Day 67 - Roodhouse, Illinois to Hermann, Missouri

Today turned out to afford us a wild cornucopia of experiences and emotions. Breaking camp in Roodhouse this morning, I knew that I was going to get to do something that I've wanted to do for many years: visit the Illinois town where the Jones family branch of my family tree lived after moving north from Louisville, Kentucky. Part of my excitement in seeing this town, called Carrollton, was remembering my mother talking about it so much when I was young. Mom did travel a bit, mostly in the southwest, but I don't think she ever got to Carrollton.

The Jones family, which contained several brothers, arrived in Illinois in the 1830s after a brief stop in Indiana. In 1858 the father died and in the early 1860s two of the brothers marched off to fight with the 61st Illinois Infantry in the Civil War. Incredibly, neither brother was killed, and by the 1870s the family had moved west to Colorado.

But today was my day to visit the Jones family Illinois home town and our Roodhouse camp was "conveniently" only a dozen miles away. Since we got out of camp fairly early, I was certain I could take some time to look the town over, take a few photos, and try and track down the cemetery.

Once in Carrollton, we parked right in front of the courthouse and set out on foot. Like most small towns in America whose existence depended on small family farms, Carrollton was more than a bit down at the heels. Still, the town square was very large and there was more than a few grand old brick buildings of 150 years lining the sidewalks. There were also empty spaces where, I'm sure, buildings had burned or fallen down and no one wanted to invest in a new replacement.

At one point I came across the genealogical library nestled in under several trees and I rushed up to the door only to find that the building was only staffed on Tuesdays and Fridays. For reference I took a photo of the door sign with the phone numbers.

Coming back toward the truck, I crossed paths with a pretty, middle-aged woman dressed in bright red who suddenly stopped and asked me how I was doing. I told her that I was doing just fine and as long as she appeared to be interested in my welfare, I asked her where the oldest cemeteries in town were located.

She sort of squinted into the distance, turned and stared down one of the streets, then turned back and said that she only knew of two. One family-ish plot at the north end of town and one at the south. I thanked her and told her that I had seen the one on the north. It was just a mile or so out of town.

With the cemetery information in hand Concetta and I returned to the truck, circled the square (yeah, right), and headed back the way we had just come. It wasn't far. Unfortunately, the cemetery was not important enough for anyone to provide parking so I sort of had to put the rig in the ditch and turn the hazard flasher on. It only took me about ten minutes to see that my ancestor who died in 1858 was probably not there, but if he was I wasn't going to be able to spot him. The readable graves were newish, and older ones were largely unreadable.

Moving to the cemetery on the south side of town, we discovered that the graves were even newer and I could tell that my ancestor would not be there.

Continuing our journey south we were soon on the outskirts of St. Louis. It was my plan to avoid the city as much as possible and instead follow the posted Lewis and Clark trail that basically crossed the Missouri at the town of Alton, and then stayed alongside the river all the way into central Missouri.

Turned out that Route 94, the Lewis and Clark Trail, was just what we needed and kept us well away, for the most part, of the bustle of St. Louis. We did encounter a bit of urban traffic for a short time, but we were able to keep on track and eventually Route 94 calmed down again and we were once again out in the woods.

The best thing that we encountered while driving Route 94 was the last home of Daniel Boone near the town of St. Charles (photo left). This stop turned out to be the high point of the day. I got to wander several acres of antique buildings, taking photos to my heart's content, and Concetta got to talk at length to the Boone property gardener and learn a lot about gardens in the 1700s (photo lower right). It was a win win.

But by the time we left Daniel Boone's home, it was getting really late in the afternoon and we had no idea where we were going to stay for the night. Mile after mile we drove without seeing any camps. Nor had we been able to see any camps in any of our guide books, which was not a good thing.

Finally, we plugged in an address for a camp well away from where we were, deciding we'd just have to drive in the dark. At that point the GPS advised us to deviate from Route 94 and cross the Missouri River and head south. We did as the GPS advised, even though it told us the camp was more than twenty miles away.

But as luck would have it, just after we crossed the Missouri River bridge to Hermann, Missouri, I spotted a municipal camp. The camp was absolutely FULL of RVs, so I didn't give us much hope of squeezing in, but we had to try. Miraculously, even though most sites were filled, and several empty ones were reserved, there were still two left unfilled and we grabbed one right away. Luck had certainly been with us.

The camp had all the necessary amenities and a newly paved and graveled area for our use. The nearby city street was pretty loud with Saturday-night teenagers on the prowl, but it soon quieted down.

And that was it. Day number 67 on the road had eased into nightfall, and as the wisps of smoke drifted over from a nearby neighbor's camp, we sat outside in our patio chairs, watched the cruising teenagers, listened to the laughter of children playing nearby, and counted our blessings one and all. Yup, it was a good day!

Day 66 - Springfield to Roodhouse, Illinois

Day 66 of this odyssey didn't start out very promising. The rain that has dogged us off and on since we arrived in Florida, continued in Springfield, Illinois, as we prepared to go visit the home of our 16th President, Abraham Lincoln. As I wrote in the blog yesterday, the skies looked threatening when we made camp, and sure enough, by morning the pitter-patter of rain drops greeted as when we awoke. Still, where there's a museum or point of interest to be visited, there's hope.

