Day 71 -- La Crosse, Wisconsin to Springfield, Minnesota -- 228 Miles

Okay, first the rant. I've been sitting here eating breakfast and watching (and listening to) my fellow humans begin to stir near our camp on a pretty back-bay estuary along the eastern banks of the Mississippi here in Wisconsin. The first guy to draw my attention was a Harley rider who, presumably, wanted to take a shower at the park facility. So did he grab his soap and towel and walk over to do that? NO! He cranked up his barely-muffled Harley at 6:30 a.m. and rode the 150 feet to the shower building. While he was in there, another neighbor exited his rig, climbed aboard his bright red golf cart, and rode an even shorter distance to the bath house. Then, moments later, our neighbor on the other side of us fired up his sputtering, gas-powered golf cart and repeated the "journey" of his two lazy predecessors.

Okay, I know that most people my age don't have perfect hearing, but surprisingly I do. So the auditory reality of my fellow humans doing whatever noisy thing they can do to avoid exercise, even while supposedly getting out into the camping wilds to, well, exercise, just makes me crazy, especially this early in the morning.

And this is not the first camp we've been in where the the golf carts are as thick as fleas on a mangy hound dog. It seems that the little menaces are the new "in" thing to bring to camp. Why walk all the way to the dumpster with your trash when you can ride the fifty feet there and back. Or, why try to entertain your grand kids that you took on vacation when you can just hand them the keys and tell them to have a "nice time." After that, said kids can be seen circling incessantly through the park until the battery runs down, or they run out of gas.

I know I'm probably sounding a lot like Edward Abbey in those long-ago days of environmental hypersensitivity, but dang it, why do we all go out into the woods to experience the sights and sounds of nature when you can't see those sights for all the equipment, nor hear those sounds above the constant din of superfluous machinery? Motor bikes? Golf Carts? Jet skies? Motorized surfboards? Ski boats? Blaring TVs and stereos? It's just not right! All those noisy folks should pick up a copy of Edward Abbey's "Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness" and learn how one should act when one ventures into nature's sacred domain.

Since there are probably at least one of my three or four readers who don't know who Edward Abbey is, I include a few lines from Wikipedia by way of explanation: "In 1956 and 1957 Edward Abbey worked as a seasonal ranger for the United States National Park Service at Arches National Monument (now a national park), near the town of Moab, Utah. Abbey held the position from April to September each year, during which time he maintained trails, greeted visitors, and collected campground fees. He lived in a house trailer that had been provided to him by the Park Service, as well as in a ramada that he built himself. During his stay at Arches, Abbey accumulated a large volume of notes and sketches which later formed the basis of his first non-fiction work, Desert Solitaire."

"Desert Solitaire, Abbey's first work non-fiction (he wrote 3 novels), was published in 1968. In it, he describes his stay in the Canyonlands of southeastern Utah from 1956-1957. Desert Solitaire is regarded as one of the finest nature narratives in American literature, and has been compared to Aldo Leopold's, 'A Sand County Almanac' and Thoreau's 'Walden.' In it, Abbey vividly describes the physical landscapes of Southern Utah and delights in his isolation as a back country park ranger, recounting adventures in the nearby canyon country and mountains. He also attacks what he terms the "industrial tourism" and resulting development in the national parks ('national parking lots'), rails against the Glen Canyon Dam, and comments on various other subjects."

Here's one of Abbey's quotes: "...do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am - a reluctant enthusiast....a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards."

And I agree! We should all get out there and explore the planet. But for God's sake, DO IT QUIETLY!

Speaking of quiet, we mostly had an uneventful day today on the road. I had picked Minnesota Route 14 for us to follow when we left La Crosse, Wisconsin, which worked perfectly. For the first several dozen miles we just cruised up the west bank of the Mississippi, just enjoying the bright morning sunlight and the tranquil sight of lone fishermen as they sat in boats waiting for their next bite. The scene was so serene it made me wish that we were planning to follow the old Father of Waters all the way to where it was born as a tiny stream far to the north. Someday we'll just have to do that.

All too soon Route 14 hung a sharp left, climbed the steep bluffs west of the river, and emerged onto soft rolling tablelands where field after field of lush corn plants stretched away toward the far horizon. The vistas were beautiful and impressive, especially in the beginning when the country was more rolling.

Unfortunately, we soon grew tired of all the corn, which was only occasionally punctuated by strawberry plants and hay. Maybe it was our imagination, but we began to suspect that we were looking at the same tidy farm with well cared-for house and barn and surrounding flawless fields. It was as if we were imprisoned on some giant cyclorama and the same scenes just kept spinning by our window every few seconds.

Trying to break the spell of flawless Scandinavian and German farm husbandry, we took to stopping in the tiny towns that we encountered. In mid morning we stopped in the town of Saint Charles and parked next to a large, copper-roofed church that had been turned into a boutique. I just had to get out and walk a bit, I told Concetta, and she agreed that sounded good. So, leaving the RV, we set out down main street, cameras in hand, and ended up walking about eight blocks through both commercial and residential areas. Every few minutes someone would drive by and wave, and we'd wave back. At one point even the local sheriff waved as he drove by.

I'm absolutely fascinated by middle American towns that date back to the previous turn of the century and before. They all look about the same, with red brick buildings lining each side of a two or three block area, the better ones adorned with Greek pediments and columns, and nearly all with obvious vacancies every few doors. Over many of these once stately buildings one can see the embossed date of construction, most times anywhere from the 1870s to the 1920s. It's obvious that the entire street suffers from deferred maintenance or outright neglect. Many of these architectural treasures are just waiting for the next calamity to render them completely useless.

