Discoveries…Southeastern Iowa

Day 1: Bloomington, Indiana to Burlington, Iowa

I stayed at the cheapest motel I could find for a flat $40. It was actually the second skeeziest looking place in Burlington – the worst advertised “all suites,” a claim of which I was skeptical, especially since the nightly rate was $45. The Midtown Motel was run by an earnest Indian man who didn’t ask questions. All night various cars pulled up the room next door, the passengers leaving after ten minutes. Perhaps being too cautious, I put the velour armchair against the door and the simple wooden chair against the window. I peeled all the sheets off the bed and slept uneasily. Mainly I remember a man yelling, “Get your pants back on,” but otherwise not much.

Day 2: Burlington, Iowa to Omaha, Nebraska via Southeastern Iowa country roads

Having woken up with no bullet holes visible, I said alhamdulillah and headed to Burlington’s main attraction, Snake Alley. Noted as “the world’s most crooked street” by Ripley’s Believe it or Not, the old road had very steep switchbacks so that horses could walk without getting spooked. Downtown Burlington had a great selection of Victorian era architecture, with several gothic churches close together. One of the churches was nearly destroyed by fire, though, an apparent recent arson.

Taking Highway 61 south to Fort Madison, I saw a billboard warning people not to let Mormon practices destroy Christianity. The town of Nauvoo, Illinois was just across the river, and was from where the Mormons began their 1840’s journey to Utah. I continued on Iowa Highway 2, part of the Mormon Trail.

“Saturday-Sunday: Menudo” was handwritten on a sign in from of a bar on Fort Madison’s outskirts. I took a turn toward the villages of Van Buren County.

The first village I came to was Bonaparte. I had lunch inside the Bonaparte Retreat, a converted flour mill with rustic type decorations: old signs, baskets, machine parts, and a stuffed rooster. Several geodes were on display, too. The elderly waitress asked if I was all by my lonesome, and I was. She said, “Well then, no one will bother you while you eat” and she laughed. There were two specials, pork or baked chicken, in addition to burgers and the like. I got the chicken with potatoes and peas. A few oldtimers ate their meals and smoked afterwards. Much too quickly, I paid and went outside to sit by the Des Moines River flowing behind the restaurant and to look at the statues. What was this mushroom headed wizard all about? The town looked so quiet; hardly anything was open. Even the Hel-Mart was closed. I’d heard on the radio that a 23-year old man allegedly came to the town last fall and killed his whole family – 1% of the town. That must have been hard on everyone.

I headed toward the next village, Bentonsport, which had about 50 people. In its heyday, I read, the town had as many as 1500 people. I wonder why these people stayed. Most of the people tended their tidy yards full of ornaments and flowers. I parked in front of the general store, hoping to find a Coca-Cola. No luck, since the store instead sold rather amateur-looking crafts. In the back room were random antiques, if you can call a falling apart 1940’s novel an antique. I went across the street and looked at the Butterfly Garden on the riverfront, constructed with stones. The main street was arranged in order to make the downtown more historic-feeling. Some buildings had been moved, and one, Iron and Lace, was constructed out of old barn beams.

The Iron and Lace storekeeper came in from gardening in order to help me. She warned me about the big storm coming, and I said I’d probably have to stop looking at the villages and get on the road to Ottumwa soon. She told me about the pottery, which all had a similar design. Betty, the potter, collected Queen Anne’s Lace flowers and then pressed one onto each piece before putting in the fire. The flower burned away, and left white remains. I picked up a cat ornament, since I want a cat even though I’m allergic.

I took Highway 1 to Highway 16. Still no storm, but I was driving a little faster now. I saw a lot of farms with clean, new-looking big houses and kids playing out back. I stopped in Eldon in my continuing search for pop (After all, what if I got stranded in the storm? I’d need a pick-me-up.) Every building on the historic-themed main street suggested that the house that inspired “American Gothic” by Grant Wood was nearby. I remember seeing the original painting in high school, and I’ve always been inspired by his Stone City artist colony project, where despite his training in Chicago and Europe, he returned to Iowa to teach art.

I knew I would get lost trying to retrace my footsteps back to downtown, but I followed the signs to the American Gothic House. I parked by the sign and frowned. Was this it? The building looked to be under construction, like an Uzbek “historic” building essentially knocked down and rebuilt on parts of the original foundation. But the real building was across the street. The American Gothic house had been heavily restored to look like it did in the 1930’s. The building was too delicate to enter, so I took some pictures and then tried to find my way out of town.

Miles later, the road split in two directions, both leading to empty prairie. I backed up and looked around, hoping to find a sign. Instead, I found a guy on a tractor, who told me to take the gravel road until it met the highway again. As I went down the bumpy road, it felt like I was on a speedboat. I was still concerned about the rain, and if the road washed out I may have well been in a boat of sorts. Still, I stopped to take pictures, and I even had to stop for a wild turkey crossing the road.

Back on Highway 63, heading from Ottumwa to Oskaloosa, I’d heard there’d been flooding. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. By then, I was getting closer to the interstate, so I made one last stop, in Pella.

I had no expectations for the previous towns I’d visited, but Pella was a place deep in my imagination. I’d heard about the Tulip Time Festival for years, and had made many roadtrip plans that were thwarted by bad weather. I imagined a garden paradise, with tulip fields blanketing the parks. There’d be windmills, cute period costumes, and bakeries with hard to pronounce treats.

The reality of Pella was somewhat as I pictured. The tourist booth lady said that they’d moved the Tulip Time Festival up a week, since it was getting warmer earlier (some sort of global warming thing?), but there still managed to be a big freeze late in the spring, and most of the tulips died. It seems like that’s always the story. I walked along the main streets, with their souvenir shops selling hats, chocolate and old lady t-shirts. I went into one bakery, but left after finding nothing unusual. I drove to a pond where the best collection of tulips were said to be, and took some pictures of the flowers and the windmill. But really, there were better tulips in Bloomington, Indiana.

It was time to take I-80 home. Not only did I miss the big storm, I haven’t seen a raindrop since Monday.