Friday, May 30, 2008

Ancient Places: Miller, South Dakota



The lazy way out of blogging is to post old photographs --- and I’ve got a million of ‘em, so to speak. I came across this one while looking for something else that I’ll get to later this week, maybe.

The shot was taken during the spring of 1910 near Miller, South Dakota. --- that’s in Hand County in the central part of the state about 35 miles northwest of Huron and 80 or so miles northeast of Pierre.

Quite a few Iowans homesteaded in South Dakota around the turn of the 20th Century, including my grandmother, Jessie’s, niece and best friend, Ida Belle (Brown) Rogers, and her husband, James Gallett (known as “Lett”) Rogers. They were accompanied by Ida’s stepsister, Lulu (Corder) Wilson, and her family.

I believe I’ve written before about just how much Ida hated South Dakota, but agreed to live there after extracting a promise that if she died there, she’d be buried back home at Moulton in Appanoose County --- and that happened far too soon. Ida, who was born 15 April 1874 in Cincinnati, Appanoose County, died in South Dakota on 9 March 1919, just before her 45th birthday. And her body was brought back to Moulton by train for burial.

That’s Lulu in the wagon here, and Ida standing in front of it with Lett behind her.

This photo forms the front of a postcard. Ida’s note on the back is pretty much self-explanatory.

June 12, 1910

Dear Auntie,

This was taken at Lulu (Corder) Wilson’s shack, but we are not all there. Our two boys were herding sheep and one of Lulu’s girls was not at home. Lulus have proved up on their claim and gone back for Centerville; left last Wed. night. My, I did hate to see her go. I will be so lonesome now. Lett bo’t their claim --- also the one that joined us on south. We now have 480 acres --- 3 quarters. Been so busy lately --- shearing and dipping sheep. Have 300 little lambs, 150 little chickens.

Lovingly,

Ida

Thursday, May 29, 2008

A narrated Memorial Day

Memorial Day programs make me nervous --- or aggravated (speakers sometimes say truly damnfool things).

Granted, I remember some fondly --- at Columbia Cemetery one year when for lack of bugle, trumpet or coronet, a trombonist played “Taps.” Another at Rose Hill up here in the northland, blessed with one of world’s most well-meaning but stupefyingly longwinded and boring speaker, the assembled multitude heaved a collective sigh of relief when a mighty wind arose from the prairie out west, snatched the note cards from his hands and blew them over the north fence into a bean field. Misfiring M14s (complaining about the fact nobody‘s cleaned them in 20 years) can be entertaining --- providing no one gets hurt.

But I feel better about what’s become a routine early-morning stop on the Sunday morning before the day itself at the memorial to Iowa’s Vietnam dead on the grounds of the state capitol in Des Moines --- most of the time by myself; other times, with someone else: touch a few names, remember other names on other memorials, quick prayer, leave a few flowers, thank God you’re alive to do it --- but wonder why. There’s something about that sunrise hour ….

Allergy head and a late night at the office put me behind this year and it was about 11. Quite a few people around. Guy in a red, white and blue tie (maybe another Vietnam vet) earnestly trying to tell a tiny probable grandson what it was all about.

Two young moms and a few kids (including two in strollers) around the Vietnam memorial.

“See that man coming now, he probably remembers someone. He looks old enough to have been there.”

“Look, he’s praying.”

“Those cigarettes with the flowers (someone else‘s flowers this year, not mine)? Well, they all probably smoked and he thought they‘d like some.”

Well-meaning I’m sure, but disconcerting; I expect I’ll be back on dawn patrol next year, allergy head and all.

If I have the courage of my convictions, I’m going to stop again on my way through Des Moines this Sunday and take a few photos of Iowa’s official memorials --- Civil War (a glorious confection), World War II (the latest, and butt ugly), Korea (dignified and graceful),Vietnam (a shadow of the D.C. Wall, but good enough), but nothing for World War I (I wonder why) or for Afghanistan/Iraq. If photos appear here, you’ll know I made it.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Light as a feather, free as a bird


Today is the 50th anniversary of my Aunt Flora Myers’ death. Now why did that occur to me? There can’t be many more pointless exercises than observing a date of death, anyone’s death, when we have their lives to celebrate. But it did.

