The Road Less Taken: Indiana’s Upper Right Corner

I always love a chance to go to the northern part of our state where the glaciers left behind lots of lakes and rolling terrain. And Pokagon State Park, one of our earliest, dating to 1925, in Steuben County is always good excuse. Pokagon offers all the activities you’d expect in a state park–I love to hike through the bird-filled woods–including swimming in a real lake, a plus. (I grew up on the Michigan border where it was impossible not to be within a stone’s throw of some lake.) In winter Pokagon offers a toboggan slide, still on my–cue the overused term–bucket list. All this and history, too: the park is listed in the National Register of Historic Places for its many examples of the work of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). The last Sunday in July is CCC Remembrance Day at the Nature Center, an extension of the longest-lived CCC Annual Reunion in the country that began in 1953 as a 20-year reunion. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And yes, some CCC veterans, 90 and older now, still come! There were three at the reunion this year.

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The restaurant at Pokagon’s Potawatomi Inn is a fine place to eat; their Sunday brunch is decadence itself.  Still, whenever I’m in the area I try not to miss Clay’s Family Restaurant (7815 N Old 27, Fremont) just a few miles north of the park, just south of the Michigan state line.  Their food is just darned good and their pies are heavenly!  Clay’s IS, after all, the home of the annual Pie Day in June, when, for a fixed price, they offer unlimited samples of every pie they make. ( Following in My Foodstops: Pie in the Sky | Dancing with History, Wandering through Time, Embracing the Earth )

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Steuben County is lovely to explore, what with its lakes, woods, small farms, and small towns.  About ten miles west of Clay’s on SR120 (a very old road, formerly the Vistula or Toledo Road) lies Orland, a small village, but it boasts the Fawn River State Fish Hatchery, constructed by the WPA (Works Progress Administration), listed in the National Register.  DNR: Fawn River State Fish Hatchery

Orland, originally known as Vermont Settlement, was the earliest settlement of European-Americans in the county (it and the settlement started in 1834); the area was formerly hunting ground of the Potawatomi tribe.  Orland has a strong association with the pre-Civil War Underground Railroad. Indiana brags Underground Railroad houses like Virginia et al. boast “Washington Slept Here,” and just about as misinformed, but in this case it’s true.  Abolitionist Samuel Barry hid runaway slaves in his house, which still stands.  DNR: Underground Railroad Sites: Orland   If you’re in Orland Tuesday, Wednesday, or Saturday, check out the Joyce Library downtown.  It’s charming, but check out the second floor, where the library first started.  It still has its original woodwork and a lot of the original books!  Many of us remember when most public libraries looked like this.

If, rather, you go east from Clay’s on SR120, you will encounter Fremont, founded in 1834 as Willow Prairie and platted three years later as Brockville.  The village rechristened itself once again in 1848 to honor explorer John C. Fremont.  Fremont, home to about 1700 people, has a charming downtown and a number of National Register-listed buildings.  Their library, surrounded by a bit of restored prairie on the west edge of town, offers several pieces of outdoor sculpture.  Behind the building an environmental trail winds through a woods.

The county seat and the “big city” in Steuben County is Angola, platted in 1838.  Its beautiful courthouse square features an impressive Soldiers Monument, topped by the allegorical figure of Columbia, erected in 1917 in the center, formerly the location of the town pump.  More men per capita enlisted in the Civil War from Steuben County than any other in Indiana.  The courthouse, dating to 1868, sits in the southeast corner of the square.  Opposite, in the northwest corner, are two historic movie theaters, the Strand and the Brokaw.  Angola is the center of recreational activity for the lake-filled county (101!, boasts the county website), which likely contributes to the continued survival of these theaters.

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One of those lakes, only a mile to the southwest, was the first resort open to middle class black families.  Listed in the National Register, the Fox Lake Historic District is a modest collection of lake cottages built in the 1920s and 30s.  The area still retains much of its heritage with traditional activities, like the Labor Day picnic, that are decades old.

History, lakes, small towns, lakes, roadside farm markets, lakes, and more!  While it is much like going home, I still discover something new every time I journey to Indiana’s northeast corner.

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I Believe in Dr. Film!

I was asked to write a guest column in “Dr. Film’s Blog.”  Read it here:

http://www.drfilm.net/blog/?p=463

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Following in My Foodstops: Pie in the Sky

Pie Day?  Who thought of this?  And who would be crazy enough to drive 170 miles to check it out?  Pie Day?

Well, to answer the second question, I was.  Clay’s Family Restaurant, a stone’s throw from the Michigan state line on former US27, just held its eighth annual Pie Day to celebrate what many agree they do best.  Mind you, most all their food is worth celebrating, not just their scrumptious pies.   But they make about thirty different kinds, and their customers find themselves in a quandary as to which one to choose–assuming they are capable after finishing their meals, which are tasty and generous.  And so. . . Pie Day was born. gjblog

I’ve written about Clay’s before.  (Check them out here Clay’s Family Restaurant ) For sixty years this family-run restaurant, perched above Lake George not far from Pokagon State Park, has offered great food and friendly service to local folks and people passing through who prefer the old highways.  When the restaurant opened, US27 was one of the major routes into Michigan, all the way up to the Straits of Mackinac.  When I-69 opened decades ago, US27 was routed onto it, but business remains brisk at Clay’s, owing, no doubt, to its having laid such a solid foundation.

