Harmony to Terre Haute. 16.8 miles/329.1 total
I am leaving from in front of the post office in Harmony, going through Brazil and Seelyville, and will reach the east side of Terre Haute.
It's going to be raining all day. The temperature is about 42 at 10:30 a.m., and is expected to get up to about 50. Same thing for tomorrow.
I see a sign in front of a Pentecostal Church that says, "Get a life. Read John 3:16 KJV." Another reference to the King James Version of the bible. For these folks, none of those new-fangled communist-inspired modern translations to upset the delicate equilibrium of their beliefs. Give them the straight Jacobean stuff. I imagine this paranoia arises because some of the newer English translations--the Revised Standard Version from the early 20th century, and a few more modern ones--have taken some liberties with the cherished wording of the older version. Maybe some versions downplay the whole six day version of the creation, or make it more ambiguous. I heard a guy on the radio on the way down this morning who was preaching on the first chapter of Genesis, and he suggested that God might have faked the evidence, as it were, to present Adam with a fait accompli, a complete world. Or he might have miraculously sped up time to get it all done in six days. The audience applauded when he said that--it seemed to resolve the conflicts between the bible and science in a way that satisfied them. Interesting how the right wing protestant fringe can't lighten up and accept the idea that it's allegorical, or mythological, or whatever. It puts them in the same boat with the Taliban and other Muslim fundamentalists.
A little past Harmony I enter Brazil and go past the Wal-Mart where I have stayed for the last two nights. I appreciate the hospitality. There are a few Wal-Marts that don't allow overnight parking, but most do. In West Lafayette I saw a sign in the parking lot that said trucks and RVs weren't allowed to park overnight by city ordinance. But I didn't see that sign until after I'd stayed there two nights, so I guess they didn't care much.
Brazil is the county seat of Clay County, which is named after Henry Clay, senator from Kentucky and a quadrennial presidential also ran. And it's a good thing he never got elected, too, because he was the most consummately ugly guy in American politics. If he'd become president you'd have had young children frightened to look at history books. Clay was an early Whig, and very popular around here.
Brazil wasn't always the county seat. It replaced Bowling Green back in the 1870s, I believe, after their courthouse burned down (some say by arson). Brazil had incorporated in 1866, and was up and coming. Brazil was named after the country of Brazil, because that seemed like a good idea at the time. Back in the days when they were founding new towns all the time people sometimes came up with fanciful names, and no one much cared. Brazil's main claim to fame is that it is the birthplace of Jimmy Hoffa. And of Orville Redenbacher, a guy who was probably even uglier than Henry Clay. Today Brazil is a city of about 8000, unimpressive and a bit down at the heels.
I go by the Clay County courthouse and decide to go in. It's large, but not as impressive as some. It was built in 1912-14 out of limestone, and it has a nice stained-glass skylight in the center of the rotunda, with a bit of aTiffany flavor to it, and some granite columns and wainscoting and inlaid floors. Security isn't as tight as it is in most courthouses. No metal detectors, just a sign on the door that says not to bring any weapons inside. The honor system. That's okay with me, because I didn't have to empty all the crap out of my pockets into a little plastic dish--camera, telephone, recorder, pocket knife, and whatever else I've picked up on the road.
Now I'm in downtown Brazil, which stretches out for eight or ten blocks on U.S. 40. Mostly old storefronts, a few of which are crumbling and empty. Looks like they're trying to keep the downtown going, but they didn't have a hell of a lot to work with in the first place. I stop in at the Brazil Coffee Company, a little coffee shop, and get something to warm me up on this chilly day, and spend a few minutes reading the Terre Haute Tribune Star.
In front of the Brazil City Hall is a monument to Major Charles B. Hall, a Brazil native, and one of the Tuskegee Airmen. In 1943 he became the first African American to get official credit for shooting down an enemy plane, a German one, over Tunisia. By contrast, the white people I've seen in this town so far don't look like they could fight their way out of a paper bag, much less fly a plane and shoot down another one. I'm always mystified about why "country" people--hillbillies, crackers, red necks, whatever you want to call them--are always so proud to be what they are, even though it's so clearly not the way any rational person would choose to be. Scraggly haired, toothless, undereducated, dissipated-looking people.
I've managed to get this far without talking about the Covered Bridge Festival, which is an event that lasts a couple of weeks in October, during which people come to check out a number of covered bridges in this part of the state, and go to flea markets and antique shops and all that. Several times I've been asked whether I'm here for the festival.
Where U.S. 40 bypasses the western outskirts of Brazil, I stay on Indiana 340, which I think was the original highway, and will rejoin 40 in about 5 miles. I go into the Old Hill Cemetery, in which are buried some of the early Brazilians. John Hendrix and Eli Hendrix, and a bunch of people named Hill. So I guess the cemetery isn't called Old Hill because it's on a hill. I catch myself looking for the grave of Jimmy Hoffa, then I think, "wait a minute, he's buried in New Jersey."
I pass a trailer park with the ambitious name of Northview Country Estates. And it's not even a nice trailer park, if there is such a thing. Just some beat up single wides, set close together in a row. One of them has a tarp on top with about a dozen tires holding it in place.
Past three cemeteries and a high school and a middle school, the houses become better looking and more expensive. This must be where the wealthy of Brazil reside.
Here's a fourth cemetery, the Billtown Cemetery, set high up on a hill. These are some really old graves. Yocum, Mingo, and a Senator James Townsend, 1786-1852. I don't think they're planting anybody here anymore. Don't know where the rest of Billtown is, but it's not here on Indiana 340.
At a little over nine miles I enter Cloverland. Nothing much to say about it. Just a bunch of houses, before 340 merges again with U.S. 40. And just after that I enter Vigo County. Vigo County was named after Francesco Vigo, an Italian who lived in St. Louis, under Spanish control, back in the early days of the U.S. He helped finance Clark, of Lewis and Clark, and did something against the British during the Revolutionary War.
Next comes Seelyville, incorporated 1907. On the west side of Seelyville is a factory where I think they make Kellogg's rice krispie squares. Anyway, the sign says Kellogg's Snacks, and there's a picture of Tony the Tiger and one of those little Snap Krackle Pop dudes.
A billboard greets me, saying, "Five Minutes to Terre Haute....the Home of Clabber Girl Baking Powder." And there's a clock on the billboard. Very retro and cool looking. Which makes me wonder, what is a clabber girl, anyway? Maybe like a milk maid.
So Terre Haute is the home of Clabber Girl. And it's been a center of manufacturing and processing a variety of things. Glass coke bottles were first made here by the Root Glass Company; there were coal mines and breweries and they made acetone here (how would you like to live next door to that factory). Terre Haute was known as a sort of wide open place, where you could gamble and have a good time. It had a thriving red light district. It was also known for political corruption. And unions. It's the birthplace of what became the AFL, and of course, the birthplace of Eugene V. Debs, labor leader and five-time Socialist candidate for president. Finally, Terre Haute is the site of a federal prison where they execute people. Timothy McVeigh was given the needle in Terre Haute in 2001.
Next I come to the Rose-Hulman Institute of Technology, a pretty good sized school, with a nice sculpture out front and a small football stadium, where their team, the Fighting Engineers, plays. Rose was a prominent local businessman, as was Hulman, whose company still makes Clabber Girl baking powder.
The other really famous resident of Terre Haute, besides Eugene V. Debs, was Theodore Dreiser, the novelist. His original last name was Dresser, and he was the younger brother of Paul Dresser, the New York songwriter who wrote what became the Indiana state song, "On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away." Not sure why Dreiser changed his name. Dreiser, like Debs, was a political leftist.
At 15.4 miles I enter Terre Haute city limits. Duke A. Bennett is the mayor. I'm still a few miles from the center of the city, and I won't reach it today, but I'll have more to say about Terre Haute tomorrow, when I'm in the middle of it.
Shortly after the city limits is Highland Lawn Cemetery, a huge place with a stone archway entrance with tall turrets. Lots of gigantic graves of prominent people. I make my way to section 3 to check out the Debs family plot. But my visit is a bust, because I can't find the individual grave of Eugene V. Debs himself. There are his parents, who came from Colmar, Alsace, France, and at least one of his siblings, a sister named Eugenie, and her husband and lots of other Debs relatives and inlaws, but no marker for Eugene that I can see. I spend about fifteen minutes making ever-widening circles around the large Debs family monument, looking for the grave, but finally I have to give up, disappointed, and walk back out of the cemetery, and make my way down into the city to my destination for today, in the parking lot in front of the Rural King store.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Day 22: Beasts of burden
Greencastle to Harmony. 17.4 miles/312.3 total
Monday, October 12, 2009
Leaving from just north of Greencastle at 10:10 a.m. Today's Columbus Day, so nothing much is open for business. These fall holidays, Columbus Day and Veteran's Day, are kind of quiet. No need for fanfare or parades, unless you're in a big city, and too cool for picnicking and public drinking, but governments and schools are closed. I would have taken today off to address the computer issues, but there's no use, since libraries aren't open. So for now, I continue to feel disconnected from the blogosphere, but I'll do what I must do to make this all possible, namely, put one foot in front of the other.
I'm celebrating the Yankees' victory over the Twins last night, to win the ALDS. Also, the fact that the Red Sox got swept. Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of fans, or to a friendlier city. Boston, the team almost every good player wants to leave, and the only team in baseball I truly dislike.
Coming up the hill into Greencastle, one of the first things I see is the Monon Restaurant. It has its own caboose, on an unused siding. I notice they don't use cabooses any more. Wonder why not?
Greencastle, other than being the seat of Putnam County, probably wouldn't be much if it weren't for DePauw University. It's an older place, laid out in 1821 by Ephraim Dukes, who named it for Greencastle, Pennsylvania, where he came from. Population is currently a little under 10,000.
There's a square of streets surrounding the courthouse, an impressive but not fancy limestone building, dating from about the early 20th century. Of course it's closed today so I can't visit. At one corner there's a WWII memorial with a V-shaped pedestal holding up a German V-1 bomber, the unmanned buzz bomb. On another corner of the courthouse is the WWI monument, of a bronze doughboy, and the names of 22 Putnam Countyites who died in that war.
I take a jog about three blocks east to walk through the campus of DePauw University. It's a liberal arts school of about 2,400, originally Methodist and called Indiana Asbury University. Nice-looking bunch of buildings, mostly from the second half of the 20th century. The university was founded in 1837, and the centerpiece of the campus is a huge, high Victorian building, built in 1871, called East College.
At the southeast edge of the campus I reconnect with Jackson Street, which will take me southeast out of Greencastle in the direction of the village of Manhattan. I pass signs for the Prindle Institute for Ethics and The Bartlett Reflection Center. These are affiliated with DePauw, the former being for studying various ethical issues, and the latter for meditation, yoga, reflection, and prayer (which, as we know, are essential to solving ethical dilemmas).
This road is extremely narrow, with absolutely no shoulder, but the good news is that there is very little traffic. I cross the railroad tracks, and this is the last time I will encounter what used to be the Monon Railroad line. So long. Today's walk will take me over the 300 mile mark. I don't know if that's significant, except that it's a lot of miles.
I go through Limedale, not much to speak of. I must not be carrying the aura of my raccoon spirit animal, because as I walk by, a goat bleats at me and comes to greet me. Then on the other side of the road a trio of horses walk toward the fence, maybe expecting a handout. As I'm watching the horses, two young deer dart across the back of the pasture, oblivious to me, perhaps smelling only the horses. Their mother follows them out of the woods. Then another three horses at another place. One of them comes and sticks its nose over the fence, to be petted. I notice that it is missing its right eye. Just an empty socket.
It occurs to me that the horse is one domesticated animal for which there is practically no use at all in the U.S. in the 21st century. We don't need them as beasts of burden, unless we're Amish or something. For the most part, they're kept for completely frivolous reasons--to be ridden by well-to-do women and girls, mostly. Compared to cattle, for instance, they are useless to humans, and there shouldn't be as many of them as there are, except maybe in the wild. If there were absolutely no domestic horses, it would make no difference to most of us in this country, except when it came time to go to the races and bet on them, another superfluous, and rather cruel, pastime. If horses were prone to putting on more bulk or giving more milk, they might have caught on as a food animal. (The Mongolians milk their horses, but they also use them for just about everything else you can think of.) They're so expensive to maintain, it's not worth keeping them for meat or leather. Aside from that, there's nothing to do but sit astride their backs and whack them with riding crops, which seems rather decadent.
Well, I'm entering midtown Manhattan, at about 9 miles. Quite a bit less populated than its namesake in New York. I'd say you could subtract 100 from the population of the larger Manhattan to arrive at the difference. Here in this Manhattan, one of the prominent buildings is not the Empire State Building, but the Victory Baptist Church. "Independent, Fundamental, Separated, KJV Only." The initials, of course, refer to the King James Version of the bible, rendered in 1611. As all true Christians know, God himself actually wrote the bible in the King James Version.
It's here in Manhattan that I turn right, heading west on U.S. 40, which is to carry me to Harmony and beyond. U.S. 40 is more like I thought 421 and 231 would be, a four-lane divided highway. Narrow shoulders, but plenty of room for oncoming cars and trucks to get over into the inside lane when they pass by.
I'm going pretty much due west, for the first time since I went from Grand Rapids to Holland, back in Michigan. And my calves and hamstrings tell me that I'm going steadily uphill. Guess that's how Terre Haute got its name. I'm heading for higher ground.
I pass by Reelsville, a town with a water tower and a fire department and everything. But I won't go in, since it's a bit off of the highway.
One of the phenomena I encounter fairly often on the roadside is the single child's shoe, usually from a kid between one and three years old, judging from the sizes. Never a pair, always only one. Just now I see a girl's patent leather Mary Jane. My theory is that these are physics experiments conducted by children of that age, who are sitting in their car seats. What happens when you hold a shoe in your hand, hang it out the window, and then sort of let go of it? It disappears! It doesn't come back. And when you get home or to grandma's, your parents look high and low for it, and there's much shouting and angst, but the shoe isn't there. It's out on the highway. And by then you can't remember what you did with it.
I come to another historical marker. Have I mentioned that I love historical markers? Probably so. This one says that point was the line of the Ten O'Clock Treaty (also known as the Treaty of Fort Wayne). In 1809 William Henry Harrison, as territorial governor, obtained from the Potowatomie, Delaware, and Miami tribes almost three million acres of land. The Shawnees were left out of this treaty, and this contributed to the enmity between them and the Americans. Tecumseh was a Shawnee, and we know the rest of that story. This treaty was signed a couple of years before the Battle of Tippecanoe.
So Bill Harrison was a busy guy, taking land from the Indians, fighting the Indians, driving the Indians out--generally doing what his country expected him to do with respect to the Indians.
I leave Putnam County and enter Clay County at about 14 miles. I stop in at an antique mall for about half an hour and pick up a couple of knives and a straight razor. And a couple of DVDs--one with several episodes of the Ozzie and Harriet Show. My TV reception is so iffy that I'm always on the lookout for inexpensive DVDs.
I pass the Great Dane semi trailer factory, a place that looks like it's doing fairly well. At the south end stands a large brick Italianate mansion, empty and ruined, on the grounds of the factory. Beautiful arched windows on the first and second stories, and a row of smaller windows just under the eaves, where I suppose the servants lived. The building is just there, surrounded by brand new trailers.
