We Got Us Some Kicks

Tuesday was the day.  Kicking around in a cute suburb of Chicago with family is one thing, but hitting the open road on my own with two loose cannons was quite another. The morning came early and I woke up anxious. When anxious about something I often turn to Google. Sometimes this serves me well, and sometimes this increases the anxiety into Godzilla-panic. The Google Gods smiled; reading about how to properly merge comforted me. Get up speed (as opposed to my instinct to apply the breaks, even coming to a complete stop, until the freeway is totally clear of all other vehicles), and don't cross lanes until my line becomes dotted. 

We have a GPS contraption (named Samantha), but my husband broke up with her and I couldn't find her in the trunk. That's how it is with relationships. So I had GGPS (Ghetto GPS).  I pulled up the instructions on my phone, wrote them out on a piece of paper, and taped them to the dashboard.  

In one of the Austin Powers movies Mike Meyers tries to make a three-point turn, and it's this brilliant scene of him going forward an inch, then reversing an inch, then forward an inch, then backwards -- for an obscene amount of time -- definitely referencing classic British comedy. I am to road tripping what Mike Meyers is to three-point turning. I criss-crossed that town more than once -- pulling into driveways, u-turning, getting on and off ramps... I cannot tell you how grateful I am that my kids are still too young to realize what was going on. Though the exterior Halloween decorations were somewhat telling ("Hey, there's that zombie again!")

Finally, we were on our way. Our first Route 66 stop was Wilmington, IL to see the Gemini Giant in front of the Launching Pad restaurant. The restaurant is closed for the season (and for sale), so the parking lot was empty as we pulled in and sprang from the car with cameras flashing. We were that family. And I felt proud. Sure, he's 20 feet tall and hovering over the main road, but I found him! It was a promising start. 

Next we went on to Odell, IL where we found the historic entrance to the underground tunnel that was used by kids going to school and church goers because the traffic on the Mother Road (notice that lingo?) was too heavy. Also in Odell is a little museum inside a recently restored Standard gas station. There is certainly something to be said for going off-season -- we were the only people there and chit-chatted with the volunteer working (she shared some facts about the station -- how the locals rallied to keep it -- but mostly she wanted to ask me questions about NYC. Apparently, she's been once and is trying to get her daughter to go again because she wants to see the 9/11 memorial). The kids bought Route 66 pins and promptly pinned them on, and I bought a Route 66 CD which actually sucks. With the cute volunteer standing out front waving us off, we continued on the original stretch of the road on to Pontiac, IL. 

I think it was on this stretch that I might have gotten turned around and ended up in a gas station to fill up, grab some beef jerky and whatever crap the kids wanted for "lunch" and recalibrate my GGPS. While standing in line among some rough characters Judd the Red Chicken blurted out, "Since we don't know where we are, should we get a map?" I gave him the shut-up-face and then sprinkled the crowd with the kids-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-'em laugh. While walking to the car I explained that we do not need people to know that we are idiots traveling in the middle of nowhere by ourselves. My kids stood there nodding with their Route 66 pins glistening in the sun. "Just get in the car."

Pontiac has a lot to offer to Route 66 warriors, but we were in a bit of a quandary. The day was getting away from us, and we still had a lot that we wanted to do. We went into the old fire house that has been turned into a Route 66 Hall of Fame museum -- behind it is the Wishing Well and some original bricks from the road. The museum is actually pretty cool because in cases along the walls you can see the stops that still exist, and some that don't, and all the coordinating kitch. The Boy had been interested in the police station that is shaped like a handgun, and I'm glad that we saw the display first because it had a birds-eye view. 

Off to find the actual abandoned police station! Again, the criss-crossing... she said three lights... did I count wrong... better turn around... crap, a one-way street... one street over... a dead-end...u-turn... now where the freak am I... Finally, I found some random guy and asked him. "It's out around nothin'," he concluded after giving me directions (turns out I just hadn't gone far enough), and then he climbed into his enormous truck. Feeling kind of creeped out in the neglected parking lot with leaves swirling around the overgrown weeds it dawned on me that the nice fellow who gave me directions now knew that a very lost female was wandering around the abandoned police station... "GET BACK IN THE CAR."  "Ineedanotherpicture." "Ijustgotmyseatbeltoff." "GET IN THE FREAKIN' CAR." 

We followed the historic highway for a while -- sometimes the road is the same, and other times you can see the aged road right next to you. Eventually we got back onto I-55 in order to make it into Springfield with enough time.

