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Musing in Davenport...
Nov. 12th, 2004 09:37 amI haven't looked at the odometer since the Illinois-Iowa line, but I estimate I covered 600 miles yesterday. Ohio was uneventful, once I got back on I-80, but soon after crossing over into Indiana, I gave in to the impulse to stop by Ligonier for just the second time in my life.
Why Ligonier?
Well, my biological father's side of the family comes from there. He is buried in the nearby hamlet of Kimmell, along with his father, and two or three generations of family prior to that.
Up until I was in my twenties, all I really knew about my father's side of the family was that they were from somewhere in Indiana, and that my father had died of a heart attack while working in the newsroom of the St. Petersburg Times Independent. There were rumors of my having half brothers, but no further information existed, aside from a grainy black-and-white photo that could have been of any three boys at a picnic.
While living in that 4th floor walkup I mentioned a day or two ago, I received a phone call from someone who started the conversation by asking for me by my full name, and not just "Alex." Then, as if to confirm my identity -- and really pique my curiosity -- my mother's full name entered the conversation. By this time, I'm wondering what the scam is, when the voice says: "You don't know me." (Duh!) "But I'm your half brother Steve."
There followed an interesting, long conversation in which I found out I had yet another half brother (Carlos) and an aunt (Bonnie), with whom I spoke on the following two evenings.
But I digress...
In 1994, I had some business in Chicago -- the Computers, Freedom and Privacy conference, if memory serves, sponsored by the John Marshall Law School -- and at its conclusion, I decided to rent a car and go visit Ligonier and my father's grave.
Visiting my father's grave was important to me. I had seen him for the last time when he visited me in New York just a few days before he died, and I know this sounds ridiculous, but although I intellectually accepted the fact that he was dead (I was 8 years old), emotionally, I couldn't help but think that somehow, he was still alive.
Ligonier was a pleasant enough place. I stayed at the Solomon Mier Manor, a very nice bed-and-breakfast on the main street of the town. Despite showing signs of wear, the downtown had a certain charm. I stopped by a thrift shop and bought a set of books on World War I that had been discarded by the local library (which had been one of the many set up by Andrew Carnegie), on the theory that my father had probably read them -- or browsed through them -- back when they were new.
I attended the local Methodist service and introduced myself to the folks there, and was received hospitably. One gentleman told me stories of my grandfather, who was the town doctor, from when he was a boy. Another gentleman ended up taking me to visit his 94-year old grandmother, who had worked as a maid in my grandfather's household! (She didn't remember much about my father, but offered some interesting insights about my grandfather, who died long before I was born.)
Finally, a woman invited me to the local historical museum, where it turned out there was an extra copy of my father's high school graduation yearbook, which she graciously offered to let me keep.
Anyway, I eventually did visit the Sparta cemetary in Kimmell, which extends to both sides of the road. Not knowing where to look, I started in the back corner and worked my way up and down the rows of headstones. In the process, I found the graves of several generations of my ancestors, eventually finding that of my father, who is buried next to his parents.
I remember starting to talk to my father, consciously deciding to let my mind run free as I babbled. I was shocked to realize that I was saying some pretty nasty things in the process of achieving closure after all those years. I resented his dying, his alcoholism, and a lot of other things, I suppose, that I just don't remember.
I can't say I felt better afterward, but at least it was out of my system.
It would appear I slipped into another digression, as the question of "Why Ligonier?" has yet to be answered.
I stopped by for two reasons: to see how Ligonier has fared in the past decade, and to visit the grave again. And apologize for my harshness.
(Those who note that there is nobody, really, to talk to are utterly correct, but lack imagination.)
As far as Ligonier is concerned, the years have not been kind to the town. The downtown area looks as if it is on life support. There are lots of broken windows, empty storefronts, and piles of bricks and boards that just don't look like the residue of renovation work. Another major change I noted - and this is merely an observation and certainly not meant pejoratively - is the widespread display of signage in Spanish (almost as if a piece of Jackson Heights had been transplanted here), which I assume is evidence of a large Hispanic influx.
My visit to Kimmell did not go as smoothly as expected. In the intervening years, I forgot where my father's grave was, so I had to do the search grid again. In the process, I found some additional relatives. Eventually, I rediscovered my father's resting place and said what I had to say. The day was cold -- 42 degrees is a number I kept hearing throughout the day on the radio -- and the wind was pretty lively.
I crossed Indiana largely via highway 6, the "Grand Army Highway." It was a pleasant drive, although it was distressing to see so many houses in need of repair. I also note I never realized how many Amish there are in the northern part of the state. I ended up taking some back roads that led to Interstate 94, which eventually brought me back onto I-80, headed west. Along about sunset, as I crossed over into Illinois and drove past Chicago, I saw the following sight, a glorious mix of jet contrails and red clouds:
Illinois was one long blur in the darkness. I crossed into Iowa around 7 pm and found the Motel 6 in Davenport, where I slept soundly. If we consider that I only made it from Pagosa to Lincoln, Nebraska during my first day on the road, it's a fair bet to say that there is no way I'm going to make it home today, as I am an extra 400 miles or so further from home than Lincoln.