Their entrees and especially the soups are fabulous, but the pies are positively divine.  I learned of Pie Day last year and thought it might be fun to do.  This is how it works:  normally Clay’s is closed on Mondays, but in June there comes a Monday designated as Pie Day when, for just four mad hours, Clay’s is open.  The restaurant sells advance tickets for a buffet offering of every pie they make–cut into smaller-than-normal pieces, of course, so one has a better chance of sampling several.  Just so that it is not complete decadence, along with the plethora of pies, Clay’s serves soups and melt-in-your-mouth pot roast.  Tickets, priced at $12.99 for all you care to eat, sell out quickly.  Even if your capacity gives out before you sample all the pies, it’s a good deal.

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For about two weeks before the event, the owner and all the family frantically roll out pie dough in large square pans and refrigerate them, because the pies themselves are made fresh the morning of Pie Day, starting VERY early.  During the course of the four-hour event they sell the equivalent of 80-100 regular pies.

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And so, just for the experience, last month I called Clay’s and made the reservation.   As it happens, I had a number of libraries to see on the way up since I’m still hawking my books, so it was not entirely crazy to make such a trip.  (Well, okay, perhaps it was.)  My route included stops, all successful, at two small college libraries and two little Carnegies, one in Converse and this one in Montpelier.

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On arrival at Clay’s around 6pm, the small parking area was full and there were only a few spaces across the street.  The aroma of home cooking was tantalizing and soon we were seated by the harried but friendly waitress.  Overindulging in the main dish fare would have been easy, but this was Pie Day, after all.  Even so, there was no hope to taste them all.

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I think I managed to try about ten or twelve.  My vote still goes to the blueberry, which is the piece at top right, although the cherry is equally good.   My companion, who wore an appropriate shirt (pi), favored the blueberry also, along with the strawberry.

gjblog8Virtually every fruit pie one can imagine, but also several cream pies, and a chewy concoction called “oops” pie tempted the customers.  The atmosphere was festive, the staff resolutely friendly–indeed, everyone was smiling and laughing.  I do not advocate gorging oneself on a regular basis, but indulgence now and then sweetens life, and Pie Day is the place to do it.

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The Road Less Taken: Up the Pendleton Pike

 

Just a short trip from Indianapolis up Pendleton Pike is, well, the town of Pendleton, a pleasant place to play hooky for an afternoon.  I discovered it years ago, exploring the charms of a nineteenth century road, Pendleton Pike.  The first time I followed it I noted many mid-nineteenth century remnants from its early years, as well as roadside architecture from Highway 67.  Much less of either remains, lost to the growing northeasterly sprawl out of Indy; now you really have to look.

Pendleton, which was laid out in 1830, but whose site was where the earliest Madison County government was located (in 1823), still offers much of its history in plain view.

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Falls Park ( Picturesque Falls Park in Pendleton, Indiana) is a special attraction.  Fully 150 acres, it’s a lovely park with trails and lots of “above-ground archaeology” in the form of remaining bridge abutments from interurban lines and such like.  It’s a great place to hike around.  Historically it is the site of the final chapter of the infamous Fall Creek Massacre, where the perpetrators of the crime–the brutal murder of several friendly Indians (once thought to be Delaware but tribal affiliations now in question)–were tried and hanged in 1825, marking the first time white settlers were convicted for murdering Indians.  Three men were hanged.  A fourth, only a boy for whom there was sympathy as people felt he was forced into the deed by his father and uncle, was about to be hanged when Governor James Brown Ray stepped out of the crowd and pardoned him.  Some accounts have it that Brown galloped up madly at the last minute and loudly proclaimed: “There are only two who can save this boy.  God Almighty or Governor James Brown Ray.  I am Governor James Brown Ray and I am here to save this boy!”  It makes a great story.

The park is dotted with charming rock features constructed by the WPA and a large duck pond that predates the New Deal, with a stone “lighthouse” recently restored (it had leaned for years.)  The ducks are always hungry, and if you go in spring, you’re likely to see whole families of them.

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The Pendleton Historical Museum, remodeled from what had been a bath house (the creek once served as a public swimming pool) overlooks the falls; it is open to the public on weekends.

Only a couple of blocks from the park is the historic downtown, which offers nice antique and special interest shops, a coffee bistro called Gathering Grounds, and many marvelous old buildings for those of us who love them.  The New Deal-era post office features within a 1939 mural by William F. Kaeser, who a few years earlier had begun holding art classes for a group that decades later evolved into the Indianapolis Art Center.  The mural, a personal favorite, depicts muscular horses pulling a wagon of huge logs in lengthening shadows, silhouetted against the setting sun.

I recommend lunch or supper at Jimmie’s Dairy Bar ( Jimmies Dairy Bar) on the edge of town on Pendleton Pike near Water Street.   It’s an old fashioned drive-in that’s been there over fifty years. They advertise that they offer the “best barbecue in Indiana” and I’m not going to argue–it’s delicious, with bits of all kinds of things adding to the flavor.  The baked beans are wonderful, too.  It is, after all, a dairy bar, so you can satisfy your sweet tooth (any place that I can still get ice cream sodas is great with me!)

 

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The Road Less Taken: The Lincoln Highway in Eastern Ohio

I do so love old highways, especially those that have become byways, bereft of their numbers.  How much people miss by not taking just a bit more time along the way!   As mentioned in earlier postings, I grew up just off the former Lincoln Highway–the original 1913 route–in northern Indiana, very near to an early roadside landmark still standing (albeit changed some), the old Bob’s Corner, which stood on the north side of the Lincoln Highway at the junction of what later became two major highways, US20 and State Road 2.  Decades ago the junction, always dangerous, was moved a good ways east and proper traffic lights added, leaving the abandoned stretches of 20 and 2–the Lincoln Highway–to become Oak Knoll Road.  My family and I continued to use the old way, shaving off a good mile or so and avoiding the traffic light to and from LaPorte.

