From Creole to Amish
August 31, 2009

What a wonderful day we’ve had! I just love it here - the people, the countryside, everything about it feels like coming home, although I can’t put a finger on why that is any more than any other corn and soybean cropland region. It just is. We have left behind the French/Creole settlements of southern Illinois and returned to ancestral lands of Indiana.

We got a late start this morning. I think Chris was tuckered after driving us over here. Granted the roads are exceptionally narrow and we did have a healthy crosswind, which makes it all that much more important to stay focused and more fatiguing. Last year, we stayed at a place called Grandpa’s Farm, which it is, nice but a bit dank and crowded. We like this home out in the country better, and are walking distance to the Wabash River. We camped on the Wabash once farther upstream and thought it looked like an interesting river. Now because of its proximity, the few lyrics I remember to “The Wabash Cannonball” continue to run through my head, will have to research to get the rest so I can at least be driven crazy by the complete song.

As we hurtled toward our ancestral homes today, we were waylaid by a marker for a wonderful old cabin near Balbec. Seems it was a stop on the Underground Railroad - Eliza Harris of Uncle Tom’s Cabin fame was said to have rested there on her journey to Canada. It was standing open, abandoned, so we wandered in and up the interesting wooden stairs that curve around the corner. All very intriguing, a lovely place.

This time we sprayed our feet and legs before venturing into the grass. No more unprotected trekking for me. I’m very grateful the chiggers that have taken up residence around my ankles are pretty darn unitchy compared to others I’ve gotten.

From there we headed to Fairview to revisit the graves of ancestors Joseph Robert McKinney, Anthony Wayne McKinney Elizabeth (Bracken) McKinney, and Nancy Ann (Brown) Hoppes. I was especially interested in them because I had via telephone made arrangements for their stones to be repaired, but have not paid for the work. It has been an odd sequence of events. From recommendations, I had found a man named Matt who agreed to do the work (Anthony’s is a large tall monument and was in danger of falling over from its own leaning weight and Elizabeth’s was broken) but who had not billed me for the labor.

In the meantime, a glitch in transferring data from laptop to desk computer lost Matt’s contact information. Later, I located my original notations in a notebook and called him. He had done the work, he said, and would send a bill, but I’ve never received one, and now the contact seems to have once again disappeared. What a magillah! So now we know the work is completed and done very well, so we have to find him somehow???

Joseph Robert was a soldier in the American Revolution; his son Anthony Wayne (named for the general Joseph served under) fought in the War of 1812.

Next, we drove to the Hillcrest Cemetery which has the burials of more ancestors - Joseph Jefferson McKinney and his wife Elizabeth (Maitlen) McKinney, who were moved from the old Redkey graveyard. Both places have many collateral family members.

Last burying ground today took a bit more wandering, but Chris got us there - the Bethel Church graveyard where we have Sarah (Fiers) Maitlen. Sarah required a bit of casting around before we located her and put flowers on her grave as we did the others. There we did some recording and photographing of family members who had been missed last year. In order to make some of the photographs readable, we did the magic trick of putting shaving cream on the stone face and then using a squeegee to wipe it off. I did photos of before and after on some of them to show the difference.

Another unfinished business lured us back to Isaac and Sarah Maitlen’s farm of long ago. Chris found it for us last year. We knew from an old newspaper account that Isaac was killed in a woodcutting accident on his farm and buried there. When we stopped at the house on that farm during the previous trip, the owner was nice but too rushed to spend any time talking with us. She told us her mother-in-law grew up there and she would ask her about where Isaac’s grave might be. We never heard from them, so I was anxious to return with a bit more time to learn what we could.

We met the same lady (Deb); her husband (Jeff Houston) was home (laid off - a casualty of the economy) and the carpenter (James Burns) who is working on an addition to their house. We had a very enjoyable time talking with them about the history of the farm, our other area ancestors, places to fish locally and life in general. Deb called Jeff’s mother and let me talk to her on the phone. Martha Houston was very accommodating (her parents bought the place when she was in second grade; she’s now 73) but had never known where the graveyard was. Jeff had found a tombstone once while mowing, that of a child, Sidney Maitlen, whose parents are buried at Bethel.

Since that time, he has discovered a gravestone foundation in a location that we think from the 1838 account is probably the burying ground - described as on a knoll (or what passes for one in Indiana). We discussed the possibility of probing the ground in that area to try to find Isaac’s stone, and may return to do that. Jeff is amenable to that idea.

Martha knew about the burying ground as a child, remembered folks talking about it and had a vague idea of its location but never saw any stones.

It was interesting that while Jeff was ripping out insulation in the attic preparatory to adding their partial second story, he found some Maitlen names and papers attached to the wall. They seem all to be from the 1920s; he gave them to me as the nearest thing to family hereabouts.

Turns out that both men have fished and canoed the nearby Mississinewa River and that James has a good friend who owns the property our Anthony McKinney owned and lived on and where he had a dam on the river for his gristmill. We wanted to get to the site but had not because of the private property although we’ve since learned that there seems to be nothing left of the mill and just a remnant of the dam, so we didn’t really miss anything. It was my longtime dream to come here to look for that after reading about it in an old history.

Everyone was super nice, even to the point of having us pick tomatoes out of their garden before we left - yum!

I had earlier seen a sign offering Silver Queen sweet corn, a delicious variety we used to grow, so we headed there to pick up some for supper. Gardener Gene Gleeson was quite a convivial fellow and we spent substantial time chatting with him and then with his wife Darlene when she arrived. All locals, the families know each other and about the missing Maitlen graveyard. In fact, Gene has a friend who has a gravestone supposedly from there. We will have to follow up on that; Gene didn’t know the name on it.

Darlene had just returned from the doctor: she is in treatment for breast cancer, a situation that caused the couple to miss their annual winter trek to visit their two sons who live in Mesa and Gilbert, Arizona. We thought all the folks were just swell, as we have about everyone we’ve ever met here. We came away from the Gleeson’s place not only with corn, but great squash, eggplant, bell pepper and sweet onions - prime produce. Gene knows his stuff; we are picky former truck farmers and he gets our full approval.