We arrived in at the visitor center fairly early and the parking lot was nearly empty. That was the good news. The bad news was that there was no parking provision made for RVs. So.....as we have been known to do in the past, we just took up four spaces in the truly tiny lot next to the visitor center. Grabbing our gear, we were about to set out, when a ranger-type person approached and declared that we could either pay for all four spaces, or we could move the rig and park next to the school buses on the other side of the center. "Piece of cake," I said, and moved the rig as she directed.

Fortunately, even with all the fooling around with parking we were still able to make the 9:05 tour which headed straight for the Lincoln's house straightaway (photo upper right). Concetta and I found the interior a bit gaudy for our tastes, with wallpaper and carpets so busy that they were magnificently off-putting. Even stranger, some of the furniture was black, which seemed all the more odd next to the background colors.

The house we toured was the only house that Abraham Lincoln ever owned and was sold to the state of Illinois for a dollar by their son, Robert Todd Lincoln, after their deaths with the stipulation that the state would not charge an admission fee for anyone to see it. The Lincolns bought the house for $1,500 when it was only three years old. Abe had $1,200 to put down and he traded the owner a piece of property for the $300.00 balance.

The original Lincoln Home is set in an actual restored and/or reconstructed neighborhood that replicates exactly the neighborhood the Lincolns would have known. That means you get to stroll the sourrounding dirt streets and visit some of the other period houses while you're there. We were extremely fortunate in that within thirty minutes of our arrival the sun started to show its face. Though some of the initial photos were pretty bland, subsequent ones were much better.

With another hour left on our parking ticket in the bus lot, we decided to walk to Lincoln's nearby law office. By then it was so bright we had to wear our sunglasses. When we got there we found that we were off by forty-five minutes for taking the tour, so we walked over to the old Capitol building across the street from Lincoln's law office. There they wanted a princely sum to view the collection of antiques on display, so we decided to shift gears and go visit the Lincoln tomb located a few miles away. This turned out to be the best decision of the day.

Although Concetta had mentioned the tomb of Abraham Lincoln to me, for some reason it just hadn't registered. But when our foray into old town Springfield didn't turn up anything that intrigued us, I asked her what she wanted to do, leave town or what? That's when she brought up the tomb again. This time I paid attention and we plugged the address into the GPS and set off.

Minutes later we were pulling up to the cemetery parking area and caught sight of the monument to the great man. We were stunned. I think I had been expecting a simple structure, perhaps a hundred square feet in size. What we saw was certainly akin to the magnificence of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. The main body of the tomb was perhaps the size of a large house. Towering over the main part of the tomb rose an obelisk to a height of perhaps a hundred feet or more. Surrounding the obelisk and a standing statue of Lincoln himself, were the most finely-crafted bronze statues of Civil War soldiers you might ever want to see.

After parking the RV, we approached the front of the tomb where a guide was standing. Moments later, we were invited inside! We had no idea anyone was allowed inside, but there we were. The guide proceeded to give us a rundown on the what we could expect to see when we toured the inside. Meanwhile our eyes were on the fantastic bronze of Lincoln in the entryway which appeared to be an exact replica, on a quarter sized scale, of the seated Lincoln from the Lincoln Memorial in Washington.

I immediately realized that I should have brought along my smaller, interior-shooting Nikon. There was no way I was going to be able to photograph the bronze with the larger camera. Concetta and I retreated to the RV to have lunch at that point, promising the guide what we would be back with the proper camera.

The setting for the tomb is on twelve acres and we were able to take full advantage of the park-like scene as we ate our lunch just steps away from the great man's resting place. Then, the correct camera in hand, we retraced our steps to the tomb and this time we took extensive photographs of all the interior bronzes, included the seated Lincoln in the entrance way. The subject of the interior bronzes are the various stages in Lincoln's life, from the time he was a young man, until he was late in his Presidency.

The most humbling and wonderful aspect of the interior of the tomb was the seven-ton, reddish marble tombstone that covers his actually grave location. The tombstone is surrounded by a collection of flags, seven of which are the flags of states in which Lincoln and his ancestors once resided. The last two flags are Old Glory and Lincoln's Presidential flag.

Believe me, Concetta and I were very humbled by the whole experience. There was no way to tour the tomb and not leave with tears in your eyes. On a final note, as you leave the tomb you encounter a bronze bust of Lincoln in the front entrance way. The bust was crafted by Gutzon Borglum, the man who was majorly responsible for the bust of the Presidents on Mount Rushmore.

As a final note, if you're ever in Springfield, Illinois, you must go visit our sixteenth President. We predict it will be one of the most memorable of your life.

After leaving the Springfield cemetery we headed west and south towards my evening destination of Carrollton, Illinois. We drove through mostly farm country and a whole lot of emptiness with not much on the horizon that might turn into a camping spot. But when we got within about a dozen miles of Carrollton, we ran across a municipal camp in the town of Roodhouse. The camp, though pretty "buggy" with lots of flying creatures, was nevertheless simply beautiful. It had its own lake next to the camp and quite a bit of walking area where we were able to get some exercise. Once again I was taken by the numbers of people living full time in these camps. Roodhouse has almost completely full, and many of the rigs had been there a long time.

