Beadle Park

I was trying to come up with new topics for this blog as I passed the decommissioned train in Beadle Park. I was still trying to come up with a good topic as I passed the train again, and I realized I had overlooked a very obvious thing to write about.

Beadle Park is one of the first signs you’re in Cresco proper. The park is hard to miss, since as I mentioned, there is a train sitting in the middle of it. The train is a restored, non-functioning diesel locomotive. From what I’ve been able to learn, this train was the first of its kind sold to the Milwaukee Road Railroad Line. The township bought it in 1984, transferred it to Cresco and set about restoring it. While the train still looks like it might be functional, it is in no danger of ever moving from that spot. The restoration apparently didn’t go toward making the train run again, just making the train look good. Quite frankly, they’ve succeeded. When I went to look at the train, I was blown away by how nice it was. You can climb a stepladder and look into the engine, climb onto the flatbed or look into the caboose. It’s an immense amount of fun to see, and the only complaint I have with the train is that you can only look inside—no actually going inside. I can understand why Cresco took this approach. Let’s face it, you never know when a couple of idiots on a Saturday night might get the idea that the engineer station might look better spray-painted fluorescent pink. On the other hand, the train is remarkably graffiti-free, which either says something about the pride the town has in the train or the attention the sheriff’s office pays to the park at night.

According to publicity materials, the train was placed in Beadle Park to remind people about Cresco’s railway heritage, which I think is the grown-up way of saying, “We wanted to put a train in a park! How cool would that be?” Plus, I can’t think of anything cooler for kids than being able to play on a real train. Forget the see-saw—you could have all sorts of imaginary adventures on a decommissioned train! This is such a kid magnet that I can’t imagine how parents in Cresco keep their kids indoors, at least until they hit adolescence.

To be honest, Beadle Park seems to have a symbol of every aspect of the town Cresco wants to display not only to their visitors, but also its citizens. The town has a statue of Norman Borlaug that is one part accurate representation and one part symbolism. He seems to have angel wings sprouting from his back, although on closer inspection it is an eagle, with its wings covering the doctor. Further inspection reveals various plants, especially wheat, and the effect is pretty impressive, although after you’ve read all the symbolism the statue contains you start to wonder if the sculptor wasn’t being a bit too clever for his or her own good. I can see future generations wondering whether Norman Borlaug was an agriculturalist or a bird trainer.

Beadle Park also has a cabin that was constructed in 1854 and lived in until 1964. That’s 110 years for those of you who don’t want to fiddle with the math. What makes it even more impressive is that this cabin is a one-room construction, and not a large room at that. It’s sides aren’t much larger than 20 feet, and when you look in and see a replication of how it was furnished, you wonder who exactly lived there and if it was passed down from father to son. I want to find out more about this cabin, not the least because it seems to be the pioneer equivalent of a start-up home. It would be fine for an Iowa farmer who was just getting started, but once you had managed to get yourself established, wouldn’t you want to build an addition, like say an entirely new cabin, and use the old cabin for a breakfast nook?

There’s also the matter of people living in this cabin until 1964. While my admittedly brief research hasn’t shown me when Cresco officially became a town, what I do know is that by 1940 electricity was commonplace, not to mention indoor plumbing. I’d like to know what kind of person would keep living in this tiny one-room cabin, even when it became clear it was time to join the latter half of the 20^th century.  Were they stubborn about it? Did they think electricity and plumbing were nice extras as opposed to necessities? Above all, what did they do? Were they farmers? Hunters? Trappers?

That’s the thing about old houses. You wonder who lived there and what their daily life was like. And while it’s one thing to see houses where famous artists painted or great inventors drafted their world-changing ideas, it’s another to see places where people were quietly extraordinary in their own right. I don’t think we get to see that quiet extraordinariness often, and when I do get to see it I’m reminded how easy it is to overlook.

