Shakertown Day 2

October 28, 2007

A huge transom with clouded glass above the door to our room provided a “night light” aura and an easy escape from the repeated toe-stumping foray into the bathroom that marks a typical night for me.

In the middle of the night I removed my CPAP mask for some reason. Consequently, Carrol had a long period of sleep deprivation during the night and until I put the mask back on. The night’s events seem clear to Carrol, but are vague to me. Sleep apnea – you beast.

I was going to write this journal and check e-mail and got everything unpacked and then discovered that the electrical outlets in the room did not accept three-prong plugs. I had no adapter. Murphy’s Law has not been repealed!

Then things got better. Our reservation for breakfast was at 7:15 and we were on time.

It was a buffet – scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage patties, grits, biscuits, sausage gravy, fruit, juice (I had V-8) and coffee. Not the best breakfast, but more than we routinely eat in Springfield.

After breakfast and after asking the front desk if they could provide an adapter, we drove 33 miles to Danville in search of a church. We found several, but the one that had the most compatible schedule with ours was Grace Presbyterian Church, a PCA congregation. We attended an adult Sunday school class and was impressed with the elder who taught the class, the obvious caring for each other, and their familiarity with the Bible. We stayed for worship but did not find it impressive. On the plus side, no loud drums demanded ear plugs and no screen tried to dissuade us from thinking this was a house of worship. Earning our low ratings, however, was the absence of hymnbooks (words without music were printed in the four page worship program). The prevailing praise music consisted of tunes unfamiliar to us but at least presented more than one phrase repeated several times. A perfunctory nod to tradition was the singing of first and last verses of the traditional hymn, Amazing Grace. On that note, the worship hour was closed. The sermon was long in time but short in substance and consisted of a chain of clichés strung together in a manner that left one exhausted by listening to too many words competing for attention by the preacher’s increased volume and the stress laid on every other word.

Oh yes, this old traditionalist and lover of Reformed worship missed seeing a baptismal font, Communion Table, and pulpit in the chancel area. But, I suppose worship can be experienced in the presence of a podium and stage. (Now, now, John.)

Apparently we are simply out of step with younger Christians because young families outnumbered the grey-headed set. And certainly the Sunday school class provided something we can’t find in Presbyterian Churches in Illinois.

In our drive around Danville, we found Centre College, the Presbyterian college in town. This afternoon, the college was hosting the two gubernatorial candidates for a debate. The hot-button issue in the county, we learned at church, is the proposal that restaurants be allowed to serve alcohol with meals.

I thought of W.H. Auden’s observation that the tobacco farmers in the south are mostly Southern Baptists. I suppose he could have added that the workers in the distilleries around Danville, Kentucky are dry and sober Presbyterians.

At the Wal-Mart Supercenter, I bought an adapter, actually two in a package, to solve the electrical problem in our room.

Both Scott in Springfield and Joni in Washington, DC called us on our mobile phones and satisfied our need that someone be interested in what we do and where we go. Joni “text messaged” us so we had to learn one more damned feature of that telephone leash.

When we returned to the room, the maintenance guy had used a long extension cord that converted the two-hole outlet to a three-hole. Nice touch and a positive contribution to our stay.

Our dinner reservation was for 1:45 so we had time to browse the craft shop where one could buy Shaker boxes in more than a dozen different sizes, books about the Shaker experience, Shaker furniture, and Shaker cooking, plus all kinds of ceramic, fabric, and wood craft products made by Kentuckian artisans. Since we don’t collect mementoes and souvenirs any more, we walked out empty-handed and still financially solvent.

The menu for dinner was the same as last night’s evening meal, but with a different soup, cream of cabbage rather than seafood chowder, a corn, rather than pineapple, casserole. Brussel sprouts and red-skinned potatoes were new choices of vegetables.

Because the breakfast and dinner menu’s were the same each day, we cancelled our reservation for the evening and tomorrow’s breakfast.

Back in the room, Carrol finished the book she was reading, I wrote this journal, and we watched 60 Minutes. Carrol lugged the big suitcase down the 20 steps to the first floor and then to the car since we plan to leave early in the morning and eat breakfast on the road. All we have to carry tomorrow is CPAP bag, computer, and two little bags of make-up and shaving gear.

We are both satisfied that the trip fulfilled our intentions, not perfectly, but pretty well considering that we live on the earthly side of heaven. Soon, with Willie Nelson on our mind, we will be “On the road again …”

Visit to Shakertown

I keep a diary of trips we take for two reasons. I have trouble remembering and I want something of mine to read when I am taken to the "home." Pretend you're feeble, frail, and bored and join me in a little weekend trip.