But I digress, which, of course, is the whole point of taking old roads.

The Lincoln Highway, a coast-to-coast route from New York to San Francisco, was the ambitious dream of Indianapolis entrepreneur Carl Fisher, a man known for his grand visions.  (Among other things, he and his partners founded the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and later, Miami Beach.)  In 1913 Fisher, long a promoter of automobiles, formed the Lincoln Highway Association.  The plan, audacious for its day (long before numbered routes), was for a clearly marked improved road across the nation.  By 1915 the route was complete, if not the actual improved roads.  A film of the entire length of the Lincoln Highway was made and shown at the Panama Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco that year.  The route of the original Lincoln Highway roughly (very, in several places) follows old US30, that is, except in Indiana, where the original 1913 route swoops northward to catch Goshen, Elkhart, South Bend, and LaPorte.  The revised 1928 route through Indiana did indeed follow mostly what is today old US30 through towns such as Warsaw and Plymouth.   Both routes became part of the Indiana state byway system last year.  Ohio’s portion of the Lincoln Highway in all its variant routes is part of a similar system.

Of course I’ve been all over Indiana’s routes, and over time and numerous trips, I had covered virtually all the spiderweb of routes of the Lincoln Highway in Ohio as well, except for the easternmost counties beyond Massillon, where, as in many Indiana towns, the main street is called Lincolnway.  In earlier posts I mentioned some of the joys of the route from Van Wert, not far from the Indiana line, eastward through Wooster, home to a fabulous Hungarian pastry shop and Books in Stock, a shop in which to lose yourself for hours.  I longed to see that last stretch of the Lincoln Highway that threads through Canton and beyond enters a wonderland of foothills, agricultural delights, and forgotten little towns.

And I had wanted to explore further the city of Mansfield, home to the Kingwood gardens (read about it here Home), a wonderful accidental discovery during one of those earlier Lincoln Highway diversions.  The first time I saw this it was late in the year and so there was no admission charge.  Endless gardens–not to mention hungry peacocks!  On its northeast side Mansfield also boasts the massive architectural wonder, the Ohio State Reformatory (Experience One of Our Nation’s Most Historic Treasures – Mansfield Reformatory Preservation Society) dating to the 1880s.  The city’s downtown, smack on the original Lincoln Highway, boasts many wonderful buildings and some interesting revitalization efforts.

But I also had a yen to return to an old tourist attraction that my family visited before I was five: Ohio Caverns, which was the kernel of another recent post (http://gloryjune.com/wordpress/?p=118 ).  The cave is northeast of Dayton amidst rolling farmland, so I planned a route incorporating the old National Road (US40, mostly) into Ohio, then northeastward to Ohio Caverns, and then continuing up to meet the Lincoln Highway at Bucyrus with a night stop in Wooster and breakfast the next morning at Tulipan Hungarian Pastry and Coffee Shop, good plan!

Starting eastward from Bucyrus, a county seat town (famous for its bratwurst!) on the Sandusky River, we watched for all those roadside artifacts that spoke of the Lincoln Highway’s heyday, such as the occasional road marker or something more esoteric, like this barely visible abandoned drive-in theater on the 1928 route via Crestline.

Much like Indiana and Illinois–and no doubt most of the other states this historic route traverses–Ohio’s Lincoln Highway diverges into multiple roads as the routes were refined over time or a town clamored to be included.  (Few part ways as much as the two main routes of Indiana’s section of the Highway, however.)  Earlier variations of the Lincoln Highway between Bucyrus and Mansfield wound through Galion, and it is a pleasant alternate route worth taking.

Most of the time what was once an old highway that has lost its official status is fairly obvious to me.  These roads shout out their former import in the way they are laid out, their width, and as I mentioned, evidence along the roadside, both glaring and subtle.  There might be the occasional Lincoln Highway pillar–a few do survive–or a barely visible remnant of a roadside park.   The architecture may suggest the heyday of the highway.  I  rarely listen to the radio or converse with my fellow traveler in the midst of these excursions, preferring instead to hear the road’s song.  It never grows old, although it is timeless.

The route through Crestline takes one into Mansfield north of the main drag but eventually goes to Park Avenue, passing the afore-mentioned Kingwood Gardens.  We decided to stop and see the peacocks, who evidently remembered that we’d fed them in the past.

After threading through Mansfield, the Lincoln Highway to Wooster is a very pretty stretch, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, winding through woods and farms and little towns like Mifflin and Hayesville.   We stopped to eat at the Oak Park Tavern, a roadside supper club near Mifflin dating to 1940 (read about it here:  Oak Park Tavern ) and spent the night in Wooster.

The next morning, fortified with a wonderful breakfast of rolled omelets at Tulipan ( Tulipan Pastry and Coffee Shop ) and armed with a couple of Hungarian open-faced sandwiches for the road, we set off toward Massillon and the unknown Lincoln Highway beyond.  I was delighted to discover another Twistee Treat (mentioned in an earlier blog http://gloryjune.com/wordpress/?p=92) on the east side of Massillon.   Two within a few miles on my favorite highway!  Cool!  These ice cream cone buildings are wonderful examples of mimetic roadside architecture and evoke a much earlier era than when they were actually built.