We're finding that these municipal camps are often outstanding. This one came complete with all the amenities, including water, sewer, and electricity. Additionally, the cost at $25.00 was more affordable than most so called professional camps where we often pay twice that amount. Yes, the roads to these municipal camps can be a little rougher as they're often more removed from the highway.

And you will probably need to pay with a check, so make sure you bring one along. Sometimes they'll even sell you firewood if you need it, though a municipal camp host in West Virginia offered to give us firewood if we wanted it. We didn't take her up on her offer, but we sure liked her a lot for asking.

So, as the sun sets over our man-made lake, I bid you adieu for now. Tomorrow we'll be visiting Carrollton, the town where my mother's father's ancestors once lived back before the Civil War.

Day 65 - Casey, Illinois to Springfield, Illinois

If you want to discover just how little you know about our country, just take to the road and you'll soon find out. This morning we visited the Lincoln family farm in west central Illinois. This is where our 16th President's father, Thomas Lincoln, spent the latter part of his life. It was, in fact, Thomas' last home and he's buried just down the road.

We hadn't been doing any long-range planning for this visit. In fact, until yesterday, I had no idea where the Lincoln family farm might be located, or that it even existed.

From the web I learned that in 1837, Thomas Lincoln erected a cabin on a tract of land situated one-half mile to the east. Here he resided until his death in 1851. Abraham Lincoln visited here frequently, and after 1841 held title to forty acres of land on which his parents lived. The State of Illinois now owns most of the Lincoln farm.

Thomas was born in Virgina, and his family soon brought him west to Kentucky. Indians killed his father, named Abraham Lincoln, while he was clearing farmland, leaving young Thomas and his family fatherless. He moved to Hardin County, Kentucky in 1802, and one year later, purchased his first farm. Thomas married Nancy Hanks on June 12, 1806. They had three children: Sarah (February 10, 1807), Abraham Lincoln (February 12, 1809), and Thomas (1812) who died in infancy.

Historical documents show that Thomas was a responsible citizen and community leader, but he repeatedly fell victim to Kentucky's chaotic land laws and was constantly frustrated by the presence of slavery. In 1816, Thomas and his family crossed the Ohio River and purchased a farm directly from the Federal Government in what is today Spencer County, Indiana.

Two years later his wife died due to milk sickness, which is brought on by the milk cow eating a plant known as "white snakeroot." Thomas then married a widow, Sarah Bush Johnston. Although Lincoln developed a close relationship with his stepmother, his relationship with his father was strained. In 1830, he moved with his father for the last time when they traveled to Illinois. A year later, he set out on his own. His father continued farming in Coles County, Illinois until his death in 1851.

Concetta and I ambled down a variety of country roads this morning from our camp near Casey, Illinois. We avoided the Interstates, and arrived at the Lincoln farm about mid morning. There we found a couple of cars in the parking lot, but at first we looked to be about the only visitors for the day. When we got to the visitor center, the museum docent even interrupted the in-progress movie for us and started it over so we wouldn't have to wait. This she did after dashing out as we arrived and offered to take our photo next to the Conestoga wagon we had been admiring (photo upper right).

After the movie we set out to look at Tom Lincoln's re-created farmstead and talk to the park personnel who were in costume, and just waiting for folks to ask them 19th century questions. According to the costumed young people, during certain times of the year folks come and work the gardens, tend the barnyard animals, make quilts, weave cloth, and a dozen other tasks, and you can watch them and can ask about their lives and duties. Today, well, we had a man and woman who told us about the Lincoln cabin and the various tasks that went on there. I poked my head into the sleeping loft, and checked out the root cellar (photo left), just to see what I could see. We learned that the farm buildings are located precisely where Tom Lincoln's various structures once stood based on archeology work done in decades past.

There's a number of other farm buildings on the National Parks property, and not just belonging to Tom Lincoln. Several buildings from a nearby farm, the owners of which had been friends of the Lincolns, had been moved to the park property and were on the tour as well. Incredibly, Concetta and I had the biggest part of the park to ourselves the whole morning, though a threatened passel of school kids did finally arrive just before we left. Almost as if it were our own farm, we got to stroll the woodland paths, enjoy the birds singing, and listen to the water gurgle beneath the bridges as we enjoyed a rare sunny spring day.

Though I usually like the "real" experience of visiting outdoor exhibits the best, today I found the museum indoors just outstanding and wonderfully informative. I especially like the display on the production of flax (photo left). You may remember that when we visited Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, we learned a lot about flax and it's processing into linen. But today I discovered that we really didn't learn the whole process in Williamsburg. There's a lot more to the processing than we originally learned. Now, thanks to our visit to Tom Lincoln's farm, we have the whole story.

According to the display, the pioneers soaked the flax -- retted it -- to make the woody part come off more easily, they "scutched" the flax to remove the woody parts, and they hetcheled the flax to further refine and separate the strands of flax material from the woody parts. The scutcher transforms the retted flax straw into fibre. During this process he removes the shives (broken parts of the stalk). He obtains scutched flax (long fibre) and tow flax(short fibre). The tow fibre is not good for fine linens, but can be used to make burlap-style bags or work clothes.