Our shagginess led us to look for “our” haircutter in Portland. That strange story began last summer when we were here after ten weeks on the road. I had thought to let my hair grow out until I could return to Julie in Prescott. She has cut my hair for years and always does a bang-up job of it, couldn’t imagine asking a total stranger to take the shears to my head. At any rate, the growing-out routine proved to be gruesome, not to mention Chris was disappearing into the brush. Soooo, last year when I happened to notice an elderly lady in Portland who had an awesome haircut, I spontaneously asked where this total stranger had it done. She directed us to a small shop down the road that invited walk-ins, and so we did. A young lady named Amanda took us in hand then, and was there and available for us again. We are once again as presentable as we get.

Amazingly, she not only remembered the two hairy strangers, she recalled why we had come here. Now she is all abuzz about her upcoming wedding (500 invited, 7 bridesmaids) that she and her fiancé have been saving up to provide full dinner and open bar for. Holy ringbearer, Batman, that’s going to take a bundle!

Now we have seen information about Loblolly Marsh and Limberlost Swamp, so will be looking into a sizable stop there between researching in Fort Wayne and probing around on Isaac Maitlen’s farm and fishing and who knows what else.

Movin’ and musin’
August 30, 2009

A longer driving day than we prefer: we are traversing from west to east most of Illinois and Indiana, but then will light for another week or so. We were a bit concerned about space availability around the Labor Day weekend, so opted to sit it out. Rowdy will be happy, no doubt. He may have thought we were going live in Cahokia after being there for nine nights, probably a record stay for us, so hid under the covers this morning when he noticed the signs of departure.

Despite being an Illinois native, Chris has not seen the part of the state we’re crossing nor any of the southern region we’ve been exploring. He has spotted a section way down in the southern tip around Rend Lake that he wants to set up camp next time we are here. Because of our longish day today, we are again utilizing Interstate 70 to make our dash. Have just crossed Highland Silver Lake, which looked like a nice place to kayak as it wound through tree-lined banks. The only problem with places like that is finding cleared spots to get out of the boats and stretch cramped legs. There have been times when we’ve slipped and slid on slimy muddy banks trying to get a foothold without kicking the boat away. The possibility of landing belly-down in the mud whilst my boat drifts out to sea has crossed my mind.

The blog has felt somewhat burdensome this past week partly because of the internet connection shutting down in the midst of things. It has made me think about ceasing the endeavor. It has been very enjoyable, but the glitches have made it take much more time than I want to spend on it. I was up until midnight last night trying to get it posted and the travelogue emailed, and still was not successful until this morning. This will require some thought about the advisability of continuing. I know I shall miss it if I do discontinue. As my mother always said, “We’ll see”. In her case, it meant “No way in the world” thus providing no fodder for argument.

How could I not have realized that I could be answering old email correspondence whilst zooming down the road is beyond me, just thought it wasn’t possible because of no internet while driving, but my partner has informed me that I can reply to emails already received, will just have to wait for wifi to send them. Of course there is the small matter of power; that battery lasts only so long.

Note to self: thunk base of hand on forehead to indicate feeling foolish.

On our long sojourn last year, we set an intention to produce Chris’ third music cd. The most hectic itinerary imaginable made it impossible to accomplish. And then we were scooping up new ancestors by the bucketful. Soooo, this year we (I really) duplicated the intention, but am having little success in convincing the musician.

By direct questioning, I did manage to get him to say what genre of cd he would do next if he were doing it. He came up with two alternatives - folk and Celtic - and we formulated a tune list for each. So now we have two possibilities complete with tune lists. I even have some ideas for the cover designs. All that is required is to record them . . . oh, is that all.

It was 60 degrees when we left home this morning. A couple of hot days in the past week, but otherwise, the weather has been surprisingly pleasant.

Midway across Illinois, we are surprised to see oil wells, had no idea there was such here. Other than that, it has been pretty much large tree-lined farms, soybeans and corn without change.

As we advance eastward, the monotonous flat farmland gives way to slightly hillier topography and signs of some peach orchards and vineyards. It has scarcely warmed up - 65 at 11 a.m. with unforecast rain threatening. As we proceed across Indiana, the rolling ground rearranges itself back into tabletop mode.

We have set up in our new home, a new KOA plopped into the middle of miles of corn fields, totally peaceful and quiet. It was clearly a not-long-ago woodlot that has been opened up by removal of bunches of trees; this fact seems obvious because the trees (lots of ‘em) that remain are very tall and spindly with no low branches.

The workkampers, Glen and Marlena, who checked us in are very friendly snowbirds - here in summer, warmer climes in winter. The temps went a bit higher than forecast: all the way up to 70. I have to keep pinching myself to be sure it’s real. We have no neighbors a’tall but I suspect Labor Day will change that.

I shot this photo of Rowdy leading us into the park. Somehow he always knows when it’s time and props himself up on the dashboard watching to be sure we get it right. In about six months on the road with him, we’ve yet to pull into an RV park without his assistance.

Chris has run off to town ostensibly to purchase something to grill, perhaps also to get a span of time away from his family. These constant very close quarters are a maker-or-breaker. From one minute to the next, we’re not sure which way it’s going, but one thing is sure: you can’t leave it to fester, a good lesson.

I was very unhappy with myself this morning when I discovered that those few unguarded minutes yesterday wading into unmowed grass to read a sign about Lewis & Clark netted us chiggers. We have been so careful up until now, but yesterday, I guess a false sense of security sent us off into chigger land. It’s kinda like unprotected sex; it only takes once.

More Illinois country, Mississippi & Kaskaskia rivers
August 28, 2009

Breakfast on the “patio” followed by a rainy morning, midafternoon clearing to positive perfection in the 70s. An amusing visit to Walmart for fishing licenses with department manager Teddi’s cute humor and good customer service left us smiling, complete with 24-hour fishing licenses.

The price for said permits is quite reasonable compared to Arizona and most other states. This seems to be in contrast to some Illinois prices evidently spiked by high taxes. For instance, folks along the border appear to bop on over to Missouri to purchase gasoline and cigarettes.

When we were searching earlier for ancestor Ezra Owen’s property on the Kaskaskia River, we came across an interesting access to the river. To that we returned this afternoon, fishing gear in hand. Accessed via a nameless signless narrow gravel road that winds between croplands and farmhouses, a right turn at the river takes us to what looks like a weekend/summer fishing camp with assorted trailers and shacks (I’d love to have a place in there). A turn to the left opens to a cleared area, boat launch and small concrete dock.

