Why-o, why-o, won't I ever get across Ohio?

.

Anxious southern belle at Hartman's Rock Garden

.

As I drove along early Thursday morning, I began to notice that the colors of the fall foliage were intensifying and deepening.  We don't really get much of a fall in Texas, so it's a genuine pleasure to see what happens up here in the cooler climes.  One of the things I really love is how the angle of the light early in the morning and late in the afternoon makes the leaves glow in various vivid shades of  fire.  It touches me in a deep deep place when I see it.  I have to admit though, when I try and capture it in a photo, it never fails to make me acutely aware of my limitations as a photographer.  The pictures almost never translate into the satisfaction I feel when I see it live and in person.  "Not to worry," I tell myself, 'there are plenty of talented photographers who've covered this topic very thoroughly and capably.  Focus your abilities on giant balls of twine instead."

.

So please allow me to make a single generic apology for all the fall color pictures I post here - sorry - it was as close as I could get.

Seeing as how I was wending my way toward Christiansburg, Virginia and still had a lot of Ohio to go through, I dug up some information on a place to visit in Springfield called Hartman's Rock Garden. It was built between 1932 and 1939 by a fellow named Ben Hartman who found himself out of work during the depression and decided to use his spare time constructing a variety of dioramas and sculptures in his yard.  He fashioned the structures predominantly out of cement and decorated them with pieces of rock he had broken into gumball sized chunks - estimates are there are around a half million pieces embedded in the cement.  Ben finally got a job and went back to work in '39 and subsequently died in '44, but the Garden has been lovingly tended by family members ever since.  Recently, the last heir died and a local preservation board has begun oversight of the place, and they seem to be doing a wonderful job.

After a nice quiet look around the Garden (I was the only person about at that hour), I headed south and soon discovered the Clifton Gorge State Nature Preserve just in time to take a nice long walk.  Clifton Gorge is one of those places that is of sufficient natural beauty and rarity that indigenous peoples have been visiting for well over 10,000 years.  It looked beautiful and rare to me, anyway, swathed as it was in shades of butter yellow, persimmon orange and maraschino red.  

 

,

After my walk, I spent the remainder of the afternoon and a good part of the next day crossing some pretty bland territory in Ohio on my way to Christiansburg.  I was having a lot more trouble than usual scaring up something fun to do.  I made a stop for lunch at a spirited hot dog shack in Lesage, West Virginia that came highly recommended - a highly decorated place called Hillbilly Hotdogs. I selected the Strickly Business Dog which starts with a deep fried dog, piles on a variety of classic toppings and then finishes with pencil width slivers of freshly fried Spam. 

.

I left Hillbilly Hotdogs with a belly full of pork products and a growing sense of amazement for all things deemed "Hillbilly" I headed toward Christiansburg via Charleston, arriving at my friends Aaron and Brooke's place just as the sun was setting.  I'd be staying with them there in Christiansburg Virginia for the next week, perfectly poised to enjoy an honest to goodness fall season along the beautiful Blue Ridge Parkway.  I was about to ratchet my fall color experience up a few sizeable notches!

Ball of Paint Pilgrimage

/
A large part of Tuesday would be spent delivering Mac to O'Hare airport in Chicago, along with navigating in to and out of the city.  Mac and I started the morning a bit more languidly, however, with a delicious gut busting breakfast at the Iowa Farm Shed in Davenport.  The pecan cinnamon roll we shared rivaled the size of Mac's head and was undoubtedly the best cinnamon roll I've ever eaten.  Or, partially eaten.  I took the leftovers with me and enjoyed them for breakfast the next two mornings.  I've noticed that the Iowanese are mighty proud of their cinnamon rolls, and now I have to say I understand why.

.
It took the rest of the afternoon to thread our way from Davenport to O'Hare airport, where I dropped Mac around 5:00 and then headed downtown to visit another fine member of the illustrious O'Donnell clan, Molly, and her husband (whom I had not yet properly met), Ben.  I hadn't been sitting on the balcony ogling the sumptuous view any more than 5 minutes when Ben inserted a perfect gin and tonic into my kung fu steering wheel grip and I began the process of soothing my rush hour jangled nerves.  Ben had also thoughtfully prepared an ultradelicious steak dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed consuming.  I was on my way soon after dinner, jonesing as I was to put some miles between me and the hideous rush hour traffic I felt sure would materialize the next morning.

