Day 6, September 6, 2010

Parking Place for the Pickup for the Last Leg of Day 5

Beardstown
Beardstown, Illinois, is the only town on my route that led me into Cass County, just east of the Illinois River, and then I headed right back into Schuyler County to continue northeast on Illinois Route 100 along the Illinois River. Though there have been many changes to the make-up of Beardstown’s population since the 2000 census (5766), the town does not seem likely to have grown much in population overall.

When I discussed Beardstown with my 95-year-old mom on a visit to Northwestern Illinois just last week, she immediately mentioned the Beardstown Ladies, a group of Beardstown women who educated themselves to be Wall Street investors. Those ladies were very well-known in the 80s and 90s, and books about them and their investment club were best-sellers.

Mother said that, years later, it turned out that the ladies were using an unsound accounting practice that showed their profits to be higher than they really were. Apparently they were incorrectly putting their brokerage fees into the wrong column, which meant that their profits were only about 9%, which at the time underperformed the Dow. Doesn’t sound too bad right now, though.

When I had been at lunch two days ago with many of the Mount Sterling American Legion and VFW members on Saturday, they had asked me whether there was anything I wanted to know about this area. I said, “Tell me about the Beardstown Ladies.” To that, one gentleman replied that, when he was a teen, the Beardstown girls wore earrings, but the Mount Sterling girls didn’t. He said you could easily tell them apart in that way. No one at the table seemed familiar with the investment club, which has now clearly fallen from grace.

Beardstown has a big Archer Daniels Midland grain terminal, right on the Illinois River, and Cargill has built a large meat-processing plant there too. The plant employs a large number of immigrants, including many Hispanics and a number of people from French Guiana, who, of course, speak French rather than Spanish. I greeted one such gentleman in French, and apparently he understood me because he responded in the same language.

I drove around Beardstown to get a better feeling for the place. There’s a good Mexican restaurant right near the town square (Chuey’s). The square has signs declaring that Abe Lincoln spent time there. In fact Herndon, Lincoln’s one-time law partner, spread a number of salacious rumors about Lincoln after Lincoln was assassinated, and one of them has to do with a house of ill repute that used to be in Beardstown. I won’t repeat the rumors here, but they would later be picked up and repeated as fact by a well-known author.

I spent about an hour driving around the streets. I did see many Hispanics, and even a Hispanic church. The Guianans were also much in evidence, and I saw one man and woman, with the woman dressed beautifully in an African gown, with matching headdress, strolling along a quiet street. It will be interesting to find out what the 2010 Census has to say about Beardstown current demographics.

Hispanic Storefront Church in Beardstown

The first European settler at the location was Thomas Beard, who arrived in 1829. He built a cabin on the Illinois River, and established a ferry and a trading post. Thomas’s son Edward, known as “Red,” went on to become a notorious gambler and gunfighter, but was killed out west (in Kansas) in 1873. Well, “They who live by the sword . . . ,” but you know how that ends.
The old Beardstown opera house is on the National Register of Historic Places.

After lots of deliberation, I decided not to ride my bike or walk across the Illinois River bridge at Beardstown. Call me a coward if you like. Call me a cheater. (Hey, I added Beardstown to my route less than 2 weeks ago. If you don’t like how I conduct this walk, please come out and walk with me.)

Frederick, Illinois
Before leaving Beardstown, I had a bacon and egg sandwich at the Hardees. They offer military veterans a 10% discount, which takes just a little more than the sales tax off the price of an item. Outside the restaurant they have a banner with the U.S. Flag on it, underscored by the words, “Long may it wave.” Below that it says, “Thank you for your service.”

Outside in the parking lot I had noticed a pickup truck with a Purple Heart recipient license plate. Inside I approached the person I thought most likely to be the pickup’s owner. When I asked whether he had received a Purple Heart, he said simply, “Yes, that would be me.”

I told him about my walk and handed him a copy of my brochure (150 brochures was not enough for this leg of the walk, by the way. Even being stingy with the brochures, I have only 9 left, and I have almost a week to walk before I get to go home for a weekend so I can print some more.). The veteran’s name was Herald Root, and he still limps from a World War II wound.

Herald asked me if I was limping because of a war wound too, but I told him I had injured the knee while training for the present walk. He introduced me to 2 more vets who were sitting nearby, and they in turn introduced me to another vet. I shook each man’s hand and said “thank you for your service.” Two of the other veterans were Jerry Paul, Vietnam War, and Art Gramann, World War II, South Pacific, Philippines, Japan.

I resumed my walk out at the intersection of 67, 103, and 100. I had a couple of false starts. A quarter of a mile up the road there is a large truck tire business, which was open, despite its being Labor Day. Porcelain is rare along the roadways, so I stopped and used their facilities. Once back on the road, I remembered that I hadn’t reached my mom by phone the night before because of a busy signal.

Unfortunately I had left my phone in the pickup on the charger, so I went back and retrieved it. I stood in front of the pickup and called Mother. After our conversation, I looked up to see a pickup making a U-turn on the highway. The driver was coming back to talk to me. He was Greg Rebman, who farms a lot of acres near Frederick. Though not a veteran, he is very supportive of veterans and our troops, and he told me about his dad’s service in World War II. He asked me my destination for the day, and when I said Frederick, he pointed across the enormous cornfield north of the highway to a white building off to the east southeast.

“That’s my white building over there,” he said. “That’s also Frederick. You’ll get a lot farther than that today.” Then he went back to his pickup, retrieved his smart phone, and called up the weather radar. He said the worst rains were up around the Quad Cities, and that the rainstorm that had been predicted for us had broken up completely over to the west. “You won’t get wet today,” he assured me, and that turned out to be right.

His prediction about my getting a lot farther than Frederick was right too.

Frederick is on the Illinois River in Schuyler County, about 6 miles northeast of Beardstown. It’s a tiny, unincorporated community, but it does have a U.S. Post Office with its own zip code (62639). With the U.S. Postal Service undergoing such financial woes, one conjectures about the future of such small town post offices.

Of course I have heard the same claim in a number of small Illinois communities, and the claims are probably accurate, but one Frederick resident, who grew up right there, said that at one time Frederick had been larger than Chicago. He also told me about the devastating flood along the Illinois River in 1943, which had nearly wiped out Frederick. He pointed out the very spot where the levy had broken. The rail line runs right on top of that levy, so the break shut down the railroad for a time too.

He said that, sadly, all the older residents who had really known Frederick history had died. I thanked him for his help, and headed back down the road to retrieve my pickup.

Again the prevailing westerlies prevailed, and I had a tough time riding, so I walked quite a bit and eventually furled the flag around its staff and secured it top and bottom with tiny bungee cords to cut down on the incredible wind resistance. I can’t find anything on flag etiquette that bears on my particular display of Old Glory, but I do roll it neatly and store it in a lawn chair cover in the back of the pickup when it’s not in use.

Greg Rebman had told me that, northeast of Frederick, the wind would be less of a problem because of the trees on both sides and the bluff on the west side of the road, and, again, he proved accurate in his prediction. Near the intersection where Greg and I talked there is a banner for a Schuyler County farm organization that states that Illinois Schuyler County farmers feed more than 65,000 people. That statement should help us to place agriculture in its proper perspective as a crucial part of our state’s economy.