The shoreline is a solid mass of jungle-like vegetation and trees, so a cleared spot is necessary to get to the water. We had the place to ourselves; it was beyond bliss sitting there fishing, gazing, watching the occasional kingfisher, egret or heron, enjoying the breeze across the water, sun at our backs.

We thought about putting in with the kayaks, but I vetoed the idea. The river is about 300 feet across with strong currents and an occasional speedboat (three) or jet ski (we saw one) and presumably a barge or two although the only one we saw was moored upstream, and I was not convinced it would be safe for us. And besides, our situation was too good to disturb.

The fish were biting, although it took us a while to learn how to finesse the catfish (a variety we don’t know). In the end, we hauled in 11 fish, the last a whopper - Chris estimated it at six pounds plus. It broke the line just before coming out of the water, but we both got a good look at it - great fun! As usual, we released them all to grow some more.

We broke down camp and got on the road home just in time to meet the other side of the storm, rain that evidently ceased long enough for us to have an idyllic afternoon dreaming that we were in the exact same spot that our ancestors trod when this country was wide open.

Haven’t eaten out much, so grabbed some excellent barbecue from the little family-owned restaurant at the front of the RV park - excellent.

The Owen family, research . . .

The earlier part of yesterday was working to untangle the Owen family knots in addition to other chores and odds & ends. The knots resembled fishing line snarls and didn’t get all that much better for our efforts. As we began to chart our findings from the records, it became obvious that long ago, someone at or for the genealogical society recorded an incorrect marriage for Samuel Adams, whose wife we believe is one of Levi Owen’s daughters, but we know she is not the one who is listed.

Although we were not able to completely solve the mystery, thanks to the miracle of the internet and being able to access instant census records, we proved it was not the one noted at the genealogical society. Of course it helped that we had also found the marriage record back at yon courthouse.

I often remember what it was like getting all these records on microfilm when I first started this, sitting in a darkened room at the LDS library scrolling through microfilm indexes, finding (hopefully) what was needed, ordering the actual census from Salt Lake City, waiting three weeks, returning to the darkened room for additional scrolling, finding (hopefully) the correct entries, trying to make the printer work, but if it refused once again, transcribing the data and discovering later that another ancestor was on the next page, and starting over again.

That process has been supplanted by what we did yesterday. Scenario: What - this doesn’t make any sense with different birth years; let’s find her in the census. Opening one of the genealogy sites, calling up 1850 and 1860 censuses, finding the people in question (not always quite as easy as one would hope), printing it out on the spot on our trusty $100 machine, and voila! the miracle. It changes everything.

Another time when we found the names of ships that Mom and Dad W.’s ancestors immigrated on, we were able to quickly find photos of them - I am amazed at what a tool this is.

So much more . . .

When all was said and done as far as our research here, we know that we will want to return to delve further into Courthouse deeds and to pursue the genealogy society’s holdings once they get them unboxed and reopen their library, presumably with an intact roof this time. In addition, we have not begun to see all the historic and natural sites and fishing holes in “the Illinois country”.

There’s still the Illinois Caverns, which we were disappointed to learn we can’t visit unless two more people suddenly materialize to do it with us. Turns out the requirements are fairly stringent, it being an actual wild cave and all. There must be at least four people in a party, all have to wear hard hats, have three sources of light each, be prepared to slog through at least knee deep water, etc., etc. The underground system is nowhere near to being completely mapped, and there are numerous places where crawling through water is required. We want to come back to do that, finish the historic sites, see the cave winery, explore the national forest, do lots more fishing on the Mississippi and other waterways (I love the Kaskaskia!) , and possibly find properties of ancestors, plus much more. It’s a very exciting and interesting region.

The Gateway arch . . .

And of course there’s the advantage of a big wonderful city just across the river. We went back into St. Louis on Thursday because I couldn’t imagine being here and not going up to the top of the Gateway Arch, touted as a memorial to St. Louis as the “gateway to the West.” When I checked their website and saw a photo of someone peering at the ground from one of those tiny windows leaning out from the top, it made my stomach churn, but the real thing was not quite as terrifying, rather intriguing really. The trip to the top was pretty odd, though.

The person whose job it is to direct people cryptically instructs us: “Go to door three.” Naturally, we did as told with nary a question, standing in a hallway in front of door three, although I couldn’t resist asking the people at door four if they’d like to trade doors. More instructions over the p.a.: "remain behind the railing.” Easy enough. Eventually, all the doors open simultaneously, a bunch of people emerge and we enter with further directions to “duck” or something like that. As usual, I can understand next to nothing of important information given to me over a public address system.

It quickly becomes clear why one’s head should be kept down, or better yet stashed on one’s lap. The reason is that the doors are engineered to admit only midgets, which is just as well because the inside of the compartment in which one trusts one’s life to some cable (frayed?) hidden from view is round(???) and little. Stoop-shouldered folks have a big advantage at this point; their heads may be held forward far enough that they don’t get the nearly universal bump(s) on the noggin that is the physical toll for not being smart enough to stay on the ground.

The door closes, followed by a few minutes of conversation with the strangers whose knees your knees are touching, completely concerning how small are the cars and how big is the lump on your head.

Okay, door opens and they are complete strangers after all, so we leave our knee neighbors and advance to THE VERY TOP, a narrow hallway affair with carpeted leaning places that allow us to peer through narrow horizontal portholes to the ground 603 feet below. Much gratitude that the wind is not blowing, thus without the view, we would never realize that we have lost our marbles and proceeded to a dizzying height inside a structure that obviously can’t stand, but that somehow is standing.

We look through various portholes as if somehow the view will change by moving from one to another. Well, it actually does somewhat from one side to the other: one affords a look at the handsome old courthouse and the other direction lets us look directly down at the Mississippi River.














Chouteau Island, old Route 66 . . .

And speaking of that grand river, we have crossed it nearly every day we’ve been here, and now have crossed it on foot. This morning (Saturday) we went to Chouteau Island, north of here, where we walked two miles round trip from Illinois to Missouri and back across on the old Chain of Rocks bridge, a bypassed section of old Route 66. What a great view from there to see the limestone shoals that create the only “rapids” in the Mississippi. A channel has been created to allow ships to skip right by that difficult section. We saw our first Caspian tern of the trip while up there; I loved the sight of a formation of Canada geese flying below us and landing on the water. The span is a popular walking and bicycling route.