The pleasant glow of the visit with Ben and Molly soon faded, however, during what turned out to be a horrible, nightmarish drive trying to leave Chicago.  When I finally reached Terrell, Indiana (just south of Gary) and located a place to stay, I found myself to be so exhausted and unwilling to address problems that I stayed in one of the worst hotel rooms I've ever had the misfortune of renting.  I definitely wasn't in Iowa anymore, Toto.    

It was a pleasure and a relief to flee the horrible hotel room the next morning and gain the flat agricultural vistas of rural Indiana.  I was on a beeline toward Alexandria, Indiana where I'd be making a visit to the World's Largest Ball of Paint - a highly significant and sought after jewel in Shiree's Glorious Crown of Roadside Attractions.

,

I stopped in the tiny hamlet of Greentown for some lunch and ordered a dish favored by Midwesterners everywhere: a pork tenderloin sandwich.  And I thought the cinnamon rolls of Iowa were enormous!  My sandwich turned out to be tasty enough, but I also have to say, disappointingly bland. I just keep forgetting about the seasoning ethic of the Midwest - which is DON'T!  I'm grateful I grew up in Texas where garlic and jalapenos are inalienable culinary rights.
.

The scenery passing outside the car window was much the same as it had been since I first arrived in Illinois a little over a week ago - field after field covered either with the stubble of dead corn stalks or grazing cows.  A cool front began to catch up with me on my journey southward, the wild winds at the front's edge stirring up swirls of corn husks and dirt as I drove along.

On January 1, 1977, Mike Carmichael had his son Mike Jr. paint a softball with a coat of blue paint (that's Mike Senior holding the picture of Mike Junior painting the softball, below).

On October 13, 2010, Shiree Schade painted coat number 22,529 on the World's Largest Ball of Paint, choosing red to apply over the previous coat of orange, because she was reminded of the colors of fire.  

I had read about the World's Largest Ball of Paint many many years ago, and had been keen on seeing and painting it ever since.  Unfortunately I hadn't found myself near enough to the northwest corner of Indiana before now to visit, but since I was at last within striking distance, I chose to devote all my resources to finally accomplishing something I'd been wanting to do for a very long time.

My appointment was set for 7:00 p.m. since Mike likes to show people the Ball himself and he works a full time job during the week.  He and his son Mike Jr. met me as soon as I stepped out of the car into the deepening gloam and led me to the shed with the aid of a flashlight, since Mike lives out in the country where light is scarce.  When I first spied the Ball through the french doors of its special building (donated along with a good amount of paint by Sherwin Williams) my excitement spilled over and I gave my new knees a run for their money, springing up and down like Tigger.

Mike was generous and friendly and modest as I spent the next hour plying him with a barrage of eager questions.  The more he talked, the more I could appreciate the pure goodness emanating from this extraordinary man.  Over 30 years ago, he took a fun project he started with his son, got his entire family and community involved and has been having fun and sharing it with people ever since.  Mike is all about allowing other people to participate and even turned down an offer to move the ball to a fancy pavilion in the nearby town of Alexandria because he wants to "see the ball.  I wanna see people's reactions when they paint it.  I wanna be here when they're here."  He's discovered a marvelous way to meet like minded folks and give something to each of them.  What a peach!

Mike carefully documents each layer and so took my picture and then had me note my name and such on his register.  I received a certificate and was encouraged to choose some trimmings to take home with me (when the ball begins to pooch down in a random spot, Mike will trim it a bit to help keep it round).  Before I made it back to the car, Mike had even scooped up an armload of whimsical plywood pumpkin and candy corn cut outs he'd made as given them to me as a gift so I could put them in my yard when I got home.  The guy just can't contain his generosity.

I drove away, brimming with love, feeling like I'd just met the Ghandi of the Roadside Realm.  And not only had I met a holy man, but I had relics to prove it. 