Springfield, IL. The historic area where the Lincoln residence is is quite cool. At one point the area was getting rather shabby, so the park service bought up the block and have tried to return it to what it would have looked like while the Lincolns lived there. It is a noble attempt to create context around the house. We went on a Ranger-led tour through the residence and I couldn't be more proud when the Ranger asked my kid what president Lincoln had been, and "Sixteen" popped out of my offspring's mouth. That comes from The Dad. 

We saw the actual room where Lincoln was told he had been nominated for the Republican party, as well as his desk where he worked. This kind of thing is motivating. In the gift shop I bought myself a reproduction Lincoln election button. The kids chose not to become Junior Rangers there because the payoff was a plastic badge rather than a patch (they are organically aware of the relationship between energy output and payback). However, I required that they look through the booklet in the car anyway in order to solidify some of the things that we learned. On one of the pages they were to draw a picture of Lincoln, and The Girl drew our 16th president with "hairy pits" which led to a discussion on hair that they would soon be growing on their bodies. "I don't care about any of the other places, I just want a moustache," said Judd the Red Chicken.

The plan was to go straight into St. Louis from Springfield, by way of the world's largest ketchup bottle, but as we got closer to Mt. Olive I couldn't help myself and exited. Rewind the tape: when we were leaving for our trip to Maine a couple of weeks ago (feels like a different lifetime) The Dad had something that he had to finish up at work unexpectedly, and the kids and I found ourselves poking around in the Sunnyside, Queens branch of the NY Public Library. I was rather grumpy about having gotten us packed and out the door, only to be hanging out at a library one borough away... but I did discover that that branch has an excellent biography selection in the children's section (also discovered that the bathrooms smell like rotting pee even though you have to ask for a key). Specifically, I spent my time reading a book about Mother Love Jones that I decided to order for May 1st (if you want to get a head start it's called, Mother Jones and the March of the Mill Children). 

Mother Jones is buried in Mt. Olive. It's a tiny town and I followed the main road (off of the very long exit) to the cemetery. Fortunately, there were some signs or who knows what the Wrong Direction Genie that possesses me would have made me do. I drove the one side of the cemetery, turned and followed the front, and then turned down the other side. I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Just as I was about to turn around a red truck pulled up alongside me. We rolled down our windows:

"Looking for Mother Jones?" Red Truck
"Yes. We match the profile, huh?" Me
"Yep. It's the big monument in the back -- you can actually drive your car under those arches and park down by it." RT
"Really? Great. Thank you." Me
"What do you know about her?" RT
"That she helped get some child labor laws established." Me
"She came here because of all the union coal miners in the area. In fact, there was a skirmish between some striking miners and some hired goons and four miners were killed and buried here. She said that when she died she wanted to be buried with 'the boys.' This is the only completely union cemetery in the U.S." RT

We were there for a few minutes -- the sun was starting to get low and was casting long shadows behind the tombstones. In the field next to us of dried corn stalks a large machine was making wide circles and scattering dust. One guy (and his blond kid next to him who would look over once in a while) stopped to share with a stranger, and I felt connected to all of humanity. 

"Thank you so much for taking the time." Me
"No problem. I live a couple of houses up; I've been doing this since I was a kid -- I would ride up on my bike: 'Hey do you want to know about Mother Jones?'  My sixth grade teacher interviewed the guy who exhumed her body -- she had been buried closer to the road, but was moved when this monument was completed -- and the guy talked about how she looked peaceful, but her hair and nails had continued to grow and it was quite a sight." RT

We said our goodbyes after he told the kids to climb up on the monument in order to see how tall the statues really are. I pulled around and drove down towards Mother Jones and her long nails. 

"That's what you guys are going to remember isn't it? The bit about the hair and nails..." 
"Yep." 

Here's what I hope that they remember: unions might have outlived their purpose, might have swung too far... or they might not have... I sure don't know.  What I do know is that when things are unfair, a group of people standing together can make a difference. And sometimes one person -- an unlikely person even, like a cranky old woman at a time when women were usually dismissed -- can motivate that group. 

Mt. Olive was my favorite Route 66 stop. 

The kids' was the giant bottle of ketchup. It's kind of in a derelict little area -- at least it felt that way in the gloaming -- so unlike our happy proud prancing about at the Gemini Giant, our last king-size kitch stop was more along the lines of "Get back in the car." 