After our mid-morning walk, we ventured back out on the road and watched the same farm go by for another two hours. Finally, about lunchtime, we pulled into the town of Kasson and parked on a very shady side street in front of an opulent-looking Victorian (photo above left). We were a little shy about leaving the rig in front of such a stately mansion, but we got over it quickly. We had our lunch in the coolness of the verdant trees, then set off for another walk to discover if there was anything unusual about Kasson that your average reader might want to learn about. There really wasn't -- well, except for the photo right that I call, "Still life with Concetta and flower urn against a blue fence -- but we had a great time walking another six or eight blocks through the nicest of Kasson's residential neighborhoods before returning to the rig. Thanks to the huge trees overhead, the RV had stayed nicely cool though the outside temperatures hovered in the mid eighties and the humidity was about 65%.

Naturally by now, we knew we had to provide some entertainment so we didn't have to concentrate on watching the same farm cycle by us every few minutes. We plugged in a James Patterson novel about murder and mayhem, which sounded like it had been written for fourth graders, and suffered through that for a couple of hours. Fortunately the first disk in the series ran out soon enough and we went back to watching the corn.

Until we got to the town of "Sleepy Eye." Although we entertained no ideas of stopping, as we rolled down Sleepy Eye's main street, my photographer's eye suddenly caught something interesting on the marque of a local theater. I immediately pulled over and told Concetta I'd be back. Grabbing the camera, I dashed back to grab the shot. Unbelievably, though we had not seen a single campaign sign for our entire sojourn across Minnesota, there emblazoned on the theater's marque were the words, "Vote Trump."

Back again in the rig, I hadn't driven another block when I pulled over again. This time I'd caught sight of the Peanuts character, Linus, clutching his blanket and holding a heart that bore the words, "I love Sleepy Eye." He was standing in front of the local library. Heading back to the rig yet again, I noticed the gas station in front of which I had parked. The pump canopy was all done up in red, white, and blue and bore the words "FREEDOM" in two-foot high letters. This just keeps getting better and better I told myself. By now I was beginning to think that the day wasn't a total loss after all.

Our avowed target campsite for the night was located in the town of Springfield, Minnesota, which showed up in the Good Sam book and didn't sound like it would cost a fortune. We allowed Jezebel to do her best to find the place, and of course she failed yet again. But before that happened we did have one more surprise coming our way. Just as we rolled into the city limits of Springfield, I spied a whole collection of vintage vehicles atop a small hill on the north side of the highway. Stopping the rig once again, I grabbed the camera and sprinted through the wet grass back to where they were sitting bathed in the soft afternoon sunlight.

Why wet grass, you ask. Well, as our camp host told us when we walked down to the community center to pay our $25 space rent for the night, there was one heck of a storm in Springfield last night. We had been seeing the effects of the storm most of the afternoon as we drove. Whole trees -- very large trees -- had been ripped up by the roots and tossed aside. Everywhere we looked, people's yards were filled with severed tree branches and other debris. The camp host told us that the town had lost power, had gotten bucket loads of rain, and the winds had gotten as high as 60 miles per hour. And, she went on, the town just to the north had experienced 85 mile an hour winds.

Our camp tonight experienced some of the broken tree limbs, but none of the campers had been prompted to cut the weekend short and go home. In fact, when we drove in we couldn't find a single place to park at first. We stopped and asked a fellow camper if he knew where an empty space might be found, and he directed us to one he knew about. I suspect, since the camp host told us that the tenant who had reserved space 36 had failed to show for the weekend, that we only got our space tonight because the storm scared the future tenant away. Lucky us!

So here we are. The air conditioner is running non-stop since it's too darn hot outside to hang out comfortably. And even if it wasn't ninety degrees outside and 65% humidity, the bugs would drive you indoors after only a few minutes if you ventured out. But that's okay. We've had a nice dinner, the blog is well underway, and things turned out better today than we had hoped. Tomorrow we're continuing on Route 14 until it crosses the border into South Dakota. There we hope to make a few fascinating discoveries to tell you about. And while you're waiting to hear about them, we wish you Happy Travels!

Day 70 -- Lena, Illinois to La Crosse, Wisconsin -- 167 Miles

Today marks our 70th day on the road. Concetta is getting a bit antsy to be home, but I'm just loving it. We spent the entire day cruising up the east bank of the Mississippi from northeastern Illinois, to La Crosse, Wisconsin. Along the way we spent some time in the one-time hometown of General Ulysses S. Grant, visited a combination Bakery and Cheese emporium in Lancaster, Wisconsin, shot photos of this, that, and the other thing, and even managed to throw in some train-spotting.

Yesterday when we arrived in Lena, Illinois we discovered that just a short 35 miles further west from our camp was the town of Galena, the boyhood home of General Ulysses S. Grant. Since Galena was right on Illinois Route 20, our chosen route for today, we naturally had to stop in and say hello.

Many of you probably have heard the stories about General Grant, perhaps about his humble beginnings, or maybe about how he was always drunk on the job. What we've found after delving into his life just a bit on this trip, is that he was a great paradox of a man. He was never a success at anything that had to do with money, but there are few men who have been as successful as Grant on the battlefield. His rivals often invented unflattering stories about him, which often led the public and even Congress to demand his removal.

But Abraham Lincoln liked him because he got results. While timid generals like George McClellan amassed great armies, but never seemed to be ready to fight, General Grant made do with whatever forces he had. Then, even if he lost a battle, he didn't lose his nerve. The very next day he'd launch another attack and turn the tables. He'd end up losing a mind-numbing number of soldiers on the battlefield, but he always achieved his objective.