Deere in the Headlights

Mac and I tossed down a pork-o-licious breakfast in Waterloo, Iowa Monday morning and then dashed off to the John Deere assembly plant just east of town for a 10:00 tour.  We were first shown a brief video and then each of us was issued our very own pair of safety glasses (oh boy oh boy oh boy) before our silver haired tour guide led us to a waiting tram. One entire car of the open topped tram was already packed with "Golden Key" customers, each of them grinning ear to ear since they were being taken on a special behind the scenes tour that would culminate by the end of the day in their being allowed to start their very own tractor (i.e., the one they had ordered) for the first time.

Oh and by the way, as has been the case with every single tour I've taken of this sort, absolutely NO photos were allowed so I'll have to rely on narrative alone.

Our tour guide turned out to be amazing.  He'd been employed on the assembly line for over 27 years and was able to name every part of every model we passed.  He also cracked some rotten jokes, which in my experience almost always makes a tour better.  He told us a story I particularly enjoyed as we were pausing to watch the painting robots paint chassis after chassis in regulation John Deere colors.  The robots had been taught their painting routine by a fellow that had worked on the painting line for many years. Fancy software engineers had captured the strokes of the experienced painter using virtual reality techniques, translating subtle movements of the human arm into a computer program that moved the robotic nozzle in exactly the same way as the practiced hands.  When the robots were finally fired up, the engineers were mystified when they observed the robots making a series of wild, inexplicable movements at the very end of the routine. What they soon discovered was that the experienced painter had sneezed just as he'd finished his last stroke and the involuntary moment of his arm was captured along with all the official movements.  That's such  a lovely industrial fable, isn't it?!

A variety of tractors are made at this particular plant, my favorite of which was the 8345R.  I've hunted up a picture from the internet since I wasn't able to take one of my own:

Would you look at that thing!  It's gigantic!  The rear wheel is probably 5 or 6 feet tall and dude, it has tank treads!  I hadn't planned on being so impressed with a tractor, but I just couldn't help myself when I saw the 8345R.

If it's not already obvious, I really really enjoyed my tour.  I've been on a good number of assembly line tours over the years, and I have to say John Deere ranks as my second favorite to date - so good it almost knocked Hundyai out of the top spot!  Hundyai still reigns supreme due to the sheer number of robots alone, but John Deere managed to get every single thing right about their tour.  It was mpressive, but not too slick; comprehensive yet intimate.  Hell, we even got to keep our safety glasses!

As we stepped off the tram at the conclusion of our tour, I noticed a row of glass showcases near the exit that held row after row of small green and yellow objects.  When I went over to investigate, I found a display of the work of one Jim the Welder, fabricator extraordinare.  Jim happened to be walking by as I was exclaiming loudly about how much I liked the display, so he stopped to tell me about the pieces he'd constructed over the years.  Jim, it turns out, is one of the chief metal fabricators at the plant, designing and building all sorts of custom metal work for the assembly line.  Years ago in his spare time, he started making miniature metal sculptures of familiar everyday objects (e.g., a biplane, a motorcycle) which incorporate the classic shapes and colors of John Deere tractors.  Tiny Frankenstein objects that are part tractor and part tug boat or fire truck.  They're hard to describe, and since I wasn't able to take pictures will remain sadly unrepresented here - a real pity since they were such delightful little sculptures, each and every one of them.  You could tell Jim got a kick out of seeing someone who enjoyed his work so much.

Before leaving, we walked out to the two show tractors parked in large circles of concrete in front of the plant so we could take a look at some of the finished products up close.  I found that I saw the tractors in a completely new light, now that I'd seen their individual components being lashed together, painted and tested.  What I had previously dismissed in my mind as a rudimentary, uninteresting farm vehicle I now saw with respect and even an awe of sorts.  It made me think of how hard some people work day in and day out while I just flit around the country having fun.  I'm glad they have air conditioned cabins with MP3 players to make their job a little more pleasant and easy.

       

We hadn't been back on the road long, when we ran across this scene on the main street of a tiny town south of Waterloo:

I think if it were me, I'd have gone through the drive through instead.

