Tripping Over Utopia

Ingmar Bergman's Winter Light: Certainly Uncertain

2009-07-09T00:34:00.012-04:00

The film begins with a close-up of actor, Gunnar Bjornstrand. He is framed within the space of a vaulted ceiling, and his face is flanked by matching windows. Everything is symmetrical, even, calm. His eyes are cast downward. His voice is level and monotone. Thus, we are introduced to the main character of the film, Reverend Tomas Ericcson.

Immediately, I recognize the words that he is speaking, and strangely enough, I find myself anticipating (as well as noting any slight variation) every word of the ritual he is performing. It is a Lutheran communion--the same communion that I had participated in at my family's church since I was confirmed as a young teenager. Bjornstrand recites the words in an apathetic tone that could only genuinely spring from countless repetitions. As a matter of fact, it is a tone that is quite familiar to me from my childhood. As the congregation begins the Agnus Dei, the frame is filled with each of the faces in the small congregation, and Bergman offers the kind of voyeurism that is prohibited for youngsters eager to watch the different faces and lives as they converge in the sameness of the service.

At the risk of spoiling the film's ending, Bergman concludes the narrative, which condenses the span of only three hours into a feature-length one and a half, much the same as he began it: with a liturgical service. However, within that frame of time, a parishioner takes his life, a "spinster" confesses her unconditional love to this emotionally-hardened Pastor, a "hunchback" reflects on the dying Christ's emotional state of mind, and the Pastor expresses his doubts about the existence of God. In listing the events of the film so minutely, I do not intend to diminish their importance to the theme or impression they held. On the contrary, each of these events are absolutely essential to the composition of this narrative and are quite extraordinary occurrences against the mundaneness of everyday life. However, they are tidily bracketed by the parenthetical worship services that are presented as nothing more than mundane.

In true Bergman fashion, his narrative does not strike any particular chord of opinion. Rather, the voices and faces and environments in the film harmonize into the complexity of reality that cannot be cleanly labeled, codified, and categorized. I wouldn't dare to attempt a revelational interpretation of this film or even so much as an extraction of his message. Still, I am compelled to sort out my impressions in the hopes of snagging a glimpse of some sort of theme that Bergman might be portraying.

It isn't as if Bergman doesn't offer plenty of obvious symbolism within the film. The names, for instance, reflect the general disposition of each character. The doubting pastor is named Tomas. The oft-complaining but loving mistress, Marta, recalls the sister of Mary in the New Testament who noted to Jesus that she did all of the chores while her sister sat at his feet listening. The fisherman that kills himself is named Jonas Persson, which as has been pointed out by others is similar to the English John Doe. And, the assistant hunchback is named Algot, a name that appears to combine the Swedish words for elf and Goth. Additionally, foreshadowing the announcement of the fisherman's death, Tomas stands in front of a sculpture that includes a skull and bones. But, these details only serve to enrich a story that is much more intriguing and perplexing. Intriguing because extraordinary things occur around/to Tomas and perplexing because, in the end, nothing is presented as different.

I am incessantly bugged by this similarity, yet simply by the sameness of the beginning and end, I realized Bergman invites a comparison between a "before" and an "after." I could accept that Tomas would almost mindlessly repeat the words of the ritual before acknowledging his doubts, but after finding the relief of releasing controvertible and impossible beliefs I couldn't understand his persistence in continuing with the service in the end. The film historian, Peter Cowie, finds this ending optimistic as Bergman's "hope for the future," and while I eventually found that I agree with this assessment, I would pose that my reasons are not those of Cowie's. He relates the austerity of the ending service to Tomas's need to "go back to basics" after Marta's letter essentially deconstructed him, his love, her love, and their relationship. However, I would rather credit Bergman with a much more complex narrative in which the threads of the conversation with the fisherman, Marta, and in the end, the assistant hunchback overlap and intertwine into a coherent structure that Tomas can finally grasp.

In the beginning, the very human issues of desperation and impotence in the face of tragedy and immenent death dangle in Tomas's consciousness as unaccountable certainties. And, the one certianty he hopes to rely upon remains distant, "silent." There is a veil of denial over this reality in the first service. Then, Tomas is confronted by both the fisherman, Jonas, and his former mistress, Marta, both demanding some affirmation of certainty, some reason for their pain and ultimately why a creator could be so cruel. It is an ongoing philsophical debate, "The Problem of Evil," and Bergman captures this debate, holding it in suspension before the viewer as a problem that is never answered by the clergyman (or even Bergman for that matter). Tomas offers neither consolence for Marta nor affirmation of good for Jonas. Instead, with his entire existence as a pastor on the line, he asks an almost impossible question, "If there is no God, would it really make any difference?" He continues, turning to Jonas with a facial gesture that suggests his revelation will help, "Life would become understandable. What a relief. And thus death would be a snuffing out of life. The dissolution of body and soul. Cruelty, loneliness and fear--all these things would be straightforward and transparent. Suffering is incomphrensible so it needs no explanation. There is no creator. No sustainer of life. No design." And then, the light heightens; the clouds parted in Tomas's understanding of the world, and he asks, "God... why have you forsaken me?" At this point, I couldn't determine whether Tomas was asking or reflecting. The words were sterile as if he was repeating them in comtemplation.

This scene is followed with a cut to Tomas entering the sanctuary again. He approached the railing of the alter, and the sunlight glints around his body, shining brilliantly as he drops the floor coughing under Marta's gaze. With the words, "Now I am free," I return in my mind to his previous question, and my thoughts promote the notion that he must be facing this question with only more questions.

This notion became much clearer as Tomas prepared for his second service of the day and Algot tasked the pastor with more questions. Only, Algot was not searching for some certainty. His certainty remained in his faith. His question was one of interpretation, asking the pastor's opinion on Jesus' suffering, "Wouldn't you say the focus on his suffering is all wrong?" Algot proposes that the abandonment and lack of understanding on the part of the disciples must have been far more painful for Jesus. "To be abandoned when you needed someone to rely on. That must have been excrutiatingly painful." Then, in dying, his cry--the same words earlier asked by Tomas, "God... why have you forsaken me?"--exposes his doubt in the grips of death. With Algot's reinterpretation of this story, there are no clear lines drawn for Tomas's reaction. Thus, as the final interactions unfold in the last minutes of the film, I can understand why Cowie would come to his conclusion that Bergman must have thought, "continue...if only to reach one person." That reading is there, and it is accessible: Tomas gives the service in a turn from his doubt to an acceptance of God's silence as a part of a larger scheme.