Finally I reach the town of Harmony, my destination for the day, where I am parked in the parking lot of the post office, closed for the holiday. This Harmony is not to be confused with the Indiana town of New Harmony, in the far south of the state, which was originally named Harmony, and was set up as a utopian commune. Regardless, the motor home is pretty utopian to my weary bones.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Leaving from just north of Greencastle at 10:10 a.m. Today's Columbus Day, so nothing much is open for business. These fall holidays, Columbus Day and Veteran's Day, are kind of quiet. No need for fanfare or parades, unless you're in a big city, and too cool for picnicking and public drinking, but governments and schools are closed. I would have taken today off to address the computer issues, but there's no use, since libraries aren't open. So for now, I continue to feel disconnected from the blogosphere, but I'll do what I must do to make this all possible, namely, put one foot in front of the other.
I'm celebrating the Yankees' victory over the Twins last night, to win the ALDS. Also, the fact that the Red Sox got swept. Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of fans, or to a friendlier city. Boston, the team almost every good player wants to leave, and the only team in baseball I truly dislike.
Coming up the hill into Greencastle, one of the first things I see is the Monon Restaurant. It has its own caboose, on an unused siding. I notice they don't use cabooses any more. Wonder why not?
Greencastle, other than being the seat of Putnam County, probably wouldn't be much if it weren't for DePauw University. It's an older place, laid out in 1821 by Ephraim Dukes, who named it for Greencastle, Pennsylvania, where he came from. Population is currently a little under 10,000.
There's a square of streets surrounding the courthouse, an impressive but not fancy limestone building, dating from about the early 20th century. Of course it's closed today so I can't visit. At one corner there's a WWII memorial with a V-shaped pedestal holding up a German V-1 bomber, the unmanned buzz bomb. On another corner of the courthouse is the WWI monument, of a bronze doughboy, and the names of 22 Putnam Countyites who died in that war.
I take a jog about three blocks east to walk through the campus of DePauw University. It's a liberal arts school of about 2,400, originally Methodist and called Indiana Asbury University. Nice-looking bunch of buildings, mostly from the second half of the 20th century. The university was founded in 1837, and the centerpiece of the campus is a huge, high Victorian building, built in 1871, called East College.
At the southeast edge of the campus I reconnect with Jackson Street, which will take me southeast out of Greencastle in the direction of the village of Manhattan. I pass signs for the Prindle Institute for Ethics and The Bartlett Reflection Center. These are affiliated with DePauw, the former being for studying various ethical issues, and the latter for meditation, yoga, reflection, and prayer (which, as we know, are essential to solving ethical dilemmas).
This road is extremely narrow, with absolutely no shoulder, but the good news is that there is very little traffic. I cross the railroad tracks, and this is the last time I will encounter what used to be the Monon Railroad line. So long. Today's walk will take me over the 300 mile mark. I don't know if that's significant, except that it's a lot of miles.
I go through Limedale, not much to speak of. I must not be carrying the aura of my raccoon spirit animal, because as I walk by, a goat bleats at me and comes to greet me. Then on the other side of the road a trio of horses walk toward the fence, maybe expecting a handout. As I'm watching the horses, two young deer dart across the back of the pasture, oblivious to me, perhaps smelling only the horses. Their mother follows them out of the woods. Then another three horses at another place. One of them comes and sticks its nose over the fence, to be petted. I notice that it is missing its right eye. Just an empty socket.
It occurs to me that the horse is one domesticated animal for which there is practically no use at all in the U.S. in the 21st century. We don't need them as beasts of burden, unless we're Amish or something. For the most part, they're kept for completely frivolous reasons--to be ridden by well-to-do women and girls, mostly. Compared to cattle, for instance, they are useless to humans, and there shouldn't be as many of them as there are, except maybe in the wild. If there were absolutely no domestic horses, it would make no difference to most of us in this country, except when it came time to go to the races and bet on them, another superfluous, and rather cruel, pastime. If horses were prone to putting on more bulk or giving more milk, they might have caught on as a food animal. (The Mongolians milk their horses, but they also use them for just about everything else you can think of.) They're so expensive to maintain, it's not worth keeping them for meat or leather. Aside from that, there's nothing to do but sit astride their backs and whack them with riding crops, which seems rather decadent.
Well, I'm entering midtown Manhattan, at about 9 miles. Quite a bit less populated than its namesake in New York. I'd say you could subtract 100 from the population of the larger Manhattan to arrive at the difference. Here in this Manhattan, one of the prominent buildings is not the Empire State Building, but the Victory Baptist Church. "Independent, Fundamental, Separated, KJV Only." The initials, of course, refer to the King James Version of the bible, rendered in 1611. As all true Christians know, God himself actually wrote the bible in the King James Version.
It's here in Manhattan that I turn right, heading west on U.S. 40, which is to carry me to Harmony and beyond. U.S. 40 is more like I thought 421 and 231 would be, a four-lane divided highway. Narrow shoulders, but plenty of room for oncoming cars and trucks to get over into the inside lane when they pass by.
I'm going pretty much due west, for the first time since I went from Grand Rapids to Holland, back in Michigan. And my calves and hamstrings tell me that I'm going steadily uphill. Guess that's how Terre Haute got its name. I'm heading for higher ground.
I pass by Reelsville, a town with a water tower and a fire department and everything. But I won't go in, since it's a bit off of the highway.
One of the phenomena I encounter fairly often on the roadside is the single child's shoe, usually from a kid between one and three years old, judging from the sizes. Never a pair, always only one. Just now I see a girl's patent leather Mary Jane. My theory is that these are physics experiments conducted by children of that age, who are sitting in their car seats. What happens when you hold a shoe in your hand, hang it out the window, and then sort of let go of it? It disappears! It doesn't come back. And when you get home or to grandma's, your parents look high and low for it, and there's much shouting and angst, but the shoe isn't there. It's out on the highway. And by then you can't remember what you did with it.
I come to another historical marker. Have I mentioned that I love historical markers? Probably so. This one says that point was the line of the Ten O'Clock Treaty (also known as the Treaty of Fort Wayne). In 1809 William Henry Harrison, as territorial governor, obtained from the Potowatomie, Delaware, and Miami tribes almost three million acres of land. The Shawnees were left out of this treaty, and this contributed to the enmity between them and the Americans. Tecumseh was a Shawnee, and we know the rest of that story. This treaty was signed a couple of years before the Battle of Tippecanoe.
So Bill Harrison was a busy guy, taking land from the Indians, fighting the Indians, driving the Indians out--generally doing what his country expected him to do with respect to the Indians.
I leave Putnam County and enter Clay County at about 14 miles. I stop in at an antique mall for about half an hour and pick up a couple of knives and a straight razor. And a couple of DVDs--one with several episodes of the Ozzie and Harriet Show. My TV reception is so iffy that I'm always on the lookout for inexpensive DVDs.
I pass the Great Dane semi trailer factory, a place that looks like it's doing fairly well. At the south end stands a large brick Italianate mansion, empty and ruined, on the grounds of the factory. Beautiful arched windows on the first and second stories, and a row of smaller windows just under the eaves, where I suppose the servants lived. The building is just there, surrounded by brand new trailers.
Finally I reach the town of Harmony, my destination for the day, where I am parked in the parking lot of the post office, closed for the holiday. This Harmony is not to be confused with the Indiana town of New Harmony, in the far south of the state, which was originally named Harmony, and was set up as a utopian commune. Regardless, the motor home is pretty utopian to my weary bones.
Day 21: An extra bite of the apple
Parkersburg to Greencastle. 15.7 miles/294.9 total
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Today I'm headed for a spot just north of Greencastle, across from the Putnam County Fairgrounds. Another partly cloudy day in the 50s. A good day for walking. Hell, what am I saying? Every day is a good day for walking.
There's not much to Parkersburg. A private biker club on one corner, a collection of junked cars on another, and a collection of other miscellaneous junk next to that. But there is a historical marker. It says that the village of Chief Peter Cornstalk was near here. He was a Miami Indian, who lived in this area around 1800. You've got to wonder how a Miami Indian gets a name like Peter Cornstalk. The Cornstalk part I guess I understand, but what about Peter? Obviously given to him by the white man, but what was the point? Not like he was providing tech support from Mumbai, and needed to give himself some American-sounding name, like Larry. Hi, my name is Peter, and I'll be your Indian. How may I help you?
Today's walk will be 100% rural, and through mere points on the map. Parkersburg does at least have green and white signs at both ends, about two blocks apart. Here the terrain is a little hilly and the road twists, providing some relief from seeing your destination three miles ahead, and wondering if you're ever going to get there.
I'm hoping Greencastle will be big enough to have a Best Buy or similar place where they work on computers. Walking without writing about it afterwards seems so, well, pedestrian. I'll have to try to get the three blog posts for yesterday, today, and tomorrow done at a library on Tuesday. That's not the way I like to do it, and I imagine it's not the way you like to read them, either, but it'll have to do for now.
A little south of Parkersburg I leave Montgomery County and enter Putnam County. I continue to find money on the side of the road--nothing like the big take I had last week, but a penny here and a dime there. My total for Indiana so far stands at $1.78. Every day holds something a little new and different, within the confines of the task at hand.
I come to a small compound, with a couple of acres and two trailers and a pole barn, around which they have fashioned a fence consisting of about 30 bicycles lined up, one in front of the other, and spray painted white. Mostly 20 inch bikes with the old banana seats. From the condition of the premises, I would venture to say that the majority of these bikes were lying around the yard at one time, and someone hit on this novel way to use them.
The next little place I come to is called Raccoon. Just a crossroads and some ratty houses. But since this town bears the name of my spirit animal I walk through it with a certain amount of reverence. Shortly thereafter, I cross the Raccoon River.
Litter. I must say that if it weren't for litter these roadsides would be a lot less interesting. Stuff thrown out, and other debris that falls or breaks off of vehicles, not to mention the animal casualties of the highway. Oscar Wilde said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." I'll paraphrase that and say, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are checking out the neat stuff in the gutter."
A dozen beef cattle eye me warily, and hurry away from the fence when they see me coming. Ordinarily I don't attract much attention from domestic animals, but today maybe they sense the aura of the raccoon spirit about me, and feel that I'm a threat to the barnyard. If not to them, then to other, smaller denizens. Next to and behind the cattle pasture, Woody's Performance Center stretches over a dozen acres, full of wrecked cars. Out in a pasture full of sheep stands a lone llama, looking at me with its long ears up. The sheep seem wary (as wary as sheep are capable of being), and in the distance a dog barks as I pass.
Another cross to mark the death of someone on the highway. It occurs to me that if we all got into the habit of marking the spots where people died in addition to the places where they're buried, it would become inconvenient. I can see myself putting up crosses in the rooms in the nursing unit where my parents both died. That would be offputting to the current residents. I guess part of the roadside cross thing is to warn motorists to be careful and all, but it still seems as if the loved ones of these dead are trying to have a bit too much in the way of commemoration. Then again, maybe that's what it's all about--getting that extra bite of the apple.
At about 6 miles I come to Fincastle, which has kind of an Irish sound to it. In the middle of the block or so that is Fincastle stands what used to be a Universalist Church, built in 1871, which looks like it has been converted into a private home. I say that because there are a couple of cars parked haphazardly on the grass, some flower boxes in front, and also a sign that says, "Beware of Dog." Not the kind of thing you usually see at a church, unless they're referring to the Hound of Heaven.
Interesting that there should have been a Universalist congregation way out here in Nowhere, Indiana. The Universalists got their start in the northeast, and merged more recently with the Unitarians. There are, or have been, Christian Universalists, whose beliefs reflect an ancient (and relatively heretical, from the point of view of orthodox Christianity) belief that all souls will be saved by and reconciled to Christ at some point. In other words, no permanent hell, no need for personal redemption. Well, this particular church is no more, and such outlandish creeds don't wear well out here in the fundamentalist hills.
Places like Fincastle and Raccoon and Parkersburg don't promise the person who enters them any progress, prosperity, or commerce. They just announce what they are. And yet they endure, and even have little signs made for them, by doing absolutely nothing.
An SUV passes me, going north, with a license plate that reads, "MONON 1." Hmmm. Maybe the mayor of Monon?
I pass an elk farm. Three or four elk sit there doing nothing, which seems like the thing to do around here. Just down from there is the intersection of U.S. 231 and U.S. 36. It's not a town on the map, just a crossroads, but it has a lot more in the way of activity than the named places do. On one corner they're selling trailers, on another prefabricated outbuildings, and on a third mobile homes. But the fourth corner is the busiest: there's a dairy bar and a produce place, and in a lot right by the road itinerant vendors sell saddles and junk and barbecued pork. Maybe they should give this place a name.
One thing I've noticed in the past few days is that the men around here seem to talk like Pat Buttram, the guy who played Mr. Haney on Green Acres. Sort of high and twangy and with a cracking voice. Well, keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.
Next I come to a buffalo farm, but the buffalo must be somewhere else. Then I arrive at the community of Brick Chapel. No need to puzzle on the origin of this name. There's an old brick Methodist Church, adjacent to which is a large cemetery. I take a stroll through it. Pierce, Roberts, Wilson, Darling, Reeves, and one older tombstone bearing the name Earp. The latter is for William and Sarah, born in the early 1800s. Wonder if they're any relation to Wyatt Earp?
As I round the bend on 231 and cross Big Walnut Creek I know that I'm almost at the end. It's been a quick and fairly painless day.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Today I'm headed for a spot just north of Greencastle, across from the Putnam County Fairgrounds. Another partly cloudy day in the 50s. A good day for walking. Hell, what am I saying? Every day is a good day for walking.
There's not much to Parkersburg. A private biker club on one corner, a collection of junked cars on another, and a collection of other miscellaneous junk next to that. But there is a historical marker. It says that the village of Chief Peter Cornstalk was near here. He was a Miami Indian, who lived in this area around 1800. You've got to wonder how a Miami Indian gets a name like Peter Cornstalk. The Cornstalk part I guess I understand, but what about Peter? Obviously given to him by the white man, but what was the point? Not like he was providing tech support from Mumbai, and needed to give himself some American-sounding name, like Larry. Hi, my name is Peter, and I'll be your Indian. How may I help you?
Today's walk will be 100% rural, and through mere points on the map. Parkersburg does at least have green and white signs at both ends, about two blocks apart. Here the terrain is a little hilly and the road twists, providing some relief from seeing your destination three miles ahead, and wondering if you're ever going to get there.
I'm hoping Greencastle will be big enough to have a Best Buy or similar place where they work on computers. Walking without writing about it afterwards seems so, well, pedestrian. I'll have to try to get the three blog posts for yesterday, today, and tomorrow done at a library on Tuesday. That's not the way I like to do it, and I imagine it's not the way you like to read them, either, but it'll have to do for now.
A little south of Parkersburg I leave Montgomery County and enter Putnam County. I continue to find money on the side of the road--nothing like the big take I had last week, but a penny here and a dime there. My total for Indiana so far stands at $1.78. Every day holds something a little new and different, within the confines of the task at hand.
I come to a small compound, with a couple of acres and two trailers and a pole barn, around which they have fashioned a fence consisting of about 30 bicycles lined up, one in front of the other, and spray painted white. Mostly 20 inch bikes with the old banana seats. From the condition of the premises, I would venture to say that the majority of these bikes were lying around the yard at one time, and someone hit on this novel way to use them.
The next little place I come to is called Raccoon. Just a crossroads and some ratty houses. But since this town bears the name of my spirit animal I walk through it with a certain amount of reverence. Shortly thereafter, I cross the Raccoon River.