Here's the Wiki rundown on the great man and our 18th President: "Ulysses S. Grant (born Hiram Ulysses Grant, April 27, 1822, graduated in 1843 from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, served in the Mexican–American War and initially retired in 1854. He struggled financially in civilian life. When the Civil War began in 1861, he rejoined the U.S. Army."

"When Grant was 17, Congressman Thomas L. Hamer nominated him to the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. Hamer mistakenly wrote down the name as "Ulysses S. Grant of Ohio", and this became his adopted name. His nickname became "Sam" among army colleagues at the academy since the initials "U.S." also stood for "Uncle Sam"."

"Grant developed a reputation as a fearless and expert horseman known as a horse whisperer, setting an equestrian high-jump record that stood for almost 25 years. He also studied under Romantic artist Robert Walter Weir and produced nine surviving artworks. He graduated in 1843, ranking 21st in a class of 39. Glad to leave the academy, his plan was to resign his commission after his four-year term of duty. Despite his excellent horsemanship, he was not assigned to the cavalry (assignments were determined by class rank, not aptitude), but to the 4th Infantry Regiment. He was made regimental quartermaster, managing supplies and equipment, with the rank of brevet second lieutenant."

"Grant's first assignment after graduation took him to the Jefferson Barracks near St. Louis, Missouri. It was the nation's largest military base in the west, commanded by Colonel Stephen W. Kearny. Grant was happy with his new commander, but looked forward to the end of his military service and a possible teaching career. He spent some of his time in Missouri visiting the family of his West Point classmate, Frederick Tracy Dent; he became engaged to Dent's sister, Julia, in 1844."

"Amid rising tensions with Mexico, Grant's unit shifted to Louisiana as part of the Army of Observation under Major General Zachary Taylor. When the Mexican–American War broke out in 1846, the Army entered Mexico. Although a quartermaster, Grant led a cavalry charge at the Battle of Resaca de la Palma. At Monterrey he demonstrated his equestrian ability, by volunteering to carry a dispatch through sniper-lined streets while hanging off the side of his horse, keeping the animal between him and the enemy."

"During this war Grant studied the tactics and strategies of General Winfield Scott and others, often second guessing their moves beforehand. In his memoirs, Grant wrote that was how he learned about military leadership, and, in retrospect, identified his leadership style with Taylor's. Even so, he believed that the Mexican war was wrong and that the territorial gains from the war were designed to expand slavery. Grant reflected in 1883, 'I was bitterly opposed to the measure, and to this day, regard the war which resulted as one of the most unjust wars ever waged by a stronger against a weaker nation.' He opined that the Civil War was punishment inflicted on the nation for its aggression in Mexico."

"Grant's mandatory service expired during the war, but he chose to remain a soldier. Four years after becoming engaged, he married Julia on August 22, 1848. They had four children: Frederick, Ulysses Jr. ("Buck"), Ellen ("Nellie"), and Jesse. Grant's first post-war assignments took him and Julia to Detroit and then to Sackets Harbor, New York. In 1852, Grant's next assignment sent him west to Fort Vancouver in the Oregon Territory. Julia, who was eight months pregnant with Ulysses Jr., did not accompany him. While traveling overland through Panama, an outbreak of cholera among his fellow travelers caused 150 fatalities; Grant arranged makeshift transportation and hospital facilities to care for the sick. He debarked in San Francisco during the height of the California Gold Rush."

"Promoted to captain in the summer of 1853, Grant was assigned to command Company F, 4th Infantry, at Fort Humboldt in California. The commanding officer at Fort Humboldt, Lieutenant Colonel Robert C. Buchanan, received reports that Grant became intoxicated off-duty while seated at the pay officer's table. In lieu of a court-martial, Buchanan gave Grant an ultimatum to resign; he did so, effective July 31, 1854, without explanation and returned to St. Louis. The War Department stated on his record, 'Nothing stands against his good name.' After Grant's retirement, rumors persisted in the regular army of his drinking. Years later, he said, 'the vice of intemperance (drunkenness) had not a little to do with my decision to resign.'"

"On April 12, 1861, the American Civil War began as Confederate troops attacked Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina. Two days later, President Lincoln called for 75,000 volunteers and a mass meeting was held in Galena to encourage recruitment. Recognized as a military professional, Grant was asked to lead the ensuing effort. Before the attack on Fort Sumter, Grant had not reacted strongly to Southern secession."

"The news of the attack came as a shock in Galena, and Grant shared his neighbors' mounting concern about the onset of war. After hearing a speech by his father's attorney, John Aaron Rawlins, Grant found renewed energy in the Union cause. Rawlins later became Grant's aide-de-camp and close friend during the war."

"In 1862, Grant took control of Kentucky and most of Tennessee, and led Union forces to victory in the Battle of Shiloh, earning a reputation as an aggressive commander. He incorporated displaced African American slaves into the Union war effort."

"In July 1863, after a series of coordinated battles, Grant defeated Confederate armies and seized Vicksburg, giving the Union control of the Mississippi River and dividing the Confederacy in two."

"After his victories in the Chattanooga Campaign, Lincoln promoted him to lieutenant-general and Commanding General of the United States Army in March 1864. Grant confronted Robert E. Lee in a series of bloody battles, trapping Lee's army in their defense of Richmond."

"Grant coordinated a series of devastating campaigns in other theaters. In April 1865, Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, effectively ending the war. Historians have hailed Grant's military genius, and his strategies are featured in military history textbooks, but a minority contend that he won by brute force rather than superior strategy."