In the once-industrial city of Canton, probably known best as the home of the Pro Football Hall of Fame, the Lincoln Highway is Tuscarawas Street, the main drag, which boasts a number of architectural gems.  But beyond this urban diversion, adventure beckoned, and it was easy to feel the wonder of the early road.   In the days before road maps, how did an intrepid automobile traveler find his way?  The Lincoln Highway, as did others, offered guidebooks that relied heavily on landmarks and mileage.  A compass would have been useful, too.  But also there were concrete markers placed at intervals.  Here is one of several that survive in Ohio, this one about five miles east of Canton.

This was only one of a seemingly endless stream of early road artifacts in this section of the highway, which grows ever more hilly as one travels east.  The road laughed and so did I at the joy of discovery.  Numerous old, mostly former, 1950s-era motels appeared; there were more concrete markers, and most intriguing of all, several short abandoned segments of the original highway, paved with brick and wide enough for a Model T.   Bumping along these, time travel becomes real.

The charming town of Lisbon, the Columbiana County seat, was worth a brief stop to admire the courthouse and other interesting 19th century buildings.  Ohio’s portion of the Lincoln Highway ends sixteen miles farther on in East Liverpool, situated along the fabled Ohio River across from West Virginia.  Here once thrived an immense ceramics industry, fed by the wonderful clay found in this region.  Almost all the scores of factories are gone now, and the two that I knew best (given my fondness for 1930s kitchenware), Hall and Homer Laughlin, have merged.  But the story is still told in the Museum of Ceramics, housed in the city’s glorious former post office built in 1909.  It is a fascinating place, displaying examples of all the pottery and china that was once made in the area (read more about it here: http://www.themuseumofceramics.org/index.html ).  Lifesize dioramas illustrate the manufacturing process.  The museum gets little funding, but boasts a dedicated and very knowledgeable staff.  Listed in the National Register of Historic Places, the building, hardly a block from the river, stands on the highway that was created four years later, with a concrete marker in front of the entrance to prove it.   Not terribly far from it is the Hall/Homer Laughlin factory outlet, at the site of the Hall factory; the Homer Laughlin factory, home of Fiesta ware, lies just across the river in West Virginia.  Tours are possible, but for another day.  East Liverpool deserves more exploration as well.  Always something to call me back! 

 

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The Road Less Taken: Underground Wonder

On my way to somewhere else in Ohio, there was something I wanted to see again, an old tourist attraction in which my daddy had carried me around when I was a toddler, so my mom always told me. I have no memory of it; but indeed, a faded old photo survives from that visit to Ohio Caverns.  I’d always had a yen to go back and actually see it.  Now, since I later became an avid caver and knew something about karst, a geological landscape conducive to caves, I had assumed Ohio Caverns was in southern Ohio somewhere.  But no, it turns out the cave is in a most unlikely location northeast of Dayton amidst rolling farmland.  Fun with geology!   Seeing that, I planned a route incorporating the old National Road (US40, mostly) into Ohio, then northeastward to Ohio Caverns and onward from there.  Of course, the journey IS the way.

 

Ohio Caverns is one of those timeless attractions.  The entrance to the property is essentially the same since it was erected in the 1930s; the cave, of course, has survived decades of tourists and is as mysteriously beautiful as ever.  On a lovely fall day we were the only people there for a tour at that time, so we had the caverns to ourselves.  Ah.  It had been too many years since I’d been deep into a cave.  The current entrance and passage through the caverns was created in 1925 and takes one through a fairyland (indeed, old brochures marketed the site as “Nature’s Fairyland.”), enhanced with direct and indirect lighting.  Owing to a variety of mineral deposits, the Ohio Caverns are especially colorful.  The guide pointed out a narrow passage off the main trail that had once been open to the public in the early twentieth century, shortly after the cave was discovered in 1897.  Access to it was from the original opening, and with advance notice, one could arrange a tour.  But this year (2012), the “historic tour” has been opened up and is offered regularly.  I can never check places off my list; there is always a reason to return!

 

I was so taken with caves in my youth that after a visit to the granddaddy of them all, Mammoth Cave, I saw myself as a cave guide or some such.  I produced an exhibit on cave geology for the school science fair and wrote a paper on the history of Mammoth Cave for my English class.  But although I did not pursue a career in speleology, when I was in college I went on wild caving expeditions (also called “spelunking” by people who don’t actually do it), led by my geography professor, in whose earth science classes I excelled.  What adventures we had!  I continued for some years after to go caving in southern Indiana and even in the coral-based caves of Florida (painful for crawling!)  But this does not make commercial caves any less appealing to me.

Caves have a long history as tourist destinations.  Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave, discovered in or before 1797 (although no doubt the natives of the region knew of it), within a few decades became one of the major scenic wonders of an American tour.  Imagine the difficulty in traveling to such a forlorn location!  But the famous Swedish soprano Jenny Lind (among other celebrities) came to visit in 1851, and supposedly gave an impromptu concert seated on a chair-like formation, known today as “Jenny Lind’s Armchair.”  European visitors especially admired examples of America’s wild grandeur.  Imagine, too, the differences in cave touring then and now.  Guides led visitors by lantern or torchlight through passages that may or may not have been cleared of at least some of the rubble common to caves.  (Of course, this is rather similar to what cavers experience in wild caves, only we probably do a lot more crawling and climbing and clambering through mud, using heavy duty flashlights and carbide lamps, than the tourists did.)