Litter. I must say that if it weren't for litter these roadsides would be a lot less interesting. Stuff thrown out, and other debris that falls or breaks off of vehicles, not to mention the animal casualties of the highway. Oscar Wilde said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." I'll paraphrase that and say, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are checking out the neat stuff in the gutter."
A dozen beef cattle eye me warily, and hurry away from the fence when they see me coming. Ordinarily I don't attract much attention from domestic animals, but today maybe they sense the aura of the raccoon spirit about me, and feel that I'm a threat to the barnyard. If not to them, then to other, smaller denizens. Next to and behind the cattle pasture, Woody's Performance Center stretches over a dozen acres, full of wrecked cars. Out in a pasture full of sheep stands a lone llama, looking at me with its long ears up. The sheep seem wary (as wary as sheep are capable of being), and in the distance a dog barks as I pass.
Another cross to mark the death of someone on the highway. It occurs to me that if we all got into the habit of marking the spots where people died in addition to the places where they're buried, it would become inconvenient. I can see myself putting up crosses in the rooms in the nursing unit where my parents both died. That would be offputting to the current residents. I guess part of the roadside cross thing is to warn motorists to be careful and all, but it still seems as if the loved ones of these dead are trying to have a bit too much in the way of commemoration. Then again, maybe that's what it's all about--getting that extra bite of the apple.
At about 6 miles I come to Fincastle, which has kind of an Irish sound to it. In the middle of the block or so that is Fincastle stands what used to be a Universalist Church, built in 1871, which looks like it has been converted into a private home. I say that because there are a couple of cars parked haphazardly on the grass, some flower boxes in front, and also a sign that says, "Beware of Dog." Not the kind of thing you usually see at a church, unless they're referring to the Hound of Heaven.
Interesting that there should have been a Universalist congregation way out here in Nowhere, Indiana. The Universalists got their start in the northeast, and merged more recently with the Unitarians. There are, or have been, Christian Universalists, whose beliefs reflect an ancient (and relatively heretical, from the point of view of orthodox Christianity) belief that all souls will be saved by and reconciled to Christ at some point. In other words, no permanent hell, no need for personal redemption. Well, this particular church is no more, and such outlandish creeds don't wear well out here in the fundamentalist hills.
Places like Fincastle and Raccoon and Parkersburg don't promise the person who enters them any progress, prosperity, or commerce. They just announce what they are. And yet they endure, and even have little signs made for them, by doing absolutely nothing.
An SUV passes me, going north, with a license plate that reads, "MONON 1." Hmmm. Maybe the mayor of Monon?
I pass an elk farm. Three or four elk sit there doing nothing, which seems like the thing to do around here. Just down from there is the intersection of U.S. 231 and U.S. 36. It's not a town on the map, just a crossroads, but it has a lot more in the way of activity than the named places do. On one corner they're selling trailers, on another prefabricated outbuildings, and on a third mobile homes. But the fourth corner is the busiest: there's a dairy bar and a produce place, and in a lot right by the road itinerant vendors sell saddles and junk and barbecued pork. Maybe they should give this place a name.
One thing I've noticed in the past few days is that the men around here seem to talk like Pat Buttram, the guy who played Mr. Haney on Green Acres. Sort of high and twangy and with a cracking voice. Well, keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.
Next I come to a buffalo farm, but the buffalo must be somewhere else. Then I arrive at the community of Brick Chapel. No need to puzzle on the origin of this name. There's an old brick Methodist Church, adjacent to which is a large cemetery. I take a stroll through it. Pierce, Roberts, Wilson, Darling, Reeves, and one older tombstone bearing the name Earp. The latter is for William and Sarah, born in the early 1800s. Wonder if they're any relation to Wyatt Earp?
As I round the bend on 231 and cross Big Walnut Creek I know that I'm almost at the end. It's been a quick and fairly painless day.
Day 20: The kind your mother wears
Crawfordsville to Parkersburg. 14.3 miles/279.2 total
Saturday, October 10, 2009
At 11:30 a.m., I'm leaving from McDonald's parking lot at the intersection of I-74 and U.S. 231 just north of Crawfordsville, headed for the village of Parkersburg. Getting a late start. The reason for that is that I drove back down here last night from Michigan, and slept in a little this morning. Also, it just worked out that way. I was trying to divide the distance between Crawfordsville and Greencastle, the next city. There was a spot just north of Parkersburg where I could park the motor home. This is a problem sometimes out in the country--finding a place to park the truckster and trailer for the day. The roads are so narrow that often there's barely anyplace to turn around, much less to park.
It's a beautiful day, with clear blue sky and temps in the high 50s. But there's a storm cloud on the horizon, figuratively speaking. I went to look at my computer this morning and it wouldn't let me open it. Got an error message. So I fear the worst--that the hard drive may be fried. What I need is access to a computer, and that means a library. And public libraries are few and far between, and this is a weekend and Monday is a holiday. So I guess I won't be able to update the blog until Tuesday. In the meantime, I'll just do what I came here to do, which is to walk, although the blogging is becoming as integral a part of the process as the walking. On Tuesday I should be in or near Terre Haute, where I can get the computer looked at and go to a library.
So in case you've been wondering where the blogs are, that's the explanation.
Be that as it may, very soon into this walk I am entering the northern outskirts of Crawfordsville, which is the home of Wabash College, a liberal arts college for men. An all male college is an anomaly these days, and of somewhat questionable utility, if ever it had any. Crawfordsville is a city of about 17,000, pretty well self-contained.
I'm celebrating the Yankees' win over the Twins last night, 4-3 in the 11th inning. Exciting, and one they needed, to take full advantage of being at home.
Today I am trying out new footwear. This is an experiment. A friend suggested I try army boots, and since I'm always comparing my walking to that done by foot soldiers, I though I might give it a go. So I went to a surplus store and bought a pair of spiffy buff suede modern desert warfare boots, with flexible ankles and high tops, and steel toes. So here goes. And if they don't work out for long-distance walking I've still got a sturdy pair of boots for shoveling snow, or whatever.
Past a hydroelectric plant on a dam in the Wabash River, the first point of interest I come to is the old Montgomery County Jail, from the 1880s, which was the first rotary jail built in the U.S., and one of only nine known to have existed. It was used until 1973. It has a circular cellblock with 16 wedge-shaped cells on a two-story turntable on a central shaft. It's a museum now. It was used until 1973, but the rotary crank was immobilized in the 1930s, since it was considered to be a hazard to the prisoners. (You could lose an arm or leg if you were hanging out of the bars when the thing was turning.)
Well, I just took the tour of the jail, and it is really a fascinating place. The front part is a Victorian residence, which housed the sheriffs all the way into the 1980s. Connected to the back of the house is an octagonal building, which houses the round jail. The two tiers of pie-shaped cells could house up to 32 prisoners, with doubling up. The jailer would turn the crank to access each individual cell from a central point. Each wedge-cell is about seven feet wide at the front, tapering to two feet or so. At the back of the wedges, by the center shaft, were toilets that emptied into the shaft. All in all, a strange but interesting idea.
Crawfordsville also was the home of Lew Wallace, the Civil War general who, in 1880, wrote Ben-Hur. There's a museum at his residence here, which I tour. Wallace was quite a guy, pretty much what you'd call a Renaissance man. He first became a lawyer, then during the Civil War was the youngest major general (except, I assume, for brevet promotions), at the age of about 34, I think. During the war he fought a battle in Virginia at a place called Romney, and I'm betting that the town north of here was named after his victory there. After the war he was second-in-command at the trials of the conspirators in the Lincoln assassination, and also presided over the trial of General Henry Wirz, the Confederate commandant of the infamous Andersonville prisoner-of-war camp, leading to Wirz's conviction and execution. (They should have done that to a lot more Confederates, especially Lee and Davis.)
In the 1870s he became governor of the New Mexico territory, where he personally wrote out and signed the death warrant of Billy the Kid, of all things. It was there he finished up Ben-Hur, which was among several historical novels he wrote, and was the best-selling American novel of the 19th century. Then he became ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, and traveled extensively abroad in the area of the Mediterranean. In addition, he painted, invented a few things, and in later life became a violin maker.
Some time after his fame from Ben-Hur, he built a large study out in his spacious backyard, which I toured. The tour guide was a woman named Kara Edie, who is from Westville, one of the towns I visited shortly after I entered Indiana. We had a good time talking about all those towns and villages along 421 and the old Monon Railroad line. She's a trustee of the Linden library, where I found that great photo. And, I noticed, she has joined as a reader of this blog. Welcome aboard.
Crawfordsville also is the home town of Henry S. Lane, one of the founders of the Republican Party.
After having dawdled in Crawfordsville for a couple of hours, I have to step it up here if I want to make it back to the motor home before sunset.
I stop in the large municipal cemetery to check out some of the early Crawfordsvilleites. English names, mostly--Yount, Bird, Bullock, Brady. Minerva Whittaker. Thousands of them, all dead.
For the rest of the way the road promises to be narrow and rural. At about 6 miles into the walk, I have to say that the army boot experiment has been mostly a failure. I say "mostly" only because they are nice boots, with plenty of support for the foot. But the soles are too hard for me, and I'm developing blisters and pressure spots in places I haven't had to worry about until now. They're just too rigid--like the army itself, I guess. By the way, these are the same army boots your mother wears.
A turkey vulture cruises low and slowly, in big circles, against the clear pale blue sky, head hanging down. Waiting for me? Sorry, I'm going to keep moving.
At a road called 510S, the map says there's supposed to be a place called North Union.
There's a collection of six or eight houses, but that's about it, except for some indentations in the ground that look like maybe a railroad line might have gone through here, diagonally to the road, many years ago.
Another little cluster of farmhouses, within a few hundred yards of each other is, according to the map, the village of Lapland.
At 7:00 p.m. I finally drag into the motor home.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
At 11:30 a.m., I'm leaving from McDonald's parking lot at the intersection of I-74 and U.S. 231 just north of Crawfordsville, headed for the village of Parkersburg. Getting a late start. The reason for that is that I drove back down here last night from Michigan, and slept in a little this morning. Also, it just worked out that way. I was trying to divide the distance between Crawfordsville and Greencastle, the next city. There was a spot just north of Parkersburg where I could park the motor home. This is a problem sometimes out in the country--finding a place to park the truckster and trailer for the day. The roads are so narrow that often there's barely anyplace to turn around, much less to park.
It's a beautiful day, with clear blue sky and temps in the high 50s. But there's a storm cloud on the horizon, figuratively speaking. I went to look at my computer this morning and it wouldn't let me open it. Got an error message. So I fear the worst--that the hard drive may be fried. What I need is access to a computer, and that means a library. And public libraries are few and far between, and this is a weekend and Monday is a holiday. So I guess I won't be able to update the blog until Tuesday. In the meantime, I'll just do what I came here to do, which is to walk, although the blogging is becoming as integral a part of the process as the walking. On Tuesday I should be in or near Terre Haute, where I can get the computer looked at and go to a library.
So in case you've been wondering where the blogs are, that's the explanation.
Be that as it may, very soon into this walk I am entering the northern outskirts of Crawfordsville, which is the home of Wabash College, a liberal arts college for men. An all male college is an anomaly these days, and of somewhat questionable utility, if ever it had any. Crawfordsville is a city of about 17,000, pretty well self-contained.
I'm celebrating the Yankees' win over the Twins last night, 4-3 in the 11th inning. Exciting, and one they needed, to take full advantage of being at home.
Today I am trying out new footwear. This is an experiment. A friend suggested I try army boots, and since I'm always comparing my walking to that done by foot soldiers, I though I might give it a go. So I went to a surplus store and bought a pair of spiffy buff suede modern desert warfare boots, with flexible ankles and high tops, and steel toes. So here goes. And if they don't work out for long-distance walking I've still got a sturdy pair of boots for shoveling snow, or whatever.
Past a hydroelectric plant on a dam in the Wabash River, the first point of interest I come to is the old Montgomery County Jail, from the 1880s, which was the first rotary jail built in the U.S., and one of only nine known to have existed. It was used until 1973. It has a circular cellblock with 16 wedge-shaped cells on a two-story turntable on a central shaft. It's a museum now. It was used until 1973, but the rotary crank was immobilized in the 1930s, since it was considered to be a hazard to the prisoners. (You could lose an arm or leg if you were hanging out of the bars when the thing was turning.)
Well, I just took the tour of the jail, and it is really a fascinating place. The front part is a Victorian residence, which housed the sheriffs all the way into the 1980s. Connected to the back of the house is an octagonal building, which houses the round jail. The two tiers of pie-shaped cells could house up to 32 prisoners, with doubling up. The jailer would turn the crank to access each individual cell from a central point. Each wedge-cell is about seven feet wide at the front, tapering to two feet or so. At the back of the wedges, by the center shaft, were toilets that emptied into the shaft. All in all, a strange but interesting idea.
Crawfordsville also was the home of Lew Wallace, the Civil War general who, in 1880, wrote Ben-Hur. There's a museum at his residence here, which I tour. Wallace was quite a guy, pretty much what you'd call a Renaissance man. He first became a lawyer, then during the Civil War was the youngest major general (except, I assume, for brevet promotions), at the age of about 34, I think. During the war he fought a battle in Virginia at a place called Romney, and I'm betting that the town north of here was named after his victory there. After the war he was second-in-command at the trials of the conspirators in the Lincoln assassination, and also presided over the trial of General Henry Wirz, the Confederate commandant of the infamous Andersonville prisoner-of-war camp, leading to Wirz's conviction and execution. (They should have done that to a lot more Confederates, especially Lee and Davis.)
In the 1870s he became governor of the New Mexico territory, where he personally wrote out and signed the death warrant of Billy the Kid, of all things. It was there he finished up Ben-Hur, which was among several historical novels he wrote, and was the best-selling American novel of the 19th century. Then he became ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, and traveled extensively abroad in the area of the Mediterranean. In addition, he painted, invented a few things, and in later life became a violin maker.
Some time after his fame from Ben-Hur, he built a large study out in his spacious backyard, which I toured. The tour guide was a woman named Kara Edie, who is from Westville, one of the towns I visited shortly after I entered Indiana. We had a good time talking about all those towns and villages along 421 and the old Monon Railroad line. She's a trustee of the Linden library, where I found that great photo. And, I noticed, she has joined as a reader of this blog. Welcome aboard.
Crawfordsville also is the home town of Henry S. Lane, one of the founders of the Republican Party.
After having dawdled in Crawfordsville for a couple of hours, I have to step it up here if I want to make it back to the motor home before sunset.
I stop in the large municipal cemetery to check out some of the early Crawfordsvilleites. English names, mostly--Yount, Bird, Bullock, Brady. Minerva Whittaker. Thousands of them, all dead.
For the rest of the way the road promises to be narrow and rural. At about 6 miles into the walk, I have to say that the army boot experiment has been mostly a failure. I say "mostly" only because they are nice boots, with plenty of support for the foot. But the soles are too hard for me, and I'm developing blisters and pressure spots in places I haven't had to worry about until now. They're just too rigid--like the army itself, I guess. By the way, these are the same army boots your mother wears.
A turkey vulture cruises low and slowly, in big circles, against the clear pale blue sky, head hanging down. Waiting for me? Sorry, I'm going to keep moving.
At a road called 510S, the map says there's supposed to be a place called North Union.
There's a collection of six or eight houses, but that's about it, except for some indentations in the ground that look like maybe a railroad line might have gone through here, diagonally to the road, many years ago.
Another little cluster of farmhouses, within a few hundred yards of each other is, according to the map, the village of Lapland.
