Nothing like an amazing 2-hour ride along miles and miles of rugged mountain terrain and through years and years of history to encourage respect for the renowned “Irish Prince of Alaska.”
“Give me enough dynamite, and snooze, and I’ll build you a railroad to hell.” Alaska’s White Mountain Pass looked pretty heavenly to me, although according to history it was hell building a railroad to the summit during Alaska’s gold rush years. Most thought it couldn’t be done.
Nothing like an amazing 2-hour ride along miles and miles of rugged mountain terrain and through years and years of history to encourage respect for the renowned “Irish Prince of Alaska.” It was all interstate driving from Chicago to Springfield, three hours of nondescript farmland laid bare by winter’s chilly disposition. A right turn just south of Springfield put Hannibal, Missouri, America’s self-proclaimed Hometown, within easy reach. Jimmy and I had the boyhood home of Samuel Clemens (yes that would be none other than Mark Twain) in our sights.
The dusty, quiet riverboat town of Hannibal, settled in the early 1800s on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, had an uncanny resemblance to Twain’s fictitious hometown of St. Petersburg, right down to protagonist Tom Sawyer’s infamous white-washed picket fence; HURRY! The celebration has begun; admission is FREE for the rest of the week, through Sunday, April 24th!
Turn off all electronics! Grab the kids, the pets, the passport, the camera, and the car keys and get out of Dodge. America awaits, in all her beauty, glory and history; it’s National Parks Week! Pick a site, any one of over 400 National Park sites covering a plethora of possibilities and make some memories for FREE. Yes, a plethora of possibilities, including . . . It was an invitation we couldn’t refuse.
The boardwalk stretched as far as the eye could see, steeped in mystery courtesy of Florida’s marvelous mangroves; and was quiet as the breeze off Miami’s nearby Biscayne Bay. Spooky quiet with all those trees harboring all manner of wildlife ready to pounce. Let’s just put it right out there.
I’ve never been a big fan of the Prairie Style of architecture; conforming to one design aesthetic, from structure to style, from rooftop to windows to walls, carpet to furniture to dinnerware feels more socialistic than democratic. In fact, for years I wasn’t really a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright. It has always been a challenge separating the brash, outspoken, self-serving man from the architectural genius. By his own admission Wright professed, "Early in life I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose the former and have seen no reason to change." Okay, so I didn’t hold back; but there is still more Wright than wrong when it comes to the 20th century’s most influential architect. And what do you know; I’m willing to share my thoughts (the good, the bad, and the ugly) on the matter. Right here, right now. Happens every time I tour one of FLW’s homes, in this case his own home in Oak Park, Illinois; I come away with a deeper appreciation for the man’s genius despite the man's personal shortcomings. I promise to try to stick to the genius qualities. I was 25 when my husband and I bought into the American dream. The open floor plan of the 3-bedroom ranch centered round a great room flanked by modest kitchen and equally modest dining room imbued our little starter home with the grandiosity befitting our growing family and dreams.
At 25, this east coast momma knew very little of America’s greatest architect (wait for it!), or of the prairie covering America’s heartland that proved such an inspiration for the organically inspired Frank Lloyd Wright (tah-dah!). Then again, what do any of us really know at 25? Well, actually, at 22, Frank Lloyd Wright knew considerably more than most, particularly this flunky. Well, okay, I graduated college by the time I was 22, which is more than I can say for the master (FLW took a few courses in civil engineering at the University of Wisconsin in 1886, but never received a degree; it’s questionable the self-made man even graduated high school). I delivered my first child just weeks shy of my 23rd birthday. Then again, so did FLW. Well, actually Wright's wife Catherine did the delivering; but I digress. My point is (yes, there is one buried beneath all the reminiscing), . . . The Rock. Uncle Sam’s Devil’s Island. Hell on Earth.
Call it what you will, the infamous 22 acres of bay front property called Alcatraz was once home to the most incorrigible of U.S. criminals; and home to a parallel universe even Mulder and Scully would have found very intriguing. The faint layers that create the inside of the inside of the inside.
Whoa! Are we now talking the flip side or have we gone over to the dark side? Obviously I’d wandered into the deep end of the pool again; happens every time I visit Chicago’s Cultural Center. Last time it was Shawn Decker’s surreal crickets chirping, insects buzzing, and rain falling urban forest experience; very peaceful New Age on the top floor of the Cultural Center. This time it was . . . The church appeared a bastion of medieval might, a Sampson among the Goliath skyscrapers dotting the 21st century landscape up and down Chicago’s famed Magnificent Mile. For years and years I’d been unsuccessful in finding the time to visit this religious outpost in the far reaches of the city’s trendy boutiques, chic designer studios, and iconic department stores. What can I say? A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Shop till ya’ drop. We’d dropped a bundle at Chicago’s Christkindlmarket the day before. Today was a new day, our last day in the Windy City, a girls’ weekend away sanctioned by my beloved and embraced enthusiastically by my sister, Lynda, who’d come up for the Thanksgiving holiday (and a little shopping, of course). We’d cabbed it down to the Drake Hotel for breakfast (wish we could have stayed at the Drake, but that wasn’t in our budget; the Drake is very old money – we’re obviously not that old – offering very decedent and delicious food), then headed out on foot several blocks south along Michigan Avenue to cram in all the shopping and sightseeing we could manage before catching a train home. But I digress. Except for Chicago’s Old Water Tower, Fourth Church (officially Fourth Presbyterian Church) is the oldest building on Michigan Avenue north of the Chicago River. Yes, she’s a baby by European standards. The congregation was founded in 1871 and occupied two earlier church buildings before moving to Michigan Avenue in 1914.
In church speak, a century is synonymous with grand and Gothic. I should be so lucky when I turn 100. Fourth Church was indeed grand and Gothic; and an oasis of peace and tranquility in the midst of the chaos and commercialism that comes with most 21st-century cities during the holidays. Although the venerable lady did have a few surprises up her sleeve, too. I never figured the Gothic gem for something so avant-garde. Then again, what would I know, average, middle-class, Midwest Momma, when it comes to avant-garde? The Chicago landmark was studded with relics from religious, historical, and cultural sites around the world, 149 artifacts total, each embedded in the base of the 36-story limestone facade. The stones were as impressive as the towering neo-Gothic structure destined in 1922 to be “the most beautiful and distinctive office building in the world."
So much for take only memories, leave only footprints. |
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