With the coming of the automobile, particularly the affordable Model T, droves of ordinary Americans took to the roads of their vast country to see the sights.   Noting the profits made by the owners of Mammoth Cave (not yet a National Park), the poverty-stricken denizens of cave-pocked Kentucky saw the possibility of tourist dollars and scrambled amidst their rolling hills to find caves that could be exploited.  The Kentucky cave wars of the 1920s sparked lies and misdeeds (travelers were led to to other caves by false signs, for instance), violence, and ultimately, a death in 1925, that of Floyd Collins, every caver’s bad example.  He went off alone, telling no one where he was going (breaking two cardinal rules of caving), and became trapped underground in what later was named Sand Cave.  He had been searching for a new cave or a new entrance to the Mammoth Cave system farther up the highway to snag tourists.  Media circuses are nothing new–only the media have changed–so mobs of newspaper reporters and announcers for the newfangled radio came, as did the morbidly curious public, to cover what ultimately was the long, gruesome death of Collins from exposure and starvation.  Would-be rescuers reached his body three days after he died.  The remains were eventually buried on the Collins farm, but when his father sold the property a few years later, the new owner exhumed the body, placed it in a glass-topped coffin (no, I’m not making this up), and put it on display in Crystal Cave, which had been discovered by Collins some years earlier on the property.  Even more disgusting is that the body was stolen, later to be recovered sans one leg!  Still, the cave owners continued to display the body, the coffin now securely chained, until 1961, when the National Park Service (NPS) bought the property and closed the cave (now open to cave explorers with permission from NPS, no regular tours).  Collins was finally laid to rest in a real cemetery in 1989, when NPS buried him in the Flint Ridge Cemetery.  One suspects he might have wished to remain in the cave that he discovered.  Some tourist materials refer to Crystal Cave as “Floyd Collins [sic] personal backyard cave.”

The cave wars and especially the death of Floyd Collins strengthened the growing movement to make Mammoth Cave a national park, which happened in the 1940s.  Subsequent cave explorations have shown that most of the caves in this area are linked in one vast underground system.  A connection between Mammoth Cave and the Flint Ridge caves was discovered in 1972, detailed in the book The Longest Cave by Roger W. Brucker and Richard A. Watson.

Too much drama!  The Ohio Caverns, lacking such a grisly history,  are as beautiful as any I have ever seen, with more formations packed within its confines than many larger caves.  And the countryside surrounding it is so peaceful, with no hint of the beauties beneath it.  I am eager to return to experience the “historic tour.”  Besides, nearby West Liberty boasts other sites of interest, including the over-the-top Piatt Castles  (http://www.piattcastles.org/piattcastles/Home.html), which have been open for tours for one hundred years (!) and, of course, Marie’s Candies  (http://www.mariescandies.com/), a mere 56 years old, famous for its chocolates.  I hear the road calling to me!

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Guest column by The Endangered Moderate: Where Have You Gone, Richard Carlson?

Okay, I’m officially sick of it.  For eight years, George W. Bush consistently, if not purposely, mispronounced “nuclear,” “remnant,” and a whole host of other words.  Many people would accuse me of being an intellectual elitist for holding this against him.  I do not consider myself an intellectual elitist.

Now, Rick Santorum is raising anti-intellectualism to new heights–or is it depths?  He says that President Obama wants all Americans to go to college because Obama wants all Americans brainwashed by liberal college professors.

WHAT?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  I went to college, and the point of it is not to indoctrinate, but to get students to think through problems.  Look, as a moderate I have a lot of problems with Obama, but when you tell me that he’s trying to indoctrinate people by sending them to college, then you’ve crossed over into the Twilight Zone, Rick.

Note to Republicans: If you want to win this race, or at least you want moderates to vote for you, then this kind of stuff has to stop.

Second note to Republicans and everyone who agrees with this: you want America to compete in the global economy?  You want us to be at the top of the heap again after becoming a laughingstock in the last 30 years?  Here’s a hint: we need to embrace intellectualism, achievement, and just plain horse sense instead of condemning accomplishment as “elitist.”  You love that sort of name-calling, and I get it, but there was once another school that condemned intellectual achievement.  They called it Communism.  Don’t believe me? Read Marx.  (By the way, Nazis did that, too.)

I miss the old halcyon days when being halfway intelligent was considered a good thing.  Bush paid lip service to “No Child Left Behind,” but then turned around and established a role model for America’s youth that makes my skin crawl.  I heard him give a commencement speech at Yale in which he boasted of being a poor student and saying that it had not hurt his career.  Stupidity is not a crime, certainly, and neither is knowledge of one’s own stupidity.  On the other hand, the idea that we should be proud of our own stupidity is beyond me.

I have many Republican friends who complain that we want to upgrade the school system and that our answer is to spend more money on the schools.  They say that spending money is not necessarily the right answer.  After all, many of the industrialized countries of the world spend less per capita than we do on our children, and somehow they beat us in standardized testing.  Maybe “all them foreigners” are elites.

Perhaps we are victims of a sick culture.  We have a culture today that appears to celebrate stupidity.  Any kind of thoughtful examination is sacrilege.  Introspection is for the weak.  But it goes deeper than that.  In our culture and in our media, people who are intellectuals are portrayed as geeks and social misfits.  They are people to avoid.  To be sure, there are a great number of intellectual people who are socially maladjusted.  However, that is a generalization about as fair as those who portray people from the South as possum-eating hicks.

When was the last time a major film depicted the scientist as a hero?  We get Jeff Goldblum in the Jurassic Park series, perhaps, but (much as I like Goldblum) his gawky look typifies the geeky intellectual that Hollywood goes after.  Goldblum doesn’t get the girl at the end of the picture.