At 7:00 p.m. I finally drag into the motor home.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Progress report: Eureka
All day long I'm out there walking, ruminating on life's mysteries, and still the simplest ideas elude me. At the beginning of the walk, a friend told me how to link to Google maps, where I could customize a map with lines showing my progress. The problem was that I couldn't transfer the map onto the blog, although I'm sure it's possible. On Wednesday it suddenly struck me, when I was looking at the photograph I'd taken of the photograph of the Ladies of Linden, that I don't need to send the map to the blog. I can just snap a picture of the computer screen with the map on it, the same as I've been doing with the crude roadmaps on which I draw the lines with magic marker.
Incidentally, Archimedes, the ancient Greek pioneer of math and physics, was said to have been getting into the bathtub one day when he noticed that his body displaced the water, making it rise. This helped him to suddenly understand something having to do with density. So he got out of the tub and ran around the town naked, yelling "Eureka!" which means "I have found it." Naturally people didn't know what he thought he had found, although they knew it wasn't his toga.
With Linden's own history of their men "taking a walk on the wild side," so to speak, I thought better of running around naked and yelling, lest the locals think their village was becoming a mecca for kinkiness. Or they might have thought I was a crazed vacuum cleaner salesman without a peddler's permit.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Day 19: Paved with gold
South Raub to north of Crawfordsville. 16 miles/264.9 total
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
It’s 10:30 a.m. and I am departing from the intersection of U.S. 231 and CR 800 S, near South Raub. It’s sunny and cool, probably in the low 50s. But the clouds are beginning to disperse and off to the west I see quite a bit of blue sky.
I am right back into the same kind of farm country and the same kind of road I was on when I walked U.S. 421. This road also runs parallel to the railroad tracks. Already I appreciate yesterday's walk, with a variation in terrain and a route through suburbs and the city. Beats the monotony of this road, with its treacherously narrow and sloping shoulders. Nature is nice in its place, but it's human nature that interest me. So here I am, "fighting vainly the old ennui," as Cole Porter put it many years ago.
I am right back into the same kind of farm country and the same kind of road I was on when I walked U.S. 421. This road also runs parallel to the railroad tracks. Already I appreciate yesterday's walk, with a variation in terrain and a route through suburbs and the city. Beats the monotony of this road, with its treacherously narrow and sloping shoulders. Nature is nice in its place, but it's human nature that interest me. So here I am, "fighting vainly the old ennui," as Cole Porter put it many years ago.
These little roadside crosses, commemorating someone’s death on the highway on the spot where they're placed, have become a legitimate phenomenon on American highways during the past decade or two. Just passed two, for Beth and Billie Johnson, who died on that spot on December 26, 2006.
At three miles, the first little place I come to is called Romney. According to the internet, Romney was originally named Columbia, but the name was changed to that of a community in West Virginia. That makes absolutely no sense to me, but what the hell? Romney also has been the location of a number of ghost sitings, including ghosts of a young lady with a rope around her neck and an old prospector with a wooden leg. Today the ghost that passes through town is a dude wearing a zip-up hooded sweatshirt over a vest with its pockets full of walking accoutrements—camera, recorder, food, water, notebook.
At three miles, the first little place I come to is called Romney. According to the internet, Romney was originally named Columbia, but the name was changed to that of a community in West Virginia. That makes absolutely no sense to me, but what the hell? Romney also has been the location of a number of ghost sitings, including ghosts of a young lady with a rope around her neck and an old prospector with a wooden leg. Today the ghost that passes through town is a dude wearing a zip-up hooded sweatshirt over a vest with its pockets full of walking accoutrements—camera, recorder, food, water, notebook.
No fancy welcoming sign here. Just the basic green and white state-issued one. I stop at the Romney Toy Shop on 231 and buy an old pocket knife, somewhat underpriced.
I'm impressed with my take of found money here in Indiana, and today it's especially good. I think the whole time I walked in Michigan I found about 12 cents. But so far in Indiana I have three times that going in to today. Found a quarter, a dime, and a penny so far today. I don’t know if the people of Indiana are more prone to throwing change out the windows of their cars than the thrifty folks of west Michigan are, or if since I’m freed from looking for returnable bottles and cans, I can keep a sharper lookout for coins. But they're gleaming in the golden light of day.
A few miles south of Romney I leave Tippecanoe County and enter Montgomery County. Two new items of road kill today: a mouse and a salamander. Someone has picked up the larger mammals recently, but the wide assortment of dead birds continues. So far today, another woodpecker, another cardinal, a pheasant, a beautiful meadowlark with a golden breast, and—get this—a large owl.
The next town I come to, at 7.2 miles, is Linden, where the sign says it was founded in 1850 and has a population of 718. Pretty typical. It was named for the Linden trees that grew here. And what should greet me a few hundred yards in but a boxcar and caboose of the Monon Railroad. It’s the Linden Railroad Museum, and next door is the Monon Railroad Historical and Technical Society. Both places are closed today, and only open on weekends this time of year. Too bad.
I thought the Monon Line veered off toward Indianapolis up in Lafayette, but it seems it continues south through Crawfordsville and into Greencastle before doing so.
At the Linden-Carnegie Public Library, I decide to drop in to see if they have anything on the history of the town. The librarian shows me to a drawer in a filing cabinet, with a bunch of loose stuff in manila folders in alphabetical order by topic. As I'm leafing through it to see if there's anything on the railroad, I get a pleasant surprise. It’s a photograph of a community event in Linden, in December 1934, called Ladies for a Night, in which all the menfolk of Linden dressed up as women. They look like uglier versions of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot, with a touch of Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. (Double click on the photo to enlarge it.) Actually Lemmon and Curtis weren’t ugly at all—Tony was pretty to begin with, and Jack made a surprisingly good-looking woman. It took Marilyn Monroe to make them look mannish when they were in drag.
I'm impressed with my take of found money here in Indiana, and today it's especially good. I think the whole time I walked in Michigan I found about 12 cents. But so far in Indiana I have three times that going in to today. Found a quarter, a dime, and a penny so far today. I don’t know if the people of Indiana are more prone to throwing change out the windows of their cars than the thrifty folks of west Michigan are, or if since I’m freed from looking for returnable bottles and cans, I can keep a sharper lookout for coins. But they're gleaming in the golden light of day.
A few miles south of Romney I leave Tippecanoe County and enter Montgomery County. Two new items of road kill today: a mouse and a salamander. Someone has picked up the larger mammals recently, but the wide assortment of dead birds continues. So far today, another woodpecker, another cardinal, a pheasant, a beautiful meadowlark with a golden breast, and—get this—a large owl.
The next town I come to, at 7.2 miles, is Linden, where the sign says it was founded in 1850 and has a population of 718. Pretty typical. It was named for the Linden trees that grew here. And what should greet me a few hundred yards in but a boxcar and caboose of the Monon Railroad. It’s the Linden Railroad Museum, and next door is the Monon Railroad Historical and Technical Society. Both places are closed today, and only open on weekends this time of year. Too bad.
I thought the Monon Line veered off toward Indianapolis up in Lafayette, but it seems it continues south through Crawfordsville and into Greencastle before doing so.
At the Linden-Carnegie Public Library, I decide to drop in to see if they have anything on the history of the town. The librarian shows me to a drawer in a filing cabinet, with a bunch of loose stuff in manila folders in alphabetical order by topic. As I'm leafing through it to see if there's anything on the railroad, I get a pleasant surprise. It’s a photograph of a community event in Linden, in December 1934, called Ladies for a Night, in which all the menfolk of Linden dressed up as women. They look like uglier versions of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot, with a touch of Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. (Double click on the photo to enlarge it.) Actually Lemmon and Curtis weren’t ugly at all—Tony was pretty to begin with, and Jack made a surprisingly good-looking woman. It took Marilyn Monroe to make them look mannish when they were in drag.
I have no idea what the occasion for this weird event was here in Linden, or if they did it often, but it’s a priceless photo. Goes to show you the Brits don’t have a complete monopoly on female impersonation. (I do, however, remain convinced that Margaret Thatcher is a man.)
So I’d like to thank the librarian, and to dedicate today’s walk to the Ladies of Linden.
I go into a little antique store next to the library to look at knives, and end up talking to the proprietor, a guy of about 70, for about a half hour. I tell him what I'm doing, and he's enthusiastic. He says he’d like to just chuck everything and take a motor home and a trailer loaded with stuff and go around to flea markets all over the country, selling his wares. But he has custody of his four grandchildren, ranging in age from 17 years to six months. Old age isn’t what he thought it would be.
Just unbelievable. The road is paved with gold today. I find a 1976 Kennedy half dollar! You hardly come across half dollars under any circumstances, but on the road? My total for today is now up to $1.43, with two quarters, four dimes, and three pennies, in addition to the fifty-cent piece.
A police car sneaks up behind me then turns on its siren for a second. Whoooop! It startles me. An Indiana State Trooper asks me if I need any help. I don’t count that as an offer of a ride, but it’s not unwelcome, and it’s the second time it’s happened.
Across the road, they’re harvesting corn in the warm sunlight of afternoon. That's the real gold around here, I guess. The gigantic harvester scoops it all up, throwing the ground up stalks and chaff out the back, then empties the hopper of corn into another hopper truck following alongside, which then shoots it into a waiting semi trailer. Amazingly efficient. Two guys harvest a whole field in one day and load it into trucks.
A man in a yellow pickup who looks like Roger Clemens slows down to offer me a ride. I say no thanks, then I think, "What if that was Roger Clemens, and I turned down a ride from him?" Then I regain my senses. Anyway, he looked like Roger Clemens at about 30 years old. I did see Tom Seaver once, in Stamford, Connecticut. I was stopped at a light, and he made a left turn in front of me, and there he was, unmistakable, just as plain as day. But I knew that Tom Seaver lived in that area at that time--I think he was in the broadcast booth for the Yankees with Scooter. Ho-ly cow!
My destination for today, which is the intersection of U.S. 231 and I-74, is not a town. It’s still a couple of miles north of Crawfordsville. But it’s got more going on than many towns around here—a collection of motels, gas stations, and fast food places. I can see the elevated crossing of the interstate now, but it’s still about two miles off. The motor home is at a McDonald's just beyond the intersection.
Going back home tonight for two days off, to resume the walk on Saturday.
So I’d like to thank the librarian, and to dedicate today’s walk to the Ladies of Linden.
I go into a little antique store next to the library to look at knives, and end up talking to the proprietor, a guy of about 70, for about a half hour. I tell him what I'm doing, and he's enthusiastic. He says he’d like to just chuck everything and take a motor home and a trailer loaded with stuff and go around to flea markets all over the country, selling his wares. But he has custody of his four grandchildren, ranging in age from 17 years to six months. Old age isn’t what he thought it would be.
Just unbelievable. The road is paved with gold today. I find a 1976 Kennedy half dollar! You hardly come across half dollars under any circumstances, but on the road? My total for today is now up to $1.43, with two quarters, four dimes, and three pennies, in addition to the fifty-cent piece.
A police car sneaks up behind me then turns on its siren for a second. Whoooop! It startles me. An Indiana State Trooper asks me if I need any help. I don’t count that as an offer of a ride, but it’s not unwelcome, and it’s the second time it’s happened.
Across the road, they’re harvesting corn in the warm sunlight of afternoon. That's the real gold around here, I guess. The gigantic harvester scoops it all up, throwing the ground up stalks and chaff out the back, then empties the hopper of corn into another hopper truck following alongside, which then shoots it into a waiting semi trailer. Amazingly efficient. Two guys harvest a whole field in one day and load it into trucks.
A man in a yellow pickup who looks like Roger Clemens slows down to offer me a ride. I say no thanks, then I think, "What if that was Roger Clemens, and I turned down a ride from him?" Then I regain my senses. Anyway, he looked like Roger Clemens at about 30 years old. I did see Tom Seaver once, in Stamford, Connecticut. I was stopped at a light, and he made a left turn in front of me, and there he was, unmistakable, just as plain as day. But I knew that Tom Seaver lived in that area at that time--I think he was in the broadcast booth for the Yankees with Scooter. Ho-ly cow!
My destination for today, which is the intersection of U.S. 231 and I-74, is not a town. It’s still a couple of miles north of Crawfordsville. But it’s got more going on than many towns around here—a collection of motels, gas stations, and fast food places. I can see the elevated crossing of the interstate now, but it’s still about two miles off. The motor home is at a McDonald's just beyond the intersection.
Going back home tonight for two days off, to resume the walk on Saturday.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Day 18: Truth and justice
Battle Ground to South Raub. 16 miles/248.9 total
I’m heading south on Indiana 43 from the intersection of that road with County Road 600N, near Battle Ground. I’ll be going through the Lafayettes, then south a few miles to a spot near South Raub. (South Raub is described as a “small town,” but I think that’s a considerable exaggeration. It appears to consist of a house and a feed and grain supply company, with the railroad running alongside.)
Today will be my last day in the vicinity of the old Monon railroad line, which doglegs southeast out of Lafayette toward Indianapolis. I took the photo of the sign at the railroad museum; I think this is what you saw, Billie Bob.
It’s raining and the weather is generally miserable. I’m just hunkered down under the poncho, hood up on my sweatshirt, rain dripping off the bill of my cap, putting my head down when trucks go by to keep the spray off my face.
Would you believe it? The very first dead animal I see today is another hairy woodpecker. Then a cardinal, and later on a swallow. Lafayette, Indiana, where the birds go to die.
Just a little north of the Indiana Veteran’s Home is a little roadside park with a historical marker. This one says this spot was called the Tecumseh Trail. It is the site of a trail used by Tecumseh prior to the defeat of his warriors by General William Henry Harrison at the Battle of Tippecanoe. Well we know all about that, don’t we? And we know also that it may have been Tecumseh’s warriors, but they were being led by his brother, the Prophet. Anyway, it's a nice shady spot. On the banks of the Wabash, not so far away.
I see an ad for a $1 double cheeseburger from Burger King. It puts me in mind of the fact that calories are getting cheaper all the time. It’s far less expensive to eat high calorie food than it is to eat low-calorie food (the stuff people are always trying to tell you is better for you). I suppose all that has contributed to obesity, and explains why obesity is most prevalent in the poorest parts of the country. I think Taco Bell has really succeeded in selling the most calories for the least, overall. But that Burger King double cheeseburger probably contains at least 500 calories. And not empty calories either. No sir! There’s meat and bread and lettuce and tomato and other good stuff there, and anything the body can’t use right away it will store. That’s an amazing amount of food value. It means that the average-sized person could maintain their weight for just three dollars a day, plus tax. That’s a tribute to the efforts of agribusiness and agronomists everywhere, including here at Purdue University. I know you think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.
Actually, there is no such thing as an “empty calorie." That’s some bullshit someone's mother made up. That would be like an “empty piece of firewood,” or an “empty gallon of fuel oil.” A calorie is just a unit of energy the body burns. A calorie is a calorie, whether it comes from lard or sugar or tree bark.
I was listening to public radio not long ago, and a guy was on there talking about how the progress of the human species probably owes itself to the fact that we began cooking our food at some point. It caused our brains and bodies to grow. It turns out that cooking food reduces the amount of energy the body needs to process the food, and allows us to pull more nutrition out of the food while spending less time digesting it. Other great apes, like chimps, have considerably longer intestinal tracts than we have, because they digest less efficiently. But even so, they get less nutrition out of the raw food they eat than we do out of cooked food.