Flax can also be "swingled," which means that the coarse woody outer parts are beaten with a wooden swingling stick until the finer interior parts can be separated out. Pioneers might also use primitive machines to scutch and swingle the flax.(photo right)

Generally around three hecheling combs are used, although many more can be used. The finer the final hecheling comb, the finer the yarn spun from that flax can be. A hecheling comb looks like a board into which someone has pounded twenty or thirty nails very close to each other. You drag the flax fibers over the "nails" to snag the shives.

In English, we get our words for blond children out of the flax-making process. Long blond hair is referred to as "flaxen," but a child with short, coarse blond hair is referred to as being "tow-headed."

After our tour of the Lincoln farm, Concetta and I walked back to the RV, had our lunch, then hit the road headed northwest once more. Continuing to stay well away from the Interstate, we grabbed Route 16 out of Charleston, Illinois, followed by Route 29, and Route 104 out of Taylorsville, Illinois, as we worked our way to Abraham Lincoln's home of Springfield, Illinois. Though we did have to spend a few minutes on Interstate 55 as we approached Springfield, this afternoon we miraculously discovered a KOA well away from the maddening crowd. In fact, the sign on the front gate says, "No planes, no trains, no automobiles can be heard in this camp." And you know, they're absolutely correct. While the noise from the Interstate last evening prompted Concetta and me to start counting passing 18-wheelers to see just how many of them were going by the camp each minute, here the only noise is the breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

They've been predicting a storm for Illinois since yesterday. So far we haven't seen it, but as dusk comes upon us I can see that the sky looks a little troubled. Perhaps the rig is going to get a bath before morning. If it does storm, I hope that it charges through tonight while we sleep. Tomorrow, we have our sights set on old Abe's home, and I'd sure like the sun to be shining!

Day 64 - Madison, Indiana to Casey, Illinois

Today was one of those sets of waking hours where we just go from one place to another. We didn't have anything on the schedule to visit, and we really didn't encounter much of anything along the way that warranted a stop. There were a couple of exceptions. We encountered one of the old Mail Pouch tobacco barns that I've been hoping to photograph, and we ran across a rather obscure reference to the Civil War, but more of that item in a moment. We were sorry to leave the Madison, Indiana, camp (photo left), but as usual, the road was calling.

We encountered the mail pouch barn, naturally, on a road where there was no hope of stopping. The travel lanes were narrow and the shoulders almost non existent. But after I had continued on for about a mile the idea of missing yet another of these barns got to haunting me. So, as soon as I could get turned around I went back. As I approached the barn from the opposite direction I spied a tiny patch of dirt just big enough to pull into if you were driving a small Honda car. Throwing caution to the wind, I pulled into the spot anyway, nearly scrubbing the RV's steps off the rig in the process as I slowed to a stop on the slightly depressed shoulder area.

Then I set off along the various neighbors' front yards until I could line up my shots. I tried to keep as close to the busy road as possible, but not so close that I would get buffeted by the 18-wheelers and dump trucks that seemed to be present in larger than expected numbers this morning.

After getting the shots, I trudged back to the rig, cranked her up and pulled into a nearby side street, backed into another "T" intersection further along, and we were on our way in a jiffy. I'd gotten my shots at long last.

For those of you who don't know the history of our country's 20,000 mail pouch barns I offer Wikipedia. I would normally paraphrase, but the article is short. Have a look:

"A Mail Pouch Tobacco Barn, or simply Mail Pouch Barn, is a barn with one or more sides painted from 1890 to 1992 with a barn advertisement for the West Virginia Mail Pouch chewing tobacco company (Bloch Brothers Tobacco Company), based in Wheeling, West Virginia. At the height of the program in the early 1960s, there were about 20,000 Mail Pouch barns spread across 22 states.

These barns can be found in Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Maryland, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, South Carolina, Tennessee, Wisconsin, West Virginia, and California (Ontario, on Jurupa and Turner) although an increasing number have fallen into dilapidation or have been demolished. The barns, usually hand-painted in black or red with yellow or white capital lettering, read as follows: "Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco Treat Yourself to the Best." Sometimes they are surrounded on the left and right by a thin vertical blue border.

Initially, barn owners were paid between $1 and $2 a year for the advertisement, equivalent in 1913 dollars to about $20–$40 today. But more importantly, they received a much desired fresh coat of paint to preserve the integrity of the wood. Mail Pouch painted their message on one or two sides of the barn (depending on viewability from the roadway) and painted the other sides of the barn any color the owner wished. Many of the barns were repainted every few years to maintain the sharp colors of the lettering.

After World War II, many of the barns were painted by Harley Warrick of Belmont County, Ohio. He once estimated that he had painted 20,000 barns in his life, spending an average of six hours on each. Warrick claimed that he always began each barn with the "E" in the word "Chew". Other barns were painted by Mark Turley, Don Shires, and several others. Their initials remain preserved on some of the barns with the date of the painting. These initials can be found on the blue border surrounding the front side, or nearer to the roof.

The Highway Beautification Act of 1965, which sought to restrict the vast number of local advertisements that were being placed near highways, exempted Mail Pouch barns since they had been deemed historic landmarks.

In 1992, the owner of Mail Pouch Tobacco at the time, Swisher International Group, decided to suspend the use of barn advertisements when Warrick retired.

In the heyday of barn advertising (c. 1900-1940) many companies paid farmers to use their barns as roadside ads, with other tobacco products (such as "Beech Nut" tobacco) and local feed and grain stores being the most common, but Mail Pouch was the only product advertised in so widespread and consistent a manner in this fashion."

