August 22, 2012

OUR FIRST DAY WAS UNEVENTFUL. after all, we were simply driving to Des Moines, Iowa.  Because I spent years representing clients along the Route 80 corridor, I was very familiar with the towns to the north and south of it. Although not visible from the interstate, beginning at Coal City and extending as far west as Cherry, there are numerous slag piles from old coal mines. I used to play in a coal mine as a kid, and I have always felt that coal mining was a good character building job for kids.  Accordingly, last summer I got a job in a mine for our daughter Chris’ two kids; they loved it.

When we passed Ottawa, I could not help but remember my gggggrandfather who froze to death in January of 1836 returning from a thirty-six mile round trip from his cabin just north of present day Streator to Green’s Mills at present day Dayton. He must have gotten cabin fever, and decided that a brisk walk to the several grain mills along Fox River.  I am sure that he was not planning to hang around one of the bars near the mills.

As we approached the Peru exit, I recalled that “Wild Bill Hickok” had been born in the small town of Troy Grove north of the interstate.  If I still lived in Illinois, I would mount a state-wide effort to replace the “Land of Lincoln” motto with “Land of Gun Fighters.”  In addition to Wild Bill, Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp came from Illinois.
 

After we crossed the Mississippi, we began to look foward to a stop in Amana. Over the years, we have been in all seven of the towns referred to as the Amana Colonies.  Today, however, we were shocked to see a “mini-colony,” just off of Route 80.  The mini-colony consisted of a group of faux “old-German” buildings.  We went into “The General Store,” and found a virtual clone of a Cracker Barrel store.  They did have a few German touches, but otherwise the “mini-colony” was tricked out with the usual tourist chozzerai. Being inveterate traditionalists, we drove into Amana, one of the real colonies.

We finally reached Des Moines.  The last time I stayed in Des Moines, I was seven years old and my grandfather took me to the state fair.  My only memory of the fair was trudging behind my grandfather as he walked past endless stalls containing cows, pigs and horses.  Whenever he nodded sagely at a particular specimen, I would nod in agreement. I still do not know what makes a cow or pig “good.”