The bottom line (and I love these things that run so counter to the perceived wisdom of the finger-waggers out there) is that the more processed food is, the better it is for us, nutritionally, rather than the other way around. Think astronauts eating paste out of tubes. A woman called in to the show and said she’d been on a raw food diet, and had lost a lot of weight. The guy said that made sense, because the body needs to use more energy to digest raw food. Once food enters the large intestine, it’s essentially waste, and the body has derived what it can from it. In fact, he said, we’ve been measuring the nutritional value of food the wrong way. We measure it by what it consists of when it enters the mouth, when we should be measuring how much nutrition is left when it leaves the body, then netting the two numbers. (Any volunteers for that job?)
All this supports a theory I’ve had, as an amateur know-it-all, for many years. And that is that morbidly obese people actually have more efficient digestive systems than non-obese folks do. They can draw more nutrition, and calories, out of food than the rest of us can, and they excrete less useful nutrition as waste. Also, their minds and bodies tell them to consume more, and their natural preference (as for most of us) is for refined food.
There’s a great deal of disapproval directed at morbidly obese people. Some people consider morbid obesity to be a condition that can somehow be changed through will power, or is a result of indolence or moral turpitude. That goes beyond mere snobbery. It's a prejudice that is as deep and erroneous as any other, including racial prejudice. As a result, the obese, like other persons who are the objects of prejudice, tend to be defensive, hypersensitive, and somewhat paranoid.
In fact, under the theory that the ability to use food efficiently has helped us evolve into what we are, it may be that morbidly obese people are more highly evolved humans than their thinner brethren. Of course, evolution brings with it pluses and minuses. We’ve become omnivorous, which has allowed us to adapt to just about any living condition on earth. That’s a plus. But eating too much of any one thing, or too much of all things, brings health problems that eventually shorten our lives. That's a minus. (Or is it? Once we've reproduced, what good are we anyway?)
Today will be my last day in the vicinity of the old Monon railroad line, which doglegs southeast out of Lafayette toward Indianapolis. I took the photo of the sign at the railroad museum; I think this is what you saw, Billie Bob.
It’s raining and the weather is generally miserable. I’m just hunkered down under the poncho, hood up on my sweatshirt, rain dripping off the bill of my cap, putting my head down when trucks go by to keep the spray off my face.
Would you believe it? The very first dead animal I see today is another hairy woodpecker. Then a cardinal, and later on a swallow. Lafayette, Indiana, where the birds go to die.
Just a little north of the Indiana Veteran’s Home is a little roadside park with a historical marker. This one says this spot was called the Tecumseh Trail. It is the site of a trail used by Tecumseh prior to the defeat of his warriors by General William Henry Harrison at the Battle of Tippecanoe. Well we know all about that, don’t we? And we know also that it may have been Tecumseh’s warriors, but they were being led by his brother, the Prophet. Anyway, it's a nice shady spot. On the banks of the Wabash, not so far away.
I see an ad for a $1 double cheeseburger from Burger King. It puts me in mind of the fact that calories are getting cheaper all the time. It’s far less expensive to eat high calorie food than it is to eat low-calorie food (the stuff people are always trying to tell you is better for you). I suppose all that has contributed to obesity, and explains why obesity is most prevalent in the poorest parts of the country. I think Taco Bell has really succeeded in selling the most calories for the least, overall. But that Burger King double cheeseburger probably contains at least 500 calories. And not empty calories either. No sir! There’s meat and bread and lettuce and tomato and other good stuff there, and anything the body can’t use right away it will store. That’s an amazing amount of food value. It means that the average-sized person could maintain their weight for just three dollars a day, plus tax. That’s a tribute to the efforts of agribusiness and agronomists everywhere, including here at Purdue University. I know you think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.
Actually, there is no such thing as an “empty calorie." That’s some bullshit someone's mother made up. That would be like an “empty piece of firewood,” or an “empty gallon of fuel oil.” A calorie is just a unit of energy the body burns. A calorie is a calorie, whether it comes from lard or sugar or tree bark.
I was listening to public radio not long ago, and a guy was on there talking about how the progress of the human species probably owes itself to the fact that we began cooking our food at some point. It caused our brains and bodies to grow. It turns out that cooking food reduces the amount of energy the body needs to process the food, and allows us to pull more nutrition out of the food while spending less time digesting it. Other great apes, like chimps, have considerably longer intestinal tracts than we have, because they digest less efficiently. But even so, they get less nutrition out of the raw food they eat than we do out of cooked food.
The bottom line (and I love these things that run so counter to the perceived wisdom of the finger-waggers out there) is that the more processed food is, the better it is for us, nutritionally, rather than the other way around. Think astronauts eating paste out of tubes. A woman called in to the show and said she’d been on a raw food diet, and had lost a lot of weight. The guy said that made sense, because the body needs to use more energy to digest raw food. Once food enters the large intestine, it’s essentially waste, and the body has derived what it can from it. In fact, he said, we’ve been measuring the nutritional value of food the wrong way. We measure it by what it consists of when it enters the mouth, when we should be measuring how much nutrition is left when it leaves the body, then netting the two numbers. (Any volunteers for that job?)
All this supports a theory I’ve had, as an amateur know-it-all, for many years. And that is that morbidly obese people actually have more efficient digestive systems than non-obese folks do. They can draw more nutrition, and calories, out of food than the rest of us can, and they excrete less useful nutrition as waste. Also, their minds and bodies tell them to consume more, and their natural preference (as for most of us) is for refined food.
There’s a great deal of disapproval directed at morbidly obese people. Some people consider morbid obesity to be a condition that can somehow be changed through will power, or is a result of indolence or moral turpitude. That goes beyond mere snobbery. It's a prejudice that is as deep and erroneous as any other, including racial prejudice. As a result, the obese, like other persons who are the objects of prejudice, tend to be defensive, hypersensitive, and somewhat paranoid.
In fact, under the theory that the ability to use food efficiently has helped us evolve into what we are, it may be that morbidly obese people are more highly evolved humans than their thinner brethren. Of course, evolution brings with it pluses and minuses. We’ve become omnivorous, which has allowed us to adapt to just about any living condition on earth. That’s a plus. But eating too much of any one thing, or too much of all things, brings health problems that eventually shorten our lives. That's a minus. (Or is it? Once we've reproduced, what good are we anyway?)
I’m passing down into the outskirts of West Lafayette. Student apartment complexes, buses. Then, at 6.1 miles, I begin my ascent onto the bridge that will take me across the Wabash from West Lafayette to Lafayette. Lafayette’s slogan, on its sign of welcome, is “Purpose, Progress, Pride.”
Whereas West Lafayette is a university city, Lafayette is just a plain old city, with the incompetent, the impoverished, and the marginally sane getting on and off buses and standing around on the sidewalks looking strange.
I arrive in front of the Tippecanoe County Courthouse, an enormous building with an elongated dome, and formal portico entrances on the second floor. Inside, it is appointed with lots of marble, intricate woodwork and gigantic oak doors. There’s a rotunda, with niches containing busts of William Henry Harrison, Tecumseh, and a couple of local founding fathers. Also, paintings on display in the hallways of the second floor, presumably by local artists. One I particularly like is by Henry Bell, called “Empty Chair,” somewhat reminiscent of the style of Andrew Wyeth. Down on the first floor are large murals of Indians and white men.
Outside, I find the cornerstone. It says, “Erected by the People of Tippecanoe County and Dedicated to Public Use. Commenced A.D. 1881. Completed A.D. 1885. May Truth and Justice Ever Prevail.” All in all, it’s a monument to the public architecture of its time. Sort of late Victorian high kitsch American public architecture. Lots of cornices, arches, columns, and statues of various virtues personified, looking down on the good people of Lafayette. It's not a whole lot smaller than some state capitols.
The only thing that mars the experience of visiting a courthouse is the fact that it is full of Seekers of Justice, meaning hapless slobs of all kinds who are there because they have to be in court. They got into trouble, or they’re getting sued, or they’re trying to sue somebody. Going up against the system in some way or another. They shuffle around looking lost and unhappy, while the lawyers move sleekly to and fro with their briefcases.
And pretty quickly, I’m on my way into the south end of the city, heading uphill and away from the river. Past a few pre-Civil War buildings. Up on 4th street are a couple of large Greek Revival houses, built perhaps in the 1830s.
I pass a place called the Ben Hur Tavern. I come upon another historical marker. Camp Tippecanoe was on this site from 1861 to 1865. In May of 1861 this area, on a high bluff overlooking Lafayette, quickly became an induction center for enlistees in the Civil War, until its end. That was when Indiana considered itself part of the North. More recently, I'm not so sure. In the 1920s this state was run by the Ku Klux Klan, from the governor on down.
The road I’m on now has turned into Old U.S. 231, as differentiated from new 231, which is a semi-expressway that slices down between the twin cities, bypassing both of them. I’m in the suburbs now; relatively new subdivisions with nice English-sounding names--Buckingham, Sheffield, Stratford Glen--such as you find just about everywhere you go in this country.
This place called South Raub, where I’m headed, reminds me that one of the prominent names in the Chalmers Cemetery the other day was Raub. I wonder if Raub was a railroad man who got a stop named after him?
At last the blue and white beacon of the truckster comes into view, my home away from home.
And pretty quickly, I’m on my way into the south end of the city, heading uphill and away from the river. Past a few pre-Civil War buildings. Up on 4th street are a couple of large Greek Revival houses, built perhaps in the 1830s.
I pass a place called the Ben Hur Tavern. I come upon another historical marker. Camp Tippecanoe was on this site from 1861 to 1865. In May of 1861 this area, on a high bluff overlooking Lafayette, quickly became an induction center for enlistees in the Civil War, until its end. That was when Indiana considered itself part of the North. More recently, I'm not so sure. In the 1920s this state was run by the Ku Klux Klan, from the governor on down.
The road I’m on now has turned into Old U.S. 231, as differentiated from new 231, which is a semi-expressway that slices down between the twin cities, bypassing both of them. I’m in the suburbs now; relatively new subdivisions with nice English-sounding names--Buckingham, Sheffield, Stratford Glen--such as you find just about everywhere you go in this country.
This place called South Raub, where I’m headed, reminds me that one of the prominent names in the Chalmers Cemetery the other day was Raub. I wonder if Raub was a railroad man who got a stop named after him?
At last the blue and white beacon of the truckster comes into view, my home away from home.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Progress report: Tippecanoe and Scott Farkus
The village of Battle Ground, Indiana is located about 3 miles east of Indiana 43, on guess what? The Monon Railroad line. It was a consolidation of two towns, Harrisonville and Battle Ground, both named in honor of the Battle of Tippecanoe.
So some of the signs I’ve been seeing for “Battle Ground” have been confusing—they are for the town rather than the battlefield. It took some looking around, and I finally had to ask at the post office, but I found the Tippecanoe Battle Ground and Museum.
There’s and obelisk about 60 feet high, with a statue of old William Henry in front. It was built in 1908, to commemorate the battle, fought on November 7, 1811. The U.S. lost 37 lives and 151 wounded. Indian losses unknown. In recent years there has been a concerted effort to sort of even things out by paying due deference to the Indians. At one point the battle is referred to as “a clash of two ways of life,” as indeed it was. Our way, or the highway, so to speak. And eventually the Indians hereabouts were put on the highway and sent to Kansas.
Off to the side of the battlefield is a little nature center, with skulls of animals and stuffed wildlife. The dead woodpecker I saw yesterday was a "hairy woodpecker."
Here’s a little background on the battle. The Shawnee chief Tecumseh had been attempting to form a coalition of Indian tribes into a confederacy, hoping to make a united effort to hold some land in northern Indiana and Ohio, mostly, as Indian Territory, excluding the white man, and also (this was his big hope) to drive the white man back into the sea. Needless to say, the Americans of the Northwest Territory (Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, and Wisconsin) viewed this with some alarm, including General William Henry Harrison, governor of the Indiana Territory.
Tecumseh’s brother Tenskwatawah (meaning "the open door"), also known as the Prophet, had some sort of revelatory experience, in which he was given to believe that he had been chosen by God to lead others to paradise. (This is always a dangerous sign, isn't it?) He became sort of a fundamentalist religious leader of the Indians. The religion called for a return to the “old ways,” including the rejection of alcohol, condemnation of violence among the Indian tribes, and rejection of false holy men (in other words, holy men other than him). Think Jim Jones or David Koresh, only with a lot more followers. Maybe Joseph Smith.
In 1801 the Prophet moved his followers to a new town at the mouth of the Tippecanoe River on the Wabash, about a mile from here, which became known as Prophetstown.
At first Harrison accepted the reforms of the leaders of the confederacy—he thought it would make the Indians easier to deal with. Meanwhile the British were urging Tecumseh to lead the confederacy against the U.S., in connection with the disputes between the Americans and the British that lead to the War of 1812.
Harrison met with Tecumseh in Vincennes, to discuss the confederacy. At this meeting Harrison opined that if the Great Spirit had meant the Indians to join together like this, he would have given them one mutually intelligible language. At this Tecumseh took umbrage, shouting “You lie!” There was a moment when pistols were drawn and swords unsheathed, but it was defused.
So Harrison had a detatchment of troops which he took over to the area of Prophetstown, to the site of the battle. At 4:00 a.m. on the morning of November 7, 1811, fighting broke out, and by 6:00 a.m. it was pretty much all over, the Americans having driven back the Indians, under the Prophet, and routed them. This caused the Prophet to lose face, and the Indians abandoned Prophetstown that day. The next day a cavalry detachment looted and burned Prophetstown. (It was rebuilt, and burned a year later by Zachary Taylor.) Tecumseh was furious at the loss, and even more so at his brother’s having engaged the Americans, because he had ordered him not to for the time being. Tecumseh engaged Harrison again in 1813, at the Battle of the Thames in Ontario, where he had gone to help the British in a last ditch effort to keep the confederacy idea going. Tecumseh was killed at that battle, and that was the end of the confederacy of Indian tribes.
Harrison managed to parlay those victories into a political career, becoming first a U.S. congressman and senator from Ohio, then being elected ninth president of the U.S. in 1840. He was a Whig—one of four Whig presidents we had. (Besides Harrison, there were John Tyler, Zachary Taylor, and Millard Fillmore.) The Whigs started in the 1830s, in opposition to the Democrats, and by the 1850s they had split over the issue of slavery, and sort of morphed into the Republican Party, which ran its first candidate, John Fremont, in 1856. Lincoln had been a Whig at one time and in 1860 was the first Republican to be elected president.
Old William Henry Harrison was 68 when he took office, running on the slogan, “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too.” As it turned out, there was a lot more “Tyler, too” than there was Tippecanoe. Harrison caught cold on inauguration day after giving a long speech, and it developed into pneumonia, and he died a month later. First Whig president. First president to die in office. Last president born before the United States was formed. Oldest president to take office (until Reagan). First president from Indiana (although he was born in Virginia; the only other one from Indiana was his grandson, Benjamin Harrison, born in Ohio).
His death inspired this poem, first published in the Drayton Plains Whig-Federalist, circa 1963:
William Henry caught a cold,
And when his term was one month old
A mourning nation watched him pass.
He lived a man, but died, alas.
So some of the signs I’ve been seeing for “Battle Ground” have been confusing—they are for the town rather than the battlefield. It took some looking around, and I finally had to ask at the post office, but I found the Tippecanoe Battle Ground and Museum.
There’s and obelisk about 60 feet high, with a statue of old William Henry in front. It was built in 1908, to commemorate the battle, fought on November 7, 1811. The U.S. lost 37 lives and 151 wounded. Indian losses unknown. In recent years there has been a concerted effort to sort of even things out by paying due deference to the Indians. At one point the battle is referred to as “a clash of two ways of life,” as indeed it was. Our way, or the highway, so to speak. And eventually the Indians hereabouts were put on the highway and sent to Kansas.