But, in a lovely pluralistic manner, the ending is neither definite nor positive. It is, instead, empty of certainty. Tomas had been exorcised of his need for certainty earlier in the film, and I am not sure that could be so easily reversed as simply as in the relaying of a story. Perhaps the literal translation of Bergman's title, Nattvardsgästerna, to The Communicants is more helpful in its English translation than Winter Light. The communicants gather in ritual, in communion, in commune, in community. They depend on one another and this structure of the church for support, understanding, and tolerance. They depend on Tomas to reinforce this structure, to offer a certainty that they insist on finding, and though the veil of uncertainty is lifted for him in the end, his realization of the uncertainty of everything perhaps allows him to continue the service. Tomas's monotone voice remains. Bergman offers the same in this ending, find what you need: certainty or not.

Buñuel's Viridiana: Idealism and Resignation

2009-07-01T01:11:00.022-04:00

After watching Luis Buñuel's Viridiana last night, I decided against trying to sort out my thoughts and impressions. And, I only realize that this inaction was indeed a choice now as I attempt to do just that. Why wouldn't I write my thoughts? What could be keeping me from assessing a film that, in fact, I could not remove from my thoughts?

It was fear. I am afraid of what I might actually uncover about myself and all of my idealism that I constantly try to dust up on its lonely shelf. As I sit in this apartment, hearing the noises of my unruly neighbors slamming doors, trying to ignore the soaked and slobbery pitches of voices in the hallway, strategically managing the dog's walks so as to avoid the typical late night crews that loiter around the door, who am I kidding? Who am I in this building, this contribution to utopianism by a capitalist society? Tossing around the heroic phrase, "affordable housing," seemed so just and sincere when I was in undergraduate architecture school. Even as I dedicated much of my graduate studies and research to housing, from Constructivist communes to nineteenth-century French immigrants in mid-western America, I maintained a determined hopefulness in the idea: providing reasonable means to a livable community. Then, the opportunity to actually inhabit a place, built on such morals and idealism, came about when we moved to San Francisco. Without doubt, I was ecstatic at the thought of living first-hand, knowing the realities of community that I hoped it might offer.

And what are these realities that it offers? I trust no one in this building except the two guys that are on staff during the day (and of course E when he is here). I cringe when I see someone trying to figure out the call system outside the vestibule as I approach. Will they try to sneak in behind me? Will I have the nerve to look this person in the eyes this time and say, "No. You have to be buzzed in"? My blood boils when Curtis down the hall begins his late-night, fuzzy yelling for his keys. While all of these emotions and frustrations surfaced most recently with a 5 am building alarm (set off by a man who decided to pop a sprinkler with a baseball bat just to annoy his next door neighbor) seeing Viridiana forced me to confront them.

Most of the buzz about this film centers on the Spanish government's ban on the movie (released in 1961) until 1977. It is noted as blasphemous, anarchical, grim, and hopeless. I would not contest any of these responses to the film. In fact, those are many of the reasons I wanted to see it in the first place. I was not, however, prepared for the blow held in the second act of the film.

The narrative begins in a convent, where novice, Viridiana, is ordered by her Mother Superior to visit her benefactor, her uncle, before she takes her vows. Struck by Viridiana's resemblance to his late wife, Viridiana's uncle first convinces her to don her aunt's wedding attire (last worn the night of their wedding and her untimely death, except for her widower's occasional fetishistic explorations). Then, following with his scheme, he drugs her, planning to rape her in her sleep, all in hopes of keeping her there at his estate rather than taking her vows. While he does not follow through with the rape, he lies to her the next day, only to retract the lie even as she fearfully and anxiously tries to escape. Before V has a chance to leave the town, her uncle hangs himself. End act I.

With what I can only suppose is guilt, perhaps shame, or maybe even some small bit of resignation, V does not return to the convent. Instead, she invites several people, living without homes in the nearby town, to come to the estate. She offers food, clothing, medicine and shelter for everyone, and I found quite interesting her establishment of rules and conduct for this forming commune. From the moment they arrive, this group bickers with one another over quarrels already formed in their lives in town, and it seems that unrest is constantly bubbling just under the scrim of V's order. When V, her cousin (the bastard son of her uncle to whom he left the estate), and Ramona (her uncle's long-time, trusted servant) leave to settle some remaining business in town, the order of V's commune breaks down in a spiral of actions that ultimately end in burlesque-like dancing to Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," quarrels that turn into fights, and the near-destruction of the mansion's dining room.

It was at this point that Buñuel's film slapped me in the face. I found myself almost at a loss for reaction to this behavior. It seemed to be absurd. Yet, it was too close to my reality to be satirical. My mind turned immediately to scanning for a humanistic response. My proverbial gut was certainly of no use. In fact, I was confused by my initial "gut" reaction: I agreed. I thought, yes, of course this is what happened. And, then, I realized...why would I think that? This is obviously an outrageous portrayal of real bourgeois expectations. Leave "them" to their own devices and civility goes down the drain. That's absurd.

But, if that's absurd, then why am I so irritated and wound up about the behavior of my neighbors? Why did "where's the civility" spin through my thoughts at 5 am that morning? Do I have bourgeois expectations? Where's my idealism now? My socialist convictions are plucked at every day, yet I can't bear the thought of abandoning them all together. So, are these convictions only strong when I am removed from the very situations that drive them? Or worse, is Buñuel's depiction really the inevitable?

Perhaps if I was removed, I might be able to concentrate my thoughts on the limitless intriguing facets that this movie offers from the sacrilegous "Last Supper" to the conflation of the imagery and sounds of renovating the mansion with the Angelus given by Viridiana for her guests in the field. No, I am stuck on the precipice of idealism and resignation. I think it is this confrontation that would probably spread a great smile across Buñuel's face.

Nanook of the North

2009-06-25T00:48:00.007-04:00

Even among its apparent success by the shear commonality of names and phrases from Nanook of the North, I learned of this film only through a reference made in an article about a movie made forty years later. Although I had heard "Nanook" several times previously (was it in Chocolat...did Juliet Binoche's daughter name her imaginary kangaroo, Nanook?), I did not realize that this was a person's name and not just any person's name. Nanook is the name of a man that is the protagonist of a movie that has been labeled as the first documentary feature. Certainly, being the first, Flaherty did not intend to create this genre--now a near-lonely, dissident-sustaining ingredient in a homogenous mixture of contentment and luxury. Nor did he intend to create the sort of ethnographic telescope through which the other is so easily distanced. Still, even in all good intentions to bring to the western world a view of Inuit life, Flaherty's edited series of footage from the years he lived with Nanook's family in northeastern Canada fails to be the missing link he hoped it could be. Watching the television short that featured his widow, referred to only as Mrs. Robert Flaherty, I learned his intention was to bring the spirit of "these peoples" to the world, to establish connections that superseded culturally established norms and to welcome the authenticity of the smile.

