This is a geode, the Iowa state rock. Dave bought it for me when we were there. It doesn’t make much of a first impression. 
But inside they can be really interesting.
Like some people.
IMPORTANT: Only use a hammer when searching for the inner beauty of a geode.
“You have an elephant for sale?” interjected the bewildered couple sitting next to us. They’d overheard our conversation at lunch a few days before we were set to close on the sale of our B&B and begin our new nomadic life.
“We do,” Dave answered with a grin. The elephant in question had quietly stood guard in the corner of our parlor for the last eight years. But sadly, even though he was made of wicker, he was too bulky to come along on our adventure.
So off he went to guard a neighbor’s house. And off we went to explore the world.
But we missed him. Life just isn’t the same without a guardian with big floppy ears and a flexible nose.
So you can imagine how excited we were when we spotted this little fella at the Saugatuck flea market yesterday. The perfect petit pachyderm to pack along. (Sorry I couldn’t help myself.)
Sultry Night
I did a double-take. Yep, that was indeed a naked man right there on the wall in the middle of the Tipton library. Remarkably progressive for this small farming town near our campground in Iowa. And a remarkable example of how Grant Wood’s artistic genius has been given short shrift by the pop culture focus on his famous pinched-faced farmers.
Wood spent most of his life just down the road from where I grew up. He taught at my alma mater, the University of Iowa from 1934 to 1941. And yet, like most folks, I knew little about him other than that he painted American Gothic.
This gigantic homage to Wood’s best known farmers is touring Iowa at the moment.
And what a far cry from those farmers the one in this lithograph of Sultry Night was. American Gothic always seemed like a caricature to me, something this farmer clearly is not.
Grant Wood’s self portrait.
The library has one of a very limited edition of these prints because when it was produced in 1939, the postal service banned it from being mailed to customers as obscene, so only 100 were ever sold.
Spring Turning
Much of Wood’s work depicted the land that surrounded him, like this painting that so perfectly illustrates the serene beauty of the farmland in the part of Iowa where I’m from—something I tried in vain to capture with my camera while we were there.
Daughters of Revolution
But there were a few other notable departures from the expected. Like this piece Wood called Daughters of Revolution, where he depicts the founding fathers as cross-dressing members of the DAR standing in front of a recreation of Washington Crossing the Delaware. Imagine how that went over in 1932.
There is wide speculation that Grant Wood was gay. I can only wonder what his body of work would have been like had he been let out of the closet.
Cute before…
Fabulous after.
This vintage beauty has been even more accessorized since I took this picture.
Nothing complements a classic vintage camper, like a classic vintage car.
If this guy didn’t win the annual Christmas in July decorating contest, there is no justice.
Nothing makes the old campsite feel like home like a waterfall out back.
The hydrangeas up this was are stunning this time of year. But the birdhouses add that extra dash of panache opposite this campsite.
Here at Campit, our home for the month near the charming (albeit touristy) Lake Michigan resort community of Saugatuck, the seasonal campers put a measure of panache into their weekend getaway campsites that we just haven’t seen anywhere else. Here are a few of my favorite examples.
It was Dave’s first trip to the Iowa Capitol too.
“Well it’s about time,” the tour guide quipped when I explained that although I grew up in Iowa, lo these many years later, this was my first time to see its state capitol building.
The dome is just as impressive from the inside as from the outside.
And what a palace of a statehouse it is. 330,000 square feet of marble floors, hand-painted frescos, Italian tile murals and hand carved woodwork. All topped with a huge dome covered in 23 karat gold leaf.
Dave and I looked at each other and had exactly the same reaction: How did they convince a bunch of frugal farmers to do let them build this?
One of the panels from the display in the State Historical Museum detailing Iowa’s long history of social justice.
At the state historical museum next door, there was a particularly inspiring exhibit which reminded me that, besides frugality, Iowans have another core value:
A long history of social justice.
In 1839 when a Missouri slave owner came to retrieve a slave from Iowa, its supreme court ruled “No man in this territory can be reduced to Slavery.” The U.S. Supreme court later overturned that ruling.
In 1869 Iowa was the first state to admit a woman to the bar.
My alma mater The University of Iowa was the first public university to grant a law degree to a woman (1873) and to an African American (1879), and the first to put an African American student on a varsity athletic squad. It also had the first female college newspaper editor in 1907 and was the first state university to recognize an LGBT student organization.
There was at least one moment of frugality in the capitol building. Iowa got a great deal on this bronze after it was rejected by Illinois officials for their capitol because it was too scantily clad.
In a case before the court in 1868, the Iowa Supreme Court held that “separate” was not “equal” and ordered an African-American admitted to the public schools. This effectively integrated Iowa’s schools 96 years before the federal court decision, Brown v. the Board of Education in Topeka, did the same thing.
The first permanent mosque in North America was built in Cedar Rapids.
In 1939, while most of the world still turned its back on Jews attempting to flee the Nazis (including the U.S. government) the tiny Quaker community just down the road from where we’re camped this trip created a hostel that took in 186 refugees.