As we learned on our recent book on tape, the largest single victory that worked mightily toward defeating the southern confederacy was Grant's capture of Vicksburg. Though it was a largely a concerted effort between Grant's army and Andrew H. Foote's gunboats on the Mississippi, it was Grant's show. Once the Confederacy was split north to south, supplies could not reach the deep south from the west. After that, starving the south into submission was all but certain.

In 1869 Grant was elected 18th President of the United States and served for two terms. Grant led the Republicans in their effort to remove the vestiges of Confederate nationalism and slavery, protect African-American citizenship, and support economic prosperity nationwide. His presidency has often come under criticism for protecting corrupt associates and in his second term leading the nation into a severe economic depression.

The house that Concetta and I toured was not U. S. Grant's boyhood home, but was the home that the city of Galena, Illinois gave to the Grants as a token of their appreciation for Grant's invaluable service during the Civil War. Grant's boyhood home, was not available to visit, though it was in the same town.

After our visit to Grant's home, we rolled out of Galena and north on Illinois Route 84 as it plunged into Wisconsin. Our initial goal for the day was to find a place to buy some Wisconsin cheese, since we only planned on being in Wisconsin for one day. By nightfall we hoped to be in Minnesota. We didn't make it to Minnesota, but we certainly did find a terrific place to buy some cheese. As an added bonus, the store was also a bakery, so we stocked up on a few goodies to make our lunches more interesting.

We also spent a lot of time today jumping in and out of the truck. There was just so many interesting things to photograph. I finally found a place I could stop and shoot a big red barn with the traditional "quilt pattern" emblazoned over the door. I've been hoping for weeks to capture one, but every time I see a great pattern and the light's just right, there's no room on the shoulder to pull over.

Wondering how barn quilts got started, I went to Barnquiltinfo.com for the information:

"The concept of barn quilts began with Donna Sue Grove's and her wish to honor her mother, Maxine, and her Appalachian heritage by having a painted quilt hung on her barn in Adams County, Ohio."

"As is often the case, good ideas fall by the wayside when work and other obligations intervene. Donna Sue mentioned the project from time to time for several years until she was encouraged by her friends to go ahead and paint that quilt square."

"Her work with the Ohio Arts Council and other community organizations inspired Donna Sue to alter her plan. Rather than creating a personal tribute, she suggested that a "sampler" of twenty quilt squares could be created along a driving trail that would invite visitors to travel through the countryside. A committee of volunteers worked together to both plan the trail and to formulate guidelines as to how the project would be managed. Several barn owners signed on, and the work began."

"So it happened that the first quilt square on the American Quilt Trail does not hang at the Groves farm. The Ohio Star was painted by local artists and installed on a building at a greenhouse nearby, a location that allowed for a public celebration of the inauguration of the quilt trail. A Snail's Trail quilt square was later painted by an artist and mounted on the barn where Donna Sue and Maxine Groves resided."

"That first quilt trail was hardly begun when a group of quilters from neighboring Brown County, Ohio started their own project. For several years, Donna Sue worked with organizations in Ohio and Tennessee to foster the growth of new trails. She also served as advisor for dozens of individuals who were either creating a painted quilt for their own property or planning a quilt trail in their community."

"Donna Sue traveled to Iowa to introduce the concept; each year more and more trails were created in that state. Kentucky was the next to join and now the Bluegrass State is home to about 800 painted quilts."

"This simple idea has spread to 48 states and to Canada, and the trail continues to grow. Over 7000 quilts are part of organized trails; dozens more are scattered through the countryside waiting to be discovered."

"I also got to shoot one of the rare Pure Oil filling stations. I learned on the web that: "By the early 1920s, oil companies, distributors, and private entrepreneurs were building new stations on spacious and prominent sites in established residential neighborhoods and in growing communities. As business increased, so did local complaints about the intrusion of gas stations into residential areas."

"In response, the industry adopted conventional forms to make their stations look less like shacks and more like houses. Often with larger customer areas, and increasingly providing public bathrooms and service bays for car maintenance and repair, these stations were more substantial structures than earlier ones. Some were unassuming with simple clapboard siding, wood sash windows, and a pitched (often hipped) roof. The only clues that such structures were gas stations were the pumps, a sign, and the increasingly popular canopy linking the pump island and the building."

"Designs based on popular domestic forms helped stations blend in with residential neighborhoods while imparting a sense of stability and permanence. Other stations reflected the period revival trend popular in residential architecture at the time. Colonial Revival gas stations sheathed in brick with white columns, pilasters, double-hung windows, and cupolas were common. Tudor and English Cottage designs featuring casement windows, arched door openings, and steeply-pitched roofs were also popular. Mission Revival stations with hipped roofs and stucco walls were developed by some companies, while others adapted Asian pagoda and temple forms."

"The move toward the house-type station was also a sign of growing competition within the oil industry as businesses worked to garner customer trust and loyalty. Companies developed distinctive brands and signature building forms. Pure Oil, for example was well-known for its English Cottage stations (first one was in Indianapolis in 1927), while Standard Oil favored Colonial Revival designs. The effort to develop iconic signage and stations foreshadowed all-encompassing branding campaigns that dominated gas station design later in the century."

So, aside from classic gas station hunting, we added in a bit of train spotting, shooting some killer architecture (photo right), and finding some great places to pull off and shoot the mighty Mississippi. We had a truly rewarding day. We only used Jezebel for the last few miles of our journey when we wanted her to steer us in the right direction to find our camp. Somehow, some way, she managed to get us here without dumping us in the River.