I wasn’t very old when Auntie died --- of multiple sclerosis --- and among the people who rank high on my list of those I would like to have known as an adult, at least as a teenager, she ranks high. Smart, funny, kind, a wicked wit sometimes --- I’ve heard her described as all of the above. But I remember only the kindness.

Mention Herbert Hoover, my dad used to say, and Auntie would spit fire. Mention FDR, and she would purr. I come from a long line of Democrats.

Flora Maude was born 21 August 1907 at home on the family farm along the New York Road in Benton Township and given a name so old-fashioned that now it sounds almost foreign. But there were reasons. Flora Toole was an old-maid teacher who taught Myers School, just up the road, and often boarded with my grandparents. She seems to have been a worthy model. Flora Myers, too, became a teacher.

Maude (Gatley) Dent was my grandmother’s stepmother --- and there were mixed feelings in the family about her. Great-grandfather Cash Dent --- gambler, carouser, hard drinker, a maker and loser of modest fortunes in northwest Iowa and Wyoming --- shaved off a few years when he married the much-younger Maude and everyone said, “aha!” Years later, when those years caught up with Cash and Maude gave him the boot, shipping him back from Oregon to the western slopes of the Big Horns to die. Everyone said, “See, we told you so.” But Maude was kind to my grandmother and Grandma appreciated that.

Auntie grew up on the Benton Township farm, attending first Myers School, then Chariton High School and its normal training program (with some supplemental coursework at what now is the University of Northern Iowa) --- and then she began to teach.

It was a hard life; something teachers nowadays wouldn’t think of putting up with. She taught many schools in Lucas and Clarke counties for very little money, based at her parents’ home. At first she rode horseback (was it old Flossie?) daily to and from nearby schools. When the schools were farther away, my dad drove her to the farm homes where she boarded during the week on Sunday afternoons, picked her up and brought her home on Friday evenings, year after year, mile after mile.

One of her best friends was my maternal aunt, Mae (Miller) Gibbany --- those two introduced their younger siblings --- my parents.

As the Depression settled in, it became progressively harder to find a school, but Auntie always did --- and I’ve been surprised over the years at how many people remembered her. Just this spring, corresponding with Hugh Wallace in New York --- I remember where he grew up just down the New York Road --- he informed me that Auntie had been a teacher of his at the old Oxford School in Lincoln Township.

When she was in her 30s, Auntie began to experience difficulty coordinating her movements. It was a disorder that puzzled local physicians, although multiple sclerosis eventually was diagnosed. But the diagnosis brought no relief, since physicians had no idea how to treat MS then (and it’s still a troublesome disorder that cannot be cured). My dad recalled countless painful trips to specialists --- to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., to University Hospitals in Iowa City, to Des Moines --- looking for hope. None came, although she was willingly subjected to every experimental (and sometimes painful) therapy that came along.

Finally, she became severely handicapped and housebound, then bedfast; and when it became clear that she needed constant and attentive care, she found a home in the big northeast bedroom upstairs at Cora White’s nursing home in Chariton. She died there on the 24th of May, 1958.

So I’d like to launch a little celebration of Auntie’s life here on the 50th year to the day after she left us. Brave and bright, never complaining, finding joy in the simplest of things (including me, her only nephew), she touched many lives in her own relatively short one, then lifted off and floated away --- free as a bird, light as a feather, no longer burdened by a body that had betrayed her. Blessed be.

Jack in the pulpit preaches today


I'd say it's high time to get over this springtime soundtrack in my head, but there's one more --- this was jack in the pulpit week in the woods around here. And that brought to mind the obscure Clara Smith's obscure jack in the pulpit poem. Here's the first stanza:

Jack in the pulpit
Preaches today,
Under the green trees
Just over the way.
Squirrel and song-sparrow,
High on their perch,
Hear the sweet lily-bells
Ringing to church.
Come, hear what his reverence
Rises to say,
In his low painted pulpit
This calm Sabbath-day.
Fair is the canopy
Over him seen,
Penciled by Nature’s hand,
Black, brown, and green.
Green is his surplice,
Green are his bands;
In his queer little pulpit
The little priest stands.


There are four more stanzas and by the time she's done you just want to shake Clara and tell her to calm down --- way too much of a good thing. But every time I see a jack, this pops into my head.