Afterward, we fished in the river where Chris caught our first-ever Mississippi River fish. It was a tedious exercise, however, because of all the snags. I liked fishing the Kaskaskia much more. More wandering and then back to Cahokia, which despite our home being here, we have scarcely noticed.


Cahokia . . .

Cahokia was the original French settlement of the entire region, but is in the (later named) American Bottom, so called because it is located on a huge flood plain on the later-American side of the river. That fact is undoubtedly why there is little evidence of the 1699 French settlement here. We visited the Holy Family Parish Church that was built in 1799 as the third church on the site, the first being in 1699. It is of beautiful post-on-sill construction, currently utilized for some masses and weddings. We were able to go inside because another couple had called and asked for access. Truthfully, I didn’t listen to the information about the church, but instead spent some time meditating in a forward pew. The energy was beautiful and moving.

Some of the many burials there are memorialized out back, the oldest extant was from 1710.

The neighboring Jarrot mansion family are there also. That stately home is open only on occasion. Too bad the next opening is two weeks distant. We peered in the front door, would love to see the whole place. It is the oldest brick building in Illinois, constructed in 1810.

Lewis & Clark’s winter camp is less than 20 miles from Cahokia. They both would have been in attendance at the nearby so-called Cahokia courthouse, a 1740 residence later converted to the first administrative and judicial center for the Northwest Territory. Surprisingly, it has been moved three times for display at world’s fairs and the like, and is now back to its original site. The famed Lewis & Clark spent substantial time in this structure which housed the post office through which their correspondence passed .

Much more . . .

Next time we are here, we will visit Camp DuBois, where the duo of explorers wintered before starting across the great unknown. We will spend much more time fishing and exploring and will see the historic sites we have missed, and probably take more advantage of varied dining experiences in St. Louis (any would be more).

Time travel, the Eads bridge . . .

And speaking of the city, we got back over there to go to the flicks once more, this time seeing “Time Travelers Wife”. I thought it was pretty good; Chris liked it more than I did; however, I was happy to get a second chance to photograph the theater’s lobby dining experience set up to resemble a drive-in theater.

Chris was delighted at a find when we were walking the Mississippi Riverfront on our way to climb the arch. As we walked under and admired the architectural features of an old bridge, then read an interpretative sign about it, he suddenly realized it was the Eads Bridge, completed in 1874, the first span of the lower Mississippi. It was considered an engineering marvel at its time. He had read about it in a book I found for him at Bookman’s in Phoenix, thanks to a trip with friend Leslie - “The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America”, a tome that intrigued him beyond any I’ve seen him read. The volume evidently encompassed the entire political, geographical and sociological situation of the day, incorporating all the background to explain the whats, whys and wherefores of the great calamity.

At any rate, he knew all about the Eads Bridge and was flabbergasted to discover that it is not only still in existence, but is a beautiful and fully utilized span transporting a full load of vehicles and trains across the muddy Mississippi.

At the base of the bridge, we loved seeing a memorial to the Lewis & Clark expedition - a statue of the two intrepid travelers as they return to St. Louis in triumph. We know that they were met and feted by pretty much the entire populace upon their return.

Planning . . .

Wifi at this park is sporadic, a condition that seems more common in places where we are required to pay for the service. Why that would be is beyond me, but we have found it to be true. It’s irritating to shell out extra bucks for internet hookup only to find that the connection is dubious at best and nonexistent at worst.

We have formulated a plan - an amazing feat for us. Tomorrow, Sunday, we depart for Indiana where we hope to see cousin Sharon whom we met last year and to tend to unfinished business regarding repair of our ancestral McKinney gravestones. Additional activity will be to do research in the Allen County Public Library, renowned for its genealogy resources. Approximately a week in that location, then two days to get to North Carolina and Mom and Dad W.

The Illinois country
August 26, 2009

We start our morning by driving all over the back of beyond seeking the Illinois Caverns State Natural Area. A sign got us started on this quest after Chris saw it on the map - just off the highway, he said. The highway is really no such thing and the convoluted route we followed was even less. Some time later, we arrive at our first destination to find that this is not one of its open days. It appears to be a do-it-yourself affair; we will likely return with flashlights to check it out.

As we drive by a farmer setting out for his day on his John Deere, I am reminded of my tractor-driving days - not much of a way to make a living, but sometimes, like now, I sorely miss my days of solitary disking, furrowing or raking hay while cogitating on the state of the world. I wrote several mental books during that time.

We saw a flock of cattle egrets wandering the grassy pasture of a farm nursery.

We have been wonderfully blessed with fabulous weather of late - perfect days, cool nights, no air conditioning required. In fact, it has stayed cool enough that I have not been tempted to go swimming. Yesterday reversed that and got up to the low 90s. Still tolerable because of low humidity, it took longer to cool off in the evening but finally got there. This would be good swimming weather at last, but I find it difficult to cut into other activities to jump into the pool anyway.

While at rest last night, the thought flitted through my mind that I wrote in a previous blog about spotting ring-necked gulls, of which there is no such thing, when I meant to say ring-billed. Magically, I was able to fix it in the blog, but thought I should mention my fingers doing the stumbling.

I just got a lecture about Karst topography as Chris’ brain was working along trying to explain the country we’re driving through (we have taken a alternate route on our way to St. Genevieve - random roads call to us). We have come up to the Mississippi River bluffs once again, but this region is substantially different. There are sinks everywhere, not of the kitchen variety. Chris characterizes it as cratered and so it is to a great degree. Narrow winding road wandering through thick shady forest, large sinkholes pockmarking the landscape, many filled with water. That guy sitting next to me who knows just about everything explains that the evaporation rate here is slower than the precipitation rate; therefore, keeping a pond filled with water is not an issue. Nature takes care of it, unlike in Arizona.

Suddenly, we come to the edge of the bluffs and look out at the hazy flood plain with the cliffs on the opposite side of the muddy Mississippi’s bottomland rising maybe ten miles away. A short drive along the base of the bluffs brings us to Fort de Chartres. Well no, not really. It wasn’t quite that easy except in our thoughts, although we did eventually find it.

