverton, Ohio

It felt a bit like an “Easy Rider” moment when I walked in–there were only four customers, clearly regulars, sitting at a table, chatting with the owner and the waitress and eying me curiously, but the food was good.

I headed into the clouding sun and Minerva, where a roadside cow advertises a regional dairy of the same name, whose storage tanks are painted in black and white like Holsteins.

By the time I approached Canton it was rush hour and I elected to take the US30 bypass, since I had gone through it on the way east. I skipped over Massillon, but slipped through Dalton.

I skipped my beloved Wooster too, but hopped on the old road into Hayesville and Mifflin. The sky was darkening very fast and some sprinkles hit my windshield.

I gave up all hope of doing any more Lincoln Highway this trip and headed home through the deluge.

What have I kept from this adventure? Well, my one souvenir was this mug from Lincoln Motor Court, the purchase of which went toward keeping that charming and cozy relic maintained. No, it was not everything I had hoped; there was too much congestion in the larger towns and the townships close to metropolises like Philadelphia. The joy tended to be strained there. But the memories of roller coastering through the Alleghenies and curving foothills in Ohio, the charming small towns, the roadside relics, will linger forever. The Road is the Way, and I can still feel it.

Posted in Following in My Foodstops, On the Road Less Taken..., The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged Lincoln Highway, nostalgia, Ohio, Pennsylvania, road food, roadside attractions | Comments Off

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