And now for our other discovery.

We stopped in the town of Vernon as we headed up Route 7 out of Madison, Indiana, this morning, not for any particular reason, but just because we spotted this marker (photo right) from the road which happened to run right by the town square. Like several dozen town squares we've seen in the last two months, the ring of buildings surrounding the court house was sort of sad and dilapidated looking (photo left), but the shade thrown off by the courthouse ancient landscape trees looked cool and very inviting

Feeling the need for getting out of our seats for a few minutes, whatever the excuse, we decided to check out the marker for John Hunt Morgan and enjoy some of that shade. Naturally, what with all the Civil War museums that have captured our attention this trip, we had heard Morgan's name on more than one occasion. But neither of us knew anything about him, well, other than the fact that he was a Confederate cavalry officer.

So it came as a big surprise when we read the marker at left and found out that Morgan is the man responsible for bringing a bit of the Civil War to several northern states where precious little fighting had taken place on their home ground.

Morgan's raid got started shortly after the Confederate defeats at Gettysburg and Vicksburg. According to Wikipedia, "For 46 days, as the rebels rode over 1,000 miles (1,600 km), Morgan's Confederates covered a region from Tennessee to northern Ohio. The raid served to draw the attention of tens of thousands of Federal troops away from their normal duties, and strike fear in the civilian population of several Northern states.

Repeatedly thwarted in his attempts to return to the South by hastily positioned Union forces and state militia, Morgan eventually surrendered what was left of his command in northeastern Ohio. He escaped through Ohio, and casually took a train to Cincinnati, where he crossed the Ohio River.

To many Southerners, the daring expedition behind enemy lines became known as The Great Raid of 1863, and was initially hailed in the newspapers. However, along with Gettysburg and Vicksburg, it was another in a string of defeats for the Confederate army that summer. Some Northern newspapers derisively labeled Morgan's expedition as The Calico Raid, in reference to the raiders' propensity for procuring personal goods from local stores and houses."

If you'd like to read the entire Wiki article, and I recommend it, here's the link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan%27s_Raid

Day 63 - Louisville, Kentucky to Madison, Indiana

Today we set out to accomplish nothing at all. Well, that's not exactly correct, we did set out to drive somewhere. We just had no idea where that somewhere would be. We didn't plan on visiting any museums or battlefields or historic sites of any kind. We just wanted to wander our way out of Kentucky and end up in Indiana by nightfall. This would have been easy had we chosen to jump on Interstate 65 that ran by our camp in Sheperdsville, Kentucky (Louisville). Indiana was only a dozen miles north of us.

So, naturally, we didn't do that. Instead we headed south out of Sheperdsville on Interstate 65, away from the Ohio River, until we reached Kentucky Route 245. We drove route 245 for awhile, then switched to Route 62. Just before mid day we switched again, this time to Route 127. While motoring on Route 127 we stopped for gas and groceries in the town of Lawrenceburg, then we continued up Route 127 until we reached Kentucky's capital city, Frankfort.

The attractions listed on the brown highway signs were enticing in Frankfort, but before we could decide whether or not to take advantage of those attractions, I switched off Route 127 and went hill-climbing on Kentucky Route 421. We traveled route 421 all the way to the Indiana border and over the bridge to the charming town of Madison where our rig now rests peacefully with the Ohio River just beyond.

As you can see, our major aim was to avoid the Interstates today, and were we ever successful. We traveled roads today that were so narrow (see photo upper right), I sometimes drove right down the center of the road with the yellow line centered beneath us.

You never know what you're going to see as you thread your way through some of the tiny rural towns in this country. My favorite shot of the day was of a bunch of guys putting up a giant American flag (photo left). I suppose they were dressing up the town for some celebration. I never did find out what that celebration might have been. Still, I thought it was a great human interest moment.

After wandering all day in Kentucky, we finally crossed over the Madison/Milton bridge into Indiana. As we were crossing, I happened to look over and see a tiny RV park almost right at the foot of the bridge. The time was just short of 3:00 p.m. and we usually drive a bit longer, but here was a bird in the hand. We had no idea where we were going to stay this evening, so the tiny RV park might just do fine.

So, once on the Indiana side I began scouting around until I found the proper street that led to the entrance. Once found, we just pulled in and parked in a spot, ran the rig up on the ramps to level, then plugged in the utilities. We could see that the camp was posted as Madison Municipal. We have, in the past, encountered free municipal camps, so we didn't make any effort to find a way to pay. However, it wasn't long and the resident camp host came knocking on the door and asked me if, when I had the time, I would mind stopping by his rig to pay the fee and fill out the necessary paperwork.

Oh, well, pay or no pay, it's still one of the very nicest locations we've ever had -- in any state. The Ohio River is literally right in our front yard!

So, once we were squared away with the camp host, we put on our hiking shoes and headed for the historic part of town. The town was settled in 1809 and has one of the largest historic sections in the whole country. 133 blocks are on the historic register. The Chicago Tribune once described Madison as the "best preserved town in the mid west." Knowing, as you do, that my great love is historic architecture, you know where my head was located. I couldn't swivel my neck fast enough to take it all in.