In the meantime, as we traversed the base of the cliffs, we came upon an extensive Martin Marietta mining operation that has bored gigantic caverns into the rock face to extract limestone. They were numerous enough to give the impression that the hills are honeycombed. I saw one shaft that dwarfed the mine buildings and power poles. They must extend long distances back in there.

Levees, Fort de Chartres . . .

After a little chitchat with some helpful fellers in another pickup, we were pointed toward Fort de Chartres, a reconstruction of the third iteration. The original went up in 1716. Since that time, the Mississippi has covered the area a number of times and has currently moved about a mile away. We saw a photo of the historic site completely submerged except for the roofs in 1993, long after the levee system was in place.

Everything here is bounded by levees, even small or dry (as if anything here is dry) streams. Otherwise, even though the levees on the big river might prevent its spilling across the countryside, flood waters could back up into the tributaries and effect the same damage.

Fort de Chartres is an interesting place even though the powder magazine is the only remaining original structure. The exhibits relate a good history, beginning with the French explorers in 1673 all the way through to the current rendezvous celebrations that are held there now. Part of the outer wall and some interior structures have been impressively reconstructed.

We learned much from very helpful and knowledgeable curator Dennis, in addition to finding out that the Illinois Caverns is a gigantic system with many miles of underground rooms. That will be a fun explore. He suggested a resource book called "Kaskaskia under the French Regime" that I'd like to get.

Modoc ferry, St. Genevieve . . .

Back at the Modoc ferry, Chris asked what this type of boat is called. We didn't find out a name, but it turns out the gate-opener’s boss is the one who developed this boat, same as the one we rode on the Illinois River last year. It’s pretty ingenious how the pilot boat pivots out away from the platform, attached only by a metal hinged arm, turns to face the opposite direction and snugs up against the platform in a different spot. The gatekeeper remembered us, but then how many white pickup/camper combos topped by two purple kayaks does he see in the course of a couple of days.

At long last we wended our way back to St. Genevieve, an absolutely charming place with so much more to do than we had time for. The first site of the town was settled by the French in the 1740s, an important part of the Illinois country - 17th century southern Illinois. When I was perusing ancient deeds in the Randolph County courthouse, I saw properties all described as part of the Illinois country, just as we would refer to a county and state now.

What an absolutely lovely afternoon we enjoyed in St. Genevieve. We toured the 1785 Bolduc house and its next-door neighbor, the 1820 Bolduc-LeMeilleur house. Our tour guide lives in a 1787 residence. With degrees in history, he was very knowledgeable and able to answer all our questions.

We visited the Church of St. Genevieve, founded in 1759 - awesome in scope and beauty!

Walking off a great lunch from The Anvil Saloon and Restaurant, we stopped to photograph the first brick house constructed west of the Mississippi - 1785 - and step into perhaps the most cluttered shop I’ve ever seen, filled to the brim with antiques and collectibles, the operative word being “filled”. As I clutched at my purse and camera to minimize the chance of objects swinging into shelves, we edged our way between shelves scooting our feet to avoid putting down a clodhopper on an item for sale. The proprietor said he tries to stock something for everyone . . . I think he was successful. I found a charming green Depression glass sherbet dish that matches my collection, and forced Chris to purchase two old books of music, all at very reasonable prices.

Next stop was the St. Genevieve Winery, housed in a 100-year-old house, a mere pup among these venerable establishments, but very nice nevertheless. Cute decor, very amiable shopkeeper, Dina, who walked me through several free tastings of their very nice wines. Dina and everyone else we have met in this territory are just as delightful as they can be. We feel welcome and right at home, as if we are meeting old friends.

One more house tour to fit in before shutters are pulled closed: the 1818 home and merchant shop of Felix & Odile Pratte Valle. The guide at that State historic site is Donna, as affable and accommodating as all the rest. Again, we have a private tour, one that includes some getting-to-know-each-other talk. A professional archaeologist, she has participated in excavation at the site, and obviously has a proprietary concern for the property, in addition to an excellent understanding of the era. Missing my home gardens, I enjoyed a look at her sweet herb plot and a bit of talk about it. She generously let us cut a couple of basil stalks, so Chris shared Peg’s basil gimlet recipe with her (sorry, Shirley, I’ll send the recipe tonight maybe).

Hyacinth bean, mural . . .

A common vine I’ve seen here is called a hyacinth bean - very striking dark leaves with fuchsia stems, beautiful purple stalked flowers and bean pods. Will have to look into it for home, just what I need - more plantings. I also enjoyed a mural on the side of a building depicting early days in the area.

The afternoon was waning as we strolled the historic streets back to the Toter. The humidity has jumped up like a drop of water on a sizzling skillet and the temperature right along with it. We found respite in some buildings, but otherwise survived pretty well out in it. We did scuttle for shade whenever it was available, though.

Blog feedback . . .

Pretty sad that I have been doing a blog and didn’t even know the origin of the word - just found out it's a shortened version of web log. But then, there are plenty of other words these days whose meaning is completely lost on me.

How fun - Donna back in Chino Valley obtained “Widow of the South” and read it with me. She also recommends “These Is My Words” which I read a few years ago on Katie’s recommendation and enjoyed. And Leslie finished “Time Travelers Wife” that she says is good but not as good as “1000 White Women”. Good grief, the tomes are piling up whilst I’m out running around.

More fun - As soon as Katie read my blog post about ancestor Augustus Sherwood working on the whaling ship, Vesper, she popped right up with names of the entire ship’s crew - amazing. Beth sent a solution to the ant infestation; Eva's chiming in about the soybean spraying, and lots of others are having a great travel right along with us - thanks all!

I had to laugh at one of the comments replying to my blog entry about the endless mowing hereabouts. While on a trip to North Carolina, Jon wondered aloud how folks find time even to reproduce considering that they must be cutting grass constantly.

Bon appetit!
August 25, 2009

Just back from seeing the movie “Julie and Julia”. I had originally wanted to see it with my women’s group back home, but it wasn’t released before we left. Then I thought it would be groovy to watch it with Sara while we were in Topeka, but the timing didn’t work out. So today I found myself as one of a theater-full of old women plus Chris and two other guys. Wow, Meryl Streep was beyond her always superb self. I dang near forgot she wasn’t actually Julia Child. Great acting and a very nice flick. Now to get out those cook books.