A ways west of Frederick I saw an ARMY STRONG sign on a barn to the left of the road. I went up the driveway, and, to my right, near a nice flowerbed, was a wooden fallen soldier cutout that I found very meaningful. The U.S. Flag was also flying. I located the owner of the property, Mr. Goddard, up on a ladder taking old siding and insulation off his house. His nephew was there helping him.

I thanked him for flying the flag and told him how much the fallen soldier cutout meant to me. He said, “Come with me.” He took me over to a shed, showed me an identical cutout, and gave it to me. I didn’t have any way to take it along, though, so he told me to come back some time and get it. I hope I can do that. I’d really like to have it.

The Goddards have 3 sons, all of whom have had Army service, and 2 of whom are still serving. Mrs. Goddard, whom I also met, heads up a veterans’ organization in nearby Rushville. We discussed the sad state of our dear old Republic, and as I was leaving, Mr. Goddard asked whether he could pray with me. He said, “I’m a Southern Baptist, and a believer in our Lord Jesus Christ.” He prayed God’s blessing on my walk and on our country.
I am encouraged that we still have such men in this nation. As I left, he gave me a florescent orange baseball cap from the highway and heavy construction company he works for, G. M. Sipes Construction, Inc. I will wear it with pride.

Route 100 crosses Sugar Creek and Friddle Creek, both tributaries of the nearby Illinois River. The next little town on my route, and the last for today was Browning.

Browning Illinois
Browning, Illinois, is on the Illinois River in Schuyler County. It was first settled by Kentuckian William Robertson, who built a cabin on the site in 1826. Within a few years (1830), Peter Holmes built a landing and warehouse on the Illinois River as part of his wagon business. Browning was the first village incorporated in Schuyler County. The town was platted in 1848. It was named after Orville H. Browning, a Quincy lawyer, who was elected a member of the Illinois General Assembly six years earlier. He would go on to run against Stephen A. Douglas for the U.S. Senate (Douglas won, by the way). Locals claim the town is on Blackhawk War bounty land, but I haven’t been able to confirm that.

In the 1800s, Browning was a regular stop for commercial boats on the Illinois River, which flows lest than half a mile away. When the railroad came through, hundreds of immigrants worked on its construction. 

Archer Daniels Midland’s ARC Line Tug Crimson Glory, Pushing Empty Grain Barges upstream on the Illinois River near Browning, Illinois

Four or five miles north of Browning is the town of Baden. The largest steam engine built up to that time (“Old Maude”) pushed the trains up the very steep grade. The line also ran to Astoria, but it will take much more research about that now defunct rail line to know very much about it. Local resident Virgil Hamm, said that the train stopped in Browning every day to take on fresh-caught fish from the Illinois River from the very platform available in the following photograph.

The Old Browning Train Station

The old paver bricks are still visible to the right of the station building.

A bar called River’s Edge stands elevated above the waters of the Illinois River at Browning. The waitress says her grandpa Farrell “Screwy” Lane ran a casino and knew Al Capone well. Capone did hunt, fish, and gamble all along that stretch of the Illinois River, a fact I discovered during my Internet research of the area before I left home.

A man sitting at the bar eating lunch with his son raised his voice to say that it was ridiculous to think that Capone would leave Chicago at all, because there had been no roads back then, and if Capone had left town, another gangster would have taken over his turf. There is, nevertheless, good historical evidence that Capone spent time along the Illinois River from as far north as Havana and all the way to Quincy, where a house survives, along with trailer hookups his buddies used when they came to town.

Browning put me at about 26% of the way across Illinois.

Day 5, September 5—Ripley and beyond

Mount Sterling Reprise

After a record 12 hours of good, sound sleep, I went over to the Mount Sterling veteran’s memorial. Jim Duvendack and Bill Tweedt had told me it cost $80,000. I wanted to examine it more closely than I had been able to when we had walked past on our way to and from the restaurant the day before, and I wanted to pay my respects there. They listed the names of local veterans going back to the First World War, and they decided to inscribe the names of all of their veterans, living and dead. It gave me a kind of jolt to read the names of some of the veterans I had met just the day before, because I somehow associate names on a memorial with those who gave their lives in the service, or with those who have died, at any rate. But why not honor living veterans too? Mount Sterling has a very tasteful and meaningful veterans’ memorial.

I explored all of Mount Sterling, a town with lots of churches, but I just couldn’t settle on one to attend on Sunday morning. I drove out to the east side of town, found a wide grass shoulder on the right-hand side, parked my pickup, got my gear together, unloaded my bike, hoisted my flag, and started walking east on U.S. 24. I hadn’t been walking more than a few minutes, when a lady (Cathy) came out of her house, greeted me, and asked whether I’d like to attend Sunday school and a worship service at her church, right across the road. It was just a few minutes before 9:00, and Sunday school started at 9:00. I agreed to go with her. There was even a good place to park my bike, with the flag up.

The church I attended is right outside Mount Sterling on the north side of U.S. 24. It’s the Cornerstone Christian Church, actually founded by a group of people from nearby Cooperstown. In the Sunday school class I met Arkie Quinn and his lovely wife Ivagene, who loaned me her favorite Bible to use during the class (mine was in my pickup).

Arkie is an Army veteran, who served at Fort McClelland, Alabama, and then near Salzburg, Austria, during the war trials following World War II. He didn’t explain, but said he saw a carton of cigarettes bring $1000. He said that in his first year in the Army, he was promoted to sergeant. In addition,o his duties at the Salzburg war trials, he was assigned to duty in railway security there in Austria.

Cornerstone Church is between pastors, and they applied to Lincoln Christian University in Lincoln for some advice on how to go about finding a new pastor. One interesting piece of advice they received was to wait a month for every year their previous pastor had served there before beginning a serious search for a new pastor. The idea is to discourage comparisons between their former pastor and the candidates who would come to try out.

Today Dr. Clay Ham, provost and professor of New Testament and preaching at Lincoln Christian University and Seminary, delivered the sermon. He made a few introductory remarks, then recited the entire Sermon of the Mount by heart. His delivery was dramatic, but not overdone. It’s probably the most effective presentation of that passage of scripture I’ve ever heard. Of course we would expect a sermon that was originally given by Jesus to be a good one.

The congregation gave me a round of applause when someone announced my walk across Illinois and my presence in the service, and after the service many people wished me well on my trip. I met a family who are caring for the daughter of Shanna, who is in Indiana for train-up, preparatory to deploying to Afghanistan for a year. I told the folks that I would pray for Shanna along my route, and I again set out walking up the road.

Two miles out of town, Joe Follis, former U.S. Marine and purple heart recipient, whom I had met the day before, was standing out near the highway with his wife Marcella, waiting for me to walk by. I really appreciated that show of support, especially as I know that Joe cannot stand on his feet for long periods of time. They asked whether I needed anything, but all was well. While we stood there talking, Jim Duvendack, 19th Infantry Divisision veteran, drove up with his wife. Jim said he was glad to have another chance to shake my hand, and that he really appreciated my effort to honor our troops and veterans.