When we grew hot and tired of walking, we ducked into an ice cream shop, deciding to treat ourselves before we walked the mile back to camp. It was Blue Bell ice cream and, after trying a double scoop of the Pralines, I'd have to agree that Blue Bell makes some mighty fine ice cream. Concetta had the Pumpkin Spice Pecan, which I had never heard of, but she said it was mighty fine. Most of the time when the two of us have ice cream, I end up finishing hers. Not this time. She ate every last morsel.

After ice cream, we abandoned the main street with all the gloriously-restored houses, and wandered down to the river. We walked along and I took a dozen shots of the bridge over which we'd arrived. The sun was getting low, the winds were soft and warm, and it was just the most romantic place to be on a spring afternoon.

At one point on our walk, as I was gazing out at the bridge, I noticed a big sign on the side of the center bridge pillar. The sign had the numbers, 50....40....30, reading up from the water. "Now that's odd," I told Concetta. "Why wouldn't the numbers read from 30 to 50 going up, as in thirty feet of water, forty feet of water, fifty feet of water -- as the river rises during a flood?" She couldn't understand it, either.

So, I did what I have become accustomed to doing in a strange city when I want to know something, I stopped the very next person we encountered and asked him.

"Well," the stranger said, "the sign's not reading up from the water, it's reading down from the bridge."

I didn't really understand his answer, but he went on to tell us all about how the bridge had been constructed over the last four years and that the old bridge had been destroyed recently, dropped into the river, and then the pieces plucked off the river bottom with sonar and special equipment.

Now that sounded interesting, we told him. "Just a minute," he said, and then dashed over to his nearby pickup and returned with a collection of photos of the whole process.

What followed was a wonderful conversation with the old gentleman, on the bridge, and a dozen other topics. He was born in 1933 and had lived in Madison his whole life. He'd seen all the floods. At one point he pointed to a house across the street and said, "the flood waters of '64 came to the peek of the roof on that one." (photo left)

We looked at the current level of the river and it was WAY down below us, at least thirty feet. Now THAT was some flood, we thought. At any rate, as we continued to talk to our new friend, Jack Bird was his name, we discovered that he's quite a photographer, mostly specializing in wildlife. He also had photos of his wildlife shots in the truck and we got to see them as well.

Jack was really a great guy and we just loved talking to him. In fact, once we had walked on, we regretted not asking him to join us somewhere for dinner. We're just certain he could go on for hours about Madison and all the happenings since 1933. He's single now that his wife passed five years ago. He was married for 53 years, and tells us that he has not been able to get over losing her. What a guy!

If you want to see some of Jack's wildlife photos, go to: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jackbird/

Day 62 - All day in the Louisville, Kentucky Central library

Well, I can honestly say that today we did something we've not done this entire vacation: we searched for a couple of my ancestors. That's right, back in the revolutionary war days my mother's father's ancestors lived right here in Louisville, Kentucky. That is, in fact, the reason for our visit here. Since nothing ever shows up on Ancestry.com to tell me how they got here, why they came here, or how many of them stayed when some of these Jones family members moved to Illinois, I decided I'd just have to come and do the research myself.

Well, I can tell you after five or six hours of me reading relentlessly in the history section and Concetta scanning the microfilmed tax records for the period between 1703 and 1811, we still don't know anything more than when we arrived. I guess those Jones boys are just hard to track down.

This morning, it took us just a few minutes to get to the library since we'd camped right across the Ohio River in Indiana last night. The library is located only two or three blocks from the river on the Kentucky side. But as we rolled downtown just as rush hour was beginning to taper off, I started to get really nervous about just where I was going to put the rig, since all I saw was parking garages and no open-air sites.

But when we got to the library, we discovered an open-air parking lot just next door. Only problem was, you had to drive up to a ticket machine, reach out and take your ticket, squeeze between the yellow stanchions, and then pass successfully into the lot. The lot was not crowded when we got there, but I figured that it would be by the middle of the morning.

Fortunately there was enough room to turn the RV around so that it faced the exit booth. Then I parked it at the end of a row so that I could take up one whole space, plus the diagonally lined-off area where no one was supposed to park. This meant that the whole rig wouldn't stick out in the travel lane part of the lot. I didn't think the booth attendant was going to cheer about our placement, but we weren't planning to discuss it with him.

Once we were in the library I kept looking out to see if anyone was paying any attention to our parking choice, but no one ever came to look.

Around noon we went back to the RV and had lunch. Coincidentally, the lot attendant took that opportunity to stroll around. I held my breath as he approached, but he went right on by without stopping and soon returned to his booth.

By the time we had reached the middle of the afternoon, the books were piled high on my table and I knew all kinds of things about Kentucky history. Concetta, for her part, was going cross-eyed from trying to read the blurry tax records. I'd taken a bunch of notes, which may or may not be pertinent. Concetta had done a raft of photo copies for which the library refused to accept payment, which was nice.

I glanced out the window again and saw, much to my joy, that the parking lot had begun to empty a bit. So, as the clock ticked toward 3:00 p.m., we packed up our notes and photocopies and the computer, thanked the wonderfully helpful staff, and bid the Louisville library adieu.

Then we had to maneuver the rig OUT of the narrow parking rows made for tiny Japanese cars and through the even narrower exit booth. But fortunately I was able to back the rig up into what had been filled spots only a short time before, and then make a sweeping left turn and then a right before approaching the booth. The entire cost for parking for the day? $4.50. Wow! Even with the tip it was a pittance!