I think the poem survived because it was included at one point in a volume of poems suitable to be memorized that fell into the hands of many teachers (remember when memorizing poetry --- and the Gettysburg Address --- was a significant element of a complete elementary education?).

Part of Clara's poem at least was set to music --- not to be sung in church I think; perhaps as a novelty tune for sheet music distribution or inclusion in schoolhouse and parlor songbooks. In any case, my mother sang it as she tended her wildflower gardens under the lilac, mock orange and other bushes this time of year and that's where I picked it up.

It's easy to see where Jack (arisaema triphyllum) got his nickname. The plant's spathe, looking like an old-fashioned elevated pulpit with sounding board atop it, wraps around the spadix (Jack, the preacher), which is covered by tiny flowers. Come fall, you can recognize Jack by the cluster of bright red berries he'll produce (not a good idea to eat them).

Spring or fall, this is a wildflower I always look forward to --- to the accompaniment of Clara's masterwork.

One more look below at a bluebell walk along the Winnebago River, since these will be fading soon as spring moves toward summer here in Iowa.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Lily of the Valley, Bright and Morning Star


St. Francis is happier this year, I think, surrounded in this odd little flower bed along the south side of the house by green and growing things. The east end here has been plagued --- literally --- by drought, ants and the big walnut tree just downhill to the east that soon will leaf out and start spitting noxious juice toward it. But for the time being all is well and concrete Frank rises serenely from a bed of lavender and creeping phlox.

Most of the plants here are native (plucked from the displays at Ellis Greenhouse, by the way, not from roadside or woodland) --- coneflowers, goldenrod, asters, black-eyed susan, etc. The creeping phlox is an exception of course, as are the geraniums --- but I am as addicted to both as a drunk is to his bottle. Lavender isn’t native either, but I can’t pass it up.

The little bird bath --- cheap and impractical --- is new this year. I like it, but it’s cast metal and will rust away and birds tend to see it as a perch rather than a water source. But it’s easy to tip and clean, won’t crush a kid if it gets pulled over and fits in rather than stands out.



Around the corner east and at the north end, behind the garage, is another example of a geranium fancier run amok. Although you can’t see it here, the geraniums at the extreme left are housed in the old coal bucket from the farm. My mother planted geraniums it it, and so do I. The scragliest batch of lavender on the place is in the foreground, old-fashioned day lilies, a few iris, a struggling peony, some sage, lilies of the valley, another big batch of creeping phlox and good old tiger lilies have all been tossed in here and seem to get along fairly well.

The tiger lilies and iris represent resurrection. Last year’s great Easter freeze prevented the iris from blooming and kept the lilies underground all season after getting nipped in the bud, so to speak. This year, the iris are blooming to beat the band and it looks like the tigers will do just fine, too.

The old walking garden cultivator was an unasked-for gift to my dad from a neighbor who accumulated stuff and thought Dad needed it. He didn’t, but it surely did occupy a lot of space in the garage. So I moved it out here --- instant garden sculpture.

Walking around out here early Tuesday morning with camera in hand, the sound track in my head shifted to old-fashioned gospel. I’m never quite sure why those old songs run through my head so much of the time. Certainly not extreme piety; more than likely because in my failed musical career melodies from the old hymnals and schoolhouse songbooks in the music bench were the tunes I was best equipped to bang out with gusto on Aunt Flora’s grand old Kurtzmann upright grand that presided grandly over the dinning room out at the farm (and it was a sight to behold although its untuned state left something to be desired in the sound department).

Although most surely a product of the low church I’ve spent most of my life within or doing battle with the high church --- and those Lutherans and Episcopalians can be downright snippy about the old songs I love. Theologically meaningless and imappropriate, sappy and sentimental, Episcopal priests and Lutheran pastors carp. Back in the old days, when I sang at a lot of funerals, “How Great Thou Art” was a great favorite among Lutheran laypeople, but set Lutheran preachers’ teeth on edge --- to the extent that it wasn’t in Lutheran hymnals. So we’d run over to the Methodist church and swipe (borrow) two of their hymnals, one for the organist and one for me, since they very sensibly did include it.

Lutheran pastoral taste ran to such Nordic classics as "Den store hvide Flok vi se" (“Behold a Host, Arrayed in White”), a real toe-tapper if ever there was one and quite a challenge for a non-Norske to sing.