Iowans That Leave the State

               

The only way to really sum up July so far is, “bloody hot.” The weather is so hot and humid it goes past “sultry” and right into “suffocating,” and my drive to and from work feels about the same as spending a half-hour in a sauna, which is especially bad since the drive to work is only ten minutes. Most people I know feel very strongly this is excellent weather for sitting indoors with the air conditioner cranked to “glacial.” The outdoors, it seems, is to be strictly avoided except during spring and fall.

                I can’t exactly blame them. When I was growing up in northern Michigan, my mom would have to drag us from our nicely cooled house, where there were books and toys and books and video games and books to go outside and play because it was good for us. Admittedly, it was good for us but that’s not the point. The point is that we would go outside and after a half-hour my brothers and I would start to want to go inside since it was so hot. Personally I would have wanted to read a book outside, but that was considered cheating somehow.

                As I said, looking back Mom was right. Getting outside and playing was not only good for us but also necessary, as it taught my brothers and I to take advantage of good weather when we could get it, because all too often if you sit around waiting for a perfect day to come up so you can go outside, you’ll oftentimes find yourself getting out an average of two days every year. Plus, if you don’t take advantage of summer now, you’ll eventually find yourself bundled up in three layers come winter, trying to avoid death by windchill and literally crying to the heavens asking why you didn’t take advantage of the outside when there wasn’t snow on the ground. Then you’ll have to wipe off your tears, which have turned to ice on your cheeks.  So getting outside while the weather is nice is a good thing, even if you have to take a full-sized bath towel to wipe off the sweat.

                I was thinking of the extremes in the weather today as I passed by the Cresco town limit sign, which lists some of the famous people who have come out of Cresco. I’ve already talked about Norman Borlaug (1 billion people saved and counting), but there are a few other notables.

                One notable is the world’s first flight attendant, Ellen Church. This woman was trained as a pilot around the time of Amelia Earhart, putting her in some very distinguished company. Remember, women got the right to vote in 1920, and the whole notion that women weren’t fragile little things wouldn’t really seep into the public consciousness for a few decades. Boeing Air Transit, later known as United Airlines, certainly didn’t hold this view, since the turned Ellen down for a position as pilot.

                Ellen, though, wouldn’t give up. She convinced Boeing that if you hired nurses as stewardesses, any fear that passengers have of flying would be eased. Guess who was also trained as a nurse? So Ellen became the head flight attendant at Boeing and was in charge of flying. Later on, other companies caught on to the idea of using good-looking women to allay people’s fears, which leads to the unrelated question of why White House press conferences are not given by bikini models, but that’s a topic for another day.

                The main point is that Ellen was an exceptional woman. She trained in what had to be considered a “man’s job,” and when Boeing wouldn’t hire her for the position she wanted she created another freaking position and filled it. Think about that the next time you get turned down for a job!

                Then there are the five rear admirals. Five people from Cresco joined the Navy and made their way to the rank of Rear Admiral, which is pretty good. I’d like to point out, however, that Iowa may be as far as you can get from any sizeable body of water, so I really have to wonder what made these men sign up for the Navy. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe they just really wanted to get away from the acres and acres of lands stretched out before them.

                The one part about this that really interests me is the spirit of adventure that Ellen Church and the five rear admirals displayed. A lot of people around here live within a couple hours of their hometown, and many people grew up in this area, went to college and came back. It’s understandable—you live in one place long enough, you get an affinity for it. It’s nice knowing that Joe’s Garage always has the Cajun pickled eggs for seventy-nine cents, or that the Windmill Café has Pizza Wednesdays. Other towns might not have Cajun pickled eggs, and trying to find your way around a new town is unpleasantly disorienting. But these six people bucked the trend, big time. They didn’t just leave, they kept going to new places, rarely slowing down. As someone who likes to think of himself as the kind of person who stretches out and sees new things, I have a special place in my heart for people like these. It’s almost a variant of the spirit of the place I’ve talked about, the “mouse that roared” attitude that makes people reach above what might be expected of them and try to grab excellence. Ellen Church definitely exemplifies that. I’m willing to say that each of the rear admirals exemplify that spirit too, if only because they joined the Navy, a fact which still confounds me.