It was tough getting the rig past all the obstructions at the booth, and the entire four lanes of traffic in the street ahead was at a standstill due to construction down the block, but we managed to squeeze into the lane closest the curb and get rolling, thanks to a kindly motorist who let us in. Before we knew it, we were up on the expressway and headed for the next camping spot.

We decided not to return to last night's KOA. Oh, it had all the necessary amenities, but it also had a railroad freight line that ran just forty or fifty feet from our door. Whenever a freight would roll through it sounded in the coach like the world was about to end. So, tonight we're camped south of Louisville in Shepardsville where things are a tad more quiet and serene.

And there you have it. I did take the camera with me to the library today, but totally neglected to take any photos of the place with it. For that I apologize.

We're not sure what direction we're taking in the morning, so we'll All be surprised when next the blog appears.

Cheers!

Day 61 - Mineral Springs Lakes, Ohio to Louisville, Kentucky

Okay, so I know we've said this before, but DANG!, today was just the best day ever!

You will remember that we planned to visit the Serpent Mound this morning before leaving southern Ohio and heading to Louisville, Kentucky. Through some miraculous twist of fate, the very place that Concetta was been wanting to visit for years and years just sort of wandered into our field of vision yesterday, as we rolled down Route 32, and announced that it was only eight miles away. Well, we could hardly ignore that bit of luck. Incredibly, for the first time in days, if not in two or three weeks, the sky overhead looked blue, or at least mostly blue. There were some clouds at first, which kept hiding the sun when I wanted to take a photo, but most of the time, if I waited a minute or two, the sun would pop out and I could click away.

The Serpent Mound is the world's largest surviving example of an ancient animal effigy mound. Stretching 1,348 lineal feet, it has an oval "head" shape at one end, and a curly tail at the other. To date, no artifacts have been found and no ancient Native Americans are buried there, though a couple of nearby, cone-shaped, mounds do contain ancient graves.

The mound is shaped like a long, twisting, six-foot-high "twinkie," and measures perhaps twenty feet wide at the base. I didn't find any stats on these measurements, but that's my observation. End to end, it appeared to be quite uniform in its dimensions. The park employees like to mow the grass bordering the mound, which makes it stand out from the background grassy areas. When we got there the mowing was in progress, so not all of the mound was highlighted in this fashion.

The thing I liked best about the mound area is the observation platform (photo right) the park service has provided so that the serpent can be viewed from thirty feet in the air. Makes it a whole easier to comprehend the magnitude of the work involved from up there.

After purchasing a book for me and a T-shirt for Concetta we were soon back on the road. My plan for the day called for using the same Route 41 that we had traveled to find the Serpent Mound. Only this time we'd be going in a southwesterly direction. I knew there were faster ways to get to Louisville, but I was shooting for scenic.

It wasn't long before we realized the wisdom of choosing that particular route. Alternating between rich, rolling farmlands full of red barns and white fences, and quaint, tiny towns hugging the sides of our narrow, two-lane highway, the road kept us totally fascinated. We just enjoyed every mile of Route 41. My only regret is that the road was so narrow, and in most places, even lacking a shoulder, that I just couldn't stop every time I saw a postcard vista. It just broke my heart to pass up some of the most beautiful scenery we'd seen so far, but short of stopping the rig right in the southbound travel lane to grab the camera, there was no way to take advantage of the dozens of photo ops.

Shortly before we crossed the Ohio river, Route 41 ended and we were forced to transition to a divided highway. But this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We had no more than touched the Kentucky shore when we were informed by a passing road sign that the historic site of Blue Lick was just a few miles away. Since it was approaching the noon hour, and we always like an interesting site to explore after lunch, we noted the mileage and kept our eye out for the day's lunch stop.

According to Wikipedia, "The Battle of Blue Licks, fought on August 19, 1782, was one of the last battles of the American Revolutionary War. The battle occurred ten months after Lord Cornwallis' famous surrender at Yorktown, which had effectively ended the war in the east. On a hill next to the Licking River in what is now Robertson County, Kentucky (but was then in Kentucky County, Virginia), a force of about 50 American and Canadian Loyalists along with 300 American Indians ambushed and routed 182 Kentucky militiamen. It was the worst defeat for the Kentuckians during the frontier war."

Today, the peaceful, tree-covered hilltop belies the violence that once took place there. I trekked around through the dappled shade and ankle high grasses and tried to picture the events of over two centuries ago as I photographed the various monuments. But it was just too beautiful and restful. I think war is like that. All too soon no one is alive to recount the terrible events that may have changed many people's world forever.

Wikipedia's narrative continues: "On the morning of August 19, the Kentuckians reached the Licking River, near a spring and salt lick known as the Lower Blue Licks. A few Indian scouts were seen watching them from across the river. Behind the scouts was a hill around which the river looped. Colonel Todd called a council and asked Daniel Boone, the most experienced woodsman, what he thought. Boone said he had been growing increasingly suspicious because of the obvious trail the Indians left. He felt the Indians were trying to lead them into an ambush.