Off to the side of the battlefield is a little nature center, with skulls of animals and stuffed wildlife. The dead woodpecker I saw yesterday was a "hairy woodpecker."
Here’s a little background on the battle. The Shawnee chief Tecumseh had been attempting to form a coalition of Indian tribes into a confederacy, hoping to make a united effort to hold some land in northern Indiana and Ohio, mostly, as Indian Territory, excluding the white man, and also (this was his big hope) to drive the white man back into the sea. Needless to say, the Americans of the Northwest Territory (Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, and Wisconsin) viewed this with some alarm, including General William Henry Harrison, governor of the Indiana Territory.
Tecumseh’s brother Tenskwatawah (meaning "the open door"), also known as the Prophet, had some sort of revelatory experience, in which he was given to believe that he had been chosen by God to lead others to paradise. (This is always a dangerous sign, isn't it?) He became sort of a fundamentalist religious leader of the Indians. The religion called for a return to the “old ways,” including the rejection of alcohol, condemnation of violence among the Indian tribes, and rejection of false holy men (in other words, holy men other than him). Think Jim Jones or David Koresh, only with a lot more followers. Maybe Joseph Smith.
In 1801 the Prophet moved his followers to a new town at the mouth of the Tippecanoe River on the Wabash, about a mile from here, which became known as Prophetstown.
At first Harrison accepted the reforms of the leaders of the confederacy—he thought it would make the Indians easier to deal with. Meanwhile the British were urging Tecumseh to lead the confederacy against the U.S., in connection with the disputes between the Americans and the British that lead to the War of 1812.
Harrison met with Tecumseh in Vincennes, to discuss the confederacy. At this meeting Harrison opined that if the Great Spirit had meant the Indians to join together like this, he would have given them one mutually intelligible language. At this Tecumseh took umbrage, shouting “You lie!” There was a moment when pistols were drawn and swords unsheathed, but it was defused.
So Harrison had a detatchment of troops which he took over to the area of Prophetstown, to the site of the battle. At 4:00 a.m. on the morning of November 7, 1811, fighting broke out, and by 6:00 a.m. it was pretty much all over, the Americans having driven back the Indians, under the Prophet, and routed them. This caused the Prophet to lose face, and the Indians abandoned Prophetstown that day. The next day a cavalry detachment looted and burned Prophetstown. (It was rebuilt, and burned a year later by Zachary Taylor.) Tecumseh was furious at the loss, and even more so at his brother’s having engaged the Americans, because he had ordered him not to for the time being. Tecumseh engaged Harrison again in 1813, at the Battle of the Thames in Ontario, where he had gone to help the British in a last ditch effort to keep the confederacy idea going. Tecumseh was killed at that battle, and that was the end of the confederacy of Indian tribes.
Harrison managed to parlay those victories into a political career, becoming first a U.S. congressman and senator from Ohio, then being elected ninth president of the U.S. in 1840. He was a Whig—one of four Whig presidents we had. (Besides Harrison, there were John Tyler, Zachary Taylor, and Millard Fillmore.) The Whigs started in the 1830s, in opposition to the Democrats, and by the 1850s they had split over the issue of slavery, and sort of morphed into the Republican Party, which ran its first candidate, John Fremont, in 1856. Lincoln had been a Whig at one time and in 1860 was the first Republican to be elected president.
Old William Henry Harrison was 68 when he took office, running on the slogan, “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too.” As it turned out, there was a lot more “Tyler, too” than there was Tippecanoe. Harrison caught cold on inauguration day after giving a long speech, and it developed into pneumonia, and he died a month later. First Whig president. First president to die in office. Last president born before the United States was formed. Oldest president to take office (until Reagan). First president from Indiana (although he was born in Virginia; the only other one from Indiana was his grandson, Benjamin Harrison, born in Ohio).
His death inspired this poem, first published in the Drayton Plains Whig-Federalist, circa 1963:
William Henry caught a cold,
And when his term was one month old
A mourning nation watched him pass.
He lived a man, but died, alas.
At the gift shop of the museum I purchased a genuine coon skin cap, with tail, which I am showing off in the top photograph. I think the raccoon might be my spirit animal, or some such crap. If they have spirits, I've certainly been in close contact with enough of them lately. (And no, I am not going to wear the cap when I walk. I don't want to look like an old version of Scott Farkus.)
Purdue University campus, in West Lafayette, is pleasant enough. More separated from the surrounding town than University of Michigan is. The buildings look a lot like U of M buildings. Purdue was started in 1869 as a land grant university of the State of Indiana (what we like to call a "cow college"), and was named after its prime mover, John Purdue, a Lafayette businessman. It is best known as an agricultural and engineering school. High points of campus architecture are the clock tower, the modern fountain in Purdue Square, and the Neil Armstrong Hall of Engineering.
The campus is full of kids on this magnificent warm cloudless day. Of course, college life is wasted on the young, to coin a phrase. The kids rarely manage to look anything other than serious and preoccupied, not realizing that they are having the best time they’re ever likely to have. I was the same way.
Lafayette was named in honor of our Revolutionary War pal from France, who had the ridiculously long aristocratic name of Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. Wonder what they called him at home? Maybe Gil (zheel, in French). Probably not Marie.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Day 17: Bird that is born of an egg
Reynolds to Battle Ground. 17.5 miles/232.9 total
I am leaving Reynolds, heading south toward Lafayette, to finish up today near a place called Battle Ground, just north of Lafayette, which is named that because it’s the site of the Battle of Tippecanoe, in which William Henry Harrison became famous as an Indian fighter. I won’t see the battlefield today because it’s a little out of the way of my walk, but I will visit it tomorrow, on my day off.
This is where I finally leave U.S. 421, although I continue straight south, as if I were still on it. But it's now Indiana 43, as 421 shoots off to the southeast toward Indianapolis. What I’ve got today is more walking along the old Monon Line for much of the walk. Just outside Reynolds, another long freight train goes by, heading north, with about 80 cars, pulled by two CSX engines.
I'm gradually approaching West Lafayette, Indiana, home of Purdue University, and the birthplace of Billie Bob. (I thought you were born in Honolulu. Where’d I get that idea?) Anyway, if you’re reading this and you can tell me what hospital you were born in, I’ll pay homage.
Today is the fifth anniversary of the death of my mother, so I dedicate today’s walk to her, although I don’t think she would have been at ease with this enterprise, being too worried for my safety.
Over in the distance to the west of 43 is a collection of those huge, modern wind turbines, 70 or 80 feet high, with the three enormous blades. It spreads out over several miles. I’d say this is a good place for them. It sure as hell has been windy since I’ve been in this state. I count 65 of them, and there are no doubt more beyond the horizon.
The first place I come to, about two and a half miles into the walk, is called Smithson. Nothing but a sign, and a couple of old buildings east of the railroad tracks that look like they used to be stores. One of them is bricked up and the other is empty.
I see a small bird, killed on the highway. I see relatively few of them, compared to small mammals and reptiles. Birds have advantages the terrestrial animals don’t. They have to do something stupid, from a bird perspective, to get killed by a car. This is only the second one I have seen so far in Indiana. Seeing the dead bird puts me in mind of a scene from Evelyn Waugh’s satirical short novel about southern California, The Loved One. In it the protagonist, a young English expatriate, is working at an animal mortuary in L.A. At one point he’s improvising a funeral service for a parakeet, and he starts to adapt the service for the burial of the dead from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, specifically the line that begins, “Man that is born of a woman.…” So he’s standing in front of this little box, reciting, “Bird that is born of an egg hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.”
They made a so-so movie of the novel, starring Robert Morse as the young Englishman, and Jonathan Winters as Mr. Joyboy.
In the midst of life we are in death. Inspired by that moment in that novel, I have conducted many a funeral for a family pet. Hamster that is born of a hamster. Cat that is born of a cat. For fish we would use the service for burial at sea, saying, as the fish goes into the toilet, “We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the Sea shall give up her dead....”
That Book of Common prayer is a beautifully written thing, by the way. One of the jewels of English literature. Its initial completion is one of the accomplishments of Edward VI, the boy king, son of Henry VIII, who was actively involved in some of the writing of the book, along with Thomas Cranmer, in 1547. Its beautiful Elizabethan language still resonates. We usually don’t give much credit to Edward VI, since he didn’t live long, and was succeeded by his half-sisters Mary and Elizabeth, but he deserves a place in history just for having shepherded The Book of Common Prayer into print.
Smithson to Chalmers is the same familiar formula. Corn, soybeans, railroad tracks.
I am in mourning today for the loss by the Maize and Blue to the Spartans yesterday, in overtime, 26-20. However the Boilermaker fans hereabouts are in even greater mourning, having seen their team blow a 21-3 lead to lose to Northwestern by a score of 27-21.
At about 6 miles into the walk, the sign says “Welcome to Chalmers. ‘Your low-cost, reliable municipal electric utility.’” Weird. The sign is like an ad for the power company. I guess these windmills are contributing to low-cost energy. Another sign under the speed limit says, “Meth Watch Community.” Yet another sign says, “Peddlers and solicitors licensed at town hall.” In other words, keep moving, we ain't buying.
Not much to Chalmers. Post office, bank, bar, American Legion. I’m going to guess that Chalmers was laid out in 1853, and named after a friend or business partner of James Brooks, president of the New Albany and Salem (later Monon) Railroad. I’ll bet Reynolds was another such associate.
A half mile south of Chalmers I come to a cemetery, just over the railroad tracks from the road, to the east. It’s about two acres, with another couple of acres for future growth. The stones are large and clean. The names are mostly English, with a few German ones—Hughes, Chamberlain, Brookshire, Ward, Rogers, Shortz, Raub. Most of the graves are newer, since the mid-twentieth century, but some date back to the early 1900s. In the middle is a gazebo with a couple of chairs. I take a little rest.
I don’t know how these things happen, but this dead bird thing is becoming a theme. I said before that I rarely see them, and that is--or was--true. But I’m sure seeing them today. A cardinal, a bluejay, a woodpecker, something that I think might have been a chicken, and a couple of others. The birds are falling right and left down here on Indiana 43.
At 10 miles the sign says “Welcome to Brookston,” with that thing about the electric utility. I guess I don’t need to tell you after whom Brookston was named. You guessed it, James Brooks. And the year? You got it, 1853. On 43, called Prairie street, are a pair of late 19th century mansions, almost identical, but on opposite sides of the street. Red brick with nice chiseled white lintels, sills, and coin courses. Curved glass windowpanes on the cupolas. Expensive stuff.
Below Brookston I cross from White County into Tippecanoe County, named for the Battle of Tippecanoe, and in honor of Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison, who later became the ninth president of the U.S. Harrison is greatly celebrated hereabouts, because of his victory, and because he was the first (only?) president considered to be from Indiana, although he was born in Virginia. Just like Michigan claims Gerald Ford, even though he was born in Omaha, Nebraska. And like Texas claims George W. Bush, even though he was born in New Haven, Connecticut, while the old man was at Yale. Connecticut doesn’t want to claim him, though he is the only president ever to have been born there.
I’ve come to another fork in the road. Literally, a fork. You’d be amazed how many times I see pieces of silverware by the side of the road. And not just plastic stuff from fast food joints. Real stainless steel, use-at-home stuff. Forks, knives, spoons. Makes you wonder.
I am leaving Reynolds, heading south toward Lafayette, to finish up today near a place called Battle Ground, just north of Lafayette, which is named that because it’s the site of the Battle of Tippecanoe, in which William Henry Harrison became famous as an Indian fighter. I won’t see the battlefield today because it’s a little out of the way of my walk, but I will visit it tomorrow, on my day off.
This is where I finally leave U.S. 421, although I continue straight south, as if I were still on it. But it's now Indiana 43, as 421 shoots off to the southeast toward Indianapolis. What I’ve got today is more walking along the old Monon Line for much of the walk. Just outside Reynolds, another long freight train goes by, heading north, with about 80 cars, pulled by two CSX engines.
I'm gradually approaching West Lafayette, Indiana, home of Purdue University, and the birthplace of Billie Bob. (I thought you were born in Honolulu. Where’d I get that idea?) Anyway, if you’re reading this and you can tell me what hospital you were born in, I’ll pay homage.
Today is the fifth anniversary of the death of my mother, so I dedicate today’s walk to her, although I don’t think she would have been at ease with this enterprise, being too worried for my safety.
Over in the distance to the west of 43 is a collection of those huge, modern wind turbines, 70 or 80 feet high, with the three enormous blades. It spreads out over several miles. I’d say this is a good place for them. It sure as hell has been windy since I’ve been in this state. I count 65 of them, and there are no doubt more beyond the horizon.
The first place I come to, about two and a half miles into the walk, is called Smithson. Nothing but a sign, and a couple of old buildings east of the railroad tracks that look like they used to be stores. One of them is bricked up and the other is empty.
I see a small bird, killed on the highway. I see relatively few of them, compared to small mammals and reptiles. Birds have advantages the terrestrial animals don’t. They have to do something stupid, from a bird perspective, to get killed by a car. This is only the second one I have seen so far in Indiana. Seeing the dead bird puts me in mind of a scene from Evelyn Waugh’s satirical short novel about southern California, The Loved One. In it the protagonist, a young English expatriate, is working at an animal mortuary in L.A. At one point he’s improvising a funeral service for a parakeet, and he starts to adapt the service for the burial of the dead from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, specifically the line that begins, “Man that is born of a woman.…” So he’s standing in front of this little box, reciting, “Bird that is born of an egg hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.”
They made a so-so movie of the novel, starring Robert Morse as the young Englishman, and Jonathan Winters as Mr. Joyboy.
In the midst of life we are in death. Inspired by that moment in that novel, I have conducted many a funeral for a family pet. Hamster that is born of a hamster. Cat that is born of a cat. For fish we would use the service for burial at sea, saying, as the fish goes into the toilet, “We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the Sea shall give up her dead....”
That Book of Common prayer is a beautifully written thing, by the way. One of the jewels of English literature. Its initial completion is one of the accomplishments of Edward VI, the boy king, son of Henry VIII, who was actively involved in some of the writing of the book, along with Thomas Cranmer, in 1547. Its beautiful Elizabethan language still resonates. We usually don’t give much credit to Edward VI, since he didn’t live long, and was succeeded by his half-sisters Mary and Elizabeth, but he deserves a place in history just for having shepherded The Book of Common Prayer into print.
Smithson to Chalmers is the same familiar formula. Corn, soybeans, railroad tracks.
I am in mourning today for the loss by the Maize and Blue to the Spartans yesterday, in overtime, 26-20. However the Boilermaker fans hereabouts are in even greater mourning, having seen their team blow a 21-3 lead to lose to Northwestern by a score of 27-21.
At about 6 miles into the walk, the sign says “Welcome to Chalmers. ‘Your low-cost, reliable municipal electric utility.’” Weird. The sign is like an ad for the power company. I guess these windmills are contributing to low-cost energy. Another sign under the speed limit says, “Meth Watch Community.” Yet another sign says, “Peddlers and solicitors licensed at town hall.” In other words, keep moving, we ain't buying.
Not much to Chalmers. Post office, bank, bar, American Legion. I’m going to guess that Chalmers was laid out in 1853, and named after a friend or business partner of James Brooks, president of the New Albany and Salem (later Monon) Railroad. I’ll bet Reynolds was another such associate.