But what better, I ask you, at 7 a.m. on a May morning than “I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses” (words and music by C. Austin Miles, 1912) with a quick shift as the scent from a lily bed rises to, “He’s the lily of the valley, He’s the bright and morning star?” (Charles W. Fry, 1881, for The Salvation Army, adapting a William S. Hayes tune).

So as I head out the door to the nature center this morning, I’ll leave you with the lead verse and refrain from “The Lily of the Valley” (and you can listen here).

I have found a friend in Jesus, He’s everything to me,
He’s the fairest of ten thousand to my soul;
The Lily of the Valley, in Him alone I see
All I need to cleanse and make me fully whole.
In sorrow He’s my comfort, in trouble He’s my stay;
He tells me every care on Him to roll.

He’s the Lily of the Valley, the Bright and Morning Star,
He’s the fairest of ten thousand to my soul.
He’s the Lily of the Valley, the Bright and Morning Star,
He’s the fairest of ten thousand to my soul.

Friday, May 16, 2008

The Ilion, 1879-1955


Smith H. and Annie L. Mallory (left below) most likely conceived the idea of a grand home in or near Chariton not long after their arrival in 1867. They were, after all, Lucas County’s richest family (when the 1870 census of Chariton was taken, Smith reported that he owned real estate valued at $81,550 and personal property valued at $88,350, phenomenal affluence for Iowa at that time).

Smith was just then at age 32 launching a career as railroad entrepreneur and banker, so an adequate setting for entertaining would be needed as well as a home that spoke to the family’s increasingly prominent position in southern Iowa.

Their first home, on multiple lots at the current site of Chariton High School, certainly was comfortable, but did not differ markedly from the frame homes of their less affluent neighbors.

Smith’s first great building project in Chariton was the Mallory Opera Block on the northwest corner of the square, begun in 1872 and completed in 1873. It was one of the finest building of its type in Iowa when complete, mixing business fronts on the ground floor and offices and lodge rooms on the second and third floors with the grand auditorium and related spaces that filled the majority of the building behind the commericial and social façade.

We know that the Mallorys had in hand plans for a new house during the spring of 1874 because The Chariton Patriot of 30 April, that year, reported, “S.H. Mallory has the plans for his new residence ready. He thinks of building on his farm north of the depot. The house will cost upwards of $25,000.” We cannot be sure that these plans were for the Ilion as built, but most likely they were.

Since the plans were prepared so soon after completion of the opera block it is tempting to conclude (as I have) that the same architect designed both.

Although neither the opera block (below) nor the Ilion can be definitely attributed, the most likely candidate for their designer is William Foster of Des Moines, just then emerging as one of Iowa’s leading architects. He specialized at first in the design of opera houses and according to later newspaper reports designed “most of Chariton’s finest buildings,” concluding with the Lucas County Courthouse in the 1890s.


There are a number of similarities between the Ilion and another of Iowa’s doomed mansions, John Wesley Redhead’s great house in east Des Moines, designed by Foster during 1867-68 but destined to fall, like the Ilion, during the 1950s. The Redhead mansion was doomed by its location, stranded in its grandeur in what became a working-class area as the city’s elite moved to the hills west of downtown.

During 1880, when construction of the Ilion was well underway, Smith (in partnership with Henry Law)commissioned Foster to design a double-front business block (40 feet wide and 85 feet deep) on the east side of the square (Chariton Patriot, 12 May 1880). This building, although it has lost its galvanized iron cornice, still stands as the only surviving Mallory structure in Chariton.

The date stone once embedded high in the Ilion’s tower reads “1879,” so that must have been the year construction began. The Chariton Leader reported on 5 July 1879 that “the work on Mallory’s fine brick residence is progressing slowly but surely.” Finishing work on the interior still was under way during March of 1881, when The Chariton Democrat reported on the 12th that “Willmarth is doing the graining in Hon. S.H. Mallory’s new residence. He is an artist, and is doing a job that any one should be proud of.”

The Mallorys themselves apparently moved into the Ilion during the summer of 1881 after Annie and daughter Jessie, who had spent much of 1880 in Europe, returned home.