Hugh McGary, eager to prove he was no coward, urged an immediate attack. When no one listened, he mounted his horse and rode across the ford. He yelled out, "Them that ain't cowards, follow me." The men immediately followed McGary, as did the officers, who hoped to restore order. Boone remarked, "We are all slaughtered men," and crossed the river.

Most of the men dismounted and formed a line of battle several rows deep. They advanced up the hill, Todd and McGary in the center, Trigg on the right, Boone on the left. As Boone had suspected, Caldwell's force was waiting on the other side, concealed in ravines. When the Kentuckians reached the summit, the Indians opened fire at close range with devastating accuracy. After only five minutes, the center and right of the Kentucky line fell back. Only Boone's men on the left managed to push forward. Todd and Trigg, easy targets on horseback, were shot dead.

The Kentuckians began to flee down the hill, fighting hand-to-hand with other Indians who had flanked them. McGary rode up to Boone's company and told him everyone was retreating and that Boone was now surrounded. Boone ordered his men to retreat. He grabbed a riderless horse and ordered his 23-year-old son, Israel Boone, to mount it. He then turned to look for a horse for himself. Israel suddenly fell to the ground, shot through the neck. Boone realized his son was dead, mounted the horse and joined in the retreat."

The monument pictured lists each and every man who either died or survived, as well as the Indian tribes that took part.

After leaving the Blue Licks battlefield memorial, we continued our trip south down Kentucky Route 68 until we reached U.S. Route 64. We then headed straight west toward Lexington and Louisville. Although it was our plan to just keep driving until we got to the KOA in Louisville, Concetta spotted an interesting sign she had been keeping an eye out for as we rolled along just west of Lexington.

One piece of advice that we had received from our son Rob was to visit the Four Roses Distillery if we happened to make it to Kentucky. Well, what should pop up beside Interstate 64, but the sought after sign for Four Roses. Naturally, we took the off-ramp and set off in search of more adventures.

The distillery in question was at least a dozen miles off the beaten track, but it turned out to be worth it. Well, at first, it turned out to be just a comedy of errors. Concetta had told me that the tours took place on the hour and so we were hastening our sojourn off the Interstate in order to catch the 3:00 p.m. tour. As fate would have it, we arrived about TWO minutes after 3:00. Telling Concetta to grab us some tickets if it was still possible, I dropped her at the front door and I drove to the back of the property to find a place to park the rig.

Naturally, the door at which I dropped her turned out to be the employee entrance. So unbeknownst to me, Concetta set out to circle the employee building and enter the correct building that sat just behind. In the meantime, I slammed the rig roughly into a couple of parking spots and set off for the rear building (which was closest to me) at a brisk trot to try and catch the tour.

Then, just as I sprinted up to the rear door, a beautiful young blond woman rushed up to me waving her camera, and in the most "melt in your mouth" southern accent, asked me if I'd mind taking a photo of her assembled group, about eight persons in all.

What was I going to say? With a grimace and a nod I grabbed the camera and said, "okay, here we go...1...2...3...and snapped the photo. Then I took another one for good luck, pushed the camera at her, and dashed for the door.

Inside the building I could see no sign of Concetta or a tour. Figuring she was still down in the first building, I dashed out the opposite door, down the walkway, into the first building and pounded down the stairs as fast as I could. Every few feet I'd encounter a sign which read, "employees only. Do not enter." Sort of got me to wondering.

By the time I got to the front door I realized that I had made a big mistake and Concetta must have realized it, too, and gone up to the second building, the one I had just come from.

But as I exited the first building a chauffeur was just getting out of his long, black limo in front and he motioned me over. Rolling my eyes, I ran over to him. "Where's the tour?" he asked.

Well, I didn't exactly know, but I thrust an arm in the direction of the second building and said that I guessed it was that way. Then I took off running again. By then it was getting to be fifteen minutes after the hour.

By the time I had returned to the second building and burst through the door, I saw Concetta just entering a door at the back of the room. Dashing after her, I was just able to get seated next to her in the tour group room as the speaker finished her power point presentation on bourbon production. Still, Concetta told me, we had managed to get the last two tickets available and were going to be included in the 3:00 p.m. tour.

I had only managed to catch my breath and the whole group was up and walking out on the patio to begin the tour. I shook my head and thought, 'we just have to stop cutting these events so close.'

Now the production facility is interesting, if a tad on the warm and cozy side, but what every one of the assembled tour group members had in the back of their minds was the tasting room. This little bonus was the last thing on our tour and the whole group filed in obediently. Then, for the next fifteen minutes or more, our tour hostess described the different quality levels of bourbon she was serving us, and everyone was doing the "bottoms up" routine.

After sips of two different "strengths" of Four Roses, I was ready to abstain from further refreshment. Someone, after all, still had to pilot the rig through the madness of traffic in downtown Louisville, then over the bridge into Indiana, and finally search for the always elusive KOA camp (We had chosen the Indiana KOA because it was, oddly enough, closest to downtown Louisville, Kentucky).

Now for a day that largely took place without a speck of planning, other than our intention to show up at the Serpent Mounds this morning, we think it came off in grand style. For the first time in ages, the sky was just wonderfully blue all the live long day. The traffic was light. Our fellow drivers were polite. The lunch stop was educational. Our way was clear and we didn't get lost even once. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the Four Roses was silky and wonderful. If it gets any better than that, you'll have to show me where that happens.

Ciao for now, good readers!