I am generally of the opinion that Hollywood reflects society rather than shaping it.  If we look at the history of scientists or intellectuals portrayed in the movies, we see that they were mad scientists (Rudolf Klein-Rogge in Metropolis) in the 1920s, a little more controlled in the 30s, but still mad and over the top (Colin Clive in Frankenstein), and morphed into the diligent doctor who had good intentions but not enough ethics and foresight (Boris Karloff in The Man with Nine Lives) by the 1940s.  But in the 1950s, a new type of scientist emerged.  The kind of scientist we so desperately need as a role model for America’s youth of today.  Richard Carlson!

Carlson (1912-1977) was admittedly not the greatest actor ever to grace the screen.  His screen career was marred with a plethora of sub-par early roles, although he did surface in Bob Hope’s The Ghost Breakers (1939).  His true breakthrough role came in 1953 when he was cast as the heroic scientist in It Came From Outer Space (1953).  This was followed by appearances in other classic 50s fare like The Magnetic Monster (1953), and The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954).  In most of his appearances, Carlson played an earnest, handsome scientist who used his brains to get through the movie.  He was not insensitive to those who were less learned than he (especially hot chicks like Julia Adams), but rather, he worked with everyone to get the right answer.

Carlson was so successful at this type of role that he was recruited for a lamentably short series of  films made by Bell Telephone in the late 1950s.  Bell felt that the best hope for young Americans was to pursue and understand the sciences.  Wanting to promote these ideas, they did the same thing that the US Government had done in the 1940s to explain WWII to the masses.  They hired the best director they could afford, Frank Capra, and then Capra hired top creative people to help him make films that promoted science in the schoolroom.  (It should be noted that Mr. Capra was nobody’s liberal.)

Carlson appeared in Our Mr. Sun (1956), about the sun, Hemo the Magnificent (1957), about the circulation of blood, The Strange Case of the Cosmic Rays (1957), and The Unchained Goddess (1958) about weather and ways of measuring it.  These films are today minor classics in the field of education.  In most of them, Carlson appears as an inquisitive scientist or reporter, and is aided by real life intellectual Dr. Frank Baxter.  At interludes we are treated to explanatory cartoon segments directed by Road Runner creator Chuck Jones.

Carlson typified a type of character not seen today.  He was a manly intellectual, unafraid of his intelligence, ready to use it to help others.  The 1950s offered many similar characters.  One need only look to Gene Barry’s scientist in War of the Worlds (1953) or Kevin McCarthy’s kind but wise doctor in Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956).   While sometimes there were unethical or stupid scientists in these films, the heroes were always the smart ones and they got the girl.  They weren’t the drooling geek scientists of today.

Unfortunately, this kind of 1950s character did not live long.  By the time Star Trek got hold of the idea, they had split the character into the stoic scientist, Mr. Spock, and the action-minded pseudo-intellectual Captain Kirk.  It was never to be the same afterward.  Even the early James Bond movies presented Bond as a smart (albeit pompous) guy who was only slightly less capable than his superiors.  Bond would often attend a meeting with his boss only to turn the tables and end up lecturing the lecturer.  It was also a creative bit of screenwriting that helped advance the plot while amusing the audience.  Later on, this bit of character was dropped, and Bond became more mindless and action-oriented, rather like the films themselves.

Despite the spin that Pat Robertson would put on things, these 50s movies did not disdain faith in a higher power.  Certainly we can point to the preacher in War of the Worlds who gets fried by a Martian ray early on.  He’s quoting Bible verses as he walks toward the aliens, who take one look at him and open fire.  But the point here is that he gets fried not because his faith is wrong, but because he is so stupid!  Later on, the survivors of a wrecked city gather in a church to pray together, including the scientist, and those pesky Martians are eventually killed by Earth’s bacteria, those things that, according to the film’s narrator, “God, in his wisdom, put upon the Earth.”

This hammers home producer George Pal’s point that faith is helpful, and that reason is helpful.  Gene Barry’s scientist is fairly powerless to help against the onslaught, and the minister who blindly quotes the Bible is even more useless.  Perhaps the combination of faith and reason is helpful.

And this brings us back to the present day.  If we bring up reasoned arguments against Republican policies, then we are branded as unfeeling, unpatriotic people.  We can argue all we want about the facts that we have spent too much money in Iraq, that our goal of getting cheap oil has not worked, that our goal of getting the Iraqi people freedom has not (thus far) worked, that our goal of making the world a more peaceful place has not worked, and that our ideal of keeping nuclear nations from proliferating is not working.  Bringing up these reasonable facts is not unpatriotic.

The Republicans are throwing faith without reason at us.  By doing so, they are  being as naive as the preacher who walked straight at the Martians.  Alas, reason without faith can equally unattractive.  Can we have a balance?  Can we all just get along?  Do we have to call each other names and ignore a point of view just because it belongs to the other party?

The thing that saddens me is that anti-intellectualism has caught on like wildfire.  We were even sold the idea that Bush was the kind of guy you’d like to have a beer with (although I shudder to have a beer with an alcoholic).  So what?  That doesn’t qualify him to be the leader of the free world.

The leader of the free world needs to be a person who understands faith and reason, who thinks before talking, who contemplates before acting.  He needs to be smart but not condescending, sensitive but not weak.  He needs to be not the kind of guy you’d want to have a beer with, but the kind of guy you’d like to pass on the street and breathe a sigh of relief that he’s looking out for your way of life.  He needs to promote healthy intellectual activity as a necessary American trait and not one of geeks who will never get a date.

I want a president who knows that, no matter how much money we spend on schools, we’ll never get great academic achievement unless our culture changes to reflect a value in education.  We need to find that the classic rugged American individualism does not necessitate ignorance as well.  People who celebrate stupidity need to be the dateless wonders of the next generation, and the smart guys who should be running things need to start doing so.