Mac and I headed south to the city of  Newton so we could make a stop at the Maytag dairy where they've been producing the famous blue cheese you may have heard of since the early 40s.  After a quick stop at the cheese shop to provision our larders, we headed on toward Davenport where we'd decided to spend the night.  Mac found us a route that followed along the bank of the mighty mighty Mississippi, just as the sunset was beginning to fade and it was a lovely end to the day's journey. 

Redemption Iowanese Style

.

. 

Joe, Mac and I agreed at dinner Saturday night that a day trip was in order for Sunday, and so left Des Moines early in the day to make a visit to the Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa.

 .

Joe had the good sense to bring along the Harper's Magazine word puzzle, so the three of us worked it as an overly educated team as we drove along through the rolling hills of Iowa farm country.  We had some trouble coming up with the first answer (which is crucial for this particular type of puzzle) so I put in an emergency call to my friend Sharon, who could work the daily New York Times puzzle in her sleep.  In no time she had fed us one of the answers and the three of us were off and running.  The torturous logic of this sort of puzzle (named London Times after the newspaper in which it originated) made my head ache the same way I remember it hurting when I used to think I should be able to figure out the lyrics of Bob Dylan.

.

It was obvious to me when we arrived at the Grotto that both the boys were completely awestruck by the magnitude of the place.  I had visited many years ago on a hot summer day, which I think must have affected my experience more than I knew because I didn't remember at all how incredibly beautiful the place is, nor the surprising array of colors that show up in random places throughout the installation.

Not long after we got there, Mac noticed that all three of us were busily snapping photos and proposed a contest to see which of us could come up with the best image from the visit.  And boy howdy do I ever like having an assignment!  I pored over the structures with renewed vigor, finding all sorts of details I hadn't noticed or remembered from my previous visit.

Father Paul Dobberstein began building the Grotto in 1912 and worked on it year round until his death in 1954.  He was quite the rock hound and included a stunning array of geological specimens that he had both collected himself and received as donations over the years.  The series of 9 grottoes and 13 stations of the cross that are embellished with his collection are spread out over an area the size of a city block.  Hidden speakers play discreet organ hymns as you wander about admiring treasures as varied as a handful of stalactites cut from Carlsbad Caverns, bits of colored slag glass and rare seashells.  Golden tiles spell out anthems of faith and glory on the walkways and walls, while a long, long green mosaic snake lays patiently in wait outside the grotto where we discover Adam gazing on Eve.  But whether you're a fan of religious iconography or not, it's impossible not to be swept away by the scope of the Grotto. 

.

.

.

.

As our allotted tour time began to run short (we had to get Joe back to the airport in Des Moines so he could catch a flight back home to San Francisco), we finished up our tour and popped into the Grotto gift shop.  We each managed to find a few things we couldn't live without (battery operated glowing mini candle and red polka dot rain bonnet for me).  I started to giggle when I turned the corner of one aisle and saw a row of religious icons lined up for sale, realizing that the scene mimicked nothing more closely than a police line up on a dingy t.v. crime drama.  Maybe I'll Photoshop in some height measurements on the various horizontals to emphasize the point.  As soon as I reviewed the image in the LCD screen on the back of the camera, I proclaimed it a prizewinner. 

.

.

We dashed back to Des Moines in the Caddie, filling in the final letters of the puzzle just as we approached downtown.  After dropping Joe at the airport, Mac and I grabbed one more quick dinner downtown at the International Food Festival and then hit the road so we could drive north to meet our Waterloo.  Waterloo, Iowa, that is.  Home of John Deere tractors!  Site of our tour the next morning.  Yahooooo!

I Heart Des Moines!

.

Ricardo and the portal of Des Moines

.

After leaving Chicago, Mac and I headed to Des Moines, Iowa where we planned to attend a quilt convention.  Mac is a talented quilter, so much so that he was recently included in a book on the topic of men who make quilts and was headed to Des Moines to help support the publication with a book signing.  I agreed to join in the fray because quite frankly I find just about everything entertaining and I knew I'd enjoy spending time with Mac to boot.