Yes, Iowa’s first ladies were all clones. At least the dolls depicting them are, in this display of inaugural gowns at the capitol. The display was First Ladie Billie Ray’s idea, and the dolls were all cast from a mold of her face. The real Billie Ray is the one with the fur and the saucy hairdo.
And of course, four years ago the Iowa Supreme Court ruled that the state’s constitution did not discriminate against any of its citizens, including same sex couples—making it one of the first states to embrace marriage equality. 
And so it is that while we’re on this stop of our journey—Dave and I have chosen to exercise that right. We were married this afternoon in the historic Johnson County Courthouse.
I was expecting a full-on kitschfest as Dave and I made a right turn off one cornfield-lined county road onto another headed for West Bend, Iowa. We’d been on a trek to northwest Iowa to see family, and were perusing the Iowa visitor’s guide for things to see nearby—when we stumbled upon an entry for “the world’s largest manmade grotto.” Pretty enticing right there, but when Dave piped up that as a teenager he’d met the priest that built it —we were headed to the car.
Dave awaits our entry into the grotto.
The Grotto of the Redemption was not what I expected. It covers an entire city block. It is kitschy. But it’s also extraordinarily beautiful. “Priest, spelunker, and grotto builder extraordinaire,” is how the grotto’s website describes Father Dobberstein who was born in Germany in 1872. I’m thinking you could count on one hand the list of “priest spelunkers” throughout history.
Father Dobberstein immigrated to America when he was twenty and entered a seminary near Milwaukee, but soon became critically ill with pneumonia. As he fought for his life he prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary to intercede for him and promised to build a shrine in her honor of he lived. The illness passed, and he came to West Bend as Pastor of the local Catholic church in 1898. He began stockpiling rocks and precious stones and commenced keeping his promise in 1912. He worked on the grotto for the rest of his life—after which the next pastor (the one Dave met) Father Greving took over. 
Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of stones cover the massive construction, many donated to the project from all over the world. During the depression when there wasn’t money to have stones shipped in, Father Dobberstein would melt glass in his kiln and mix it with crayons to create gems.
And on the brilliantly sunny day we visited, those “Dobberstein stones” as they call them, along with the thousands of others, 
While the angel announces the arrival of the Christ child, sirens behind stand ready to announce the arrival of a tornado.
Proof that a tornado shelter can be both esthetically pleasing and built from very sturdy materials.
The Way of the Cross.
were putting on a stunning show. It is indeed a very inspiring creation. And as we learned later from a local, a great place for the town’s teens to go drink beer at night.
These are voyages (albeit short ones) of the Starship Enterprise.
At yesterday’s Trek Fest, we discovered a place where parade-goers applaud the advancements achieved by the technology behind interstellar aircraft…and
No warp drive, but advanced technology for its time nonetheless.
vintage tractors with equal vigor. A place where corn farmers and
Klingons come in peace.
Smart Car…err make that shuttlecraft, with photon torpedo in tow.
Klingon warriors mingle in peaceful harmony. Riverside, Iowa is indeed indeed worthy to be the future birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk.
Awhile back I posted a note to Facebook about how delighted I was that Jerry Yester, formerly with 1960s rock band The Lovin’ Spoonful, was playing the piano at a restaurant where we were dining in Eureka Springs…which is near where Jerry now lives.
“Wow what a has-been,” responded one of my Facebook buddies. A cruel remark from someone who really isn’t. It made me realize how easy it is to buy in to assumptions embedded everywhere in our culture.
The band you once played in isn’t at the top of the charts anymore. And now you play piano for a small, but equally delighted audience near your home in the beautiful Ozark Mountains. Is this life any less deserving of admiration? I think not.
The noted blues legend Henry Gray is in his eighties now and still tours. But when he’s not, he’s happy to play piano at the Piccadilly Cafeteria in Baton Rouge, where I often had lunch. He does so because it gives him a much pleasure as it did the patrons.
The audience was very much in on the joke and applauded riotously when Jeerk performed their encore dance routine using walkers.
When we made not one, but two visits to Branson during our stay here in southern Missouri, there were several comments about the place that all “the old people go to,” where the shows were “schmaltzy.”
And yes we did attend a magic show, where the final illusion had as its big reveal a giant mock-up of the stone tablets with the ten commandments (and where the magician invited the audience back on Sunday morning to hear him preach.)
But we also saw a very talented young Swedish rock band, (who happened to be astonishingly good tap-dancers as well.)
Dave pauses for a photo-op before heading in for his chicken fried steak dinner.
And yes, we did eat chicken-fried steak at the restaurant with the giant rooster out front. But we also dined at a mountaintop restaurant on the stunningly beautiful campus of College of the Ozarks, on campus-raised pork medallions served over polenta made from cornmeal ground in the campus gristmill, and garnished with vegetables grown in the campus greenhouses.
Student operated gristmill on the campus of College of the Ozarks.