Friday Nights at the Heritage House

One of the best places to dine in Cresco is a place I have trouble calling a restaurant, really.  It’s called the Heritage House, and it really exemplifies that Midwestern spirit of making your own way.

The Heritage House used to be a church. I don’t know what denomination. I really want to say Protestant, just because all the Catholics in town gather at the Nortre Dame chuch/school/social center/probably bingo hall too.

Regardless, the church was closed down and abandoned. Then a woman bought it with the intention of making it into a restaurant (and still that word doesn’t seem right). Thus, the Heritage House was born.

So, why doesn’t the Heritage House feel like a restaurant? It does serve food, after all. And you have to pay for said food. That’s pretty much the defining characteristic of a restaurant. But the Heritage House also does things I’ve seen no restaurant do.

For instance, the Heritage House has no wait staff. None. What they have in place of a waitstaff is the local troop of Boy Scouts, who volunteer when the Heritage House opens for Friday dinner. The kids bring up food, clean plates and tables, man the drink station (one soda dispenser) and when not faced with an immediate task they mill around, talking amongst themselves and acting like they’re teenagers who came to volunteer because their organization signed up for it. Lest anyone think I’m  being mean to them, I’d like to point out that teenagers who actively try to help and seek out new tasks when their organization has volunteered is almost a statistical impossibility. The teenagers that are rushing around and looking for new tasks to do either suggested the volunteer work, or their parents are chaperones.  Also, in fairness, the Boy Scouts do a decent job of making sure things are running smoothly.

Another thing that makes me refuse to believe I’m in a restaurant is the amateur feel. Not amateur as in “they don’t know what they’re doing,” amateur as in “unpolished.” The Heritage House is here to serve you food. That’s it. The chairs and the tables are of the fold-up variety, as though the place is just a restaurant some of the time—the rest of the time it will be hosting some grand event. I’ve gone there a few times, and each time I buy a meal with a check (no credit cards accepted) at a setup that reminds me of the ticket tables for high school basketball games. I mentioned low dining previously, and this is low dining at its finest. One of the great aspects of this is that you have to sit with other people. There are no tables for one or two. You will be joining a group, and you can only not talk with someone if you are really willing to work at it—and really, what fun is that? I’ve eaten with a couple Catholic priests (there for the fish), an old couple who knew practically everyone, and one of the few people I know in this town who was eating with his family. 

The final thing that makes me refuse to believe I’m eating in a restaurant is that I am eating in a church. There is no polite way to say this—once a building has been a church, it leaves that imprint on every future occupant. I’ve been to an advertising agency in Waterloo, IA that is a converted church, and it still has that reverent feel. Even when an office has two old first class airplane seats in it the place feels like a church. Perhaps the only place I’ve been that hasn’t felt like a church after being repurposed is the Temple Club in Lansing, Michigan. Even there, I saw the emptiness of the sanctuary converted into a dance floor and thought, “Someone’s going to hell.” There were cute girls dancing, though, so I eventually reached the compromise that I might indeed be condemned to Hell, but I would at least enjoy the trip.

I get that same sense in the Heritage House. Not that I’m going to Hell, but that eating and paying for it is not something you should be doing in a church. As I’m eating and staring at the stained glass windows along the walls I keep thinking that I’m butting into a weekly potluck, and since I didn’t bring a dish I have to pay for a plate.  No matter how often I eat there I keep thinking I should bring a casserole.

The only problem with the Heritage House is that I don’t know how much longer it will be open. I’ve heard the woman who opened it is extremely sick. If she doesn’t make it the future of the Heritage House is in doubt, which is really too bad. It would be nice to see something she founded go on, especially something that does such a great job of bringing people together.

Down and Inn in Northern Michigan

I am writing this after 1 a.m. on a Friday night, trying to figure out where the time went. They say time flies when you’re having fun, and while they also say that a found penny is the luckiest currency of all, they have a point when talking about time. It’s been six days, soon to be seven, since I came home. I feel kind of like I just got here.