This photo is the oldest known of the house and probably was taken during the early 1880s. It shows the house as originally built. And it shows the house from it’s most flattering angle, looking from southeast to northwest. Viewed head on from the south, the house always appeared rather tall and narrow, the west façade is just plain peculiar and the north side of the house never was intended for public consumption. But from the southeast, which was the direction from which family and friends most frequently approached, it is satisfyingly substantial and harmonious in its irregularity.

That irregularity was a key feature of the “rustic” Italianate style popular a few years before the Ilion was built, another reason to think it was designed a few years before construction began. It looks back in style rather than forward.

One major design flaw is evident in the photograph. There was no porch to cover the front door at the base of the tower. A canvas canopy has been rigged here to shelter the steps, but this cannot have been a convenient way to enter a grand house when it was raining or when ice or snow had slicked the substantial flight of steps. That difficulty was rectified in the 1890s when new porches were wrapped around the south and west facades and a porte cochere constructed so that guests alighting from their carriages always were protected from the elements. If you look at the photo carefully, you can see the “Ilion” name stone embedded in brickwork immediately above the front door and the “1879” date stone imbedded high in the south front of the tower.

The tower always was the most distinctive feature of the house and, topped by an elaborate wrought iron rail, it really was magnificent. However most of it was for practical purposes wasted space. It did provide a commodious vestibule, divided from the inner hall by another set of double doors. That inner hall then passed north between the drawing room in the southwest wing (its projecting bay window is evident here) and the family parlor in the southeast wing (at right) before curving, literally, to the west behind the drawing room where a beautiful but somewhat narrow walnut stair was located. Tower rooms on the second and third floors, however, were occupied almost entirely by the beautifully-constructed winding wooden stair that led up to an observation room within the mansard roof atop the tower. From there, access could be gained by ladder to an observation deck surrounded by the wrought iron rail.

The drawing room to the southwest was the largest and most elaborate room in the house with walls paneled in a vaguely French manner and a parquet floor suitable for dancing. This is where major events ranging from concerts to funerals were held.

Across the hall to the east was a smaller family parlor wrapped on the south and east by a fairly simple porch that probably had wrought iron columns and decorative arches. Projecting east from this porch (and linked to the house by an enclosed hyphen roofed by the porch) was an elaborate eight-sided solarium, originally with a mansard roof in the same spirit as the tower roof.

That mansard solarium roof had been replaced by the 1890s (perhaps at the time the house was extensively renovated) by what essentially was a shallow glass cap, perhaps intended to allow more light into the room below.

Interestingly, there were no doors from the family parlor onto the porch or into the solarium. Instead, the lower panels of the two south and the southeast parlor windows reached the floor, so that when those panels were raised it was possible to exit onto the porch or into the solarium. While it is possible that these were “pocket” windows --- meaning a portion of the lower panels would pass into recesses above the windows when raised to increase the height of the opening --- this would have been a neat trick to execute in a house with solid brick walls.

Speaking of walls, the major interior walls of the house were of brick construction, too, so it was an extremely solid building --- showing few if any cracks or instability 75 years later, when it was demolished. The basement was quite high and apparently double-walled under the main block of the house. The exterior foundation/basement walls were of quarried limestone and the interior, separated by a narrow space, of brick. This, too, was a William Foster trademark. He intended basements to be used by a home’s occupants, especially in the summers of an era that predated air conditioning. There are several references in writings about the Ilion to “recreation rooms” in the basement. There also was a wine cellar, perhaps in the base of the tower.

The house had five magnificent chimneys. The four in the main block of the house served fireplaces in the drawing room, family parlor, library and dining room as well as fireplaces in the bedrooms directly above. The chimney at the north end of the kitchen wing served cook stoves, one in the kitchen and one probably in a sub kitchen below. There may or may not have been a fireplace in the room intended for servants above the kitchen.

It is not clear if the house had central heating from the start. The presence of a working fireplace in every room suggests not, but on the other hand the technology was available in the late 1870s and there would have been no reason not to install central heating in a house this grand. By the time much later that anyone bothered to comment on heat, a boiler-fired steam system was in place.

The southeast family parlor wing seems to have been modified at some point, perhaps in the 1890s when new porches were built. Originally, the north part of the wing seems to have been a narrow hallway running the length of the parlor and separated from it by a timber-framed wall. The exterior door barely visible here in the extreme northeast corner of the wing, opening onto the porch just north of the solarium, apparently opened into that hallway under a narrow stair that doubled back on itself to reach the second floor. Anyone entering this door, probably intended for family and friends, could exit the hallway left into the parlor or right, into the library. At some point, the stairway and dividing wall were removed to create a larger parlor that was somewhat clumsy in appearance since the fireplace now was off-center in the east wall and the door onto the porch was uncomfortably jammed up against the north wall.