And yes, there were a lot of old people there. Old people who despite the need to use a cane, or a walker or a wheelchair—were out having the time of their lives.
As we slowly evolve into a society that embraces equality for all, and as important as I believe the current struggle for marriage equality to be, I’m reminded that ageism remains deeply imbedded deep in our culture, and that we must be ever vigilant in our quest to end it as well.
Pastries pretty in pastel.
Armed with a pair of tongs, a large tin tray, and Marlene’s expertise, we plunged in to the gluten equivalent of Willie Wonka’s wonderland: El Bolillo. Towers of pastel-colored shell-shaped pastries to the left, a cooler of of tres leches cake slices to the right, yeasty loaves ahead. The tongs flew. Our tray filled.
Marlene offers a tong tutorial.
We approached the cash register in fear of the economic havoc we had wrought on our fixed income. “Five dollars,” said the lovely senorita. Dave and I exchanged quizzical, then furtive looks. “Let’s get out of here before they figure out the register is broken,” we whispered to each other. Marlene smiles, and assures us no mistake was made.
Life is especially good this day when two of the prime directives of our journey have been met (and yes, I just saw the new Star Trek movie). We’ve discovered an amazing place new to us. And we’ve been guided there by an old friend with whom we’ve been reconnected. Marlene and I worked together and became close friends during the decades she lived in south Louisiana, but she returned to Houston, the place she was born, a few years ago. She lives in The Heights, an old neighborhood filled with charm, shade, and craftsman bungalows.
Every heat and hue.
On the day of our visit though, she has brought us to the adjacent neighborhood she’s adopted as a favorite haunt-Marlene’s Mexico. It is there that we found El Bollilo, after working up an appetite wandering the stalls at the farmer’s market across the street that caters to the needs of Houston’s Hispanic folk. As with most farmer’s markets there are stalls piled with fruits and vegetables. But here there is a special emphasis on one particular vegetable genus—the pepper. Thousands and thousands of peppers in a full spectrum of hues denoting the full spectrum of culinary heat. The other offering distinct to this market was burlap bags filled with homeopathic herbs purported to offer relief for everything from to impotence to hepatitis.
Need your blood purified? Have we got an herb for you.
We should perhaps have stopped by after our visit to El Bolillo for a pound of the herb marked to treat diabetes.
One of the things I love most about Dave is his insatiable curiosity. I’m also curious, but in a cursory “isn’t-that-interesting-as-I walk-by-and-take-a-picture-with-my-iphone” kind of way.
Dave digs in. And I can always trust that while I’m in the gift shop at the end of my lightning tour of any museum—looking to see if they have those finger puppets of historical figures—Dave will come tug me on the sleeve and guide me back for a “best-of” tour with his selected highlights from everything I missed.
This is where Texas began.
Which is why we spent four hours at the San Jacinto Monument. Where, thanks to Dave’s dedication to detail, this newly minted Texan got a full immersion course in my new state’s riveting history.
Little kids. Big monument.
As cool as the view was at the top of the monument, I was equally riveted by the impressions left by ancient creatures in the limestone used to build it.
The lesson actually begins on the drive in. To reach Texas past, you drive through its iconic present, surrounded by one tank farm after another. The monument itself, even at 567 feet tall, is hard to pick out amidst the forest of refinery cracking towers in the foreground.
It was here that Sam Houston defeated Santa Anna, because a Dave tells me in one of his tug-the-shirt-come-back-here-and-see-this sessions, “Santa Anna was a complete idiot.”
“Well actually he was arrogant,” Dave continues. “He knew that there was a force of Texans in the area, but je could not conceive that they would ever attack and defeat him.”
Deep breath: Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón.
One afternoon Santa Anna let his troops take a siesta. No sentries. How stupid is that? Houston and his troops sweep in. The battle lasted twenty minutes. Soon thereafter Texas is a nation unto itself. (Fun fact: When Texas was admitted as a state, it negotiated the right to fly its Lone Star flag at the same height and size as that of the Union—a right Texans proudly exercise to this very day.)
Santa Anna ran away from the battle and tried to blend in dressed as a common soldier. Wikipedia says that he was found hiding in a swamp. But Dave’s version is more fun, which goes that when the Texans began rounding up the Mexican soldiers they noticed that they addressed one among them as El Presidente. Oops.
But here’s the part that amazes me. Despite the fact that Santa Anna wiped out everyone at the Alamo when they wouldn’t surrender, and then when those he defeated at the next battle did surrender, summarily executed them all anyway, he was spared by Houston, and sent off to Washington, lived in exile and actually once met with President Jackson.
AND THEN, twice returned to Mexico, twice attempted to regain his status as dictator, and was twice more exiled. But somehow, after repeatedly pissing of one nation after another, never faced a firing squad. Amazing.
The amazing raisin de-seeder.
Also amazing was this little machine that took the seeds out of raisins back before botanists had crossbred the seeds out of grapes.
Hey, I have eclectic interests.