Speaking of cook books, Peg really did get me hooked on that basil gin gimlet. I’m having withdrawal symptoms, can’t make any more because I can’t find fresh sweet basil. Which reminds me - Shirley requested the recipe, which I promised and haven’t sent to her. Reminder to self - send recipe. Frustrating that I have sweet basil, parsley, etc. growing in my garden at home where I just saunter on out to cut it whenever I want, but can't acquire it here for love nor money.

And speaking of Topeka: those Kansas ants are still with us. Will it never end? I can’t fathom how many must have gotten in here. We have become fanatic ant murderers; I don’t even apologize to them any more, just stomp and crush, but still they come.

A real day off: this morning, we charted Ulster County, New York, wills until I was ready to throw Wessel Ten Broeck (all five of them) to the ants. Found many conflicts, pretty inexplicable really, since most of the data we had from before was also from wills; however, there seems to be a multitude of wives and children belonging to the same Wessel at the same time in most instances. Some of it will have to wait until we get home and can evaluate all the sources together.

If I had all my source material scanned into the computer as Leslie does, I could do it from here. Too bad I wasn’t as smart as she. In order to get that all scanned now, I would likely be working on it for the next 50 years, and that sounds like a very tedious way to spend a half-decade.

When we got into the funner stuff, it was way better, such as clearing up the mystery of the first mayor of Chicago. We had read someone’s account that one of Ezra Owen’s sons served in that capacity, but when we tried to verify it, learned it was not so. Now we have got it: his son, Colonel Thomas Jefferson Vance Owen was the first president of the village of Chicago, predating the office of mayor. He also served in the Illinois legislature with Abraham Lincoln.

Every day when we set out for whatever awaits us, we load up with every recording and communication device we own - cameras, phones, binoculars, computers. Today though, we were only bopping over to the movies, so dispensed with the paraphernalia. I immediately regretted it. I was so taken with the cute eating establishment at the theater - the seats all looked like finned cars of the 60s and were arranged as if they were at the drive-in movies, complete with something projected onto the large screen and window speakers hanging beside each table. The “cars” were cut off to eliminate the front half. I did want a photo of it. There were lots of attractive previews; maybe we’ll go back for another flick and I will be prepared.

Daily, I grow farther and farther behind on correspondence, seems we’re either going and doing or I’m writing about going and doing. I am thrilled with all the feedback that I’m getting, but feel bad that I don’t get it all acknowledged. This endeavor has been so much fun, primarily because of the thoughts and memories that everyone is sharing with me. I’ve learned things about people whom I’ve known for years that I had no idea about. It just shows how easily we can find connections with others if given the chance.

At any rate, this thing seemed to begin as a journal, but of course that doesn't require blogging it, so what is my motivation? I think it is simply to share with people I care about, so I thank you all for tripping with me and for writing and calling me about what we are doing, what you are doing or have done and what you think about it all - life, journeys, relationships - all of it. I'm having fun and hope that you are doing the same.

I expect not to see more than the top of Chris' increasingly shiny pate for a while. He has started to read the book I finished, "The Widow of the South." It is a historical novel relating to the Battle of Franklin - an excellent read.

One funny thing at this parque: unlike every other RV setup I've seen, this one seems not to have a golf cart for carting (what else), guiding, and so on; therefore, errands are accomplished by a guy zooming hither and yon on a riding mower, quite a bit noisier proposition. And speaking of riding mowers, holy cow - would that I had invested in such way back when. Seems that if you live anywhere not in the Southwest and you don't own one and spend all your spare time utilizing one, your entire home will be engulfed by crazed foliage within hours.

I do have one photo to include in today’s blog: Rowdy relaxing on the patio. As soon as Chris gets up to play the keyboard, our furry friend takes over the chair sitting task.

Au revoir!

Disappointment and excitement
August 24, 2009

I’m so excited that I hardly know where to start, so I’ll just begin at the end. We’ve just gotten off the ferry that transported us across the Mississippi River. I love riding on ferry boats, but crossing that particular river is way fun for me - the coolest ever!

I’m sure there is a name for that type of boat, but I have no idea what it is; however, we took one like it across the Illinois River last summer with the same sense of vertigo. First, the thing comes over to get us and basically crashes into the bank with a huge clatter. The gates are opened and we drive on as if we are willing to pay money to ride with someone who crashes boats into banks. We move out, turning downriver. Suddenly, the two-story pilot house seems to detach from our platform, leaving us to drift down the mighty waterway until we are wrecked along the way. No, wait, we’re still attached to the tow boat, thank heaven; he has just moved around behind us, where he remains until we crash into the opposite bank.

Between watching the current moving one way, the pilot boat moving another way and ourselves heading a third direction, it all makes me feel a bit queasy.

Just before getting to the ferry, we waited for a coal train to pass. I was astonished to see that it was trailed by a caboose. I haven’t seen one of those outside a museum for years. I said something to Chris about waiting for John (coal train, get it?) and he actually managed a "heh-heh".

I am beginning to wonder about the climate here, have noticed a number of banana trees. Can it actually be warm enough for them in this locale? Evidently so.

St. Genevieve . . .
Our friend Andrew, the ranger at the Pierre Menard house, suggested that we would like to see St. Genevieve - the town, not the woman of Paris in the fifth century. That was excellent advice, marred only by the late time of day we arrived there. I am just about ready to relocate: it’s a lovely, charming, fascinating village with history enough to knock off a person’s socks presuming a person is wearing socks which a person is not because it’s summer.

There are houses/museums/places to tour and a self-guided walking tour, so we have determined to return this trip. We took a couple of photos of old Creole houses. I am a bit embarrassed that I knew/know so little about this region’s history. Always we think of American colonies, but for me at least, French colonization in the Americas was a chapter in the history book only. In this area, things are not old unless they’re from the 1700s.

We landed in St. Genevieve on advice, but were in that section really because we were curious about Kaskaskia, the village that was washed away by the Mississippi. Kaskaskia is called an island because one side is bordered by the Mississippi and the other by the former channel of that same river. When the flood came, the Mississippi left its channel, jumped across the peninsula’s neck and changed its course into the Kaskaskia’s channel. It’s taken me a while to get my head around how this all took place.