Mac also had a quilt hanging in the show - a tribute to his Aunt (he says "awnt") Mary, who was a tailor.  Mac quilts are usually made as a gift for a particular person or couple and  he uses fabrics and images that allow him to wink with a knowing fabric smile at the vernacular shared by the giver and and the recipient.   According to Mac, the coarsest oath he ever heard his Awnt Mary utter was "Holy scissors!" so he used a thermofax machine to print images of shears on the fabric he used for her quilt.  Mac's pieces are always full of just such fascinating details, any one of which he can explain in great detail.

There were plenty of other quilts that were enjoyable to look on as well, ranging from the strictly traditional to the wildly rebellious, and hell, a few that were even just downright ugly.  I particularly liked one display that featured quilts made from fabric that had been dyed with rust.  The rust was used in a variety of different ways, but the technique I liked best was one in which the metal item was directly applied to the cloth and left to oxidize, leaving a rusty imprint of the object on the fabric.  The piece above right reminded me strongly of an explicit yet  compelling display I'd seen at the Glore Psychiatric museum several years back, so much so that it was hard not to look on the new piece without experiencing a vague residual  horror left over from seeing the other.

(http://theadventuresofpinkhair.blogspot.com/2008/07/there-is-nothing-at-all-worth.html).

.   

However, the rusted quilts were the most outre thing I saw at the show, since most entries fell much more on the cute as a button end of the scale than over in the menacing like death range.  As well they should, since it's little old ladies who turn out in the greatest numbers to attend the show.  Little clans of them sporting the regalia of their various guilds ambled about -  showing off, because every community has a form of gang attire.  On the left, the gals from Paducah (I wish you could see the 3D dogwood blossoms attached to the top of their tams) are demonstrating how to make a doodad called a yo-yo that's sort of like the Lego of the fabric world.

It was Mac that tracked the couple at right down and had me take their pictures.  Both of us just loved their matching outfits and accessories, and as soon as we got to talking, I found out that they lived part of the year in Round Rock, Texas, just 30 miles north of Austin!  They were a lot of fun.

When we weren't busy socializing at the quilt show, Mac and I dashed around downtown Des Moines, taking in as much of the marvelous entertainment the city had to offer as possible.  We'd soon made a home base at a great little coffee shop called Joe's Java (where Mac attempted to trounce me at Scrabble, only to have me whip out "epergnes" on his butt) and we returned there quite a few times to get really great coffee and tasty treats (my favorite touch: the homemade ice cream named "More Cowbell").

The first night we were in town, Mac and I went to a gay bar he'd scared up called Blazing Saddle.  (Don't forget that Iowa is one of the first states that legalized gay marriage!)  I'd packed my cowgirl shirt when Mac told me about the place, but shockingly when we arrived Friday night, I was the only western themed item in the entire bar.  No matter, I had no trouble chatting up a steady stream of fascinating folks including one that had recently left his job as a supervisor on the Spam manufacturing line and had just taken a new position overseeing Captain Crunch production.  I met another fellow named Johnny who had the same birthday as me and then a great guy named Ricardo that took me for a tour of his nearby catering warehouse (I really know how to have fun, don't I?).
.

For the next couple of evenings, Mac and I were extremely fortunate to enjoy the company of a fellow convention goer by the name of Joe Cunningham, who is actually a bit of a rock star in the quilting world.  Joe's the author of the book that includes Mac and is an astonishing quilter/performer in his own right.  He also happens to be a top notch story teller who is nonstop hilarious, which made our visit to the International Food Festival Saturday night a real romp.

As we criss-crossed the avenues of the huge food festival, we found all sorts of appealing and exotic foods to choose from, yet I somehow felt most strongly drawn to the unmitigated audacity of...a cheeseburger made on a Krispy Kreme doughnut.   

That's right, a cheeseburger, jammed between two halves of a plain glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut.  Shameless, isn't it?  But you know in your heart that it tasted good, don't you?  And it DID!  The gal that served it to me advised me to skip any condiments, although in retrospect I think I might have appreciated a little mustard to add some contrast.