About 4 miles east of Mount Sterling is a rare relic from our past—a roadside picnic table along a 2-lane highway. When I was a kid, and we went on one of our rare family trips, my mom would pack the picnic basket with goodies. At about noon, we’d all start watching for a roadside table. Often they were located at a road junction, which we called a “Y.” In a small triangle of grass and trees, there were usually several tables, well-spaced out. Sometimes other families were there eating their lunch too. And there was usually a well with a hand pump. If we were lucky, there was a wooden outhouse too.

Near the concrete picnic table in a small copse of oak, ash, and shagbark hickory on the south side of U.S. 24, there is a very large sign with lots of historic information about the area. Off to one side is a small obelisk, the tombstone of the largest pig in North America, Tip Top Notcher, who was grand champion at the 1904 St. Louis world’s fair. The day before, when some of the veterans mentioned that pig as being buried in Brown County, they said that, ironically, the largest man known to have lived in North America was also buried in Brown County. I’ll plan to research that matter on another visit to West-Central Illinois.

The historic marker listed Ohio native Cornelius Vandevarter as the first permanent settler in the area, in 1824. Later, settlers would arrive from Kentucky, North Carolina, and Tennesee. In 1829 Alexander Curry and his family bought a claim at the site of present-day Mount Sterling. They platted the town in 1834. In 1839, Brown County was formed out of part of Schuyler County, and the same year Mount Sterling became the county seat.

Mount Sterling was on a major overland route to the California gold fields in 1849.

In 1834, James Washington came from Virginia and lived in Mount Sterling until he relocated to Quincy. This polymath was physician, lawyer, railroad executive, and finally brigadier general in the Illinois Militia during the Mormon War (1844). He was also delegate to 2 Illinois state constitution conventions, and served both in the Illinois Legislature and the U.S. Congress (not simultaneously, of course).

Stephen A. Douglas used to hold court in Mount Sterling (1841–1843) as judge of the circuit court, and Abe Lincoln spoke there on October 19, 1858, while campaigning for the U.S. Senate.

As I rode my bike back into Mount Sterling to retrieve my pickup truck, I stopped and thanked a local man for keeping the roadside so well mowed in front of his two houses. He told me his uncle had served 3 combat tours in Vietnam. He was going to enlist in the Army, but his uncle talked him out of the idea. Then I stopped at Joe’s house one more time to pay my respects at his personal veterans’ monument:

To all veterans, no matter where, no matter when.

In memory of

James L. Busen, Vietnam 1969, Navy

John W. Scott, Vietnam 1966, Army

Thomas J.  Alsop, Agent Orange, 1986, Army

Rest in peace, men. You are not forgotten. Joe has made sure of that.

When I got back to the church where I had left my vehicle, Jeff Wilson, church member, and his very sharp young son Zachery were dropping something off at the church. I asked to use the restroom, and Jeff said he’d thought of asking me whether I’d like to. Such a small convenience, but what a blessing! I hadn’t seen Jeff at church that morning because he had to work.

Ripley

Ripley, Illinois, with about a hundred inhabitants, is located near the LaMoine River, which arrives there from the northwest, where it is swollen by the East LaMoine. Long before it gets to Ripley, the LaMoine runs just east of Carthage through a little farm I used to own in Hancock County. After it crosses U.S. 24, in a deep valley just east of Ripley, It flows on into the Illinois River, about 5 miles southwest of Beardstown. Though not really navigable now, the LaMoine used to carry a lot of Native American commerce and travel, as evidenced by Godar and other era spear points and artifacts located along its course. Before roads, many white settlers also traveled along the LaMoine, often by canoe.

Ripley was founded in 1835, and it and the surrounding area were long known popularly as “Jugtown” because of the pottery that was made there until about 1910. I had heard that term used at Western Illinois University in Macomb during my studies there many years ago.

There’s another Illinois town, that one in Bond County, Illinois, that is named Ripley, and it is sometimes called “Old Ripley,” to distinguish between the two.

When I first drove around Ripley (bicycle on the front of the pickup), I asked some young fellows at the town park whether they knew anyone who dealt with pottery. “That would be Mark Bowman. He lives over there across the park in that double-wide behind the old church building,” answered one of the boys. I thanked them and went over to Mark’s place.

Mark had been digging out an old stump in his front yard a few years ago, when he felt his spade go through something that he knew wasn’t dirt. He began digging and discovered an old crock. Right next to it was another piece of pottery, and then yet another. He had stumbled on an apparent discard or storage area from one of the many potteries that were in that area from the late 1800s until about 1910, when the U.S. glass market came of age. Eventually he sold some of the antique pottery, but he said he’s since quit digging it up and quit selling it.

People came from far and near to look at and buy his findings, but if they saw the slightest flaw in a piece, they wanted nothing to do with it. He finally gave up digging up old pottery, and he has kept some of the old pieces as souvenirs, including the first piece he found, which he graciously brought out and showed me. I asked Mark how to find the Cannon Pottery, and he gave me excellent directions. He also told me that his neighbors the Ham family had three sons who had served overseas in the U.S. military.

The Cannon Pottery

After a distinguished teaching career at Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville, Jack Cannon set up a pottery in Ripley. In 1976, he and his wife visited Ripley, already known for its late 1800s pottery. He says he went there primarily to work in the local, native clay, rather than in the commercially prepared clays most potters use. He still prepares his own clay. http://www.lib.niu.edu/2002/oi020302.html

I nearly left town without seeing either Jack or his wife, because he was out in his studio barn throwing clay, and his wife was around the place doing some chores, but she didn’t hear my hail at either the front or back door. When I went up onto the back porch to knock at the back door, a very pretty cat acted a big frightened of me. She was the sole survivor of a litter of abandoned kittens Mrs. Cannon had rescued after their mother left, and she heard them crying. The cat’s name is Vicious, because she was initially a very mean kitten.

Mrs. Cannon showed me some of their outdoor equipment, pointing out to me that clay is very caustic, something I hadn’t realized. Their son is a dairy farmer, and he sometimes finds used stainless steel milk-handling equipment they can use to process their clay. One item looks like a large, stainless steel bulk tank, enclosed in a rusty steel framework. Mrs. Cannon believes it may have originally served as a cottage cheese tank.

Jack grew up in several communities in Southwestern North Carolina. In his 1947 high school graduating class of about 100, nearly half were returning veterans going back to finish their high school education. One summer after he graduated he took a job as a stage hand in Cherokee, at the famous outdoor musical drama “Unto These Hills.” He worked evenings and had the days to himself, so he started hanging around the pot shop at the nearby Indian school, and that was his introduction to working in clay.

He had been seriously trying to do abstract art, but he threw away lots of paintings during that era. He eventually realized that pottery was something he could actually do, and he took it up. He served 2 years in the U.S. Army, and then used the G.I. Bill to get through college. He has 2 bachelor’s degrees and a master’s degree.

Jack said he got some of his inspiration to be a potter from the people along the Potters’ Highway at Seagrove, North Carolina, a place my wife Mary and I visit nearly every year when we go to visit her mom in Winston-Salem. Seagrove, North Carolina, also goes by the nickname of Jugtown.