Driving into St. Louis our first view of the arch was back lit by the very last orange glow of the sun. How I hope that image imprinted.

There was a lot of construction, and I might have inadvertently taken a funky exit that took me where I did not want to be. After a fervent prayer I circled around the largest Hustler Club this side of the Mississippi and found a beautiful, glorious entrance back onto the freeway going in the right direction. 

We checked into our cool Moonrise Hotel and wandered down to Fitz's where they bottle their own root beer. We were the only ones in the restaurant. We had a lot of fun discussing our day, and bought some bottles of the special election root beer -- two of each candidate (we still like to pretend that our kids don't know who we vote for and can choose for themselves).

We went back to our room and caught the presidential candidates town hall-style debate. After it was over The Boy said that Obama had been like Lincoln and Romney had been like Douglas. I'm pretty sure that he had no freakin' clue what he was talking about. The Girl said that she didn't like "Romney's smirk."  I'm not sure who she got that from.

From his hotel bed my son looked over at me -- apparently Romney's closing remarks had turned on a light bulb:

"Is Romney Mormon?"
"Yes." 

Conflict. Suddenly Romney might not be the Douglas to Obama's Lincoln. We know a couple of those Mormons and some are okay. I said nothing and wondered what the next question might be.  

"If you could have a super power what would it be?"
"To read minds. I think it would make me nicer if I knew where people were coming from."
"Mine would be to understand and talk to chickens."  
   

Bully for the Scheme!

The snake smells with its forked tongue. Similarly, we smell with a bifurcated orifice (our nose). That was just one of a billion things we learned. 

The last night that we were in Chicago my brother-in-law orchestrated something that made my brain hurt it was so informative, and informative in that good way when you're actually working hard to trap everything because it's all so interesting. There is a couple that he and his wife know who both have their PhD's in Ecology and their home is a natural history museum/zoo. Although it was a school night and Mr. Ecology probably would have preferred to get his own kiddos in bed, and/or relax after having spent the day putting up a new exhibit at the museum where he works, and/or get started on something that he had to submit to the university that he's affiliated with, he spent over an hour showing us snakes and fish and turtles (did you know that North American turtles are really the only turtles that retract their necks straight back? Most turtles retract to the side -- we saw it -- the kids all got to feed it). Oh, and another fascinating turtle fact -- the shell is really comprised of the same bones that we have -- the back being ribs all fused together with the spine, and the front being the fused sternum. As he held up the empty turtle shell to show us it completely made sense. Will that be one of the facts that my kids just always have... one of those things that seems like common knowledge because you've always known it? 

"It's a clean, if deep puncture." Mr. Ecology
"You completely heal at 42 hours." Ecology Spawn
"Have you received a snake bite?" Me
"Of course." Mr. Ecology, Spawn 1, Spawn 2
"Wow." Brother-in-law
"It bleeds a lot at first, but it won't scar. So. Who wants to hold the snake?" Mr Ecology 

There was none of that mambsy-pambsy business with the handler holding the snake and the kid using one figure to pet the back. Each kid had the sucker wrapped around his/her neck and each was taught to try to support the snake's head. At one point one of the Ecology Spawn got a little nervous and Mr. Ecology reminded her sternly, "You think of the snake first; yourself second. You are in the position of care-taker right now and you act responsibly." I almost made a joke about how often the position of care-taker is horizontal, but I refrained. 

Quite a few snakes were brought out, including one enormous sucker that was let down on the carpet and fed a mouse. It was rather grisly. Mr. Ecology said that it teaches children about meat consumption. My daughter asked what that meant later at bedtime (she was pretty ticked about the mouse's role in the science lesson). We talked about how we walk into Trader Joe's and toss a package of bacon in the cart, or a restaurant and order a burger. We often don't consider that a living thing was killed any more than that snake did. Just as Mr. Ecology didn't add a particular spin to it, I tried to keep it very neutral.  Nonetheless, a new vegetarian might have come into the world. I might join her.

We talked about the ethics of zoos, the ethics of taxadermy, the ethics of outdoor cats, the ethics of certain legislation.... my favorite part was all the intersection of science and ethics. In case you're wondering, he came down very squarely with Teddy Roosevelt from as near as I can tell (though I've never read anything about Teddy's view on outdoor cats specifically). 

Again, it was very generous and spoke to the man's passion for education that he shared so much with us. I think it also spoke to how well-liked my brother-in-law is. 