And when YOU venture out on the "super slab," one of these days soon, we wish you Happy Travels!"

Day 69 -- Joliet to Lena, Illinois -- 150 Miles

Today certainly moved forward at snail's pace, but it turned out to be loads of fun. Our plan was to follow as much of the century-old Lincoln Highway across Illinois as we could conveniently find. But since the old route follows a variety of modern numbered highways, we sometimes got lost when the Lincoln markers were absent or obscured by traffic. We followed modern highway 30 for half the morning, then we followed highway 38 for a time. All the while we had to keep an eye out for the traditional red, white, and blue signs that marked the original route of the Lincoln.

this meant that at one point we lost, not only the Lincoln Highway route, but also a sense of exactly what direction we were traveling. This was made easy by the fact that Illinois is basically flat and filled with look-alike cornfields. In addition, the sky was overcast and stormy-looking all morning, which made it impossible to navigate by the sun.

Finally, when we had become completely lost, and our two compasses didn't even agree with each other, we had to plug in Jezebel and trust her to get us out of our predicament. This she did, though I know she's just biding her time, saving up her retribution for a later date when our guard is down.

By mid morning we had reached the town of Geneva, Illinois, and we decided to pull over and park the truck on a conveniently empty main street. Both of us had had enough of riding for awhile, and we decided to do some walking. Leaving the truck parked at the curb in a "3 hour" parking zone, we set off in an eastward direction with the intention of walking the entire length of main street on one side, then returning on the other side.

The first thing we noticed were a couple of 1920s vintage gas stations that had been converted into a bank and an insurance office respectively. Though I would naturally always prefer that the stations were restored to their former glory, just having them survive at all is the next best thing.

After taking a couple of photos of the stations, we continued walking Geneva's main street. Our next discovery was nothing less than mind-blowing! Some of you may know that Concetta's first job as a teenager, newly graduated from high school, was at the B. F. Goodrich Company in Akron, Ohio. Incredibly, the next thing we discovered on our exploratory walk was an old B. F. Goodrich dealer. For a moment we stood looking in the window of the ancient store, just appreciating the vintage Goodrich collectibles on display there. Then, noting that the posted hours for the store seemed to indicate that it was open, we turned the knob and stepped inside.

We didn't see anyone at first and just wandered the sales floor looking at all the Goodrich signs, photos, and other memorabilia. Finally a middle-aged woman appeared from the back and asked if we needed any help. Naturally, Concetta launched into an explanation of why we had come, and how long ago she had worked at the Goodrich company. It wasn't long until we all were immersed in the complete history of the building, even to the extent of the woman dragging out the historic buildings survey from the back room.

While this was going on, I was wandering the shop photographing some of the collectibles. Most of the advertising signs were 1960s and 1970s, I decided, but there were a number of photos and artifacts that were much older. My favorite of all the things I saw was a stack of 1940s whitewall tires that still had most of the cellophane wrapper on them. I asked the owner -- her name was Taffy -- if she would pose with the tires, which she happily did. I suspect that the tires would never find their way onto a vintage automobile, but some collector would just love to hang them on the wall of his garage. Shoot, I would love to hang them on the wall of MY garage!

Other than one shelf unit that held a collection of engine oils and other automotive products, we couldn't really see how the shop made any money. But Taffy told us that her husband's elderly father still owned the building, which had been built shortly after the turn of the century. That, I suppose, is why the building doesn't actually need to earn a living for the family. It's probably been free and clear since Eisenhower was President. Someday I'm sure the building will be refurbished to match all the other restored buildings on Geneva's main street where the townspeople have turned the downtown into a showplace. Until then it will remain like a time capsule of another century.

It was after leaving Geneva that we got completely lost trying to follow the Lincoln Highway route signs through the twists and turns of several urban areas. But once that was sorted out, we spent the rest of the morning cruising Illinois Route 38 toward our noontime goal of Franklin Grove, Illinois, the national headquarters town of the modern-day Lincoln Highway Association. Although the original LHA went out of business around 1928, a brand new organization sprang to life in 1993. This new national organization, as well as a dozen state chapters, have been largely responsible for signing the old route through dozens of modern cities and miles of countryside.

We had a nice surprise today for our lunch stop when we discovered the Northern Illinois University campus at Kishwaukee. We had been looking for a nice, level parking lot to put the rig for lunch, and the Kishwaukee campus looked ideal. It was only after we began our turn onto the street next to the parking lot that we noticed a sign declaring that a Lincoln Highway memorial and information kiosk could be found there. So in addition to an enjoyable lunch, we were also afforded the opportunity to learn more about the Lincoln's route through Illinois.

After lunch, we once again set off in search of the LHA headquarters in Franklin Grove. We had intended to be there by lunchtime, but we missed it by over twenty miles. We didn't roll into Franklin Grove until around 2:00 p.m., rather late in the day since we still had to find a camp for the evening.

Both of us anticipated spending at least thirty minutes perusing whatever highway displays they had on hand, but once we got inside we found no displays and precious little information that pertained to the highway. A little disappointed, I did find several "Big Band" record albums for sale, which I scooped right up. We could have purchased any number of books, posters, or t-shirts, but we elected to move on. The folks were nice in Franklin Grove, but the LHA headquarters was a bust.

Once on the road again, we decided to trust Jezebel to take us to our northwestern Illinois KOA camp for the night. She only needed to navigate about 25 miles, and thankfully she did just fine. She delivered us right to the front door with neither fuss nor muss. And what a camp it turned out to be. After taking a hike around the grounds we decided the Lena KOA was one of the nicest we've seen. It does have the usual semi-permanent residents, the existence of which tends to irritate me, but the camp is so wonderfully located on a heavily treed hilltop, bordered by miles of cornfields, that you just have to love it.