While I found myself engaged in the drama of hunting seals, fish, and walruses and awed by the dexterity and efficiency of Nanook's igloo building skills, I remained at a distance from him and his family, viewing, almost voyeuristically, his daily actions. How could I continue to watch? Yet, if I didn't watch, how could I know? Instantly, I was torn by one of the thousands of contradictory questions I continue to face, all with the same basic clash of principle: the (modern) pursuit of knowledge against the (post-colonial) understanding of the anti-humanitarian consequences of that very pursuit. These feelings coelesced as Mrs. Robert Flaherty described her husband as an "explorer" who "discovered" Nanook and this ancient way of life. Of course, with such language we can only assume he has visually staked claim of this life, but after watching Nanook build the igloo in less than an hour (according to Flaherty), I don't want to "unknow" this.

Learning further that Flaherty had staged much of this "documentary," I cannot say that I am surprised. Not even the name, "Nanook," is accurate. Of course, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he was not making a "documentary," but a feature film for distribution in movie houses--for entertainment. Nevertheless, I cannot agree with his "desire to preserve a sense of ancient traditions before it was too late." This, I suppose, helps me to understand more that nagging sensation as I watched the film... something is unfair. I should not dispose of the facts that Flaherty carried with him a developing kit and a projector so that Nanook and his cast of a family (I say that because they were indeed cast for the parts) reviewed the footage daily and provided critical feedback for future shooting. As with any situation deserving of time spent contemplating its effects and causes, it would be ridiculous to point fingers at Flaherty as some invasive monster. Nor do these thoughts elevate this minute discussion to utopian expectations of harmony and equality. Rather, as with any film worth watching, it raises more questions than it can put to bed... continuously... no matter the condition of humanity, be it ancient, modern, or post-colonial.

Scales of Utopia

2007-07-11T16:51:00.000-04:00

Today concludes my mom's and my trip through utopias with a quick tour through American Revolutionary history before heading to the airport (and what has become a very, very long adventure). Beyond our expectations, our final touring escapade in Philadelphia was surprisingly befitting to our journey. I had never thought about the foundation of the United States in such terms, but after focusing so closely on idealistic landscapes/societies for the past several weeks, I couldn't help but think about the aspirations of the Revolutionaries as being anything but similar. In that little room of Independence Hall, there were hopes for a better life not unlike Cabet or Owen or Rapp or even Mother Ann Lee...more humane, more inspired, a society closer to what might be considered perfect. Although from an economic standpoint, the Utopian Socialists and the early American Revolutionaries remain fundamentally very different, the dream for the perfect community pervaded both and inspired action similarly. Trying not to sound trite or corny, it inspires me as well.

Prize of the Labyrinth

2007-07-09T17:59:00.000-04:00

Trying to offer up a little hope for today, Mom and I scouted New Harmony, Indiana, yesterday afternoon after settling into the hotel. Although I had been to New Harmony before, Bethel's promises of a utopia had left a bitter taste, and I thought it best to just "check it out" to be sure that we wouldn't be disappointed again. Yesterday was a lovely afternoon, and the setting sun provided very nice warm tones for pictures. Since we had spent most of the day in the car, the walk around New Harmony was a welcomed stretch. Of course, the museum had closed before we arrived, but the empty village proved perfect for afternoon ambling and picture-taking. More so than my previous visit in my third year of architecture school, Richard Meier's Atheneum appeared a little ridiculous with its aggressively anti-contextual white porcelain panels. Yet, in the setting sun it was oddly stunning sitting atop the well-kept grass knoll, and I could hardly help myself taking a shot from every angle.

On my previous visit, I had not taken the opportunity to explore the town of New Harmony; so, as we wandered I realized that I had missed the best that this former utopia had to offer. Throughout the town were little structures that recalled their precedents in Harmony, PA: simple, rectangular three-story structures either clad in wood siding or exposing their original brick and wood construction. Although not a part of the Harmonists' original village-scape, New Harmony also boasts a quaint Main Street that is not too different from most mid-western, southern Main Streets with local businesses and storefronts. What I found more interesting, however, was the preserved Harmonist structures dispersed among the more modern additions. Quite functionally, the Harmonists had named their streets according to whichever important public building occupied it. For instance, the Granary was on Granary Street, the Tavern was on Tavern Street, and the Brewery would have been on Brewery Street. At the corner of the latter two streets, we came across a relic of another manifestation of New Harmony, the secular New Harmony under the guidance and leadership of English economist/industrialist, Robert Owen.

Owen purchased New Harmony from the Harmonists as they departed for Pennsylvania (what would become Old Economy) to reestablish their eastern trade economy that had flourished in Harmony but had somewhat dwindled in their second home of New Harmony. As a secular communitarian, Owen's society found the existing communal dormitories and kitchens to be quite appropriate, but, as they were a community of intellectuals rather than divinely inspired laborers, they did not experience a stable, sustainable economy like the Harmonists. Not too unexpected, the Owenite community unfortunately failed after only a few short years, letting much of the property fall into disrepair.

While this is entirely understandable as an explanation of their failures, I found the docent's (or "interpreter" as she preferred to call herself) reflections on the situation practically (I mean in logical terms) unacceptable. As we stood in the steamy attic space of a dormitory, she explained a little of the Owenites' focus on education and pursuit of a secular utopia. Quite honestly, I was a little perturbed by her "interpretation." In discussing the Owenites' choice to dematerialize the nuclear family, she nearly came to tears as she was obviously condemning this experimental choice to separate children from the family and husbands from wives. She might be surprised to find that this was not an exceptional idea of Owen but actually stemmed from a longer tradition of the French Utopian Socialists of the eighteenth century. As if celibacy was a better idea! Regardless, I would have to say that this "interpreter" was kind and more than generous with her time; therefore, it would be awfully rude of me to continue with this minor point. After everyone had departed the guided tour through the village, she offered to take Mom and me by the Granary to drop in and see the space. This was definitely worth the patience. What an extraordinary room with four-feet thick walls on the lowest level that reduced to merely wood-framing at the upper level. At one time the space had been divided into (I believe she said) four or five levels, but they had been removed since. A treat indeed!

By this time, Mom and I were about to gnaw through our own arms so we took off to find an eatery. We landed in the quaint little Yellow Tavern along Tavern Street and had a nice time (bread pudding included!) in the dank and dusky room. After spending the rest of the afternoon anticipating an enormous thunderstorm while strolling around catching other sights not included in the guided tour (Philip Johnson's Roofless Church, the original Harmonists' log cabins and sheds, and a public garden dedicated to one of Owen's descendants) we headed for the iconic Harmonist Labyrinth that lay just outside of town. I had never been in a labyrinth, but it reminded me of driving in Ohio...no road signs and a bunch of green. More seriously, though, after walking through it for only a brief time, I can better understand how it served the purpose of a meditative space. The hedges are tall enough to feel privacy and separation but low enough that you are not separated entirely from the rest of world in the sublimity of an enormous hedge-wall. What a nice analogy for the Harmonists as well as other separatist utopianists.