After our brains were saturated we headed over to a yogurt place to meet up with the aunt and oldest cousin who had just finished with a dance lesson. Again, school night, but my in-laws were brilliant about letting the celebrating and together time happen. 

The next morning when it was time to leave my daughter started crying hard. She's my crier and she is so fair complected and cries so hard she breaks vessels. One time when we told her that she should stop holding out for a dog because it would probably never happen she cried so hard the next day she looked like she had two shiners. This time she was crying to leave their sweet dog, but there was also a lot of crying for the cousins. Watching her made me start to cry and I couldn't choke out what I wanted to say, "Thank you for being family that makes my daughter so happy that she cries when we leave." 

As we drove down the tree-lined street with gold and orange and red leaves blowing around outside the car, and my daughter choking and shuddering inside the car, I thought: we are living our lives. 

Social Studies

"I've got a past student here who would like to walk over the grounds to take a few pictures?"
(Static)
"Negative."
Grandma: "You have got to be kidding."
Security: "Lady, it's not the same school that it was in 1947."

My grandma grew up in Chicago. I have grown up hearing about her taking the "el" and working as an operator for the telephone company during the war when the adults were siphoned off for other jobs. For me, looking through her Proviso Township High School annual is right up there with brown paper packages tied up with string. The writing is earnest and the fashion is tops. There is a picture of my grandma and a bunch of other young women out in the field for archery, and whenever I pause to inspect it she points out that they were supposed to wear a certain color of shorts that day, but she was feeling rebellious, and so is the only one in the picture wearing dark shorts. 

She's the only one looking at the camera and the wind is blowing her hair across her face.

"All right kiddo -- do you have it?" She was squeezed into the back seat between my kids perched in their boosters that they have to sit in until they're 15. She laughed and made us all laugh with her quips every time we loaded in or out of the car. My uncle was designated navigator and I white-knuckled the steering wheel (I was sad for many reasons that The Dad flew home at 5am, but it did provide a role/space for my uncle -- and for that I am grateful).

The school is not the same as it was in 1947 -- there is a more modern, less attractive addition and the students that were wandering in did not look like extras in My Three Sons. (Inasmuch as I wasn't impressed with them, they weren't with me. They looked at me like I was a loooo-zer when I took a picture of the front of the building.  Oh, yeah, because I took pictures. And so did Grandma. After talking to the security guy all friendly-like for a bit we made like we were going to walk back to the car, but bobbed and weaved until we were somewhat satisfied. Dude, you do not tell the gal that wore the dark shorts on light-shorts day that she can't take pictures.) But 65 years later, a lot is still there. Seeing the architectural details that haven't changed is like the bell in The Polar Express -- tangible proof that it all really happened.

Our next stop was the cemetery (on Madison) where some aunts and uncles of my grandma and her and brother who died in his 40's never married, are buried. Although very close to him, circumstances were such that she had never been back to see his tombstone. After a bit of searching (and turning the plot map provided by the cemetery office first one way, and then another) The Girl found the stone. Again with the tangible proof.

"This is the neighborhood where you lived with the gypsy neighbors and the live bear? A story that I still don't believe." My uncle.
"What the what?" Me.
"Oh good night. You're never going to let me live this down. Yes, there was a family of gypsies who kept a live bear in the basement -- a great big thing. They would bring him out to a lot and wrestle with him." Grandma.
"Did you actually see this?" Me.
"I saw the bear once. I didn't pay to watch the wrestling. Eventually the smell was so bad people complained and their landlord kicked them out. My brother used to run around with a few of the kids, but Mother always watched them like hawks when they came into the house because she thought they would take stuff. They were known for that, you know." Grandma.
"Um?" Me.

This was the house (Lathrop). This is where my grandma and her family lived during WWII. Down the street was some property donated to be a golf course, with the stipulation that it always be used for community entertainment/recreation. Apparently torpedo manufacturing fit the bill, as a plant went in there during the war. My grandma was one of many youth in the neighborhood who wore a necklace with a little torpedo on it. 

In a social studies book that my kids have been reading (to earn money via Cash Car that Clunks) there are sections on neighborhoods, communities, and family history. I hope they realize how cool it is that there is a story of a wrestling bear in their family history -- because one lived in their great grandma's neighborhood... in a community where there was a torpedo factory. 

Once we pried Grandma out of the car for the last time, we went back to my uncle's and walked around the little downtown area. Grandma bought the kids a bag of candy to eat on our trip to St. Louis. All these individually wrapped candies that very much reminded me of the candy that she used to put in a glass dish in my room when I would visit. My uncle was painting the back of the house. 

