A Pilgrimage of Sorts to Iowa-Then: Evanston
"Another day" came much sooner than I expected. It came, in fact, the next day, Sunday, the last day of my travel to Evanston.
I looked at the map and realized that my father's hometown was tantalizingly close (by map miles anyway). It was not far off U.S. Highway 71, although to get there I'd have to drive halfway across Iowa. I kept looking at the map, thinking it was way, way out of my way. It would add, just in travel time, two or three hours to my trip and I was not quite sure what was waiting for me in Evanston.
Trying to keep the costs of this largely unfunded* research trip to a minimum I had found a short-term room rental in a shared apartment in Evanston. I had negotiated almost entirely over text with the guy (Tony) who was renting the room and he seemed a little flaky. I wasn't entirely sure there was going to be a place to stay when I got there and, as I was supposed to start research the next morning, I wanted to have at least a little time to develop a contingency plan if I had to. Detouring through Iowa, even in the most expeditious manner, would limit my ability to do that if I had to.
So I looked at the map some more, calculated distance, time, and tried to factor in a few unknowns and realized it made no sense whatsoever. I should just keep heading east. Naturally, then, as I pulled out of the campground, I turned the car south and, within a very few miles, was in Iowa, headed toward a little, tiny place called Schaller. Ultimately, curiosity and the knowledge that my dad would be very pleased outweighed logic.
As it turns out, Highway 71 is not a big highway and, at least on a Sunday morning, not heavily traveled. It meanders south, then west, then south again, running through places like Spirit Lake, Okoboji (pronounce that) and Sioux Rapids (not Sioux Falls). A business route takes you along the old highway to Storm Lake (apparently the big place to go in those parts-it was hosting a bicycle race the day I passed through). All these places are scenic (and, sometimes, not-so-scenic) suburbanesque islands in seas of corn, soybeans, and wind turbines, and, if its not too hot (and it wasn't) it's the perfect place to slide the moonroof back, roll the windows down, and crank some good ol' rock and roll.
The turnoff for Schaller was clearly, if discreetly, marked-which was good, because, yet again, the data-connection reliant GPS was pretty much worthless out there. AT&T must not have many customers in Iowa or, if it does, it's not keen on giving them anything but basic service.
The road drop down and not far in the distance I could see my destination, one of those clumps or trees with the water tank sticking out which seems to be the most reliable geographical sign of life and community in the rural Midwest. The clump, however, was not very big-and neither is Schaller.
Schaller is perhaps six blocks square, not counting the tangle of farm industries down near were the railroad tracks used to be. It has two gas stations, a grocery store, a bank, post office, a tiny library, a couple of bars and a few other sundry shops and businesses. The only chain to be seen was one of the gas stations (Sinclair, I think)-even the bank was probably independent (I'm not sure the State Bank of Schaller would have any branches).
As I pulled onto what assuredly was the main street, I tapped on my video camera and slowly cruised through-mostly for my dad because I thought he would get a kick out of a video of his hometown. Then I got out and walked around, snapping pictures of things that I thought likely dated from my dad's time (he left in 1944) and other things that were reflected in very scant family lore-like the Jolly Time sheds where my grandmother would seasonally help out packing popcorn (popcorn was big in my family growing up and it was always, always, Jolly Time).
Given my last-minute decision to go to Schaller, I hadn't done any of the groundwork: I didn't know where my dad had lived, where he had gone to school (the existing school looks post-war) or anything else, so I just walked around, checked out the central city park with its vintage, child-injuring play equipment, looked at the houses, admired some of the old buildings, wondered what was behind the tacky new siding on others, said "hi" to anyone walking by (and they all knew I was not a resident and I'm sure they wondered why I was carrying a camera and taking pictures), and just kind of soaked in Schallerdom.
It's small.
It's a long way from anything.
It is generally neat and trim.
There do not appear to be any rich people in town or, if there are, they live modestly.
But, before I could leave, I had one more thing I wanted to do. My grandmother and grandfather are buried in Schaller and I wanted to see where. My father's father died six months before I was born and really was not talked about when I grew up-although I have his wristwatch, a gift from my grandmother. My dad's mother went senile and lived near us in California for the last few months of her life when I was about 19, but I can't say I was really close to her. But I wanted to visit their graves.
Finding the cemetery turned out to be easy. I drove down the main street to the edge of town and there was a sign pointing the way. Finding the graves was a little more difficult.