A half mile south of Chalmers I come to a cemetery, just over the railroad tracks from the road, to the east. It’s about two acres, with another couple of acres for future growth. The stones are large and clean. The names are mostly English, with a few German ones—Hughes, Chamberlain, Brookshire, Ward, Rogers, Shortz, Raub. Most of the graves are newer, since the mid-twentieth century, but some date back to the early 1900s. In the middle is a gazebo with a couple of chairs. I take a little rest.
I don’t know how these things happen, but this dead bird thing is becoming a theme. I said before that I rarely see them, and that is--or was--true. But I’m sure seeing them today. A cardinal, a bluejay, a woodpecker, something that I think might have been a chicken, and a couple of others. The birds are falling right and left down here on Indiana 43.
At 10 miles the sign says “Welcome to Brookston,” with that thing about the electric utility. I guess I don’t need to tell you after whom Brookston was named. You guessed it, James Brooks. And the year? You got it, 1853. On 43, called Prairie street, are a pair of late 19th century mansions, almost identical, but on opposite sides of the street. Red brick with nice chiseled white lintels, sills, and coin courses. Curved glass windowpanes on the cupolas. Expensive stuff.
Below Brookston I cross from White County into Tippecanoe County, named for the Battle of Tippecanoe, and in honor of Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison, who later became the ninth president of the U.S. Harrison is greatly celebrated hereabouts, because of his victory, and because he was the first (only?) president considered to be from Indiana, although he was born in Virginia. Just like Michigan claims Gerald Ford, even though he was born in Omaha, Nebraska. And like Texas claims George W. Bush, even though he was born in New Haven, Connecticut, while the old man was at Yale. Connecticut doesn’t want to claim him, though he is the only president ever to have been born there.
I’ve come to another fork in the road. Literally, a fork. You’d be amazed how many times I see pieces of silverware by the side of the road. And not just plastic stuff from fast food joints. Real stainless steel, use-at-home stuff. Forks, knives, spoons. Makes you wonder.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Day 16: All the livelong day
Francesville to Reynolds. 17 miles/215.4 total
Getting a relatively early start--9:30 a.m. I’m leaving from the parking lot of Pearlie Mae’s Restaurant in Francesville, headed toward Reynolds. The temperature is in the high 40s, with a strong wind from the west. Chilly, but I’m dressed for it. Rainy and misty, by turns.
I was going to spend last night in charming (really, sort of) little Francesville, but there was no cell phone or broadband internet access. That won't do. I took a chance and went down to my destination for today, Reynolds, where reception was fine.
One thing about Francesville and these other little towns along U.S. 421 is that you don’t ask yourself, “I wonder what the deal is with this town?” It’s corn and soybeans. And sometimes taters. That's The Deal. And everything else, from restaurants to gas stations to insurance agencies to banks, is in support of The Deal.
I just turned down another offer of a ride. I wonder what goes through peoples’ minds when I turn them down, especially on a day like today, as inclement and unlikely a day for walking as you can get. I probably don’t look like I’m having a good time. (And I don’t know if I actually am having a good time.) They probably think I’m either crazy or afraid to get into the car with them. But I thank them profusely, and they drive on.
When I'm tempted to be critical of the people of Indiana, I have to remind myself that I received NO offers of rides the whole time I was in Michigan. I’m sure the weather has something to do with it, what with being so cold and rainy, but that’s not the whole story. When I lived in Connecticut I walked on weekends for several years from the 90s to around 2002. I probably put 1500 miles on my feet, in all kinds of weather—from sunshine to driving rain to snow and temperatures in the teens. And I was offered, during that whole time, a grand total of ONE ride. Since I got into Indiana I’ve had nine offers in five days. Don't worry, I’m not going to go off on a screed about the virtues of the people in the red states in the heartland. (Hey wait a minute--Indiana was a blue state in 2008, for the first time in many years.) But the statistics do speak for themselves, don’t they? These have been folks of all kinds—farmers in pickups, young shit-kickers in jacked-up cars, a Spanish-speaking couple with a baby. All I want to say is that I appreciate their kindness in asking.
A historical marker: “First Indiana Natural Gas Well. One mile southeast of this marker, gas was discovered in 1867 by G. Bates while drilling for oil at a depth of 500 feet. Gas wells were drilled in 1887-1888; gas piped into Francesville lasted only four years.” So there you have it.
About 6 miles into the walk I cross over from Pulaski County to White County. A mile or so north of Monon (pronounced MO-nahn) is the Whistle Stop restaurant and railroad museum. I take a tour. It’s the largest collection of railroad memorabilia in the world. They’ve got everything in there. Railroad china and silverware; locks; ashtrays; pocket watches; furniture; signs; lanterns--some going back to the days when they used whale oil in them. They have a caboose and a train station you can go through. And a lot more. If I were a railroad nut, it would be a fantastic. I’m not quite there, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
The New Albany and Salem line, started by James Brooks (who named Francesville after his daughter), eventually became known as the Monon line, and changed names a number of other times. Currently it’s run by CSX. It crossed the state from north to south, from Michigan City to Louisville. At one time Monon had eleven tracks running through it.
So most of these towns up and down 421 were built as stops along the railroad, and laid out by James Brooks, including Monon. He gave them names of his choosing, but some of them, like Monon (and maybe San Pierre), reverted to their older place names. Monon is from an Indian word--swift water, or something. Being the president of a railroad in the 1850s was a pretty powerful gig.
At about 8 miles into the walk the sign says “Welcome to Monon. Proud History. Bright Future.” Population is a little over 1700. The main street is festooned with American flags. I’m not sure if this is an occasion, or if they do it just to orient people who may have dropped down from another planet and don’t know what country they’re in. Otherwise, it’s pretty meaningless.
As wonderful and as important as Monon is, or was, it is gone in a matter of a half dozen blocks, and I am at the south end of town, having crossed the railroad tracks. Amtrak does run trough here, between Indianapolis and Chicago.
I must have passed the southern limit of where the meat wagon plied the road yesterday, because the road kill is plentiful today. Here's my first dead deer of Indiana. I see that it's a buck, then when I go to check out the antlers, I discover that they've been sawed off.
Shortly thereafter, I see my first cat road kill of Indiana. Some of you are no doubt saying, “Enough with the road kill, already. Are you obsessed?” You’re right. Forgive me. But I’ll tell you, when you’re doing nothing but walking for hours at a time, it’s a worthwhile diversion, to take your mind off the fatigue and pain.
The Reynolds water tower comes into sight, still a couple of miles off. I hear a train whistle. It’s another long freight train, this time 66 cars pulled by two engines. Finally after 8 miles running as straight as an arrow, 421 takes a turn as I enter Reynolds, which calls itself “Bio-Town.” (That means it was selected to become an energy self-sufficient town, using biodiesel and ethanol, and making power from local animal waste. And maybe road kill, who knows?) I don’t know much more about Reynolds than that, except that I spent the night in the motor home here, in a vacant lot next to a restaurant parking lot, and that I slept well. As I enter town, I find a dime on the side of the road. I take it as a good sign, beyond the value of the dime itself. There’s nothing like finding money by the side of the road. It’s such an unequivocally good thing.
I always relish the moment when I first lay eyes on the motor home at the end of a walk. Because I’m tired and it means I can rest, of course, but also because I always have this nagging fear that it won’t be there—towed away or stolen or taken up by aliens. So when it comes into sight, my heart leaps up.
Getting a relatively early start--9:30 a.m. I’m leaving from the parking lot of Pearlie Mae’s Restaurant in Francesville, headed toward Reynolds. The temperature is in the high 40s, with a strong wind from the west. Chilly, but I’m dressed for it. Rainy and misty, by turns.
I was going to spend last night in charming (really, sort of) little Francesville, but there was no cell phone or broadband internet access. That won't do. I took a chance and went down to my destination for today, Reynolds, where reception was fine.
One thing about Francesville and these other little towns along U.S. 421 is that you don’t ask yourself, “I wonder what the deal is with this town?” It’s corn and soybeans. And sometimes taters. That's The Deal. And everything else, from restaurants to gas stations to insurance agencies to banks, is in support of The Deal.
I just turned down another offer of a ride. I wonder what goes through peoples’ minds when I turn them down, especially on a day like today, as inclement and unlikely a day for walking as you can get. I probably don’t look like I’m having a good time. (And I don’t know if I actually am having a good time.) They probably think I’m either crazy or afraid to get into the car with them. But I thank them profusely, and they drive on.
When I'm tempted to be critical of the people of Indiana, I have to remind myself that I received NO offers of rides the whole time I was in Michigan. I’m sure the weather has something to do with it, what with being so cold and rainy, but that’s not the whole story. When I lived in Connecticut I walked on weekends for several years from the 90s to around 2002. I probably put 1500 miles on my feet, in all kinds of weather—from sunshine to driving rain to snow and temperatures in the teens. And I was offered, during that whole time, a grand total of ONE ride. Since I got into Indiana I’ve had nine offers in five days. Don't worry, I’m not going to go off on a screed about the virtues of the people in the red states in the heartland. (Hey wait a minute--Indiana was a blue state in 2008, for the first time in many years.) But the statistics do speak for themselves, don’t they? These have been folks of all kinds—farmers in pickups, young shit-kickers in jacked-up cars, a Spanish-speaking couple with a baby. All I want to say is that I appreciate their kindness in asking.
A historical marker: “First Indiana Natural Gas Well. One mile southeast of this marker, gas was discovered in 1867 by G. Bates while drilling for oil at a depth of 500 feet. Gas wells were drilled in 1887-1888; gas piped into Francesville lasted only four years.” So there you have it.
About 6 miles into the walk I cross over from Pulaski County to White County. A mile or so north of Monon (pronounced MO-nahn) is the Whistle Stop restaurant and railroad museum. I take a tour. It’s the largest collection of railroad memorabilia in the world. They’ve got everything in there. Railroad china and silverware; locks; ashtrays; pocket watches; furniture; signs; lanterns--some going back to the days when they used whale oil in them. They have a caboose and a train station you can go through. And a lot more. If I were a railroad nut, it would be a fantastic. I’m not quite there, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
The New Albany and Salem line, started by James Brooks (who named Francesville after his daughter), eventually became known as the Monon line, and changed names a number of other times. Currently it’s run by CSX. It crossed the state from north to south, from Michigan City to Louisville. At one time Monon had eleven tracks running through it.
So most of these towns up and down 421 were built as stops along the railroad, and laid out by James Brooks, including Monon. He gave them names of his choosing, but some of them, like Monon (and maybe San Pierre), reverted to their older place names. Monon is from an Indian word--swift water, or something. Being the president of a railroad in the 1850s was a pretty powerful gig.
At about 8 miles into the walk the sign says “Welcome to Monon. Proud History. Bright Future.” Population is a little over 1700. The main street is festooned with American flags. I’m not sure if this is an occasion, or if they do it just to orient people who may have dropped down from another planet and don’t know what country they’re in. Otherwise, it’s pretty meaningless.
As wonderful and as important as Monon is, or was, it is gone in a matter of a half dozen blocks, and I am at the south end of town, having crossed the railroad tracks. Amtrak does run trough here, between Indianapolis and Chicago.
I must have passed the southern limit of where the meat wagon plied the road yesterday, because the road kill is plentiful today. Here's my first dead deer of Indiana. I see that it's a buck, then when I go to check out the antlers, I discover that they've been sawed off.
Shortly thereafter, I see my first cat road kill of Indiana. Some of you are no doubt saying, “Enough with the road kill, already. Are you obsessed?” You’re right. Forgive me. But I’ll tell you, when you’re doing nothing but walking for hours at a time, it’s a worthwhile diversion, to take your mind off the fatigue and pain.
The Reynolds water tower comes into sight, still a couple of miles off. I hear a train whistle. It’s another long freight train, this time 66 cars pulled by two engines. Finally after 8 miles running as straight as an arrow, 421 takes a turn as I enter Reynolds, which calls itself “Bio-Town.” (That means it was selected to become an energy self-sufficient town, using biodiesel and ethanol, and making power from local animal waste. And maybe road kill, who knows?) I don’t know much more about Reynolds than that, except that I spent the night in the motor home here, in a vacant lot next to a restaurant parking lot, and that I slept well. As I enter town, I find a dime on the side of the road. I take it as a good sign, beyond the value of the dime itself. There’s nothing like finding money by the side of the road. It’s such an unequivocally good thing.
I always relish the moment when I first lay eyes on the motor home at the end of a walk. Because I’m tired and it means I can rest, of course, but also because I always have this nagging fear that it won’t be there—towed away or stolen or taken up by aliens. So when it comes into sight, my heart leaps up.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Day 15: Loading road kill with a pitchfork
San Pierre to Francesville. 15.5 miles/198.4 total
Another day straight south on U.S. 421. It’s 10:15 a.m., and I am leaving from in front of All Saints Roman Catholic Church in San Pierre. I should mention that it’s 10:15 Central. I think when I get to my destination it will be Eastern time again.
It’s chilly, in the low to mid 50s with a strong breeze out of the west. Very high clouds and partly sunny for now, but some kind of weather is on its way up from the southwest.
I want to say that I appreciated the theories about the absence of raccoons south of Wanatah, but I got the answer this morning, as I was driving on this stretch, between San Pierre and Medaryville. I happened to notice a small pickup truck with a yellow light flashing, coming the other way. Suddenly it pulled over to the side of the road and a man hopped out and scooped up a dead animal with a pitchfork, flung it into the back of the truck, then jumped in and drove on, lights flashing. The insignia on the door of the truck bore the map of Indiana, but I didn’t see whether it was a more local branch of government. I tend to think it was a state enterprise, though, because I’ve been across two counties so far, and he was in yet a third.
The mystery is solved. Everything has been revealed. The road kill is being picked up around here. I’m amazed they have the money for such frivolity. Could be Obama money given to the Indiana Department of Transportation. Now, the next thing to speculate on is, what do they do with what they pick up? Disposal or dinner?
So again I won’t see much road kill. I don’t know where the territory of the road kill scooper begins and ends. Obviously he hadn’t gotten north of Wanatah yet. The only dead animals I’ll see will be very freshly killed ones, or those that somehow escaped the notice of the meat wagon.
I pass a large institution on the left, which looks pretty much abandoned. I remember reading that San Pierre had a Catholic old folks’ home at one time, and this must be it. The words on the sign out front are faded, but when I get right up to it I can read them—Our Lady of the Holy Cross Care Center. The building doesn’t look that old, maybe dating from the 50s. It’s pretty large, the size of a hospital, four or five stories and two or three wings, sitting several hundred feet back from the road. The main gate is chained off. The parking lot is almost empty, except for two vehicles. It's obviously not being used, yet the lot isn't all grown up with weeds, either. Wonder what they've got going on inside? Maybe they use the place to perform medical experiments on the locals, or to torture pro-choice people they round up. The Guantanamo of the right to life movement.
I do see my first raccoon of the day, out on the yellow line. I don’t know how that guy could have missed it, unless he stopped before he got this far north. Loading road kill with a pitchfork.
That makes me think of Richard Brautigan, whose poem "Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork" goes like this:
Loading mercury with a pitchfork
your truck is almost full.
The neighbors take a certain pride in you.
They stand around watching.
A half mile or so south of San Pierre, the back of the welcome sign says, "Thank you for visiting. Established 1854. Population 156." (That could almost be a Richard Brautigan poem.) Not long at all after leaving San Pierre I also leave Starke County and enter Pulaski County.