A typical Harmonist structure with the entrance on the side rather than the street to prevent dust from the street entering the house

Contemporary architect, Richard Meier's, Atheneum (a place of learning and education, quite appropriate in relation to both societies that occupied this "utopia" along the Wabash River)

The residence of Robert Owen on the corner of Tavern and Brewery, after moving a group of scholars and intellectuals to this former Harmonist utopia

The granary which was a common storage house used by the Harmonists. The "interpreter" did not believe that the Owenites used the Granary for such a purpose.

The Yellow Tavern

A typical log structure built by the Harmonists upon arriving to this new "utopia" along the Wabash after leaving Harmony, PA

A barn that was typically attached to the log structure and housed livestock

Philip Johnson's Roofless Church

Mom's little head wandering through the labyrinth

HoSPITable?

2007-07-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

When one reads, "The Colony offers the public an opportunity to step back into a time when colonists lived by the golden rule and shared their crops, clothing, crafts and even their earnings. Spend a day with us: exploring an 1800s colony with a mapped walking tour, visiting shops and museums, enjoying homemade meals at the Fest Hall, taking part in festivals and parades, reliving a way of life when no doors were locked and yours was also your neighbors" it seems reasonable to expect at least a half day's worth of interest, right? Well, at least now I understand better why Bethel, Missouri's website posts very selective views of their historical buildings...wouldn't want to give away all the little town's secrets before you make the long journey to the middle of nowhere only to experience what might best equate a snake in the mailbox. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but I do not exaggerate the unexpected spit and bite that we found in Bethel.

Certainly, we were a little surprised to find the "tourist office" (e.g. the General Store) as well as streets of Bethel seemingly vacant, but the cold stare welcome that we received upon entering the Fest Hall was almost as hard to swallow as the clouds of cigarette smoke that hung and seemed to have been hanging in this community eatery since ol' Wilhelm Keil, pipe in mouth, had founded the town in 1844. This was not the first strange restaurant-entering encounter Mom and I had had on our trip so far. In fact, just yesterday at the little restaurant in Bishop Hill, we stared down the hostess before Mom caved in with a feeble, "Two, please?" And, let's not forget the timidity of the Marshalltown-ites...but this was, without question, far from timidity. It was out-right annoyance that we could read on the only three visible Bethel-ite faces.

According to the tourist information that Bethel provides both on their website as well as the distributed brochures, 117 people live the community of Bethel, but entering Bethel on this Sunday morning did not exactly conjure the days of a "successful communal colony" nor did it exactly exude the liveliness of a tourist destination; rather, in it's emptiness I more expected to see Clint Eastwood or at least a tumbleweed amble down the street accompanied by Morricone's eerie theme. On this quiet morning, it seemed that 114 of these Bethel-ites were tucked away in the church just down the street leaving the pleasant proprietors of the Fest Hall to serve as the town's tourist-welcoming committee. This time, "Two, please?" did not suffice to jump start any sort of hospitality, so Mom and I assumed two seats at a table anticipating that this might direct our intentions of actually eating there. I suppose that we were successful in this regard, but we were not so fortunate with our requests. Apparently 10:15 is fifteen minutes too late to order from the breakfast menu and forty-five minutes too early for the lunch buffet (complete with macaroni and cheese...). How could we not know this? It's not as if all the tourist information had lead us to believe the possibility of finding a "homemade meal" in Bethel. (Direct quote from website: "Fest Hall Restaurant -- open seven days a week from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., the Fest Hall Restaurant serves some of the best home style food in northern Missouri. Simple, good quality fare, generous portions and reasonable family prices make it a meal worth the trip to Bethel.") After waiting fifteen minutes for a coffee, Mom and I decided that the glass of straws must have spilled on their second draw for who would help us, and we laid a couple of dollars on the table on our way out the door. Since the General Store/Tourist Office was either closed for the day or forever, we had no hope of retrieving the promised audio walking tour of the little place. Instead, we gave ourselves a nice little self-guided tour finding at least the most amusing aspects of the town. Perhaps they do have a sense of humor here?

Architecturally, it was evident that this had once been the site of a nineteenth-century communal colony. The simple brick structures recalled several of the communal dwelling examples that we had already seen in Amana and the Harmonists villages, but the short-life of this commune testifies that the Keilites may not have possessed the determined industrious spirit of their northern communal neighbors. If they were anything like their descendants, their only determination was to run people out of the town...or at least to just make them incredibly uncomfortable.

We left Bethel before noon and decided to trek towards Indiana, a different state and hopefully different kind of folk.

Doubleness, doubleness, dumb

2007-07-07T23:21:00.000-04:00

Illinois’s rolling hills of corn would astonish even the most farm-accustomed eyes. As we drove through corridors of corn-lined farm and county roads on our way to the next utopia, Mom and I could hardly believe the necessity of such an abundance of corn, but at the same time, we were taken by the beauty of the consistent color and height of the stalks as they doubled the shape of the land. Dotting this landscape occasionally would be the striking contrast of a red barn with double silos, but out of this steady, almost predictable, repetition of views emerged the vision that was and remains Bishop Hill. As we crossed the "mighty Edwards River" from the north and topped the hill, we were greeted with the sight of a large white structure that resembled a strange hybrid of a barn with its double gable and an opera house with double staircases leading to its upper floor. This building proved to be the most interesting among the surviving structures of this community established in 1846 as it was the first permanent structure of Erik Jansson and his followers. In order to reach the promise of freedom in the United States, the Janssonists pooled their profits from the sale of their farms and property in Sweden and collectively purchased passage and their new property in the New World. The survivors of the trip followed by a harsh winter built this oddity of a structure that served the dual functions of living and worship. Small rooms in the basement and ground levels each accommodated a single family while the entire space of the upper level was a sanctuary. As the docent pointed out, the economy of the rooms was sufficient for a family since the space was only used for sleeping; all families dined together in a large structure known as Big Brick (now destroyed), and the remainder of the day would have been spent laboring. The remaining assemblage of buildings was arranged quite interestingly around a central area that has been reserved as a common green space, cemetery, and memorial grounds. It was once the site of the original dug-out dwellings in which the residents of Bishop Hill stayed during the first winter, but it now serves as an excellent vantage point for observing the arrangement of this community.