The cemetery, like so many I've encountered in the Midwest on this trip, was well cared for and featured, at the entrance, a map of the plots and an index of the interred. I found my grandparents on both quite easily. Translating those into actually finding the graves was another matter. The sections weren't clearly delineated and it took me four tries of looking at the plot map and going back to where I thought the graves might be, before I found them.
They share a red granite marker and someone has marked my grandfather's grave with a metal flag that indicates that he was a volunteer firefighter-something I never knew. When I asked about that later, my dad, said, yes he recalled his father returning from a number of fires and proudly observing that they had saved another foundation from ruin. Apparently, the volunteer fire department was not as effective as many might have liked. I snapped a couple of pictures and then got back in my car and pointed it south.
Yes, south. To go east I had to first go south and then east. If I had done it correctly, I would have hit the interstate and been flying east at interstate speeds in good time. I did mention that the GPS was working erratically, right? Did I mention that many of the county roads in Iowa are as badly signed as those at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation?
To make a very long and slow story short, I found myself on the state highway heading the right direction but at less than exciting speeds and with a constantly shrinking amount of fuel. I finally got gas in Fort Dodge, returned to the interstate and crossed the Mississippi River near Davenport and then angled toward Chicago and Evanston.
I discovered that they have toll roads in Illinois and I was rather amused by the fact that the first one I hit was named in honor of Ronald Reagan, the prime practitioner of voodoo economics and master of the small government mantra (fact check: the size of the federal government exploded under Reagan). So, what do you do when you can't tax people to build decent highways? You build toll roads and charge them "fees" (not "taxes") for using them.
But, except for one more fuel/dinner stop (I was driving fast at this point), there was nothing between me and Evanston. Along the way I tried to get hold of Tony by phone to no avail, although he did respond to a few texts. It wasn't until I had pulled up a block away from my first home away from the apartment that he called back and said that he was there and could let me in. Whew.
I grabbed my stuff, humped it to the door, and found myself in a decent, not wholly clean, and sparsely furnished apartment that had no air conditioning in any of the bedrooms (I'd known this before I left and had packed a small fan that proved to be remarkably useful). But it was cheap, had Internet access, and Tony, his boyfriend, and his roommate seemed nice enough. I unpacked a few things, took a shower, and just crashed into bed.
The traveling was over, the work was about to begin.
--
*Thanks to the kind people at the Redd Center at BYU for kicking in a little cash and apologizing for not being able to give me more.
I looked at the map and realized that my father's hometown was tantalizingly close (by map miles anyway). It was not far off U.S. Highway 71, although to get there I'd have to drive halfway across Iowa. I kept looking at the map, thinking it was way, way out of my way. It would add, just in travel time, two or three hours to my trip and I was not quite sure what was waiting for me in Evanston.
Trying to keep the costs of this largely unfunded* research trip to a minimum I had found a short-term room rental in a shared apartment in Evanston. I had negotiated almost entirely over text with the guy (Tony) who was renting the room and he seemed a little flaky. I wasn't entirely sure there was going to be a place to stay when I got there and, as I was supposed to start research the next morning, I wanted to have at least a little time to develop a contingency plan if I had to. Detouring through Iowa, even in the most expeditious manner, would limit my ability to do that if I had to.
So I looked at the map some more, calculated distance, time, and tried to factor in a few unknowns and realized it made no sense whatsoever. I should just keep heading east. Naturally, then, as I pulled out of the campground, I turned the car south and, within a very few miles, was in Iowa, headed toward a little, tiny place called Schaller. Ultimately, curiosity and the knowledge that my dad would be very pleased outweighed logic.
As it turns out, Highway 71 is not a big highway and, at least on a Sunday morning, not heavily traveled. It meanders south, then west, then south again, running through places like Spirit Lake, Okoboji (pronounce that) and Sioux Rapids (not Sioux Falls). A business route takes you along the old highway to Storm Lake (apparently the big place to go in those parts-it was hosting a bicycle race the day I passed through). All these places are scenic (and, sometimes, not-so-scenic) suburbanesque islands in seas of corn, soybeans, and wind turbines, and, if its not too hot (and it wasn't) it's the perfect place to slide the moonroof back, roll the windows down, and crank some good ol' rock and roll.
The turnoff for Schaller was clearly, if discreetly, marked-which was good, because, yet again, the data-connection reliant GPS was pretty much worthless out there. AT&T must not have many customers in Iowa or, if it does, it's not keen on giving them anything but basic service.
The road drop down and not far in the distance I could see my destination, one of those clumps or trees with the water tank sticking out which seems to be the most reliable geographical sign of life and community in the rural Midwest. The clump, however, was not very big-and neither is Schaller.