So, as the sun sinks into the darkened cornfields to the west, and we finish our cocktails on the lanai, we wish you Happy Travels of you own!

Day 68 -- Granger, Indiana to Joliet, Illinois -- 140 Mile

Today turned out to be a great day to be on the road. The weather was warm (very) and sunny, and our GPS kept us entertained for the entire day by feeding us spurious, erroneous, or downright fictitious directions.

Our route this morning started out on Indiana Route 23 that we easily found right outside the confines of our camp. Trouble was, we didn't realize we'd found it because it was called something else on the street signs. The GPS said that we needed to turn on Route 23 when we had traveled just three miles, so when she told us to turn in 2/10 of a mile, we did so. Then she immediately told us we had goofed.

Once more on the main road, which, unknown to us, was actually Route 23, she told us turn left on Route 23 in two more miles. This time we did it right, and only then realized that we had been ON Route 23 all along. By turning we were just following the route as it turned a corner.

Our destination for the morning was the Studebaker Museum in South Bend, Indiana. Fortunately, the GPS took us right to the front door, even though it involved several changes of direction. She does that sometimes when she wants us to lower our guard and trust her next time. We were a little leery, as always, when we weren't sure there would be sufficient parking for our rig, especially in downtown situations. We need not have worried. There was more than ample parking south of the main museum building, and additional parking across the street. We were able to park across several normal spaces in the lot across the street and that particular lot was not filled all morning.

The only bit of unpleasantness that we experienced at the Studebaker Museum was with the ticket seller at the front entrance. She appeared to be on a one-woman campaign to mislead us. Our intention was to visit the Studebaker cars part of the museum, but she went way out of her way to not discuss that. Instead she made every effort to sell us tickets for the history museum and a Victorian house tour that we were neither interested in, nor had we sufficient time to pursue.

In the end we paid more than we should have for our two-hour stay by $7.00, which we really didn't catch onto until later. But we would hasten to add that the Studebaker car museum was so fabulous, that had the ticket taker not mislead us, we probably would have donated at least $7.00 in one of their donation boxes as we walked around. Should you ever visit South Bend, and want to visit the Studebaker Museum part of their museum collection, I suggest that you strenuously let them know that's all you want.

We were told that the Studebaker museum is one of only three accredited automobile museums in the country. Coming from Nevada and having access to the fabulous National Automobile Museum in Reno, we know a great museum when we see one. The Studebaker Museum was three floors of some of the finest displays of automobiles we've ever seen. Many of the automobiles displayed are arranged in realistic streetscape displays complete with appropriately-dressed manikins, much as you might see in Reno. Though the cars are little more tightly packed than Reno, the effect is still wonderful.

The first thing I did as we wandered the automobile display areas was make friends with Aaron, the chap who was charged with keeping the displays shipshape. Aaron was wonderfully understanding of all our questions of him, and we were soon discussing the pros and cons of owning antique vehicles. He told me about his good friend who was trying to restore a Model A Ford, and I told him about our collector cars. Later, as our walking tour ranged through the three floors of displays, we ran into Aaron a couple more times and before long we were like best buddies.

The story of Studebaker is very, very interesting as it all started with a wheelbarrow. Although the Studebaker family had been involved in blacksmithing and wagon building, even in their homeland of Germany, their fortunes in America had not improved measurably by the time of the California gold rush. At that time, John Studebaker announced that he was going west to seek his fortune as a gold miner.

As John stepped off the stage in Placerville, California, the descending passengers were interviewed by the owner of a blacksmith business in Placerville. The blacksmith was looking for someone to build wheelbarrows, he said, that could be sold to the thousands of gold seekers. John heard the man's proposition, but was anxious to reach the gold fields himself. John quickly turned the man down. But by the next day, John had second thoughts. He agreed to take the job. It would turn out to be a wise decision.

By the fall of 1857 John’s savings from building wheelbarrows had increased to $7,000. It was about then that John received a letter from his 26-year-old brother Clem, who was making wagons with his brother Henry in South Bend, Indiana. Clem wrote Johnny saying their company could only turn out a dozen wagons a year because the brothers had to do all the work themselves. Neither could they buy supplies in large lots because of a lack of money. Clem told John that while they were doing alright, but they could do so much more if they had the capital.

Instead of only building a dozen wagons a year, Clem envisioned building 100 or even 200 wagons each year. A sound thinker, John knew that South Bend was the perfect town in which to build wagons. The young wheel-barrow maker made a decision. He would work right there in Placerville until the next spring, saving all the money he could. Then he would be able to travel to South Bend with $8,000 in his pocket. This he would put into H. & C. Studebaker.

During a stopover in New York on his way back to South Bend, young John Studebaker saw carriages in Central Park. He made a mental note that while the West would need heavy-duty wagons, light buggies might also be needed in Council Bluffs, Sioux City, Denver, or Sacramento. The company would go on to produce wagons of all descriptions, as well as sleighs for winter travel. By the time of the American Civil War, Studebaker was a well-known name for reliability. The company motto was "Always give them more than you promise."

A major leap forward came from supplying wagons for the Union Army in the Civil War (1861–65). By 1868, annual sales had reached $350,000. That year, the three older brothers formed the Studebaker Brothers Manufacturing Company—Clem (president), Peter (secretary), and John (treasurer). By this time, the factory had a spur line to the Lake Shore railroad and, with the Union Pacific Railroad finished, most wagons were now dispatched by rail and steamship.