Mom and I began our morning in Bishop Hill at the bakery where we enjoyed the latest round of baked goodies (lingonberry and orange muffin and a cherry cheese danish) and moved from there to the Bishop Hill museum where we met a descendent of an original colonist who had countless stories of growing up in post-colony Bishop Hill. Most impressive along our walk to the museum, which was just a few blocks outside of town, was the general attention to landscaping paid by almost all of the current residents. There is certainly pride, not only their Swedish heritage which is prominently demonstrated by the numerous native flags along the sidewalks but also in the dedication to preserving this town by actually living in it. While there, we also visited the Colony Hotel that once accommodated up to 10 guests. These were not tourists like the Shakers saw visiting their church services and observing the inspired believers; instead, almost all of these visitors to the Illinois prairies were potential buyers of the goods produced at Bishop Hill. Also on our self-guided tour of this community we visited the steeple building/meeting hall, and lastly, we had lunch at PJ Johnson's Dining Hall where the special was, of course, Swedish Meatballs...yum.

After lunch, we took off through more fields of corn for what I was hoping would be the highlight of my utopia visits. Nauvoo, I knew, would contribute to the evolving “double” theme of the day as it was a double-layered utopia itself. First founded by Joseph Smith and his brother, Hyrum, this Mormon settlement was established in a bend of the Mississippi River and prospered for several years. After the murders of the Smith brothers, however, many of the Mormons left the Illinois establishment and headed west for Utah. My interest in Nauvoo begins here where large sections of the town were sold to another group of utopianists searching for a place that might become the realization of what Plato, Thomas More, and Charles Fourier had only dreamt of. Etienne Cabet and several hundred followers (known as Icarians after Cabet’s fictional account of a utopia named Icaria) came to Nauvoo with an already somewhat broken idealism since their first settlement in the plains of Texas had proven almost disastrous, but upon arrival in Illinois, their hope resurged. I had read several listings of a museum that documented this group, and before arriving I had attempted numerous times to contact someone about a visit. My hopes resurged upon arrival in Nauvoo, like those French settlers, when I saw a sign that heralded an Icarian Living History Museum. Sadly, as I rounded the corner of the cornfield I saw no museum, only a house with a kiosk in the front yard. Bravely, I walked onto the porch in hopes that this might be the gem of my trip, and just as my knuckles approached the door, I realized that the small green post-it with faded handwriting clarified that this was now a private residence and no longer a museum. At least, now, the ignored phone calls were explained. Nauvoo turned out to be just as much a bust for me as it had been for the Mormons and the Icarians.

Mom and I didn’t let this get us down though. We headed for town in hopes of finding treats, and we lucked out. We found a funny little place that we overheard had been in operation for three generations. It resembled a movie theater from the exterior but was a soda fountain on the inside. After refreshing ourselves with a bowl of ice cream, we set out to explore the rest of Nauvoo finding that most of the preservation energies in this little town had been spent on its Mormon heritage. The temple at the edge of town overlooking the Mississippi River was lovely in its monumentality, and we had a pleasant time driving through the Joseph Smith Historic Site dodging children, listening to a group of bagpipers, and snapping photos from the cool interior of the car.

Leaving Nauvoo, we traveled along the shore of the Mississippi, something that sounds much more ambitious than it really was. It was beautiful, but I can’t resist including here the unspeakably irritating drivers that populate both sides of this section of the Mississippi River. Maybe it’s in the water. Because of the short of interest we found in Nauvoo we arrived at our evening destination much earlier than we had planned. Hannibal, Missouri, birthplace of Mark Twain, turned out to be a charming little place, also along the Mississippi River. Mom and I ordered take out from a little local pizza place downtown and explored the shops as we waited. It was a nice, quiet evening…we were only almost run over by speeding, unyielding downtown drivers maybe three times.

Bruised Idealism

2007-07-06T23:59:00.000-04:00

After countless mentions by Mom of my inattention to food on our trip down to Arkansas, I made certain this time to include meals in our travel plans. So, our first stop on this second leg was the renowned loose-meat diner (infamous according to the Lemasters who have told me about stopping in on almost every trip to Iowa). Taylor’s Maid-Rite in Marshalltown, Iowa, I’ll admit, definitely did not disappoint, even though we thought we might never find it in the little town. Thanks to the guys at the hardware store between 3rd Street (where we thought the restaurant was) and 3rd Avenue (where the restaurant actually is), though, we finally found the joint. We got a nice taste of what might be considered traditional American fast-food heaven – you know, the stuff that makes everyone at least hopeful every time they drive-thru Wendy’s – but we were pleasantly surprised by the flavor of Iowan hospitality. The timidity of the wait staff was astounding; perhaps it was because Mom and I were out-of-towners incapable of properly ordering a Maid-Rite (a failure that we didn’t realize until we overheard two locals spit out “I’ll have the special low and dry” – in Maid-Rite terms I assumed that “dry” meant without mustard, but “low”…well, I’m still baffled). This is hardly something to complain about, though, since we never sensed any rudeness, only stuttering timidity. We left Marshalltown almost in silence, but when I finally brought up the awkwardness of the whole meal, Mom whole-heartedly agreed. We remain unclear, however, in being able to pin-point exactly what it was that made Marshalltown such an odd experience; so, I’ll try to do better in describing the rest of our day which deserves much more clarity.

Taylor's Maid-Rite in Marshalltown, Iowa

Without getting lost once, we drove to Amana, Iowa, the first “utopia” of our return trip as well as the first of the seven Amana colonies that we planned to visit today. As expected, it was a quaint village nestled, as all other mid-western utopias have been, in a green, lush river valley. Unlike the other utopias that we’ve seen, however, a feeling of complete contradiction thickened the air. While it is not strange that commercialism has settled comfortably into all of these once thriving communes, the conversion of Amana into a promenade of antiques and folk arts and crafts was unquestionably disturbing, and I hesitantly admit that Mom and I participated almost whole-heartedly in Amana's new identity of the twentieth- (and now twenty-first-) century.

Streetscape in Amana

I clarify with "almost" because I felt the tinge of hyprocrisy creep up as I added the fifth bag of small purchases to my collection. Only when the triumphant haze of the satisfaction of finding the "perfect gift" thinned did I take a moment to reflect on the former reality of Amana and, consequently, the cause of its dissolution and the creation of the present Amana. Established by German Pietists of the Community of the True Inspiration in 1855, the seven colonies of Amana boast the longest-lived communist experiment in the United States, only to dissolve, ironically, in the wake of economic hardships of the Great Depression. For almost eighty years every resident of the seven colonies was provided with housing, food, clothing, and tools by the collection of communal apartment houses, communal kitchens, the woolen factories, and the various tradesmen's workshops. The new Amana, however, divided the properties and locked the doors to many of these facilities changing not only the lifestyle of the residents but, likewise, the space of community. While I did not collect these thoughts in time to ask the current residents of the Amanas, such as the amazing Amanan descendent who oversaw the muesums of the cooper's workshop and one of the communal kitchens in Middle Amana, where the space of community is defined today, I could reasonably assume that it remains strongest in the churches, which maintain the religion of the original colonists, and I would even add that community is found in the daily operation of these museums and various shops. Certainly, we witnessed such sharing in both the Kitchen Sink in Amana (quoted as offering a collection of 'original' Amana crafts as well as gourmet kitchenware - both of which were difficult to determine amongst the clutter of knick-knacks) as well the High Amana Store. In both shops, day long exchanges of gossip that one might expect to (or hope to, I might add to be the case if you were a local) hear continued as customers (ignorant of the names, faces, and histories under discussion) streamed in and out.