In short, we need Richard Carlson for President.

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Dancing with Snowdrops

Today, while dancing amidst hundreds of snowdrops in the pre-spring sun and brisk breezes, I spotted a honeybee.

Well, no, that’s not true.  I wrote that line a little less than a year ago and never completed the essay.  Today it is cloudy and bees tend to stay close to home under those conditions.  The nearest bees, to my knowledge, come from a pair of hives perhaps a mile away in a city park.  But there are breezes a-plenty today, though not brisk–it is over sixty degrees and glorious–and yes, hundreds of snowdrops are dancing.

It’s only January!   And many of these little beauties have been blooming for a month, oblivious to the relentless freeze/thaw cycle of this strange winter.  (It’s the end of January and I have never gotten my sled out!)

Snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis) are amazing; they have always been magical and wondrous to me, the first flowers of the year, shouting out life in a seemingly dead landscape.

 In Michiana where I grew up, I could expect to see these lovely harbingers breaking out of the snow in February, even though we had a good six more weeks of winter.  Hard crusts of ice never deterred them.  In more recent years they have come up earlier, and here in Central Indiana, I have come to expect at least some in late January; occasionally they have poked up as early as around the New Year.  This year I had some budding at Christmas.  I worried for them, but I need not have.  Snowdrops have antifreeze in their leaves.  The early bloomers, having survived several repeated bouts of nights in the ‘teens, are as bright and bouncy as they were a month ago.  Snowdrops not only assure us of spring’s future arrival, but they generally last a long time, long enough to welcome the larger, more colorful daffodils and the delicate crocus that normally begin to appear in March.  (This year, however, I have recently seen the odd daffodil in bloom.  Something is clearly amiss with our climate.)

Hoping soon to begin my own hive, I have taken an interest in the hives of honeybees in the afore-mentioned city park.  A few years ago I noticed that some bees were out and about in very early spring with little hope of finding the sustenance they sought.  I offered some of my snowdrops to the park, which they accepted.  The transplants are doing very well and have spread (they are blooming as I speak).  That’s the other wonder of snowdrops–how they multiply!  The majority of my hundreds came from three small clumps dug up from my homeplace twenty years ago.  My backyard is now filled with them, and more have migrated around to the front.  This puzzled me for years until I read that the snowdrop’s tiny seeds have a substance attractive to ants, and so they are spread by the insects.  The bulbs, too, multiply, and these plants are survivors!   The plant world offers role models for us all.

 

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In Search of the Lights

I’ve just returned from what has become in less than a decade one of our most cherished Christmas traditions, one that encompasses nostalgia, bittersweet memories, a road trip, and history.  It was a visit to Frankfort, population 16,500 or thereabouts, seat of Clinton County, Indiana.  Founded in 1830, Frankfort (named in honor of the Frankfurt in Germany) boasts an impressive 1882 courthouse–and a high school whose athletic teams are the Hot Dogs.  The city government is now housed in the once-endangered old high school, fondly known as “Old Stoney,” a massive Romanesque Revival edifice constructed in 1892.  The county historical society’s museum occupies the second floor.

But our visit was not to these wonderful buildings, but to TPA Park northeast of downtown.  “TPA” stands for Travelers Protective Association, an organization founded in the early twentieth century when automobile travel was in its infancy. (I was amazed to discover that the organization still exists over a hundred years later.  Travelers Protective Association)

Stone House plaque - close-up

The park, dedicated one hundred years ago, is a gem, laden with history, several examples of New Deal construction by the WPA and NYA, a petting zoo and aviary, and an intriguing little former fountain by sculptor Jon Magnus Jonson.  Every December, however, the park undergoes a magical transformation into a Christmas fairyland.

Let me say that I have always loved the lights of Christmas.  There were not that many in the rural community in which I grew up, save for a huge fir across from the elementary school that a group of homeowners in the area always strung with hundreds of lights.  Going into town (South Bend or LaPorte) and seeing the many colored lights on houses and in trees at Christmas time was a joy.  Later on, traveling through the lonely December landscape after a visit to my mother, I was always heartened by the occasional brave displays on isolated farmhouses and especially cheered when going through small towns.  When she came down to visit me at Christmas, we often drove around to the fancy neighborhoods to ooh and aah.  (This was before the computer-generated, music-coordinated flashdance travesties one sometimes sees today.)  Later still, my mother, a former WAVE in World War II, moved into the Indiana Veterans Home in West Lafayette.  I visited her weekly and when December came, took her for drives to see the lights.  As Mom’s health worsened and the visits became more painful, I sometimes took alternative routes home to clear my mind.  It was on one such meander that I passed through Frankfort and caught sight in the distance of Christmas lights in TPA Park.  As drawn to it as the proverbial moth, I was astonished at the wonderland this little town had created.  It was just what I needed.  Happily, I was able to take Mom to see this vision before she was unable to get out at all.  It was so incredible, all the more since Frankfort is such a small city.  And they do it every year.