Where U.S. 421 intersects with a road called 700, the map says there's supposed to be a place called Radioville. There's no sign. The fact that a few extra houses and trailers are grouped here is the only thin evidence of a village. That and a large decaying building that looks like it might once have been a small roller rink. But what a cool name--Radioville.
It’s cold. I mean, hands in your pockets hunch forward cold. With this wind, I think the temperature has dropped down into the 40s. I’m layered pretty well, but a pair of gloves would be nice right now. I'm definitely stopping in Medaryville to get a hot drink.
I’ve eaten my lunch early, just to keep the old furnace stoked. Some of you might be wondering what I eat on these walks. I prepare a lunch that I take with me. It consists of a sandwich made on a large tortilla, with some sliced turkey or ham and a couple of slices of cheese. I fold it over twice and cut it. It doesn’t take up much room in my pocket, and can stand any amount of squashing. And I take a bottle of something, usually water mixed with orange juice, and an apple and a snack bar. That usually does it. About halfway through I might buy another bottle of water, depending on how much sweating I’m doing. Today, not much, I can tell you. Then if I ride the bike, I take an extra bottle of water for that ride. I try never to succumb to the temptation to get a candy bar, because that triggers a craving for sugar.
My breakfast never varies, either. A bowl of oatmeal with milk and sugar, a cup of coffee, and a piece of fruit, usually a banana. Since I’ve started walking, I avoid caffeine in the afternoon, in order to sleep well at night. (That’s a big change for me. At home I drink coffee all day. So you were right about the decaf, Linda.)
At just under 6 miles into the walk, I stop at the Twice Is Nice store, which sells used clothing and other junk. I buy a couple of used pocket knives, which are very cheap. If this store didn’t have a sign in front of it, it would look like most of the rest of the houses around here, cluttered in front with an incredible amount of crap of all kinds. Every house and trailer on this part of 421 looks like a junk store.
At about 8 miles, the sign says, "Welcome to Medaryville. Heart of Indiana. Population 565. Established 1853." The woman in the gas station tells me that Pulaski County is on Eastern time. So I’m back in Eastern time until I hit Illinois. I take a walk down Medaryville’s Main Street, which runs off to the east, perpendicular to 421. It looks kind of charming, so I’ll take a little detour.
The town, according to the internet, was probably named after Samuel Medary, an Ohio newspaperman and politician who was governor of both Minnesota and Kansas when they were territories. Medaryville is known for growing potatoes, and each year it has a Potato Festival. It was once know as “Tatertown.”
Well, “charming” was overstating it a bit. It’s another little shit-kicking farm town. The Confederate flag flies in front of one of the houses on Main Street. So long, Tatertown.
Now I remember that the woman at the library told me that Pulaski County had decided to go on daylight saving time. But they’re still on Eastern. Starke County had decided to go on Central time, and also to go on daylight saving time. It’s apparent that the people in these time zone border counties are confused, and I don’t blame them.
I’ve been in and out of rain twice, with 3 miles to go until Francesville. I now have my emergency poncho put away. People are complaining about how cold it got suddenly.
I just got offered another ride. Is that the third or fourth time? I should keep track of that, too.
I find a lot of tools as I walk. So far since I started walking, I’ve found a pair of channel locks, two screw drivers, and about four wrenches, all worth picking up. I just got a 7/16 inch Craftsman box and open-end wrench in good condition.
“Welcome to Francesville. A Small Town With a Big Heart.” Turns out there are over 900 people in Francesville. Another railroad town, named for the daughter of James Brooks, president of the New Albany and Salem Railroad, the same one that ran through Medaryville.
At the corner of Salem and Montgomery Streets stands St. Francis Solano Catholic Church, which looks more like a large Taco Bell than a church. It’s small for a church, and has the whole stucco facade thing going on, but it’s not working too well.
Behind Gutwein Insuance Agency sits the truckster.
Another day straight south on U.S. 421. It’s 10:15 a.m., and I am leaving from in front of All Saints Roman Catholic Church in San Pierre. I should mention that it’s 10:15 Central. I think when I get to my destination it will be Eastern time again.
It’s chilly, in the low to mid 50s with a strong breeze out of the west. Very high clouds and partly sunny for now, but some kind of weather is on its way up from the southwest.
I want to say that I appreciated the theories about the absence of raccoons south of Wanatah, but I got the answer this morning, as I was driving on this stretch, between San Pierre and Medaryville. I happened to notice a small pickup truck with a yellow light flashing, coming the other way. Suddenly it pulled over to the side of the road and a man hopped out and scooped up a dead animal with a pitchfork, flung it into the back of the truck, then jumped in and drove on, lights flashing. The insignia on the door of the truck bore the map of Indiana, but I didn’t see whether it was a more local branch of government. I tend to think it was a state enterprise, though, because I’ve been across two counties so far, and he was in yet a third.
The mystery is solved. Everything has been revealed. The road kill is being picked up around here. I’m amazed they have the money for such frivolity. Could be Obama money given to the Indiana Department of Transportation. Now, the next thing to speculate on is, what do they do with what they pick up? Disposal or dinner?
So again I won’t see much road kill. I don’t know where the territory of the road kill scooper begins and ends. Obviously he hadn’t gotten north of Wanatah yet. The only dead animals I’ll see will be very freshly killed ones, or those that somehow escaped the notice of the meat wagon.
I pass a large institution on the left, which looks pretty much abandoned. I remember reading that San Pierre had a Catholic old folks’ home at one time, and this must be it. The words on the sign out front are faded, but when I get right up to it I can read them—Our Lady of the Holy Cross Care Center. The building doesn’t look that old, maybe dating from the 50s. It’s pretty large, the size of a hospital, four or five stories and two or three wings, sitting several hundred feet back from the road. The main gate is chained off. The parking lot is almost empty, except for two vehicles. It's obviously not being used, yet the lot isn't all grown up with weeds, either. Wonder what they've got going on inside? Maybe they use the place to perform medical experiments on the locals, or to torture pro-choice people they round up. The Guantanamo of the right to life movement.
I do see my first raccoon of the day, out on the yellow line. I don’t know how that guy could have missed it, unless he stopped before he got this far north. Loading road kill with a pitchfork.
That makes me think of Richard Brautigan, whose poem "Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork" goes like this:
Loading mercury with a pitchfork
your truck is almost full.
The neighbors take a certain pride in you.
They stand around watching.
A half mile or so south of San Pierre, the back of the welcome sign says, "Thank you for visiting. Established 1854. Population 156." (That could almost be a Richard Brautigan poem.) Not long at all after leaving San Pierre I also leave Starke County and enter Pulaski County.
Where U.S. 421 intersects with a road called 700, the map says there's supposed to be a place called Radioville. There's no sign. The fact that a few extra houses and trailers are grouped here is the only thin evidence of a village. That and a large decaying building that looks like it might once have been a small roller rink. But what a cool name--Radioville.
It’s cold. I mean, hands in your pockets hunch forward cold. With this wind, I think the temperature has dropped down into the 40s. I’m layered pretty well, but a pair of gloves would be nice right now. I'm definitely stopping in Medaryville to get a hot drink.
I’ve eaten my lunch early, just to keep the old furnace stoked. Some of you might be wondering what I eat on these walks. I prepare a lunch that I take with me. It consists of a sandwich made on a large tortilla, with some sliced turkey or ham and a couple of slices of cheese. I fold it over twice and cut it. It doesn’t take up much room in my pocket, and can stand any amount of squashing. And I take a bottle of something, usually water mixed with orange juice, and an apple and a snack bar. That usually does it. About halfway through I might buy another bottle of water, depending on how much sweating I’m doing. Today, not much, I can tell you. Then if I ride the bike, I take an extra bottle of water for that ride. I try never to succumb to the temptation to get a candy bar, because that triggers a craving for sugar.
My breakfast never varies, either. A bowl of oatmeal with milk and sugar, a cup of coffee, and a piece of fruit, usually a banana. Since I’ve started walking, I avoid caffeine in the afternoon, in order to sleep well at night. (That’s a big change for me. At home I drink coffee all day. So you were right about the decaf, Linda.)
At just under 6 miles into the walk, I stop at the Twice Is Nice store, which sells used clothing and other junk. I buy a couple of used pocket knives, which are very cheap. If this store didn’t have a sign in front of it, it would look like most of the rest of the houses around here, cluttered in front with an incredible amount of crap of all kinds. Every house and trailer on this part of 421 looks like a junk store.
At about 8 miles, the sign says, "Welcome to Medaryville. Heart of Indiana. Population 565. Established 1853." The woman in the gas station tells me that Pulaski County is on Eastern time. So I’m back in Eastern time until I hit Illinois. I take a walk down Medaryville’s Main Street, which runs off to the east, perpendicular to 421. It looks kind of charming, so I’ll take a little detour.
The town, according to the internet, was probably named after Samuel Medary, an Ohio newspaperman and politician who was governor of both Minnesota and Kansas when they were territories. Medaryville is known for growing potatoes, and each year it has a Potato Festival. It was once know as “Tatertown.”
Well, “charming” was overstating it a bit. It’s another little shit-kicking farm town. The Confederate flag flies in front of one of the houses on Main Street. So long, Tatertown.
Now I remember that the woman at the library told me that Pulaski County had decided to go on daylight saving time. But they’re still on Eastern. Starke County had decided to go on Central time, and also to go on daylight saving time. It’s apparent that the people in these time zone border counties are confused, and I don’t blame them.
I’ve been in and out of rain twice, with 3 miles to go until Francesville. I now have my emergency poncho put away. People are complaining about how cold it got suddenly.
I just got offered another ride. Is that the third or fourth time? I should keep track of that, too.
I find a lot of tools as I walk. So far since I started walking, I’ve found a pair of channel locks, two screw drivers, and about four wrenches, all worth picking up. I just got a 7/16 inch Craftsman box and open-end wrench in good condition.
“Welcome to Francesville. A Small Town With a Big Heart.” Turns out there are over 900 people in Francesville. Another railroad town, named for the daughter of James Brooks, president of the New Albany and Salem Railroad, the same one that ran through Medaryville.
At the corner of Salem and Montgomery Streets stands St. Francis Solano Catholic Church, which looks more like a large Taco Bell than a church. It’s small for a church, and has the whole stucco facade thing going on, but it’s not working too well.
Behind Gutwein Insuance Agency sits the truckster.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Progress report: the French connection
Life, like baseball, is a game of statistics. With a new month beginning, it's time to summarize a little. I've walked 139.3 miles in Michigan and 43.6 in Indiana so far, for a total of 182.9 miles, in 14 walks. That's an average of just over 13 miles per walk, but the average has been going up, and for the last 7 walks it has been 14.5 miles. The feet are good. The legs still cry out for mercy at about halfway through the day. But it's like hitting yourself in the head with a 2 by 4--it feels so good when you stop.
Went into Valparaiso this morning and did a little research at the library, still trying to find out about the mystery of San Pierre. But first I checked out Wanatah (pronounced WAN-a-tah), where I'd stayed the night. There's a historical marker that says that Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train stopped here in 1865, retracing his campaign trail from Illinois to Washington. I also remember reading yesterday that Lincoln’s funeral train went through San Pierre. I don’t think it stopped.
In spite of the story about naming the place after a French Canadian railroad guy named Pierre (which I saw repeated in another history of the place), my best guess is that the name St. Pierre was there before the English-speaking types came along, and just got misspelled. After it was called Culvertown for awhile, I think maybe people forgot who Culver was, and decided that the name should revert to the old one, perhaps bestowed on it by the missionaries.
The French were the first Europeans to start nosing around this area, and left French names on a number of places, which the English have been misspelling or mispronouncing ever since. The name LaPorte (for LaPorte County, where Michigan City is) comes from what the early French explorers named the gap in the woods up by the Lake—the door.
In 1673 Father Jacques Marquette and Louis Joliet passed through the northwest part of Indiana, exploring away, Joliet looking for that prison the Indians had named in his honor. Also, Rene-Robert Cavelier, sieur de LaSalle, known as Sir Bob to his friends, explored the area in 1679 with about 30 men. "Gee our old LaSalle ran great," they all sang. They paddled up and down the Kankakee River. Trading routes were opened here, and for the next 30 years French missionaries were busy trying to convert Indians.
After the victory in 1783, the Americans interpreted their treaty with England as giving them claim to the Lake Michigan shore. In 1796 the Brits acknowledged the claim, and by 1803 the US army had crossed the trails to the Chicago River. But by the early years of the U.S., there were still a few Frenchmen floating around, probably married to Indians, since they were more prone to doing that than the English were. (Interethnic marriages are a French specialty, it seems.) The English would just kill the Indians. The French would marry them, then kill them slowly with their outrageous accents.
In 1853, Horace Greeley, legendary editor of the New York Tribune (who said, "Go west, young man") came through San Pierre on a railroad handcar. It was then called Culvertown. In the 30s the San Pierre State Bank was robbed by John Dillinger’s gang, minus Dillinger himself, of $8,000. While leaving the bank with their loot, they saw a deaf and dumb man who always sat on the bread basket in front of the grocery store. As they were coming by, he was waving at the bandits, and they shot him. He died on the spot. And it's been downhill ever since.
Went into Valparaiso this morning and did a little research at the library, still trying to find out about the mystery of San Pierre. But first I checked out Wanatah (pronounced WAN-a-tah), where I'd stayed the night. There's a historical marker that says that Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train stopped here in 1865, retracing his campaign trail from Illinois to Washington. I also remember reading yesterday that Lincoln’s funeral train went through San Pierre. I don’t think it stopped.
In spite of the story about naming the place after a French Canadian railroad guy named Pierre (which I saw repeated in another history of the place), my best guess is that the name St. Pierre was there before the English-speaking types came along, and just got misspelled. After it was called Culvertown for awhile, I think maybe people forgot who Culver was, and decided that the name should revert to the old one, perhaps bestowed on it by the missionaries.
The French were the first Europeans to start nosing around this area, and left French names on a number of places, which the English have been misspelling or mispronouncing ever since. The name LaPorte (for LaPorte County, where Michigan City is) comes from what the early French explorers named the gap in the woods up by the Lake—the door.
In 1673 Father Jacques Marquette and Louis Joliet passed through the northwest part of Indiana, exploring away, Joliet looking for that prison the Indians had named in his honor. Also, Rene-Robert Cavelier, sieur de LaSalle, known as Sir Bob to his friends, explored the area in 1679 with about 30 men. "Gee our old LaSalle ran great," they all sang. They paddled up and down the Kankakee River. Trading routes were opened here, and for the next 30 years French missionaries were busy trying to convert Indians.
After the victory in 1783, the Americans interpreted their treaty with England as giving them claim to the Lake Michigan shore. In 1796 the Brits acknowledged the claim, and by 1803 the US army had crossed the trails to the Chicago River. But by the early years of the U.S., there were still a few Frenchmen floating around, probably married to Indians, since they were more prone to doing that than the English were. (Interethnic marriages are a French specialty, it seems.) The English would just kill the Indians. The French would marry them, then kill them slowly with their outrageous accents.
In 1853, Horace Greeley, legendary editor of the New York Tribune (who said, "Go west, young man") came through San Pierre on a railroad handcar. It was then called Culvertown. In the 30s the San Pierre State Bank was robbed by John Dillinger’s gang, minus Dillinger himself, of $8,000. While leaving the bank with their loot, they saw a deaf and dumb man who always sat on the bread basket in front of the grocery store. As they were coming by, he was waving at the bandits, and they shot him. He died on the spot. And it's been downhill ever since.
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