High Amana Store, built 1857

Grape trellis along the Cooper's Workshop with the Communal Kitchen in the background (Middle Amana)

Bakery in Middle Amana, still in operation, once standing between the two acres of vegetable gardens and the communal kitchen

Wash House near the Historical Museum, Amana

Yet, as I collected that fifth bag of goodies at the register, I found disappointment hard to resist. Disappointment not just in the conversion of these spaces into their present contribution but disappointment in myself for encouraging this conversion, which could be so reductively represented by my growing collection of bags. A phrase that I had heard in the museum's beautifully compsed introduction video kept ringing and repeating in my head, "...setting aside their bruised idealism ..." Of course, the narration continued with optimistic tones of the success of Amana since the distribution of property and shares, but the combination of "bruised" and "idealism" stung in its relevance. Even as I salivate at the thought of such prolonged beautiful cooperation among a group of people, I realize the difficulty of maintaining it, and this realization stings like a punch in the thigh or a table corner to the hip. Regardless of these thoughts, however, I have come away with a nice collection of treasures crafted in Amana including material goods, an exercised idealism, and let's not forget the tasty treats from the Chocolate Haus.

At the Chocolate Haus you can watch the candy makers dip caramel apples and make fudge among many other goodies

We ended the afternoon driving through the plains of Iowa and crossing over into Illinois so that I might catch a sunset view of Eero Saarinen’s cor-ten beauty in Moline. The John Deere Corporation Headquarters was relatively easy to find along John Deere Road where one might find John Deere Credit Union, John Deere Farm Supplies, or even the John Deere Gas Station. We arrived just in time to catch the last glints of sun as they reflected off of the tinted glass onto the velvety red surface of the patina-ed steel and, I kid you not, a doe grazing on the nice complimentary greens. Does John Deere Corp. plan this for visitors? Probably just coincidence, but I’d rather imagine that it’s a feature of the ride.

Shake down

2007-06-23T21:06:00.000-04:00

Today concluded our first trip through “utopias” with two preserved Shaker villages that remain in Kentucky. Last night we stayed only minutes away and, according to the map, on the same highway. But, it came as little surprise that we had a difficult time actually getting there as we had planned this morning – again, no signs. This only added to the long series of annoying events that we had tolerated since we woke up which included the towel rack flying off the wall and landing in the shower with me and waiting in line behind the tennis ladies checking into the hotel. Once we arrived, however, it was the most pleasant time among the patient people who reenacted Shaker life in the village, and we had perfectly cool weather to boot.

Our first stop in the village was at the Farmer Deacon’s house where we learned about the Shaker’s herb industry.

I was most impressed with the various devices used to press, dry and mix the herbs, but I'll admit that the clever little corner mousetrap came in at a close second.

Herb press and bottle-corker; Mouse trap ironically shaped like a wedge of cheese

Needless to say probably, I was completely taken with the simplicity of solutions in the construction of all of the buildings, especially the window details.

Throughout the day events are scheduled that recreated daily life and the song that I caught in the Meeting House proved to be a real treasure of an experience. Due to the simple, restrained interior, the sound reverberated off the hard wooden surfaces reflecting the woman's voice and filling the tall interior space. I can hardly imagine what it must have been like when the village was populated and more than a hundred voices sang in unison there.

Hanging sconce on interior of Meeting House, the benches around the perimeter were reserved for visitors.

Techno-savvy Mom in front of the Meeting House

Just across the path was the Center Dwelling House that was occupied by both men and women but maintained strict separation between sexes by providing not only separate sleeping spaces , but also separate doorways and separate staircases(the mirrored duality of everything gave the spaces an odd feeling). There would be no chance of touching, much less even brushing by the opposite sex. An enforced tenet of the Shakers' beliefs was celibacy. According to the session that we caught giving an introduction to Shaker life, it was one of three "C's," the other two being Communism (leave all your Cold War thoughts behind here; their communism had nothing to do with Stalin's definition; rather, it was purely an economic ideal where everyone contributed therefore providing for everyone in return; amazing selflessness!) and Confession (every act of work or labor was also considered an act of penitence and prayer) that defined all their interactions. Unlike the Harmonists, the creators of the villages that we witnessed yesterday, celibacy was only required of Shakers as they did not so specifically expect the world to end within their lifetime. Celibacy was a choice made upon becoming a Shaker (but it was certainly a choice that contributed to the few numbers of Shakers today).

A highlight of the visit was definitely the water house that pumped water to the dwelling houses accomplishing indoor plumbing long before the rest of Kentucky. The small building was one of the most delightful spaces that I had been into on our trip. It was dimly lit from above emphasizing the texture of the unfinished interior surface of the brick and log structure and the wooden barrel that held the water.

Thinking that we were running out time, Mom and I bustled to finish up touring each of the little structures that remained and grabbing up handmade gifts at the shop.

Since we knew that South Union’s Shaker Museum closed at 5:00 and it was already 1:00, the three hour trip (which didn’t include getting lost) would give us only an hour at the village. However, on the road as I was frantically checking the time on my phone, I realized after two hours that it was only 2:00. Hmmm…oh, yeah! The time change!

Actually road signs?!?! What are we supposed to do with those?

So, we had at least two hours to spend there (fortunately there were actually road signs along the way), but we thought that we were going to have to use it all when the docent who took our admission money began her introduction spiel. Lillian Mae, though entirely capable in her memorized speech about Shaker life at South Union and the surviving Family Dwelling that we were standing in, took forever to finish her sentences. I must say that we were more than relieved when we realized that she would only give us an introduction and let us roam the grounds on our own.

Because the village had been sold to a private landowner in the 1930s, South Union’s buildings did not fare as well as Shakertown’s state owned buildings.

Several of the structures had been torn down and the landowner had attempted to repair/renovate some of the buildings combining remains of the demolished. Regardless, enough survived that we could determine the original planning, and where structures had once stood the museum had placed little markers. It was a bit uncannily like a graveyard and somewhat of a somber note to end our search of utopias, but appropriate, I suppose, nonetheless.