The automobile age was at first resisted by Studebaker. As inventors like Henry Ford tinkered away on their versions of the horseless carriage, Studebaker stuck to their wagon making. But soon that began to change, though at first John Studebaker viewed the automobile as complementary to the horse-drawn wagon, pointing out that the expense of maintaining a car might be beyond the resources of a small farmer.

In 1918, when the history of the firm was published, the annual capacity of the seven Studebaker plants was 100,000 automobiles, 75,000 horse-drawn vehicles, and about $10,000,000 worth of automobile and vehicle spare parts and harness. In the preceding seven years, 466,962 horse-drawn vehicles had been sold, as against 277,035 automobiles, but the trend was all too clear.

The regular manufacture of horse-drawn vehicles ended when the removal of the last wagon gear was ordered in 1919. To its range of cars, Studebaker would now add a truck line to replace the horse-drawn wagons. Buses, fire engines, and even small rail locomotive-kits were produced using the same powerful six-cylinder engines.

After eating lunch in the Studebaker Museum parking lot, punctuated by a coincidental visit by my buddy Aaron whom we had met in the museum (below left), we headed south on Indiana Route 31 until we reached Interstate Route 30 west. Route 30, some of which aligns with the old Lincoln Highway, was to be our home for the rest of the day as we coursed west toward the Illinois town of Joliet. The road is a bit stop light-ridden, but we had hopes of seeing some vintage architecture along the way. By late afternoon we stumbled over a camp just outside Joliet, and settled in for the evening.

We only stopped once to stretch our legs about 2:00 p.m. when I saw a giant empty church parking lot. Parking the rig next to the church, we headed for the only shade on the grounds -- the cemetery. Though it sounds a bit odd, I like to wander through old cemeteries and occasionally photograph one or two of the oldest headstones. Later I try and look them up on Ancestry.com. This time we discovered that all the stones looked like they were new. But as we wandered looking for older dates, a man on a faded red mower caught sight of us and came charging over to see what we were up to.

When he'd pulled up in front of us and turned off his mower, he said, "Are you looking for anyone in particular?"

We told him no, that we were just strolling and looking for the oldest of the stones.

He pointed up the hill to the east of us. "The oldest ones are over there," he said. "There used to be a couple of older churches just over the hill from there. The buildings are gone now, but the stones date way back."

Our intention was to thank him for his information and move on, but before we knew it, we three had launched into a half-hour discussion of everything from genetics, to the various small towns in Sicily. Turned out that Alan was half Sicilian and half Lithuanian, had recently traveled to that famous island off the coast of southern Italy, and was anxious to tell us all about his travels.

Alan told us he was working three days a week helping to keep the cemetery looking tidy after having his own landscape business for forty years. We told him about our travels, and he told us about his. He told us he'd like to retire in Florida, but it wasn't going to happen soon. We told him we didn't like the humidity and preferred the west. Then he told us about how he had a relative in San Diego and had also visited Tahoe recently. We talked and talked and talked, and the three of us just enjoyed our time under the shady cemetery trees, surrounded by people who had nothing but time on their hands.

Finally we told Alan we had to get our steps in and get back on the highway. I gave him our card, we shook hands, and once more found that our day had been made by a chance encounter in a parking lot.

It's an amazing feeling to get to know someone so rapidly, and yet you feel like you've know that person for years. The same thing happened with Aaron in the Studebaker parking lot at noon. When I gave him my card, shook his hand, and thanked him for making my day, he shook his head. "NO," he said with a huge smile. "You've made MY day."

Twice today we got to experience the humanity of a stranger. There is no greater gift anyone can get. When you go out on the road, we hope you experience the same thrill. And when you do, we wish you Happy Travels!

Day 67 -- Van Buren, Ohio to Granger, Indiana -- 200 Miles

From one of my favorite driving songs by Arlo Guthrie:

Sail with me into the unknown void that has no end

Swept along the open road that don't seem to begin

Come with me and love me, babe I may be back again

Meantime I'll keep sailing down my highway in the wind

Today our main goal, as far as we ever have a main goal, was to drive as much of the Lincoln Highway as possible as it meandered west across the western half of the state of Ohio and eastern part of Indiana. This turned out to be pretty difficult. While you could drive the old alignment once in awhile, all too often Interstate 30 would chop the vintage pavement in two as it sailed on its way, oblivious to the fact that it just severed a piece of history. To make matters worse, the state of Ohio, as well as the state of Indiana, don't much care if you are able to assemble the broken pieces into a continuous journey, or not.

As some of you probably know by now, since I occasionally ramble on about it, the Lincoln Highway was the country's first attempt at stringing together the disparate chunks of muddy farm roads, and widely-spaced downtown streets of dozens of different villages from one end of the country to the other. Starting amidst the hustle and bustle of Times Square in New York, and finishing in the tranquil seaside serenity of Lincoln Park in San Francisco, the Father of ALL interstate highways attempted to bisect the country, ocean to ocean, starting in 1913. At least, that's what the promoters were telling people.

In reality, though things started coming together in 1913, it would be years before the Lincoln, named for our 16th President, would become a physical reality from coast to coast. Still, by 1915 the Lincoln Highway Association had a guidebook to help folks find their way across the maze of wandering farm roads. And you could get a copy of an Official Automobile Blue Book that showed each and every road from your city of residence to your destination, assuming you acquired the correct set of volumes. The Blue Book showed you every road to travel, every turn to make, every rail crossing or landmark of which you needed to be aware, and posted the mileage for each leg of that day's travel.