Jack is a genuine artisan, and I hope I may one day own at least one piece of his pottery. He has a twinkle in his eye, and has not been afraid to follow his dream of making pottery with clay that he processes himself. When I opined to his wife that probably only half a dozen potters in the country were still processing their own clay, she said she really doubted that there were that many. I left this delightful couple as a richer person for having met them, and I hope one day to be able to visit them again.

East of Ripley, U.S. 24 goes down a steep hill into a valley, where it crosses the LaMoine River. All along that stretch of highway there is extensive work being done on the shoulder and far back beyond the shoulder. About a mile from Ripley there is a junction with Illinois Route 103, and there is a wide graveled area well off to the right side of 103, so I parked there, took down the bike, and resumed my walk. I had been glad I didn’t have to climb the curving hill ahead on U.S. 24, but 103 is a series of fairly serious hill until it finally descends to real river bottom ground quite a bit farther on.

I walked a long time, but finally decided I should ride back to the pickup. I had never walked so far in one day before, nor had I ever walked so late in the day. As I approached my pickup, I saw a white pickup parked in front of it. At first I thought it might be a police vehicle, with an officer looking over my pickup, but it was 1st Infantry Division veteran Jacob Nathan McCoy, from the Peoria area, with his pickup full of things he was moving, including a mountain bike.

Just a few minutes earlier, driving east on U.S. 24, he had to stop suddenly to avoid hitting an old man riding a bicycle, weaving down the middle of the highway, with his old dog at his side. Afraid for the man’s safety, he had notified the county sheriff’s department, who had a deputy on the way. His sudden stop had scattered banana chips from an open bag all over the cab of his pickup, especially all over the dash. He had stopped to clean up the cab when I came back to where he was. He said he had been really overweight just last year, tipping the scales at over 300 pounds, but that he had started riding a mountain bike everywhere. He looked to be all muscle and about 200 pounds. I gave him one of my walk brochures and thanked him for his service.

If my math is correct, I think I am 20% of the way across Illinois. Tomorrow I’ll try to verify that. I’m glad I made some extra miles yesterday, because I had 13 miles scheduled for the next part of my walk.

Day 4, September 4—Mount Sterling, Illinois

I posted my blog for Friday, September 3, at the Camp Point Public Library and walked outside. I saw my son Joe riding up on his motorcycle. After a couple of hearty hugs, he asked where we should eat supper, and I told him the librarian recommended the Railroad Park Eatery, practically across the street. We had a great time together, and the meal was fantastic. It was a far cry from my first meals on the trip: jerky, an apple, a can of cold baked beans, and a bottle of water.

Dad Between Pickup and Joe's Bike at Clayton, Illinois

 

Dad;s Bike and Joe's Bike

Rob and Son Joe (I'm the old guy in the reflective vest.)

 

Joe's Bike at Illinois River Bridge

Joe rode the 3 hours back home last night, after visiting for a couple of hours with his old dad. If you get a son like that, hold onto him. Mine is sure a keeper, and he and his wife Heather have given us two of the cutest and sweetest grand kids on this planet.

Mount Sterling was named by an early settler, who referred to the “sterling quality” of the local soils. The population in 2000 was about 2000. In addition to being the county seat of Brown County, Illinois, Mount Sterling is home to Dot Foods, Hills Industry, and an Illinois correctional facility. Chief of Police Colby Yard is a 5-year veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, who served a tour in Southeast Asia and two tours of duty in Iraq. He earned the rank of sergeant with the MOS of helicopter air crewman. I tried to meet him at the police station early this morning, but he was occupied elsewhere.

I drove ahead to Mount Sterling last night so I could use a compressor to air up the air mattress that Becky Barlowe had donated to me earlier in the evening to replace the one I bought at Farm and Fleet in Urbana last week. It has a 3-year warranty, but it wouldn’t hold air after the first day, for some reason I haven’t yet figured out. I can’t really just pick up and drive the 160 miles (320 round trip) to Urbana to get it replaced, so it’s taking up space in the pickup and isn’t doing me much good.

Becky’s mattress worked very well for about 2 hours, after which the air was all gone. I plan to investigate further today to see whether there’s a valve I didn’t find or something of that sort. I used the air at the Ayerco gas station to air up the mattress and then parked the pickup next to what I took in the dark to be a park. It turns out to be only a vacant lot, but it suited my purposes well. That’s where I spent the night. It got down to about 48 degrees, so I was glad of my sleeping bag and old wool Army blanket.

I headed out riding west (this is the part that’s always hard to explain to people who want to know what I’m doing). Yesterday I had missed what is certainly the biggest and most important industry at Timewell. Though I bicycled up and down every single street in town, I failed to note that, out at the highway (not at the Timewell exit I had taken earlier in the day, though) Timewell Tile has a plant that manufactures all kinds of field tile. They are in operation making tile 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They even publish their own magazine about tile.

I spoke to manager Dan Peebles (he didn’t play NFL football), who graciously answered my questions and who explained the tile manufacturing process very clearly in a few words. (I won’t be able to explain nearly as well, but suffice it to say that they draw in resin pellets from large grain bins, feed them into a mixer, put them through the extruder, essentially a very large barrel heated very hot. To this layman, it looks amazing. The pellets go into one end and the finished tile comes out the other.

Timewell Tile makes single-wall tile in sizes of from 2- to 15-inch diameter, and double-wall tile from 4- to 48-inch diameter. The smaller the diameter, the longer the section of tile that fits on a roll. For instance 4-inch single-wall tile comes with 6200 feet on a roll, and 2-inch has 10,000 feet per roll. That’s over 2 miles of tile!

The larger tiles, especially double-wall, is now frequently used for road culverts. They can be purchased in 10- or 20-foot lengths.

As I was walking back to Mount Sterling from the first Timewell turnoff, a young man in a pickup stopped to ask whether I needed help. He was Frank Price, who, though he now lives in town, still goes out to help on the farm. Though I didn’t need help, I sure appreciated his offering it.

Deputy Sheriff John Zimmerman, soon to be married, served as a U.S. Army military police officer before becoming a civilian peace officer. I met him early this morning at the Mount Sterling Police station, and I saw him again when he drove out toward Timewell to check on my progress the morning.

U.S. Postal Service clerk Becky Barlowe, already mentioned in this post (air mattress) and in the previous post in connection with Clayton (Library District President) and Timewell (substitute mail clerk during my visit there yesterday) had the early shift at the Mount Sterling Post Office today. She spoke to Bill Tweedt, a Navy Veteran and adjutant of Mount Sterling American Legion, Post 374. He called me out on the road and offered to meet me at the edge of town and walk in with me. I gratefully accepted that offer, and his wife drove him out to meet me. After she saw me limp a ways down the road, she said, "Bill doesn't have any feet or knees left either."

Several more veterans met us at the Ayerco gas station. I thanked them all for their service for our country. Some had to return home, but a good number walked with us or drove down to Rene’s Place, a restaurant I’d recommend to anyone. There we met still other veterans, including 94-year-old World War II veteran Fred Parker, who still has a very firm handshake. We also saw veteran Bill Mountain, who actually belongs to the Perry American Legion, Post 1040, though no one held that against him. Bill spent from 1968 through 1969 in Vietnam during that war.