Off to the west was the town of St. Mary’s sited and most likely thriving on the banks of the Mississippi when . . . wham . . . their river was gone along with their economy doubtless. Dry land at the neck of the peninsula became a 66-foot-deep raging muddy torrent.

Kaskaskia . . .
We really expected that Kaskaskia (the present-day village) would be pretty much like any other area small town or nothing at all. Highway signs led the way to the site of the replacement town. Once again, I was flabbergasted at the antiquity of early settlements here. There remains a beautiful church building (Roman Catholic, of course; we’re talking about the French here). The Church of the Immaculate Conception was founded here in 1675; the current building is the third; however, the steps to the original are on display outside. They were found near the river in 2005.

The only other actual artifact is the Kaskaskia bell, safely stowed in an edifice built for the purpose. It was cast in 1741 in France, arrived via New Orleans in 1743, a gift from King Louis XV.

This is a Lewis & Clark historic trail site. Those adventurers arrived here in 1803 on a recruitment mission, buying vessels and hiring the remainder of their boatmen and party. Our Ezra Owen might have been here at the time, or at least very shortly afterward.

At Kaskaskia, we find ourselves out in the middle of the old river bed - flat as the proverbial pancake for several miles with rocky bluffs defining the edges. Whatever were they thinking building a town out here?

Courthouses, weapons, research . . .
Earlier, we arrived at the Randolph County Courthouse in Chester (remember - the home of Popeye) and were divested of our armory, a pocketknife and pepper spray. After having been in hundreds of courthouses, you would think we would remember to stash the knife in the truck, but noooo, usually it requires a return trip to get it put away before we gain entry. In this case, they were accommodating about holding our weapons until we completed our research.

Although the County has amazing holdings, some actually as early as 1709, the first land records were 1802, still pretty surprising that they are extant. The bad news was that those early ones inexplicably are indexed only for the grantors (sellers). This made it impossible for us to determine exactly when and where Ezra Owen purchased property there. Even more inexplicably, we couldn’t locate him even in the grantor (seller) index although we know he was a landowner and Williamsburg Township supervisor.

It was extremely frustrating to finally get here and then be stymied. Of course we could always read the deeds themselves, providing we could spare a year or two and had a spare pair of eyes. We did find information about Ezra and his clan, but certainly not what I had expected.

We would also have surveyed the holdings of the historical society, but for the fact that their building’s top collapsed on them. They were housed in one of the old commercial structures attached one to the other, but somehow, their section is kaput. We watched workmen risking life and limb as they began the process of clearing out the rubble. A phone call to a spokeswoman informed us that their collection is residing in boxes at the moment.

Town father, collecting, wineries . . .
We have yet to find another mention about the “town” of Blenheim that Ezra was developing, except that it was located at the confluence of Horse Creek and the Kaskaskia River. Now if we could just find that . . . obviously the town did not materialize, or if it did, it was relatively short-lived. No one seems to have heard of it. We did a little foray attempting to find where those two waterways converge but no luck so far. We know that it was not far from the town of Redbud, which is my second favorite local municipality. If I don’t move to St. Genevieve, Redbud will be my alternate.

I had great fun at a gift shop in St. Genevieve learning all about santons, certain tiny hand-painted figurines, and Quimper china. Can’t wait to start collecting; however, the prices caused me to defer that hobby for now.

I gained a new favorite painter at the visitor’s center - Florence Boeffer Brenner. The place is in possession of an absolutely wonderful striking painting of hers - not for sale unfortunately.

Interesting to see a small herd of belted Galway cattle. They are often referred to as Oreo cows because of the wide vertical white stripe on their torsos banded by black front and back. I’ve only ever seen them at the County fair.

This morning, we saw a large tractor rig spraying (insecticide?) soybeans. I hadn’t heard of any pests that bothered that crop, but I have next to no experience with growing them. Maybe he was spraying fertilizer?

This seems to be major apple country in addition to the expected corn and beans plus lots of grapes with wineries. Hmmm, why haven’t we checked that out yet?

Things huge
August 23, 2009

After “church” and some genealogy work, this was the day for things huge: Chris’ ego (just kidding), Cahokia Mounds and the St. Louis Gateway Arch. A nice start to the day was right here at home where we listened to one of Rev. Tom’s Sunday messages that was delivered after we left home. The subject definitely resonated with me; it was about living a wonder-filled life, appreciating our environment as much as we did at first before we possibly adopted a bit more jaded attitude to what is around us.

I tend to characterize myself as “easily amused”. For me, the message validated my habitual manner of really enjoying the smallest wonders that I see each day. I am grateful to be able to virtually revel in both mundane and extraordinary sights, smells, textures, tastes and sounds. It was a great talk; I swear I recognized some of the laughs I heard in the audio of the congregation laughing at one of Tom’s self-deprecating jokes, made me feel as if I were right there with them.

Now to the large: Chris was the motivator for our visit to the Cahokia Mounds. That is one of the extraordinary things in our environment, especially Monk’s Mound, the largest prehistoric earthen construction in the Americas. Its base covers more than 14 acres, larger than the pyramid at Giza and rises 100 feet.

The entire prehistoric complex was home to about 20,000 people, and includes numerous mounds for various purposes, including buildings, temples, burials and so on. It’s actually hard to comprehend the size of the place, larger than any Anglo cities in North America until 1800, bigger than London in 1250.

Outside the museum, we enjoyed watching a flintknapper of many years experience plying his trade. Flintknapping is the name of the activity of fashioning stone arrowheads, spear points and the like. Larry Kinsella has a website of fairly gargantuan proportions: flintknapper.com.

From atop Monk’s Mound, one catches a good view of the St. Louis downtown skyline and the Gateway Arch, which leads me to our second stop. Two big cities in one week: good heavens, what in the world is to become of us! Our “home” in Cahokia, Illinois, is just across the big river from St. Louis, so it was a matter of a few miles to jump on over there. We had some odd idea of seeing the Arch and zooming back; however, the reality worked out a bit differently as realities are wont to do.

First we shell out $5 to park (and happy later that we did when we spotted the local gendarme handing out parking tickets for those who pushed their luck), then we strolled quite a way through a lovely park, catching glimpses of the Arch through the trees until we were there. Zounds! The thing defies description! It is positively gigantic, seeming to touch the clouds. Lots of people enjoying the grassy park beneath and families looking out over the Mississippi.