So the front “L” of the house contained the drawing room, family parlor, tower and central hall that curved west behind the drawing room. The north wing contained two rooms --- the library to the east (it’s bay window, identical to the drawing room bay is visible in the old photo) and the dining room to the west. The dining room’s west end projected from the main body of the house in a room-width bay with windows facing southwest, due west and northwest. There was no entry to the library from the main hall. Double doors led from alongside the main staircase into the dining room.

A narrow service hall seems to have been located between the dining room and the library to allow access from the hallway to the kitchen wing, which projected north from the north wing. This wing was lower than the main block of the house, as befitted its station as working quarters. The kitchen extended across the entire north end of this wing. Sandwiched between the kitchen and the main block of the house were a substantial pantry, a back stairway to servants’ rooms on the second floor and perhaps a bathroom. We’re just not sure how this part of the house was configured.

Projecting north of the kitchen wing was a highly unusual feature for this era --- a wood frame attached carriage house as wide as the kitchen wing and projecting slightly to the east. This structure could be accessed directly from the kitchen and no doubt made loading and unloading supplies easier. It appears to have had a second story and this may have been intended to compensate for limited storage space in the house. The Ilion did not have useful attics because of the shallow slopes of its roofs, so out of season clothing and other items that might in other houses have been relegated to the attic may, in the Ilion, have ended up in a loft over the carriage house.

There was a full porch along the east side of the kitchen wing, obscured here by ivy. It had columns and arches similar to those that wrapped around the southeast wing, but mounted on high bases to give the porch a slightly different look.

With the exception of alterations to the family parlor wing, the house does not seem to have changed much inside during its lifetime, but extensive exterior changes were made in the early 1890s, often credited to the Mallorys’ desire to entertain at newly-fashionable porch parties.

During that remodeling effort, the old porch across south side of the family parlor was removed and moved around to the east to extend the porch there north across the library bay window.

A new porch was built across the entire south front of the house and wrapped around the west side, extending across the exterior door under the main stairway before stopping just short of the dining room bay. A porte cochere extended south from this porch, straight south of the tower, allowing guests to exit their carriages under a sheltering roof and climb a gentle series of steps to the front door.

The porch had neoclassical columns, at odds with Italianate design of the main house, and never really quite fitted in although it endured for 60 years. Some alterations were made to the fabric of the main house when the porches were added. The roof of the drawing room bay was removed so that the porch roof could slope over it. And a stained glass panel over the front door was removed and replaced by clear glass to allow more light to enter the vestibule under the tower.

The quality of porch construction was considerably lower than that of the house itself, nor were the porches really connected to the fabric of the main house. That made them vulnerable and during the mansion’s long sleep after the Mallorys left in 1909, these new porches collapsed --- only to be restored by Ott Brown shortly before his death, after which both the house and those newly restored porches were demolished.

As most of us in Chariton know, the Ilion had a sad end. Smith H. Mallory died here on 26 March 1903 --- still one of Iowa’s richest men; but his trusted associated Frank Crocker, in the years after Smith’s death, speculated extravagantly with the Mallory bank assets and after Frank killed himself in November 1907, it was discovered that the bank was ruined --- and along with it many Lucas Countyans.

After protracted and bitter legal battles, Annie and Jessie Mallory fled Chariton finally for Florida in 1909, taking a substantial fortune and much of the Ilion’s contents with them. To settle massive lawsuits, they deeded to the family bank’s federal receivers the Ilion, its 1,000-acre farm and other real estate in the county.

Although it took more than 40 years, that doomed the mansion. It was never lived in fully again although farm workers were housed in it by Eikenberry and Bussell, who bought the property from bank receivers, until it became unfit to live in. Ott Brown brought the property from the Eikenberry and Bussell estates in 1949 and set about putting the house in order, even renting it out to a few families, but then he died. His heirs were interested in locating a housing subdivision on the Ilion grounds, not in the old house itself; and so down it came. Lucas County’s grandest home had stood for only about 80 years.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Mother Nature did the planting



After planting 60 geraniums (yup, I counted them) in various planters around the house and another installment of creeping phlox, plus mowing the lawn behind the old pusher, it was good to get out to Lime Creek this morning and admire someone else's handiwork.