It is difficult to convey the scope of this effort: eighty-five acres filled with over a million lights!  All the buildings are transformed; one–at least by night–becomes a crystalline castle. Throughout the park the trees are all strung with various colors; it is a fantasyland, and I am a child again and yet old as time.  The displays are amusing or sweet, and many are animated.  (I especially like the dancing Hot Dog at the park entrance.)  The Twelve Days of Christmas are each illustrated with appropriate figures (the four calling birds sit on telephones); Santa appears in numerous fanciful tableaux, and one may drive beneath a gigantic holly wreath arch or through a lovely tunnel of lights.  Of course, there is a manger scene.  A Star of Bethlehem shines over all.  The electric bill is astonishing.  Created mostly with donations and volunteer labor (including Santa himself, passing out candy canes), the holiday display is maintained through New Year’s Day..  Within the park is a modest little coffee shop serving hot drinks, delicious soups and sandwiches–and the place was packed, filled with families and multiple generations of people, most of whom were smiling.  Folks come in droves.  We’ve gone in snow, when the sparkling lights are multiplied in the crystals, and in rain, which diffuses the colors into a dream.

This time it was warm, and I had the window open to let in the wonder.  I could feel Mom’s presence and all those Christmases past and all that is special about a small town–and something more.

I’ve included no pictures; none could capture it.  You’ll just have to see it for yourself.

(But here’s their website:  Frankfort Indiana Holiday of Lights.)

Posted in On the Road Less Taken..., The Past is Ever Present... | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

Following in My Foodstops: the Lincoln Highway in Ohio

Recently I attended a convention in Massillon–always a pleasure, since the town, laden with wonderful architecture, sits smack on the Lincoln Highway and I usually manage to drive at least some of this wonderful road there and back.   Having grown up just off the Lincoln Highway in Indiana between LaPorte and South Bend, where the main drags are–ahem–called “Lincolnway,” driving old highways is simply in my blood.  (More on Indiana’s stretch, which has recently been designated a state scenic byway, another day.)  In recent years, going to this particular convention has given me a good excuse to explore thoroughly our neighboring state’s stretch of this historic road.

Van Wert is the first town of consequence, if you are following the Lincoln Highway eastward from Indiana.  A county seat, it boasts an over-the-top nineteenth century courthouse and other wonderful downtown delights.  In the next block from the courthouse is Balyeat’s  (Balyeats Coffee Shop ).  It has an incredible oversized neon sign decades old offering “young fried chicken,” which borders on the horrifying today, but is so darn cool!  In truth we did not stop there on the way eastward, but did catch it on the way back, shortly before its closing on Sunday night.  They’d had a big day and were out of a lot of food, but what they served–basic American homecooking fare–certainly made me want to go back another time.  Besides, did I mention how cool the sign is?  Balyeat’s atmosphere and location right across from that courthouse is the kind of place where you can imagine all the town’s moving and shaking has been going on–well, since 1924.

Historic Balyeat's Coffee Shop
 Today I am writing primarily of food stops, although I must say the Lincoln Highway in Ohio is a joy to travel, with sweeping rural landscapes and intermittent hamlets and towns that the current US30 ignores, like Upper Sandusky and Bucyrus.  But perhaps my favorite stop on the road to Massillon is Wooster.

 

The Wayne County courthouse in Wooster is the only one I have seen in all my travels that is part of a city block, not set apart.  (The Steuben County courthouse in Angola,  Indiana sits in a corner of the square, but it is still a separate building.)    This amazing Second Empire monument to excess was built 1877-79.   My jaw still drops.


This intersection lies north of a sort of square on which is located one of the most charming places to plot a revolution I’ve ever encountered.  (And from its window one can gaze at the courthouse.)  The Tulipan Hungarian Pastry & Coffee Shop is likely as close to Budapest as I’ll ever get.  The pastries and Hungarian delicacies inspire rapturous praise.  I have tasted nothing  ordinary here, let alone bad.  While the selections of pastries are vast, Tulipan also offers a menu of entrees that includes delicious open-face sandwiches and rolled omelets, something I had not ever seen before.  Light, savory, and deceptively filling, I recommend them all.   We stopped there for some pastry (it’s only 20-odd miles from Massillon) and kept to our plan of stopping there for lunch on the way home.  The only problem is that it has such a wonderful feel about it that it is difficult to leave.

 Massillon, our destination and site of an annual classic film convention in the fall, is a wonderfully historic town, on a river and formerly on a canal, with all the above-ground archaeology associated with such a past.  I had always passed and looked longingly at this interesting little drive-in on the west side of town, but this time finally stopped.  It was a delightful surprise to discover it offered not only an array of ice cream treats, but a sizable food menu that included a variety of tasty sandwiches and salads.



A little research after my return home revealed that there are a number of these buildings around the country, with several in Ohio.   (Read about them here Twistee Treat).  Ironically, I had happened to spot one in Niagara Falls earlier this year.

Oh, so many wonders on Ohio’s Lincoln Highway!  The return trip included that stop back in Wooster at Tulipan–and also a stolen hour at an amazing bookstore half a block away called Books in Stock (Books In Stock: Used, Rare and Antique Books) that is a dangerous place (you will never get away!)   But there is one more food stop I must mention.

The stretch of the old highway between Wooster and Mansfield is especially beautiful.  Just east of Mansfield is the tiny village of Mifflin.  Its main business is the Mifflin Lakes Trading Post, which is one of the few places you may hear someone order 3 dozen nightcrawlers and two scoops of chocolate ice cream.  The storekeeper does wash thoroughly between orders.  This place has a huge supply of every sort of bait and lure you could possibly imagine, along with hunting gear I’ve never dreamed of–and ice cream.  Good ice cream, never mind the crickets.

Old highways, as I said, are in my blood, and the Lincoln Highway never stops calling me.  There is a stretch of the road in Ohio I’ve not yet seen, from Massillon to East Liverpool (home of all that wonderful pottery).  I’m going back later this month.  You can bet there will be a stop at Tulipan!

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