Time to hit the road.
Cheers...
Why Ligonier?
Well, my biological father's side of the family comes from there. He is buried in the nearby hamlet of Kimmell, along with his father, and two or three generations of family prior to that.
Up until I was in my twenties, all I really knew about my father's side of the family was that they were from somewhere in Indiana, and that my father had died of a heart attack while working in the newsroom of the St. Petersburg Times Independent. There were rumors of my having half brothers, but no further information existed, aside from a grainy black-and-white photo that could have been of any three boys at a picnic.
While living in that 4th floor walkup I mentioned a day or two ago, I received a phone call from someone who started the conversation by asking for me by my full name, and not just "Alex." Then, as if to confirm my identity -- and really pique my curiosity -- my mother's full name entered the conversation. By this time, I'm wondering what the scam is, when the voice says: "You don't know me." (Duh!) "But I'm your half brother Steve."
There followed an interesting, long conversation in which I found out I had yet another half brother (Carlos) and an aunt (Bonnie), with whom I spoke on the following two evenings.
But I digress...
In 1994, I had some business in Chicago -- the Computers, Freedom and Privacy conference, if memory serves, sponsored by the John Marshall Law School -- and at its conclusion, I decided to rent a car and go visit Ligonier and my father's grave.
Visiting my father's grave was important to me. I had seen him for the last time when he visited me in New York just a few days before he died, and I know this sounds ridiculous, but although I intellectually accepted the fact that he was dead (I was 8 years old), emotionally, I couldn't help but think that somehow, he was still alive.
Ligonier was a pleasant enough place. I stayed at the Solomon Mier Manor, a very nice bed-and-breakfast on the main street of the town. Despite showing signs of wear, the downtown had a certain charm. I stopped by a thrift shop and bought a set of books on World War I that had been discarded by the local library (which had been one of the many set up by Andrew Carnegie), on the theory that my father had probably read them -- or browsed through them -- back when they were new.
I attended the local Methodist service and introduced myself to the folks there, and was received hospitably. One gentleman told me stories of my grandfather, who was the town doctor, from when he was a boy. Another gentleman ended up taking me to visit his 94-year old grandmother, who had worked as a maid in my grandfather's household! (She didn't remember much about my father, but offered some interesting insights about my grandfather, who died long before I was born.)
Finally, a woman invited me to the local historical museum, where it turned out there was an extra copy of my father's high school graduation yearbook, which she graciously offered to let me keep.
Anyway, I eventually did visit the Sparta cemetary in Kimmell, which extends to both sides of the road. Not knowing where to look, I started in the back corner and worked my way up and down the rows of headstones. In the process, I found the graves of several generations of my ancestors, eventually finding that of my father, who is buried next to his parents.
I remember starting to talk to my father, consciously deciding to let my mind run free as I babbled. I was shocked to realize that I was saying some pretty nasty things in the process of achieving closure after all those years. I resented his dying, his alcoholism, and a lot of other things, I suppose, that I just don't remember.
I can't say I felt better afterward, but at least it was out of my system.
It would appear I slipped into another digression, as the question of "Why Ligonier?" has yet to be answered.
I stopped by for two reasons: to see how Ligonier has fared in the past decade, and to visit the grave again. And apologize for my harshness.
(Those who note that there is nobody, really, to talk to are utterly correct, but lack imagination.)
As far as Ligonier is concerned, the years have not been kind to the town. The downtown area looks as if it is on life support. There are lots of broken windows, empty storefronts, and piles of bricks and boards that just don't look like the residue of renovation work. Another major change I noted - and this is merely an observation and certainly not meant pejoratively - is the widespread display of signage in Spanish (almost as if a piece of Jackson Heights had been transplanted here), which I assume is evidence of a large Hispanic influx.
My visit to Kimmell did not go as smoothly as expected. In the intervening years, I forgot where my father's grave was, so I had to do the search grid again. In the process, I found some additional relatives. Eventually, I rediscovered my father's resting place and said what I had to say. The day was cold -- 42 degrees is a number I kept hearing throughout the day on the radio -- and the wind was pretty lively.
I crossed Indiana largely via highway 6, the "Grand Army Highway." It was a pleasant drive, although it was distressing to see so many houses in need of repair. I also note I never realized how many Amish there are in the northern part of the state. I ended up taking some back roads that led to Interstate 94, which eventually brought me back onto I-80, headed west. Along about sunset, as I crossed over into Illinois and drove past Chicago, I saw the following sight, a glorious mix of jet contrails and red clouds:
Illinois was one long blur in the darkness. I crossed into Iowa around 7 pm and found the Motel 6 in Davenport, where I slept soundly. If we consider that I only made it from Pagosa to Lincoln, Nebraska during my first day on the road, it's a fair bet to say that there is no way I'm going to make it home today, as I am an extra 400 miles or so further from home than Lincoln.
Time to hit the road.
Cheers...