By the time we left the village, Mom and I were starving. Again, I had failed to plan time to actually sit down and eat, but since we were so far ahead of schedule now we decided that we should stop somewhere and have dinner. We stopped in Russellville, KY, to fill up with gas, and I thought I would ask inside about a “local” pizza joint, just assuming that every town of this size probably has one. The woman inside said, “Of course, honey, we have a Pizza Hut just down the road there, a Papa John’s around the corner, and I believe we have a Domino’s now…Hey (yelling across the store to some faceless person) don’t we have a Domino’s now?” She said this as if the enormous signs that towered over the little town beside the interstate weren’t obvious. Luckily, a long-time resident came to my rescue realizing that I didn’t just mean “local” as close-by. He suggested Sylfoni’s, which he claimed had been there since he was a teenager. Perfect, now where is it? He was so nice that he offered to lead us there…besides it’s on his way home, he said. He was right about the quality of the pizza; it was amazing. Only we had to wait 45 minutes for that amazing pizza in the funniest little place that Mom and I swore had not changed anything but the toilet-paper roll since it was built in the 70s. It was a saving grace for our tummies though and a perfect bookend to our little trip down through America’s utopias. (Of course, I shouldn't leave out the oddity of seeing the strangely familiar Jefferson Davis Memorial that was in the middle of no-where Kentucky nor the incident of driving by just in time to catch a policeman unholstering his gun and shooting whatever little creature that he and two carloads of people were huddled around...eek.)

This was the last stop we made until we pulled into our driveway in Arkansas. Stepping out of the car, we were happily greeted by an enormous swarm of hungry mosquitoes. Welcome home!

Finding Utopia

2007-06-22T19:27:00.000-04:00

Yesterday’s schedule was intense, but the plans that I had made for today turned out to be nearly impossible to accomplish…so, we readjusted, skipped the first “utopia” which would have been completely out of the way northwest of Cincinnati, and chose to hop down through lower Ohio. First stop was absolutely the middle of nowhere and showed no signs of former idealistic aspirations. Perhaps we didn’t try hard enough to see them in Oakland, OH, but we did drive around a little only to find cornfields and an abandoned general store.

"Utopia" #6...Wow

Just off the interstate, however, we caught sight of a little store that claimed to sell Amish goods and freshly made deli sandwiches. It was raining; we were hungry; it seemed like a good idea.

I was not prepared for the greeting we received upon entering. With a deep front porch and windows mostly obscured by the piles of on-site packaged nuts and berries, the store was dark and resonated with the sound of a small Lionel train and miniature environment that occupied most of the central space and housed more packaged goods in its underbelly. After my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed something moving above my head on what seemed to be a mezzanine overlooking the space. When I looked, who did I see but the President himself, greeting Mom and me and addressing our presence with an incessantly waving hand. But, that wasn’t the strangest thing that we saw in Oakland. In fact, we actually witnessed a deer sing “On the Road Again” from his mounted little head on the wall. Without question, this far surpassed that creepy little fish.

Lunch was yummy, though, and we thoroughly enjoyed our chicken salad sandwich and pulled pork bbq which was harmoniously accompanied by “Boot-Scootin’ Boogie” intermittently interrupted by the whistle of the Lionel, which was piped through the speakers in the dining area as well. One might say that it was just a bit surreal.

The next “utopia,” we knew, might be a little difficult to actually find since we thought that all that marked Union Village was a historical marker. We figured that we would stop in the little town that was near and just ask around if anyone knew where the Shakers lived in the area. We didn’t know that we would be so fortunate to acquire a tour guide almost immediately in Lebanon, OH, but almost as soon as we spotted the local historical museum a local spotted us with our cameras and offered up his own advice on Lebanon’s attractions.

Our most helpful tour guide leaving us to explore

First, he suggested that we visit the ice cream shop down the street, an antique store that was just around the corner, and, most certainly, the oldest operating hotel in the state of Ohio, which was conveniently located just across the street. The Golden Lamb, visited by at least twelve presidents throughout its long history, did not disappoint, especially Mom, since its upper stories were reportedly haunted by a little girl named Sara who apparently sets all framed pictures on the wall just a little crooked.

The Golden Lamb and the room that Sara haunts

As we guided our selves through the little tour, we actually came across evidence of Sara. Oooooooo…..Mom got goosebumps.

We then crossed the street to ask someone we thought would be knowledgeable about the former Shaker village in the vicinity. Lucky strike, it was only up the road a little ways and had been converted into a retirement home. Interestingly, three of the original Shaker buildings survived, but when we stopped to take a photo of the historical marker, we were shaken a little by the intact, stiff, dead birds around a tree that was originally planted by the Shakers. We left.

The retirement village that now occupies the former Shaker buildings...also take a closer look below the tree

On our way out of town, we realized that the schedule was even tighter than we thought, and if we wanted to make it to Shakertown, KY, before the end of the day, we would seriously have to drive faster than 100 mph. So, we regrouped and decided to visit both Kentucky Shaker villages tomorrow and at last, eat a real meal and perhaps even rest some. But, first, we had to hit Utopia. Along the way, and with little expectations, we came across signs (yes, actually signs!) directing us to Moscow, OH. Too curious to pass up, we stopped in to have a quick drive around. It was a quick drive around, and we saw a couple of brick buildings that appeared to be old, but the highlight of the town was, without doubt, the nuclear plant that was piping steam just next door.

According to the Ohio map, Utopia actually exists along the Ohio River on a pleasant little highway that follows the water’s edge. It was so much fun to drive, in fact, that I got a little carried away taking the curves fast enough to make Mom nervous. As I passed a car, I also passed Utopia. It exists alright but only within a stretch of about 50 feet. I turned around, crossed the highway with little fear that a car would actually hit me, took a picture with the marker, and called it a day for utopias.

I promised Mom Utopia, and I didn't disappoint

Our day did not end there, however. Other than the brief detour that we took around Lexington trying to locate a mysterious by-pass (it appeared Kentucky entered the no-signage pact with Ohio), much more strangeness awaited us at the little restaurant in downtown Lexington, where, as Mom and I were recounting our day, a nice stranger sat at the bar beside us while we waited for our table. Conversation appeared to be normal (besides the difficulty understanding his trailing, slurred sentences), until we declined his offer for our dinner and his company. Apparently, Mom and I insulted him by honestly not wanting to have dinner with a completely random person. C’est la vie. Regardless, we had the best dinner, actually the only dinner, of our trip. I would say that the sweet potatoes and mint juleps made it, most definitely. Our faith in strangers was thankfully revived as we left the parking garage where the woman taking the money held the most enjoyable conversation about the filthiness of handling cash and catching colds…Now that was genuine.

What did that sign say?...There was a sign?