After a few more rounds of international noshing and just after we had just switched to beer, I spied a garishly lit truck at the festival's periphery that listed an item that read simply "pig licker".  Now how are you going to see something called a pick licker for sale at a food festival and just keep walking?  I asked the fellow behind the counter what it was that I was about to pay $1 for, and it turned out to be bacon on a stick fried up good and crisp, then plunged into a bath of dark chocolate.  Not only did we proclaim it absolutely delicious, we had seconds!



Shiree and Joe engage in the delicious sport of pick licking

.

Des Moines really has it going on in the good food department.  In fact I have to say I was continually amazed by how much Iowa has it going on in every department.  It's a very cosmopolitan and yet down to earth place inhabited by some of the friendliest folks I've ever encountered.  Des Moines is the home to the famous Iowa Caucuses, which I'm sure brings it a level of sophistication it might not otherwise enjoy, but they've put a lot into having a really wonderful city and it shows  I'm ready to go back whenever the chance arises. 

Darger becomes Electric, DeKalb delicious

It took a good part of Wednesday morning to make my way from Joliet to the Chicago airport (I'm so glad I learned to drive in a really big city) and while I was waiting for Mac to emerge from the gate, I had the misfortune to stand in the wrong spot several times much to the distress of a couple of zealous TSA agents; but I managed to shrug it all off after I'd picked up my dear friend and the two of us had set off to spend some time together in the marvelous Midwest.

/

To further indulge the taste for Henry Darger that I had whetted while in Lincoln, we stopped at the Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art in the Cabrini Green area of Chicago.  I had stumbled upon a link to the Center's website while I was reading about Henry on Wikipedia and when I learned that the Center had the contents of Henry's Chicago apartment on display, I simply couldn't get there fast enough.  I hold a sort of hero worship for Darger and to be able to see the way he lived and the materials he used borders on sacred to me.

.

/ 

Precious little is known about Henry but the majority of the things that are known about him are a direct result of diligent efforts by his ex-landlords to preserve his life's work.  Henry worked in secrecy his entire life to produce a 15,000 page plus manuscript along with a multitude of paintings and drawings. And yet none of it was discovered until the day before his death in 1973.  Intuit worked with Henry's landlord to carefully preserve the contents of his tiny apartment.  The items were installed using photographs as a reference in order to meticulously reproduce the space where Henry had lived for 45 years.

.

Needless to say, I could write a book on Darger, but instead suffice it to say that I was thrilled when I got a chance to stand there and gaze into that man's life, musing all the while about the objects he'd chosen to surround himself with.  I especially liked seeing the framed newspaper article that hung on one of the walls, multiple images of a dark black tornado leaping from the page.  Tornadoes and other wild weather appears frequently in Henry's work and I find myself strongly drawn to those images in particular.

nm

Henry turned out volumes and volumes of writing during his lifetime, and if the little bit I've read is indicative, the text is mostly tedious, rambling and obscure.  But for me, seeing his typewriter was electric.  The experience that is, not the typewriter.

.

.

Mac and I enjoyed wandering around the Center and seeing the other two excellent exhibits that were on display.  I was on fire with creative energy by the time I walked out the door.

.

We headed on out of town, stopping at the Ellwood estate in DeKalb, a place that looked interesting and like it might provide a nice walk before dark.  I found a bottle that had a label on it that read, "Drink Me!" so I did.  That was shortly before they kicked me out of the house tour, but Mac managed to snap a picture before they ran me off the porch. 

.

After a few turns around the city of DeKalb we decided to stop for some dinner and thoroughly enjoyed the place that was recommended by a friendly passer-by.  After dinner, we drove on to Iowa City before stopping for the night - that way we'd have a reasonable drive to Des Moines the next day and would arrive fresh and ready to dish out plenty of attitude at the quilt show.   

In Your Own Front Yard

.

.

I had been so tired, so cranky and of such single purpose of mind the previous evening when I'd pulled into the Best Western in Lincoln, Illinois, it came as a complete surprise when I walked out the door of the motel the next morning and discovered the World's Largest Wagon (I am not kidding!) sitting right in front of the hotel.   Lincoln, Illinois, was named after Abraham Lincoln before he became president, back when he was merely a venerable lawyer for the region.  So naturally the world's largest covered wagon needed to include Abe, but in so doing sends a horrible message about the appropriateness of texting while driving [insert rim shot here - thanks for the wonderful punchline, Mac!] 