I suppose I should be writing about everything that happened while I was up in northern Michigan, but that’s difficult for a couple of reasons. One, this blog is supposed to be about northeastern Iowa. Northern Michigan has a lot of pluses, but I’m not sure it exactly fits in the “northeastern Iowa” category. Second, coming up here stirs up a lot of emotions in me, and I think if I were to write about northern Michigan, growing up here and what I thought about it, I would need a separate blog, if not a separate book. Instead, I’ll just touch on some of the high points:

-The AuSable River is still beautiful. It is, bar none, the best river to float on in the summer. Cute girls in bikinis can improve the trip, but not as much as cute girls in bikinis usually improve things. After floating down, I had to get out and swim, walk and bob the rest of the way.

-Going for a run on an alternating dirt road and paved road is the next best thing to traveling cross-country.

-My parents and I traveled on the last riverboat on the AuSable, the AuSable River Queen. It’s an actual paddleboat, unlike a lot of paddleboats you see where the boat is powered by a gas engine and propellers. It was fun, relaxing, and there wasn’t a lot else to do but listen for the captain’s tour guide information coming through a speaker and try to decipher his words through the electronic fuzz.

-There are restaurants in northern Michigan with menus that successfully combine standard American fare with Chinese and Thai food. These restaurants are also incredibly easy on the wallet.

-Campfires with your family cannot be beat.

-Geeking out with people is fun and a bonding experience no matter who the other people are. If Barack Obama and John Boehner both started one of their meetings by talking about how great the pilot episode of “Firefly” is, the nation’s problems would be solved overnight. (Personally, I think Obama would be up for that.)

-Getting to use my small pocket LED flashlight—twice!—has pretty much justified the existence of my pockets’ contents.

-You’re never too old to love your parents and feel loved by them in return.

-Sometimes bar food can surprise you.

There’s a lot of other things I could mention, but those are the main ones. Some people may be wondering if I ran into anyone I knew while I was up here. I did indeed, but we really didn’t have a lot ot talk about. They were in their own world, I was in mine, and our short conversations basically established that fact before moving on.

The Drive

 Okay, first things first. I’ve been preparing this week to go back to northern Michigan, a land as yet undiscovered by things like cell phone signals and high speed Internet connections. So I’ll be away for a little while. In the meantime, Get out, enjoy the weather, enjoy the holiday, hang around with your family and your friends!

I have to confess, thinking up something for this entry was a little hard, since I haven’t been thinking much of northeast Iowa. What I’ve been thinking of instead is The Drive. That’s how I see it in my mind, spelled out as a proper noun.

The Drive is exactly what you’d think it is—a drive between Cresco and my parents’ house in northern Michigan. It’s no less than two states away in any direction, and at least twelve hours depending on the weather. Get on the road at 9 am, you can expect to reach your destination around 9pm with a vague sense you could have been doing something else that day.

Believe it or not, The Drive is not that bad. It’s a little tedious, but when driving to northern Michigan you don’t have much choice. I could take the train, but it stops a good three hours from my parents’ house, so that’s out. I could also take a plane, and while I could do that, I could also choose not to pay the thousand-dollar fee they slapped on for air travel during a holiday. I could also take the bus, but I’ve taken the bus before. I can tell you from personal experience listening to a person who is genuinely mentally ill talk for an hour and a half about how the Devil infests everyone when they are born and he can prove that because DEVIL spelled backwards is LIVED and EVIL spelled backwards is LIVE, you start to wonder about your safety. You also wish he would just shut up and keep this theological thoughts to himself, but that’s really secondary to fearing for your life. Even the guy who had just gotten out of prison didn’t want anything to do with this guy.

Anyway, The Drive really isn’t that bad. It’s mostly peaceful, and with a fully-charged iPod you should be good to go. Also, I have to be honest, when you’re going somewhere for a week, you want to bring along a car. I don’t want to be confined to one piece of luggage that can fit in the overhead bin, especially since I plan on bringing along books and DVDs that we can watch at night. I’ll also say that driving back into Michigan fills me with the sense that I’ve come home again. I don’t really feel like I’ve returned home when I get to my hometown, but the state itself? I feel very, very good when I finally cross the border, even if I do have to drive for four more hours.