Brown County Sherriff Snowden came to eat with us, as did Deputy Zimmerman, Bill Tweedt, and Joe Follis and his lovely wife Marcella (soon to be Deputy Zimmerman’s in-laws). Joe served two combat tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Marine Corps from 1969 to 1972, and earned the Purple Heart for being seriously wounded. Wayne Shepard also joined us. He’s a Korean War Army veteran who served for 16 months in Korea during that war. He had lots of interesting stories to tell, but I’ll relate just a couple.

He said he was blessed to not have seen any actual combat while in Korea. Once he was sent to guard a truckload of North Korean soldiers who were POWs of the United States. He was issued a carbine, as were all the other guards, but they got no ammo. Of course the POWs didn’t know that. They were told that, if a POW escaped, they should just let him go and let the Republic of Korea soldiers deal with him. The truck Wayne was guarding broke down, so the transport was delayed considerably.

Wayne also played on his unit’s baseball team, which was the theater champion team. For that he received a special belt buckle, but the MPs confiscated it on the ship going home, and he never saw it again.

Tom Schneider, another member of both the American Legion and the VFW, gave me a list of interesting books about military service to read:

1. Chickenhawk, by Robert Mason, in which the author tells of his experiences as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, chronicling his enlistment, training, experience in Vietnam, and experience upon returning home.

Boyd

Triumphant Tragedy

I’ll look at the Champaign Library when I get home, and maybe I can read them.

Cordell Jones, another Korean War vet, still lives on the farm at rural Mount Sterling. He stopped by to say hello, and I thanked him for his service to our country. Jim Dudendeck and Dave Downey made up the rest of our party. After lots of beef jerky and protein bars (I do have apples and avocados along too), the ham and cheese omelet looked really good, and it was.

I’m very grateful to these distinguished veterans for their service to our nation and for their kindness and hospitality to me on my walk across Illinois. They paid for my meal, too, and then walked me back up the street to my pickup truck.

John Flesner, who had given me a ride into the stiff wind yesterday, when I was walking past the business where he works, lives in a nearby town with his new wife, having lost his first wife to pancreatic cancer several years ago. He still has his house in Mount Sterling, and he graciously invited me to use his place to shower and sleep, so I took him up on that. He and his lovely wife showed me the house, and he showed me where the fresh towels are and the bed I can use. I told him I’d be going over to MacDonald's to use the Internet, but he said, “Don’t do that. I have high-speed Internet here. Use that." So this is a triple blessing.

John says that the Lord brings the people into our lives with whom he wants us to interact, and whom he wants us to help out. His gift to me on this trip is one I’ll never forget. May the Lord prosper your way, John, and lead you in his paths forever.

Day 3—Camp Point, Clayton, and Timewell (Mound Station)

After the rain and wind of last evening (and a beautiful sunset), today dawned clear, cool, and with an equally pretty sunrise. The sky seemed cleansed, and it reached an astonishing porcelain blue color that I have rarely seen.

According to my original itinerary, I was to have walked to Camp Point today, ending the day’s walk there, but I was already a bit ahead of schedule, and I wanted to keep pushing on because I had a couple of 11-mile days planned.

I walked out from Coatsburg with a brisk wind at my back. I was delighted with the breeze, though the flag slapped me from time to time. West-bound traffic was very busy, with lots of big trucks, so I stepped off to the side frequently to let traffic pass, especially when there was also traffic from behind.

As I walked into Camp Point, a man on his back deck hailed me and invited me up for a cup of coffee. It was Leonard Gooding, whose wife Shirley brewed a fresh pot of coffee just for me (excellent coffee, by the way). Leonard’s great-grandfather Jabez and his great-uncle Daniel Gooding were among the early settlers of this area. I really appreciated the break, the coffee, and the good fellowship, before pushing on toward Clayton.

Camp Point is on the location of Garrett’s Mill. John Newland had already put up a horse mill to grind corn in what would become the north half of section 5 of Camp Point Township in 1838. (Camp Point Township itself dates from 1850.) In 1844, Peter B. Garret built a carding machine where Camp Point is now, and the next year he also built a grist mill. Unlike Newland’s horse-powered mill, Garrett’s mill and carding machine were powered by a tread wheel operated by oxen.

Steam power came later, and W. A. Berrian and Co. took over the mill. In 1866, Thomas Bailey, Silas Bailey, William Oliver, and Ormond Noble build Casco Mill. I could find no trace of these mills.

In the 1830s Lewis McFarland build a tannery, and he went on to be the first township justice of the peace. Benjamin Booth set up a blacksmith shop, and James Langdon put up a second smithy in 1846. A settler named Granderson Hess opened the area’s first general store in 1854.

The town (not township) of Camp Point wasn’t platted until 1855. It became a station on the Northern Cross Railroad, which began operation in February of the same year. The site was owned by Thomas Bailey, Peter Garret, Benjamin Booth, and William Farlow. In 1850, when Camp Point Township was organized, the residents elected Thomas Bailey to be the first township supervisor. Other early supervisors were James Downing, Vixen Gay, Silas Bailey, Thomas Bates, Richard Wallace, and George Cyrus, who gave lots of helpful information to the author of the old history of the area from which I pilfered much of this information.

A description of the town  from the late 1800s called it a “pleasant, progressive village of 1200 people, known as Camp Point, northeast of the central part of the county, on the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad.” The town was sited at the headwaters of the south branch of Bear Creek.

Residents circulated a petition to set up a post office at what had generally been known up to that time as “Garrett Mill” or “Garrett Mills.” The town was also known as “Indian Camp Point,” which was shortened to “Camp Point” when the post office was established.

Camp point has more gas stations than any other small town in the area. The modern library facility is open until 6:00 p.m. (I drove back to Camp Point this afternoon to write this post).

Clayton

Clayton, Illinois, has about 900 inhabitants. It also has a remarkable and little-known treasure, the John Roy Site, a site listed in the National Register of Historic Places. This site contains a prehistoric village from the Woodland Period (about 1000 BC to about 1000 AD), and classified as part of the Mississippian Culture. The site is so significant that it has a restricted address and its existence is not widely known.

Clayton can also boast being the childhood home of actor John Anderson, who would go on to play many roles in movies and TV shows. One of his better-known roles was that of Harry Jackson, McGyver’s grandfather. During World War II, Anderson served in the U.S. Coast Guard, where he met and became a lifelong friend of Orazio Fumigalli, a well-known artist of the period.

When I visited the Timewell Post office later in the day, I met John Roy’s granddaughter, Becky Becky Barlow, who lives in her grandfather’s house, which she as restored. She was on loan from the Mount Sterling post office, where she usually works, because the local clerk was out for a doctor’s appointment. Becky, by the way, is the president of the Clayton Public Library District. When I told her I was driving back to Camp Point, she said the Clayton Library also had wi-fi, and there was no reason to drive so far, but I was hoping to get some further local information from a Camp Point librarian, so I made the drive after all.