.

In reading about Lincoln Illinois on Wikipedia the previous evening, I'd stumbled upon a connection that I hadn't been aware of and was thrilled to discover: the outsider artist Henry Darger of whose work I am so fond spent most of his early formative years at the Lincoln Developmental Center (LDC); a state institution for the developmentally disabled founded in 1877.  I researched the LDC and it was just a few miles down the road, but it had been closed in 2002.  From what little is known about Henry Darger (say DAR-grrrrr), it sounds as though his childhood was extremely bleak, and most likely informed the ultra bizarre ideation that appears in his life's work.  I wondered if any of that flavor would remain in the very buildings he frequented and decided to take my chances trespassing and do a little driving around the grounds of the abandoned asylum. Unsurprisingly, what I could see without breaking and entering wasn't really all that compelling - mostly a lot of very old brick buildings with plywood nailed into the window sockets.  I saw several vehicles parked around the grounds, indicating to me that security guards or AHJs (Authorities Having Jurisdiction) were about and I didn't really have a good story about what I was doing there.

. 

I decided to instead fan out into the adjacent neighborhood and get a feel for the town itself and was immediately rewarded by finding a wonderfully creative Halloween display (please note bloody foot with tennis shoe at right).

Right next door sat a house where you wouldn't have been surprised to see Norman Bates strapped to the creepy chair on the front porch.  I didn't get the sense that the tenants had decorated for Halloween, either.

/

I headed out of town after a bit more meandering, following a grid of little county roads headed toward the town of Fairbury.  In one of the tiny towns along my route, I spotted a giant ball of string in a store window and stopped to photograph it.  The establishment was closed and offered no clue as to anything, really, so I asked a young gal that was busy smoking a cigarette in the doorway if she knew anything about the nascent roadway attraction featured in the window.  She shrugged and offered, "It belongs to my landlord.  He bought it awhile back and has displayed it several different places in town over the years and now it's ended up here."

"Do you happen to know how old it is or where it came from?" I queried hopefully, fishing for any little shred of useful information.

"Oh it's old, alright, but I don't have any idea  how old."  Not even a trace of curiosity in her voice.  As I headed back to my car, I wondered how on earth you could have a giant ball of string sitting in the front window of your building and not have pumped the landlord for all available details!  I guess it's because my sensibilities tend to be located out on the long thin taper of the bell curve.

After stopping for a late lunch of broasted chicken in Fairbury, I asked my vivacious waitress if she could tell me how to find the bouncy horses that were rumored to be about 3 miles out of town.  She posed the question to a trio of ball capped elders swilling coffee in the corner and one of them confirmed that it was indeed about 3 miles out of town and then paused and said, "You realize them horses ain't real, dont'cha?"  In my best Gloria Swanson voice I parried, "Do I really look to you like the sort of woman who would be out searching for real horses?"  The waitress cracked up and I felt the mettle of the roadside encounter rise in my blood.

Sure enough, when I was about 3 miles west of town on a lonely stretch of the blacktop, I spotted a row of plastic horses frozen in mid-leap, lined up in a single row in the middle of a corn field.  There were all sizes and shapes and most had come from those glorious toys that were around when I was a kid that allowed a rider to mount his or her valiant steed and rock raucously about on four huge springs. The little bit of story I could glean about the horses is that one of the steeds had mysteriously appeared one night many years ago, and then always under the cover of darkness, many more had joined the pioneer pony, one by one, over the years.   
/

'

I was once again reminded of the power of good art to inspire people long after the leap of faith that brings it into being has been made.  Did Stanley Marsh 4 ever envision that plastic horses would one day appear in a far off cornfield in Illinois in tribute to his marvelous gift to mankind, the Cadillac Ranch?  I doubt it.  Which makes his vision and determination all the more generous.

I drove west as the sun began to set, settling in Joliet (a southern suburb of Chicago) for the night so I'd be well situated to drive to O'Hare the next day and pick up my friend Mac.  We had trouble to get in to, after all, and it was about time to get started.