I was extra careful on the trails, however, conscious of the fact that the Rev. Patty Aurand, pastor of First (UCC) Church in Mason City, took a nosedive out here on the trails Sunday afternoon --- and broke an elbow. Ouch. Don't want to do that.

These photos were taken on the Old Stage Run in the north central part of the nature center and if I could find my wildflower identification guide, which is in Chariton, or perhaps in Mason City or maybe somewhere in between --- wherever it is I can't find it --- I'd tell you what these drifts of little white flowers (closeup below) are.



Common woodland violet and jack-in-the-pulpit (one of my favorites) are below.




A wildlife photographer I'm not --- way too cheap to buy the camera with the lense I'd need to do justice to the following far-off glimpses of a scarlet tanager and browsing deer. But both the deer and the bird brightened my morning walk.


Thursday, May 08, 2008

Up a crick, Lime Crick that is



Or "creek," I guess, since I'm in northern Iowa right now and they sure do talk funny up here sometimes. Lime Creek Nature Center, to be exact, one of the stars in Cerro Gordo County's crown.

And this was a great morning to take a long walk out at the center, blessed with miles and miles of trails through all sorts of Midwest terrain --- prairie, savannah, woodland and down at the base of bluffs studded with limestone outcrops along the Winnebago River, once called Lime Creek and therefore the source of the nature center's name.

This was the week of a great Mason City City Council train wreck --- one of the worst I've seen during many years of either covering city council meetings here and there or editing others' reports of them. Yikes.

But a good brisk walk at the nature center was one way to remind ourselves of what a great place Mason City is to live --- despite City Council and even though it's not southern Iowa and can't quite overcome that deficit.

The photo up top is of nature center headquarters, which contains many informative displays and window-walled rooms that especially in winter are prime bird-watching venues.

Of course like much of "wild" Iowa there's not that much wild about it. Mankind of the European variety has been out here on these bluffs just north of Mason City since the 1850s, so it's been timbered, quarried, milled and brewed for more than 150 years. This was the site of Masonic Grove, where Mason City's first settlers landed so traces of humanity are everywhere, especially in the "badlands" where the devastating effect of large-scale quarrying are clearly evident. And most of the old growth here is second growth. Still nature is wonderously equipped to repair itself.

Theses are the remains of an old brewery, active until Prohibition shifted business away from legal brewers to bootleggers. The is the entrance to the cellar where beer was aged.

The little guy (or gal) at left up on the prairie was one of hundreds of birds, colorful and otherwise, nesting, getting ready to nest and singing up a storm in the process. Friends of mine who are bird watchers tell me that the Nature Center is one of the best places in North Iowa to pursue that avocation.

The layout of the trails at Lime Creek is especially good for hikers since most are loops --- in other words you really never need to repeat yourself to get back where you came from. Due north of headquarters is a broad expanse of prairie fringed by woods on the north and east. Savannah opens to the west. Immediately north of the savannah is an area test-planted to broad fields of various native grasses. To the northwest, a long loop around a quarry lake. East and north of the grass plantings is more woods, then the "badlands," a spooky area gradually being reclaimed after extensive quarrying. Woods and trails along the river run all along the east side of the center and continue south into Mason City where you can connect up with the city's own trail system if you're a really enthusiastic walker.



These limestone outcrops are along the river trail, never more than a few feet from the Winnebago River itself, running high this spring because of all the moisture we've had.



And finally, the wildflowers --- mayapples, bluebells and more.







So it was a great way to start the day and, by the way, if those good old boys on City Council decide they don't want that $9 million Vision Iowa grant they were squabbling about the other night --- I'm sure there are lots of folks in southern Iowa who'd be delighted to step in and take it off their hands.

And finally, isn't this a great way to be remembered? Lots of these sturdy benches have been placed along the Lime Creek trails, sometimes with unexpected results. Tim's daughter, Judy, told me the other day that she'd gotten a call from one of her dad's old friends who for one reason or another hand't heard of Tim's death --- until he happened upon this bench, located just where the prairie ends and the wooded descent to the river begins.