Later in the afternoon, Becky called me to say that she had a good, twin-size air mattress that I could have for the rest of my trip. I had mentioned to her that the brand-new one I bought for the trip had already failed and wouldn’t stay up. That’s a very generous gift, and one I will long appreciate.

As I road my bike down the road that leads to the heart of downtown Clayton (the westernmost exit from U.S. 24 that will get you there, I thought I heard someone greet me, so I turned around and went back. A gentleman of about my own age emerged from a camper. He said he’d seen me on the highway the day before and had wanted to stop and talk, but that he had deemed that unsafe.

Kenshaw E. Walker grew up in this area, but had lived in California for many years. While there he had met his lovely wife, and had moved back to Clayton only last year to help his brother Dan (known locally as “the jelly man” for his corn cob, apple, and other jelly) manage his fruit orchards and acreage. Kenshaw has posted copies of the 10 Commandments in several conspicuous areas on the property (at least that’s still not illegal!).

He spent 26 years in the U.S. Army, most of it in the Special Forces. Right out of Fort Benning’s jump school, The 82nd Airborne Division to help keep the peace. After that adventure, he ended up in a Special Forces unit in Vietnam in the Na Trang area. He has a deep faith in God, and gives God the credit for bringing him safely through many very close calls.

Even after he retired as a sergeant first class, Kenshaw worked with the Young Marines Program there in California. As a parting gift, he gave me a Special Forces baseball cap, for which I am very grateful.

Just past the Walker homestead is the  Old Westside Cemetery, which has one Revolutionary War veteran and many Civil War dead and veterans buried there. The cemetery is closed to further burials, and there is restricted access to it.

On my way bicycling back to Coatsburg to retried my pickup truck, I encountered gusts of wind that I’d estimate topped 30 miles per hour. Though I was in no danger, I had started walking by the time I got to the Golden Road. A gentleman pulling out of the drive for B&B Livestock Equipment had heard me on the radio and offered to drive me back to my pickup. I took him up on the offer, leaving my bike at B&B.

When John dropped  me off at my pickup, I asked him to wait while I got him one of my walk brochures. He then offered to pray for me, and I took him up on that immediately. He prayed God’s blessing on my walk and on my life.

I saw him again briefly when I picked up my bike at B&B, and he gave me a company baseball cap, a really nice one with stars and stripes on the bill. Then he offered to let me take a shower at his place in Mount Sterling. I was really blessed.

Timewell (Mound Station), Illinois

Timewell was founded a year later than Fowler, in 1858, as Mound Station, and became a post office in 1860. The town incorporated as Mound Station in 1901. To avoid having a similar name to Mounds in Pulaski County, citizens changed the name of the post office to Timewell in 1903, but the town name has never been officially changed. Thus the State of Illinois still lists the town as “Mound Station (Timewell)” on the official state roadmap, and the U.S. Census Bureau lists the name as “Mound Station.” Just remember that, if you want to send a letter to someone in Mound Station, you have to mail it to Timewell.

The National Weather Service still gives an occasional storm warning for Mound Station, and the deeds to the houses in town also read “Mound Station” as part of the legal description.

Timewell has about 143 residents. It’s the first town along my route that is in Brown County. The county seat of Brown County is Mount Sterling, the next town along the route. Brown County was carved out of a larger Schuyler County in 1839. It was named for General Jacob Jennings Brown, the 1812 War hero who defeated the British at the 1813, and who served as commander of the U.S. Army from 1821 until his death in 1828.

I rode my bike around Timewell for nearly two hours and talked to only a handful of people. One of them was Becky, whom I mentioned in the Clayton entry. Another was the local bank branch manager, who made a very generous donation to the costs of my trip. He told me that the Timewell Bank had been an independent bank until earlier this year, celebrating its 100th anniversary before being acquired by the Mount Sterling Farmers State Bank.

A local gentleman I met (Forrest Icenogle) is having increasing difficulty expressing himself, but he told me of some of his adventures during his 12 years in the U.S. Army, including some extreme endurance tests he and his men underwent in Canada. His son, a veteran of Desert Storm, is now a guard at the prison in Rushville. He was at the house briefly, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, and I’m sorry for that.

Just before I left Timewell, I returned to the bank to thank the manager for his kindness. He reminded me of the town’s slogan, “time spent in Timewell is time well spent.”

Outside I encountered two of Brown County’s finest, patrolling the streets of the town. I flagged them down and gave them one of my brochures, asking that they notify the Sheriff’s Department that I’d be walking and riding in Brown County for the next several days. They wished me Godspeed and said to call the Sheriff’s department if I needed anything. I really did feel welcome in Brown County at that point.

To top off a wonderful day, my son Joe just called to say that he was on his way driving over here from Champaign to have supper with me, so my day has been filled with wonderful people, beautiful blue skies, and an amazing number of blessings.

September 2—Destination Fowler, and Beyond

My European friends sometimes tease me about the relative youth of American history, but this region has a history that goes back thousands of years to the Mississippian culture of the Native Americans. Of course they left no written records, but they certainly left artifacts.

There’s an interesting historical marker at the junction of Illinois Route 96 and U.S. 24, north of Quincy. There’s a nice, large triangle where I considered parking my pickup for the night, but the state has erected a no parking sign. Much as I yearn to sleep in a bed, I’m not at all interested in spending a night in the Adams County Jail.

Here are some notes from the marker. The first exploration of this area (that’s by the paleface, of course) was in 1673, when Louis Joliet and Pére Jacques Marquette came down the Mississippi River from Canada. Many of the French names of creeks and towns in this area (La Harpe, La Salle, and so forth) derive from the names of men in that exploring party.

The French claimed the entire part along the Mississippi River of what would later become Illinois until the Treaty of Paris ceded it to the British. During the American Revolution, George Rogers Clark and his army won the area for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Illinois became part of the Northwest Territory in 1784, and joined the Union as the 21st state in 1918.

East of here was the Military Tract, where veterans of the War of 1812 were granted land for their service. Farther east (beyond Peoria) was the Grand Prairie, where the first large-scale cattle ranching in the world took place (1840–1890). During that same era, barbed wire was invented, right here in Illinois, and improved dent corn was also developed here. (That previous sentence is not from the historical marker, by the way.)

I ended up sleeping in front of the old parts store, right on U.S. 24, after talking with some neighbors, including Tony, who’s across the street in the old bank building. That’s also a parking place for some car-pooling school teachers. I was under a shelter with the pickup, so that was a positive (there’s an overhang built onto the building).

Fowler is a small, unincorporated town. It’s on U.S. Route 24 and on the main east-west line of the Burlington-Northern Railroad. In about 1980, Pastor Robert Schubert, a long-time family friend, drove from his home in Mount Carroll, Illinois, to my little farm near Carthage to ask me to take over the pastorate of the little Fowler Church of the United Brethren in Christ.

I was, in due course, examined and granted a quarterly conference license to preach. My first pastorate ended some years later, when the little church closed its doors. Among the highlights of my ministry there were the wedding of the daughter of one of our parishioners and the fact that a number of former members resumed their attendance at the church. Among the lowlights of that period was the funeral of an inactive member, who had left the church after being publicly embarrassed when a former pastor asked his son to behave during a worship service. I say it was a lowlight because, among other things, the widow requested that very former pastor to conduct the funeral service, but he refused to do so unless I agreed (which I did).