We were clueless that there exists a museum underground just below or that one can somehow (an elevator, I hope) access the top inside the monument. Upon being clued in, we were prepared to do all of the above when we discovered that we were too well-armed to be allowed into the facility . . . and . . if we stashed our weapons (pocket knife and pepper spray) anywhere outside (under a bush?), we might be ticketed. For all I know, we were in danger of imprisonment, but at any rate, we escaped unscathed, but also without seeing the various features. Oh well, I’m sure I would have been terrified beyond reckoning to go up in that thing. Maybe we’ll work in it to the trip yet; if not, there’s always next time.

Our return trip took us on a nice walk along the waterfront where we spotted our first gulls of the trip - ring-billed, in this case.

I shot a photo of a cluster of marten houses, something understood by Midwesterners, but unheard of in my home in the West because it is out of their range. The birds consume voluminous amounts of mosquitoes, so are wooed to various sites by the placement of the type of homes they prefer.

Last night, Rowdy remained vigilant as he and I sensed rather than heard the engines of a boat on the nearby Mississippi River. In the dark, we heard its whistle sending a code understood by those who needed to know, but a mystery to me. It was lovely in its utility - two longs, a short and another long, then farther down river an aberrant repeat of the tone - misty, muffled.

At least that’s how the dream went. The light of day causes me to think my furry companion and I were hearing a train carting a load of coal. I prefer to stick with my more romantic version, however.

This "parque" is very nice - grassy, fairly quiet, shaded sites, and for sale, as many of them seem to be. Methinks the stress of running an RV park over a period of time is wearing.

As we relax outside at 7 p.m., I need to get a sweater. That is how wonderful the weather has treated us of late. Yesterday evening, my attire included sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt - what happened to summer?

Worst advertised sandwich spotted on a Hardee’s: Fried bologna on a biscuit with egg and cheese.

French Colonial influence in Illinois, Major Ezra Owen
August 22, 2009

I had no idea what a marvel the history of this area is! The French colonized along the Mississippi River beginning in 1699 with fur trading posts, began exploration in 1673 (dates courtesy of encyclopedic partner). It’s obvious there are enough historic sites in Randolph County to keep us busy for some time. We are staying at the Cahokia RV Parque (cute, ain’t it?) in the town of the same name (without the parque), but this first day were unable to resist an hour-long drive to Chester, the County seat even though we know we will need to do the drive again for further research. We will later check government records; today we perused the local library and found lots about our ancestor, Ezra Owen.

We knew he lived in Kaskaskia, a town that was washed away by a flood of the Mississippi River. In the olden days, Kaskaskia was on a peninsula between that mighty waterway and the Kaskaskia River. When it was destroyed, the neck of the peninsula disappeared, turning the land into an island and eliminating the town entirely.

We discovered that Ezra was, as always, a mover and shaker, in this case instrumental in creating the town of Blenheim, an activity that he continued later in Arkansas when he founded Collegeville and Owenville and a college. He named his sons after dignitaries he admired, in our case - James Monroe Owen. Others were Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and Shadrack Bond (the first governor of Illinois). He held many public offices wherever he lived - Illinois was no exception - as did his sons.

The library’s genealogy collection was disorganized and odd in its holdings; nevertheless, we filled in a lot of data about the family. Undoubtedly, we will find more at the Courthouse and historical society.

Pierre Menard, penitentiary, Fort Kaskaskia, Popeye . . .
When we were finished freezing our hineys off in the library, we visited the Pierre Menard house. Menard, a Canadian from Quebec, was a wealthy merchant and trader and sometimes politician. His home and really most of the older buildings in the area reflect strong French influence in the architecture.

In Chester and other small towns here, such as Redbud, we see historic areas that are reminiscent of New Orleans’ French quarter with the attached townhomes and wrought iron balconies. It’s all very attractive and exciting, especially with learning about the history. Of course those French roots are reflected in many landmark names, such as St. Louis (we’re across the river from it), St. Genevieve, and so on, and the predominant Roman Catholic influence.

We met a swell fellow at the Menard House, a State park ranger name of Andrew. He looked at Chris so quizzically when we arrived that I thought he might have something even more untoward than his unkempt, overgrown whiskers, but no, Andrew thought Chris looked so much like a fellow ranger that he thought it might be a trick being played on him.

After our interesting tour of the house and grounds, we walked up the 181 steps that led us partway up the hill to the site of Fort Kaskaskia. Nothing remains of it except for extensive earthworks and a sign explaining how Lewis and Clark recruited men from there to join in their expedition. Andrew explained that a tree fell on the major interpretive sign.

Driving what is called the Great River Road, I find the countryside to be enchantingly beautiful. It is hilly, on the bluffs above the Mississippi, deep forests of towering trees rising above impassably thick underbrush and vines. I never tire of seeing that river from any perspective, so enjoyed crossing over and driving a bit on the Missouri-side levee, wondering what it would be like to live in one of those houses below out on the flood plain.

As we paralleled the Mississippi on a nearly-untraveled back road, we passed the Menard Penitentiary, a maximum-security prison housed in buildings that appeared to be very old and attractive in a very-old-prisoney sort of way, so natch, I wanted a pic of said facility. As we slowed and stopped, I saw a guard in a not-very-old-but-very-prisoney sort of tower take sudden notice that we had stopped immediately in front of the place and were rolling down our window and pointing an object toward them. It was at that time that I saw him also reach for and raise up an object (dare I hope it was a pair of binoculars). Photo quickly snapped, Chris gives the guard far above us a wave as if to say, “Thanks for a lovely time”, and away we zoom, unobtrusively topped by two purple kayaks and Goat Hill Music signs on the doors.

Chris is famous for his waves at folks who are mad enough to spit little red nickels, always assuming that they will know from that little flick of the fingers exactly what it is he’s doing/thinking/planning. I guess I should be happy he doesn’t indicate his thoughts with a more offensive gesture.

We saw great egrets, our first of the trip surprisingly, and a great blue heron, in addition to hundreds of cliff swallows languishing on power lines while not darting after mosquitoes.














And . . . the discovery of the day: Chester is the home of Popeye, thus studded throughout with statues of the sailor man and his fellow characters.