Since we always avoid the so called, Blue Highways, we tried mightily to stay on the Lincoln, but it really took some doing. Occasionally it would wander diagonally across Interstate 30 and announce its presence, but most times we had to try and guess just which side of Route 30 the old Lincoln was coursing at any given mile post.

As we were cruising this morning, I suddenly remembered that the National Studebaker Museum was in Studebaker's home town of South Bend, Indiana. Thanks to Concetta's magic IPhone, we learned immediately that South Bend was only about 35 miles northwest of our then location. Naturally, this called for a change of plans. We had been headed to the vicinity of Chicago, but a flip of the turn indicator and we were off and running away from the Lincoln Highway and toward South Bend, a town near the vicinity of the Indiana/Michigan border.

Our camp tonight is in a KOA in the town of Granger, about 15 miles from South Bend. Tomorrow we plan to visit the Studebaker Museum (and hope they have parking), and then we'll continue toward Chicago and the northwest. Our camp hosts tonight are a Swiss couple who speak four languages apiece, Swiss, German, French, and English. I've done quite a bit of talking to the husband about the quality of camps in general, and KOA camps in specific. He's a very down-to-earth individual and I instantly liked him. Finally, I had someone to complain to about the way camps nowadays fill up the majority of their spaces with permanent (or seasonally permanent) residents sporting all kinds of "junk" in their spaces, from picket fences to incredible things like spare rooms built onto their rigs.

Filling up your park with permanent or semi-permanent residents means that sometimes you have no room for folks traveling through. And much of the time, depending on what month you're traveling, there might not be any actual campers present in these long-term setups. In our camp last night, I would venture to say that of the 350 sites available, only about a dozen or so were ready to accept short-term, or overnight guests. The rest were unavailable even though few of the campers were actually present.

But enough of my complaints. I just got back from the camp ice cream parlor where I scored two scoops of gelato, one vanilla, one chocolate, with chocolate sauce and a cherry on top. Thankfully, I always save a small amount of coffee from the ten cups we make at breakfast, so I had myself a veritable feast. Sorry I didn't photograph it so you could see how yummy it was.

So there you have it. Tomorrow we continue our journey west, though after Chicago it will be a lot more north mixed with west. We're looking forward to getting a little further north in hopes of finding somewhat cooler temperatures, as we expect that summer will be landing on us in force pretty soon. We even had to run the air conditioner this afternoon when the sun was still shining on the side of the rig. We hope that you, too, get to head for the high lonesome this summer. Be careful out there, and we wish you Happy Travels!

Day 66 -- Mogadore to Van Buren, Ohio -- 138 Miles

Well, our sojourn to Ohio to visit family and friends, even some of Concetta's high school classmates, has come to an end and, as Willie so eloquently put it, we're on the road again. We did get off to somewhat of a late start this morning since it was hard tearing ourselves away, but by 10:00 A.M. we were backing out of the Moose Lodge parking area where we'd had the rig "plugged in" for the last four days, and had begun our trek westward on Ohio Route 224. As always, we were avoiding the "blue roads," the ones William Least Heat Moon wrote about in his book, "Blue Highways," and we're sticking to the rural farm roads as much as possible.

When you travel the blue highways, you get to see everything like you're looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything is just far away and tiny. But when you travel the farm roads, you see America up close and personal. Sometimes this can be sad, like when you get to see a 1940s-era passenger car, universally known as a "heavy-weight," sadly moldering the years away in a farmer's barnyard, or some fabulously beautiful Victorian home that the owners have simply abandoned to the elements.

But sometimes you see a beautiful, beautiful farm where all the fences are white as snow, the barns are brilliant red with dazzling silver roofs, and fledgling corn plants march away to the horizon in all directions. Not sure those little plants will be elephant-eye high by the Fourth of July, but we'd like to think so.

Most of the time you can set your own pace on the farm roads. I like to watch the mirrors and when I get more than five or six cars behind us, I'll find a wide spot on the shoulder and pull over to let them pass. That way we can travel a few miles per hour under the speed limit, and thoroughly enjoy all the scenery without anyone being too annoyed with us.

Of course, you don't always escape the 18-wheelers on the farm roads. There are still a few "black sheep" drivers out there trying to avoid the mandatory weighing stations on what one long-haul driver told me they call the "super slab." An 18-wheeler is supposed to weigh no more than about 78,000 pounds. If they weigh more, the truck can be held up and the company fined. But unscrupulous drivers will sometimes load far more than the allowable cargo so they can make fewer runs for more money. Then they travel the back roads whenever they need to avoid being weighed. The overly heavy trucks do much to destroy our highways.

So it was today as we cruised from Mogadore, Ohio, near Akron on Route 224. We passed a dozen different tiny towns, crossed a half dozen rail lines, and just enjoyed the sunshine. Yes, I said sunshine. Ever since we reached Ohio the sun has been shining non-stop. I was a little disappointed as nothing much presented itself in the way of photographic subjects. I could have stopped and shot a few of the aforementioned Victorian houses, but that was about it. We did photograph another piece of roadside Americana when we found a barn, this time freshly painted, with a Mail Pouch tobacco advertisement emblazoned on the front.

Since I didn't bring you up to speed on barn advertising earlier, here's what Wiki has to say about them: "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. Unfortunately, an increasing number of the barns have fallen into dilapidation or have been demolished. They are 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 view-ability 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, 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 there you have it. I hope to have more material tomorrow as we wend our way west, weather permitting. There's an awful lot of great roadside attractions between Ohio and Nevada. And when YOU hit the highway, we wish you Happy Traveling!