When I offered to pick up the widow and take her to the funeral and grave site, she said, “Pardon me. I won’t be going. I don’t do funerals.” I have not heard whether she attended her own.

One fun event happened in this way. I usually rang the church bell half an hour before the service began. Some local teenagers climbed up into the belfry, wrapped the clapper in an old pair of pants, and attempted to otherwise disable the bell. Their primary social activities took place very late on Saturday night, and they weren’t particularly interested in being called to worship, though their grandmother did attend services.

One tug of the bell rope told me something was wrong with the bell.  I climbed up to the belfry, diagnosed and fixed the problem, and returned, ringing the bell only about a minute later than usual. The young men were so curious about why the bell rang that morning that they attended the service and asked me afterward about the bell. When they saw that I thought the entire matter was funny, they were surprised. Of course I already knew who had done the deed because I recognized their grandfather’s trousers, which I returned to them after our discussion. Thereafter they did attend services a number of times, but they never because regular attenders.

Fowler was founded in 1857. Probably the most comprehensive history of the town was written by Kevin Ahern, who has thoroughly researched the town’s past. Ahern puts the population at about 200.

After our interview in the park, Tegan Orpet of KHQA TV said I had to visit the Paloma Diner, so I drove over there at 6:00 for a delicious breakfast. I walked in and headed for the restroom. When I came back to the dining area, someone asked me where I had slept the night before. I asked whether they had recognized me from the news, and they said yes, from just five minutes earlier. When I told him where I had spent the night, he told me his trailer was just about 100 feet from there.

The group I spoke with are the morning coffee regulars, showing up faithfully at 6:00 every morning. They included Glen, retired from the Air Force, and Ace Shippendecker, an 84 World War II veteran. Amy, the waitress, treated me very well. I would not learn until later that her sister had been killed by a drunk driver on her way to work at the café not too long before. Later in the day I parked my pickup right across the highway from the small memorial put their in her memory.

I drove back to Fowler and headed west along 24 on my bicycle, after receiving assurances from Ace Shippendecker that it wouldn’t rain before noon, but I got rained on during both my bike ride and my walk, though not enough to do any damage.

On my way back into Fowler, I noticed that my front bike brake was dragging, so I took an hour to take it apart and repair it. It worked well for several hours after that. I had just finished my bike repair and was wondering what to do with the rest of my day when a vehicle pulled up. The driver was Ron Powell, Camp Point resident, who had served in the Illinois Army National Guard at the same time as I did. We hadn’t known each other, but we both reached the rank of First Sergeant, and we had some adventures to discuss. He had seen me on the news and come looking for me.

It wasn’t even noon yet, so I decided to ride on at least to Paloma.

Paloma, Illinois
Paloma is named after a small, local tribe of Indians. I have been unable to find any information about this tribe, which may have been associated with the Peoria Tribe. A tribe on Native Americans with flattened foreheads lived in the area at one time, but were apparently annihilated by invading tribes. There doesn’t seem to be much available on that group, though there used to be information about them at Dickson Mounds.
Local pickle producers had a rail platform about a mile west of Paloma’s location. Daniel Gooding negotiated with the Wabash Railroad to build a depot on his land if the railroad would move the Pickleville platform there. According to local tradition, the wife of a railroad conductor renamed the town Paloma. There is also a tradition that the town was named for the Spanish word for dove, Paloma, though that would contradict the local Native American tribe version.
As with many communities of the 1800s, Paloma thrived with the railroad running through it. A playhouse called Euterpe Hall hosted shows and plays well into the 20th century, before moving to nearby Fowler, and eventually closing altogether.
I walked to the Paloma Diner and arrived by 11:00 a.m. or so. Amy treated me to about 5 glasses of ice water, which was a real treat. Her grandpa died in World War II, and her son-in-law just returned from a year in Iraq.
During that visit to the diner, I also met Bobbie and Kendall, who had ridden motorcycles (Hondas) for many years, including a special trip to Canada. I met Ann Veyle, a widowed and retired schoolteacher, who worked for the Army Map Service (forerunner of the Defense Mapping Agency), all during World War II. Her late husband Joe had fought in the Pacific. When his unit got lost, he wrote his wife that it was because they had been using one of her maps. Joe also played the electric guitar. Ann had 3 sons in the Vietnam War, all in Vietnam at the same time.
She and Joe had ridden their motorcycle (also a Honda) to Anchorage, Alaska, a round trip of 93199 miles. They went with a United Methodist tour group, led by a retired pastor. They had a great time. Waitress Amy called Ann and Bobbie the “Harley Mamas,” though they hadn’t ridden Harleys.
As I was leaving, two ladies actually handed me donations for my walk, though that is not something I am soliciting. I was deeply touched. One lady said, “This is for your supper, though it won’t be as good as if you had eaten it here.”
I also met Bill and his wife. He was a POW in Germany during World War II. The Germans put a group of him and his fellow prisoners to work making little rocks out of big rocks. He said that because he had grown up on the farm, he knew how to break the sledge hammer handles. Each time he broke one, he had to walk to the shop to have a new one fitted, and that bought him an hour or so away from breaking rocks. He also specialized in breaking the handles of the 6-tine pitchforks they issued for handling smaller rocks.
I made sure to thank each veteran for his service before I left. I toured Paloma by bicycle (it doesn’t take long, really), and ran into Sergeant Ron Walton, U.S. Air Force, retired. He is a real Santa lookalike, affable, and a great conversationalist. We swapped stories for a few minutes, and I thanked him for his service. Then I road back west to retrieve my pickup.
I decided that I could do the two miles to Coatsburg without difficulty, so I walked there and back. Then I drove to the home of some friends I hadn’t seen in about 30 years. They graciously fed be (and plied me with numerous glasses of ice water, my new favorite beverage). We caught up on old times, and, as I left, Mel told me he’d be praying for my left knee, which has been my biggest limiting factor so far on this walk.

Coatsburg, Illinois

When I was farming east of Carthage, Illinois, in the seventies and eighties, I often took goats to the Coatsburg sales barn to sell. In those days, town signs were white with black lettering. Some local youth periodically used black electrical tape to change the spelling of the town’s name to “Goatsburg.” The sign would read that way for a few weeks, until a road worker removed the tape. Though I eventually moved from the area, I never saw that intentional misspelling again after the state adopted the white-on-green town name signs.

Coatsburg still has a nearby sale barn, where livestock is sold. The 2000 census counted 226 inhabitants.

Golden, Illinois
It was far from dark, and I wasn’t sure I could handle another walk, so I drove north to Golden, home to a restored grain windmill. Our generation is not the first to be wind energy enthusiasts after all. Built in 1872, and functional in 1873, the mill is completely restored. It’s well worth a trip to see, if you haven’t seen it. Next door is the Emminga House, which was the residence of H.R. Emminga, an immigrant from East Frisia, who founded and operated the mill. Because East and West Frisia were politically part of Germany, these folks are known as Germans, but the North, East, and West Frisians spoke a language much closer to Dutch and English than to German. There’s an old ditty that says, “Milk, bread, cheese—good English and good Fries.” That is to say that the two languages share those exact words. The Frisian word for “word,” is “uurd,” and that use of the double u would eventually lead to formation of the English letter w.