Schaller is perhaps six blocks square, not counting the tangle of farm industries down near were the railroad tracks used to be. It has two gas stations, a grocery store, a bank, post office, a tiny library, a couple of bars and a few other sundry shops and businesses. The only chain to be seen was one of the gas stations (Sinclair, I think)-even the bank was probably independent (I'm not sure the State Bank of Schaller would have any branches).
As I pulled onto what assuredly was the main street, I tapped on my video camera and slowly cruised through-mostly for my dad because I thought he would get a kick out of a video of his hometown. Then I got out and walked around, snapping pictures of things that I thought likely dated from my dad's time (he left in 1944) and other things that were reflected in very scant family lore-like the Jolly Time sheds where my grandmother would seasonally help out packing popcorn (popcorn was big in my family growing up and it was always, always, Jolly Time).
Given my last-minute decision to go to Schaller, I hadn't done any of the groundwork: I didn't know where my dad had lived, where he had gone to school (the existing school looks post-war) or anything else, so I just walked around, checked out the central city park with its vintage, child-injuring play equipment, looked at the houses, admired some of the old buildings, wondered what was behind the tacky new siding on others, said "hi" to anyone walking by (and they all knew I was not a resident and I'm sure they wondered why I was carrying a camera and taking pictures), and just kind of soaked in Schallerdom.
It's small.
It's a long way from anything.
It is generally neat and trim.
There do not appear to be any rich people in town or, if there are, they live modestly.
But, before I could leave, I had one more thing I wanted to do. My grandmother and grandfather are buried in Schaller and I wanted to see where. My father's father died six months before I was born and really was not talked about when I grew up-although I have his wristwatch, a gift from my grandmother. My dad's mother went senile and lived near us in California for the last few months of her life when I was about 19, but I can't say I was really close to her. But I wanted to visit their graves.
Finding the cemetery turned out to be easy. I drove down the main street to the edge of town and there was a sign pointing the way. Finding the graves was a little more difficult.
The cemetery, like so many I've encountered in the Midwest on this trip, was well cared for and featured, at the entrance, a map of the plots and an index of the interred. I found my grandparents on both quite easily. Translating those into actually finding the graves was another matter. The sections weren't clearly delineated and it took me four tries of looking at the plot map and going back to where I thought the graves might be, before I found them.
They share a red granite marker and someone has marked my grandfather's grave with a metal flag that indicates that he was a volunteer firefighter-something I never knew. When I asked about that later, my dad, said, yes he recalled his father returning from a number of fires and proudly observing that they had saved another foundation from ruin. Apparently, the volunteer fire department was not as effective as many might have liked. I snapped a couple of pictures and then got back in my car and pointed it south.
Yes, south. To go east I had to first go south and then east. If I had done it correctly, I would have hit the interstate and been flying east at interstate speeds in good time. I did mention that the GPS was working erratically, right? Did I mention that many of the county roads in Iowa are as badly signed as those at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation?
To make a very long and slow story short, I found myself on the state highway heading the right direction but at less than exciting speeds and with a constantly shrinking amount of fuel. I finally got gas in Fort Dodge, returned to the interstate and crossed the Mississippi River near Davenport and then angled toward Chicago and Evanston.
I discovered that they have toll roads in Illinois and I was rather amused by the fact that the first one I hit was named in honor of Ronald Reagan, the prime practitioner of voodoo economics and master of the small government mantra (fact check: the size of the federal government exploded under Reagan). So, what do you do when you can't tax people to build decent highways? You build toll roads and charge them "fees" (not "taxes") for using them.
But, except for one more fuel/dinner stop (I was driving fast at this point), there was nothing between me and Evanston. Along the way I tried to get hold of Tony by phone to no avail, although he did respond to a few texts. It wasn't until I had pulled up a block away from my first home away from the apartment that he called back and said that he was there and could let me in. Whew.
I grabbed my stuff, humped it to the door, and found myself in a decent, not wholly clean, and sparsely furnished apartment that had no air conditioning in any of the bedrooms (I'd known this before I left and had packed a small fan that proved to be remarkably useful). But it was cheap, had Internet access, and Tony, his boyfriend, and his roommate seemed nice enough. I unpacked a few things, took a shower, and just crashed into bed.
The traveling was over, the work was about to begin.
--
*Thanks to the kind people at the Redd Center at BYU for kicking in a little cash and apologizing for not being able to give me more.