2007-06-21T23:16:00.000-04:00

Today has been almost completely consumed with signs. Not only are we are convinced that Pennsylvania and Ohio have a strange, unexplainable aversion to posting street/road signs, but the signs that were posted certainly questioned the sign's function of providing helpful information. This is not to say that "MAGGOTS $1.00" just outside Zoar, OH, wasn't useful information, but when we came across "Eutopia" after searching for State Route 65 within the 15' stretch between the two arrows pointing at each other in Monaca, OH, we knew that we should remain a little skeptical.

Thanks to Elmore and Dre at a car repair shop, we finally located the highway just 100' from where we were standing. Only, we had to drive two miles down the road in the opposite direction to find the turn around that took us back in the direction we were actually after.

The day began much more successfully, however, when we arrived at our first destination: Harmony, PA. Founded in 1804, this little place just south of a small river was the first established community of German immigrant, George Rapp, who had become disappointed in the political engagement of the Lutheran church in Germany but more importantly, believed that the Judgment was to occur in his lifetime. He and a group of followers, the celibate Harmony Society, established Harmony as their first place of preparation for the inevitable and lived as a cashless, communal society. It was the most quaint little place that still emits an unavoidable air of community. Our first encounter in the town was a group of about six children and one adult marching from the church on Spring Street holding a colorful collection of construction paper cutouts held together by remnants of crochet/knitting thread. We found out that they represented the entirety of the local Vacation Bible School. Unfortunately, we arrived to Harmony about an hour and a half too early for the local historical museum, but thanks to the genuine pride that the present-day citizens have in their little "utopia," we were able to piece together much of the history through the proliferation of signs posted on the original buildings of the Harmonists. (They must not participate in the no-sign policy of the rest of Ohio.)

Our second encounter was a bit more voyeuristic, but we witnessed community in Harmony again when a local drove by a woman watering flowers on the street, stopped the car in the street, chatted and even asked jokingly to come water his flowers in his yard. It was such a pleasant moment to observe in the quiet late morning, and it seemed that they didn't even really notice Mom and me obsessively taking pictures of this almost sickeningly cute place. Two Harmon-ites (to distinguish them from the original inhabitants) just down the hill did notice us, though, and by the time we reached their little store that framed a gateway for the town (along with Otto and Gert's 5-and-10), they were sitting on the porch of what appeared to be the former General Store but had been converted to an antique shop that boasted "Air Conditioned Comfort 74 degrees!" waiting to give us directions to some other "real interesting buildings" in the area. Although we wanted to see the Minninite barn just down the road, we had an agenda to follow and Utopia #2 awaited our visit.

Not much remained of the New Philadelphia Society's Monaca. Their aspirations for an alternative to the Harmony Society's third community just across the Ohio River did not entirely come to fruition; they only succeeded in lowering the already diminishing Harmonists' community (celibacy - final judgment + time = shrinking population). More interesting to modern visitors to this area was this preserved community of Old Economy. Mom and I arrived there just in time for a nice rain shower which made the tour of the interiors of the very functional, simple structures so much more interesting. Much like the Shaker's, the Harmonists made quite a bit of their furniture, but they also purchased several pieces from outside the community (especially for the leader's home where visitors to the community would be entertained). The Harmonists were certainly economically savvy as well as industrious, developing a highly successful textile industry, and, as their basement coffers demonstrated in the late 19th century, their decision to refrain from individualized wealth allowed for a communal wealth that was extraordinary. One of the most interesting aspects of this community that impressed me was their inclusion of a Natural History Museum within their community that displayed the advances of modern science as well as taxidermied animals from all over the world (including a kangaroo!) We also visited Rapp's house (the leader's dwelling), a typical dwelling, the communal kitchen, the feasting hall (an enormous vaulted span), the blacksmith's shed, and the wine-cellar (crazy cool space with mostly original wooden barrels and a really intriguing pully/rail system for hauling the barrels out of the cellar). Too bad to say that the battery in my camera died and I used Mom's camera but we can't upload any photos yet.

By the time we finished with the tour, we were starving...so we wandered around Ambridge and came across a sweet little cafe that had just been renovated. The sandwiches were fresh and yummy, but the two folks working there were out of this world nice and helpful. I only asked for a quick point in the direction of our next destination, and they both dove onto google and starting looking for better routes to Zoar, OH (of course, a place neither had heard of before). Luckily they spent awhile (including a phonecall to a mom for suggestions on routes) because a really nasty storm swept through and blew over several trees/limbs in town.

We made it out of town safely and ended up in Zoar, OH just in time for a lovely post-rain sunset that made all of the buildings glimmer and reflect warm tones that made it all the more quaint. Again, we missed the museum hours, but to our surprise, Zoar had also posted several signs and had a fantastic little hand-out with a brief history of the Separatists of Zoar (biggest interest being the separation of church and state) including their participation in building the levee that protects the town today. Oddly, this place uncannily reminded me of a little town on the White River in southern Arkansas, Clarendon, that I stayed in for a summer planning study -- the overhanging vegetation, some of the homes/gardens, and especially the levee.

The end of the day couldn't have been better than the beautiful views and light that we had on a little country road that ran along a ridge. Because we had to travel east for awhile, we had the sun at our back as we drove through several nineteenth century towns full of large, Victorian homes. No stopping for dinner...we just made it to a hotel and crashed. Utopia is exhausting.

Totally Pampered

2007-06-20T18:32:00.000-04:00

So, we landed appointments for a massage! Afterwards, I took Mom for a taste of what I consider to be State College's biggest treasure -- ice cream at Meyer's Dairy. With Butter Pecan and Black Raspberry in our bellies, we had to take it easy for the afternoon though.

yummy...ice cream

Later in the evening, we took off to watch the local minor league team, the Spikes, play against the Williamsport Cutters. It's a tough call to say what was the most entertaining moment -- when the obnoxious guy behind us complained about my friend, Garrison, leaning forward to chat during the down times of the game, the potential for a ball to the head behind home plate, the fireworks, or the rumble between the mascots.

Sadly, although Spike kicked the lumberjack's pants, the Spikes lost to the Cutters 1-0.

PickUp...the trip begins

2007-06-19T11:30:00.000-04:00

Due to a slight delay in Memphis, Mom's flight came in later than expected. But, this was the last hitch -- not to say that it was too much of a hiccup. First things first, we had to eat. So, we headed to downtown Philly for a yummy Philly Cheese Steak (when in Philly...) followed by a bit of shopping. Then, we navigated our way (a bit precariously) to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to catch a quick glimpse at their treasures and, yes, pretend to be a super-heroic, smashed-in head, world-class boxer for just a moment. You can imagine...Mom running up the staircase, turning around, and shaking her fists in the air victoriously. We closed the museum down and were kicked out at the last minute (not too unusal for our museum visits).

We scrapped our initial idea to stay overnight in Philly and opted to go on back to State College to try to plan a massage for Wednesday. Still awaiting an appointment...