So Let It Begin

August 31, 2010—leave home about 12:30 p.m.
It took longer to load and get away from home that I had expected, but the reward for my late departure was to sit down and eat a delicious chicken burrito that Mary fixed. I decided to take I-72 to Quincy for several reasons, but the main consideration was the time saving.

A Very Naïve and Smiling Rob Setting out for Quincy

I chose to start my walk in Quincy for several reasons. Quincy has historical significance. It’s also at about the latitude at which I want to do the walk, and, of course, it’s on the western side of Illinois. I chose to walk from west to east in part because of the prevailing westerlies. Central Illinois can be a windy place, and I’d just as soon have that wind at my back. Of course that’s means I’m walking into the early morning sun, but one can’t have everything.
The Bayview bridge leads into Quincy from Missouri, carrying U.S. Route 24 traffic. Quincy is in Adams County, Illinois, and both county and city were named after President John Quincy Adams. Some historians say that the town square was unofficially dubbed “John Square” to complete the use of President Quincy’s names. I haven’t been able to confirm that idea.

The Bridge at Sunset

 (double-click for full photo)

Quincy schools still offer the German language, a reflection of the city’s German heritage. Oktoberfest is still an annual celebration. Though I can’t be absolutely certain that there are no German restaurants in Quincy, I didn’t find any.

Quincy has a population of over 40,000, but it is the primate city of west-central Illinois and of east-central Missouri, areas that are home to about 112,000 residents. Built on limestone bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, the city has a rich early history, including serving as a station on the Underground Railroad, being a major river port, and being an industrial center. The city is a marvel of business and industry. Motion Industries, Craig Industries, Ktm, H & B Quality Tooling, Harris Corporation, J.M. Huber Corporation, Titan Wheel Corporation, EnPro Industries, Quincy Compressor (owned by Colt Industries), and Can Am Industries all have facilities there. Please pardon the many omissions of company names.

Quincy is also home to Quincy University, and 4-year liberal arts school that is associated with the Roman Catholic Franciscan order. Most students are undergraduates. (http://www.quincy.edu/)

I got to Quincy at about 4:00 p.m. and did a little exploring. I located the WGEM Radio studio so I would know where to go on Wednesday morning for my 7:50 interview on the Morning Program. I explored the park at the foot of the hill, right between the bridges and eventually sat on a park bench to read the fine article in Tuesday’s Quincy Herald Whig, which appeared on pages 8A and 9A. My supper was a can of Bush’s baked beans, an apple, and some beef jerky.

Though my GPS doesn’t know it, there is a campground just a ways north of the Bayview Bridge, Driftwood Campground, and I spent the night there. At some point in the night it started raining, and it rained throughout most of the night. I was snug and dry in the topper, though I closed the screened windows when rain started coming in.

September 1, Quincy, Illinois
A Quincy landmark worth seeing is the Villa Kathrine, which houses the Quincy Tourist Information Center and the Quincy Convention Center. The sign says the house was built in Moorish/Islamic style in 1900.

Villa Kathrine Just off the Gardner Expressway in Quincy

Not only is the house handsome, the grounds are pretty and well kept, and there is a great view up and down the Mississippi River from the grounds.

View toward Hannibal Missouri and Lock and Dam #21

View from the Villa Kathrine Grounds toward Bayview Bridge

The grounds also has a lovely rose garden, cared for by the Mississippi Valley Garden Club

After a delightful hot shower (the primary reason for staying at a campground instead of in a parking lot), I headed off to the WGEM Radio studio for my interview. Bryce had called me the previous morninng to set up the interview. Greg and Rick of the Morning Program conducted the interview, which they handled with aplomb. You can hear the interview, at least for right now, by going to http://www.wgem.com/Global/category.asp?C=133159.

Kyle West of WGEM TV jogged down the hill while I drove from Washington Park. He carried his video camera and tripod, to the park where the walk was to start. He was joined in the park by photographer Phil Carlson of the Heral Whig and Tegan Orpet of KHQA News. The Herald Whig’s Web site is at http://www.whig.com/, and KHQA News has a site at http://www.connecttristates.com/news/contents.aspx?id=~\News\Lists\Local%20and%20State.

Rob’s Custom Bike Mount

It was a pretty steep climb up Hampshire Street to Washington Park, and I was puffing like a steam engine as I pushed my flag with flag up the hill, but WGEM photographer Kyle West stayed ahead of my so he could shoot some pictures, and so did the Herald Whig’s photographer Phil Carlson, who was taking still shots of the action.

I got a lot of honks and waves, and a few thumbs up gestures as I walked up Broadway. When the sidewalks gave out, so did I, and I got on my bike and started back toward my pickup. I had ridden only a few blocks, though, when I heard what sounded suspiciously like an air leak from my front tire. Once the tire went flat, there was no alternative but to get back off the bike and push it. That made my morning walk almost double the length I had expected, but, as Robert Burns wrote, “the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley and leave us naught but grief and pain."

Though I had little grief, I did have a fairly painful left knee by the time I got back to my pickup at the park. Walmart had the right size tire and tube, and it took only about half an hour to select and buy them and mount them. A brake pad had moved just enough to wear the sidewall of the old tire, and that mechanical malfunction was sufficient to ruin that tire and tube.

As I was remounting the tire on the bike, a lady in a nearby parking place asked me for a knife so she could open the package containing her new steering wheel cover. I cut the zip tie for her, but then she had such a hard time installing the cover that she came back and asked me for help putting it on. It took about 10 minutes to stretch and worry that thing over the wheel, but at least it won’t slip.

A gentleman stopped by to offer his advice, and his presence led to a discussion of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, wars he doesn’t believe we should be involved in. Though he didn’t serve, two of his sons and many other relatives have served, and one son recently came back to the States with his unit after only a short deployment to Iraq. Dad was grateful to have his son safely back on U.S. soil.

I rewarded myself for all my hard work by stopping at Deters for a vanilla malt. The reward was wonderful. Then I drove to 12th street and followed it north past Locust Street. On the left side of the street is the entrance to the Illinois Veterans Home, a place I had heard of, but never visited. I parked under the biggest catalpa tree I had ever seen, and sought out two men sitting in a gazebo. "I want to talk to a veteran. Am I in the right place?" I asked, to break the ice.

They were residents Dick Boyd and Burt Weaver. Dick served 20 years in the U.S. Navy, and said he’d go back and serve 20 more if they’d let him. He spent lots of time at sea, and he did a tour in Viet Nam. Burt served in the U.S. Army during World War II (1944–1946) and then joined the Army Reserve. His unit was called up for the Korean War, and he saw action in that conflict too. We were joined by Sandy, who went into the U.S. Marine Corps the same year I entered the Army (in 1966). Before I left I thanked all of them for serving our country. There are about 437 residents (the person who told me this is also a resident) in the home at this time.

Statue of Civil War–Era Soldier with U.S. Flag at Half Staff (Half Mast) to the Left.

This monument is on the grounds of the Illinois Veterans Home.