(I went out: 

"Oh, you're painting it pink?" 

"No, it's French Beige." 

"Ah." 

"It can't be pink -- nobody paints their house pink." So subtle like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers.

Out walks Grandma: "Oh. You're painting it pink.")

We played Rummy. I used to play Rummy with Grandma whenever we went on trips together.

I love my uncle. He is funny and smart and I'm so grateful that I've finally met him. He does indeed seem to not be motivated by human interaction (read: we forced our activities and conversation on him). Big Sister was eagerly awaiting a report, and the only thing I could think to text that was a big enough compliment while also being truthful: "We have our own Boo Radley."  Between that and the bear this family has gone WAY up.

My uncle is a life-long learner, taking classes in diverse things like metal working and scientific drawing (The Girl liked a bird sketch). Further, he has shown my kids that you can think about your answer before spewing forth words --- this economy of language is both refreshing, and often is powerfully funny. He exists. These are the gifts he has left so far for my Scout and Jem.

Friends Come and Go (Especially When They Are Worms)

Judd the Red Chicken made the unfortunate decision to befriend bate. He was hoping to nonchalantly drop the fellow in the park before we arrived at the pond, but his plan didn't work.

We have been enjoying the land of the cousins. On Friday when we arrived we went to a regional burger place and then to a high school football game. I haven't been to a high school football game since I was in high school. It was actually quite charming and with the proper ironic distance I can say that it's almost a perk to suburbia. The cousin who is the exact age as The Boy is very into sports and followed every play. My son was clueless, but sat good-naturedly next to his cousin and smiled encouragingly when his cousin got excited. 

Remember Arrested Development? There was a great episode where every time Jason Bateman threw his keys at Michael Cera he would hunker down rather than try to catch them. That is my son (this summer when we were staying at the Stanley Hotel the manager was throwing cool ghosty frisbees to people on the lawn as we were passing to go out to the pool. Everybody else despately wanted one; the manager pointed at my son and gently lobbed a coveted frisbee at him... Judd the Red Chicken about went fetal and said all pissy, "Why me?" Then it thunked him on the head and he scrambled after it as it rolled away). A juxtaposition -- his cousin is not just interested in sports, but is naturally very athletic. When he was like four he could throw a ball super high into the air and catch it -- repeatedly.

Saturday morning we all walked over to a little pond in the park behind the cousins' house with poles and a container of Walmart worms and a tackle box. I wondered if this would be an activity that was perfect for all the kids, but specifically a nice common ground for a small naturalist and a mini sportsman. And then The Boy tried to pardon the worm and his cousin looked at him like he was nuts and ripped it in half and put it on the hook. I kept looking at my kids to see how they were going to handle the slaying of the invertebrates, They gave  me looks that said, "I don't like it, but I guess it's one of those things..."

I stood under a willow tree as the rain started to pour down and marveled that this whole fishing thing actually worked. All of the kids caught at least two. They are impatient and spastic and noisy six, seven and nine-year olds, and were probably not doing a single thing right...and yet, to my utter amazement they kept pulling up fish. My brother-in-law was awesome with them. He confided in us that he hates the fishing gig, but the kids would never know. He was patient and cheerful as he tied and clipped and untangled. It will be a memory that my kids have with him.

Later when my kids were alone with us they said that they had mixed feelings about the fishing, but they loved being with the cousins. At the risk of being cheesy, I wonder if that's what the difference is between friends and "family." Friendship is usually contingent upon shared interests, similar personalities, commonalities... and  we kind of know that as soon as those things dry up, the friendship often dwindles. Family is often about being cool to your cousin even when he's a weirdo trying to free a worm, and it's about being cool to your cousin even when he's ripping said worm in half. It's about throwing the line in over and over again and marveling at how often you pull something out. 

And there was very sweet common ground. The kids were all as intent upon setting the fish free as they were about catching them. There was great excitement when one was pulled up and equally great excitement when it was thrown back in. 

It's beautifully Fall here. The cute tree-lined streets are brilliant and there's a nice mist (when it hasn't actually been raining). We went to a pumpkin patch and the kids rode a camel named Hoober. And in the enormous suburban basement the cousins have been creating spook alleys and/or museums and/or concerts that they have been charging the adults to come down and see.  Curriculum: capitalism.