Travel Journal

Destination: Shakertown, KY
Start date: October 27, 2007
Travelers: Carrol and John
Goal of trip: Weekend Getaway

Saturday, October 27, 2007
We put Alex in the Dal-Acres West Kennel and got out of town about 9:30 this morning, prepared for a 7+ hour drive.

Second stop was at McDonald’s for an “old people’s coffee.” Seventy-six cents.

A near emergency precipitated a stop at an antique mall on Route 4 between I-55 and Lebanon. John rushed into the business and announced that “this old man needs a restroom in the worst way.” The owner said, “We have the worst restroom in Illinois. Help yourself. First door on your right.”

He was right on both counts; location and condition. I had a little trouble finding the light switch on the wall because the switch was a string hanging from the ceiling. I knew the string on a light was just the beginning of a nostalgic trip.

Thirty miles farther down the road at Lebanon, we stopped again to drain two bladders this time.

By the time we reached Mt. Vernon, it was lunchtime. Carrol had prepared a ham and Lorraine Swiss cheese on home-made bread so we thought we would pull into a McDonald’s parking lot, get something to drink, and eat our sandwich in the car. Unfortunately, a tour bus had dumped a load of hungry tourists at the counter. We postponed our planned drinking.

Before getting back on the road, we stopped at a gas station, picked up a 20-ounce bottle of Diet-Rite cola for me and a diet Dr. Pepper for Carrol, and switched seats. Carrol took us out of Illinois and well into Indiana on Interstate 64 before I woke up.

Somewhere between the Evansville exit and Louisville, we remembered how many times we had driven the crooked old US 460 through the hills of Southern Indiana between Laconia and Sparta and the Metro-East. I-64 has changed everything – traveling speed and ease, driving time, and scenery. Just like the changing leaves and life, travel changes too.

At the south side of the I-64 double-decked bridge across the Ohio, the milepost numbering started from zero. Watching for Exit 53, the rolling hills of Kentucky brought to mind the few years we called Kentucky, home. We have never driven through Kentucky that we didn’t both say something like, “I could live in Kentucky.”

Even after we left the Interstate at Exit 53, our new route, US 127 South,remained a four lane road until we reached Kentucky 68, 28 miles down the road. A curvy, hilly two lane road took us to Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill, just as the Mapquest directions had said.

We checked into the Inn and were given directions to find the building where our room was. Neither of us remembered with certainty which building we stayed in the last time we were here. If not the same building, the area was clearly the same. Lugging bags up to the second floor we found our simply furnished room, Room 191.

Two single beds, two rocking chairs, a small writing table with chair, a nightstand, and a chest of drawers – that was the furniture. Oh yes, there was a small television perched atop a very un-Shaker-like bookshelf. Three electrified candles mounted on a Shaker candle sconces hanging from the pegs mounted on all four walls, a floor lamp, and a nightstand lamp provided an escape from darkness. The pine floor with one rag-rug, the Shaker pegs, and the bare walls made certain that guests understand the Shaker doctrine. “Odd or fanciful styles of architecture may not be used among believers. Beading, mouldings, and cornices which are merely for fancy may not be made by believers.”

The bathroom is small. So small, that the door will open only halfway because it hits the lavatory. The commode is smaller than normal, and to old people, too close to the floor.

Our dinner reservations were at 7:15 so we drove to the dining room and sat down to a candlelight dinner. Although the food was not noteworthy in taste, its uniqueness and ample servings will shape our memories of this weekend.

For starters, there was little cornbread sticks and a relish dish consisting of: pickled okra, olives, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, small carrots, cauliflower, picked baby corn, and grapes. Then an appetizer – Carrol had tomatoes and vinaigrette dressing and I had seafood chowder. The main course came with a pineapple casserole plus two other vegetables; Carrol had green beans and zucchini and I had rice pilaf and green beans. Carrol chose baked chicken and I opted for baked trout. Along with the main course, the server set pickled watermelon rinds and beets on the table. A basket of pumpkin muffins and cornbread offered a place to put the real butter. Of course, Carrol drank coffee and I had a Diet Coke.

Back in our room about 8:30, we rocked and read until bedtime. Chaim Potok and Thomas Hardy ended a good day for the Stahlmans. (The Clay and The Mayor of Casterbridge.)

That was Saturday. Tomorrow is "go to church" day. Come back tomorrow.

A Day Trip

We left Springfield about 9:00 a. m. after eating our bowl of morning oatmeal at home. At the edge of town we stopped at McDonald’s to get an “old people’s” coffee for the road.

Avoiding Interstate 55, we drove south on Route 4, that between 1926 -1933, was part of historic Route 66. At Carlinville, we headed west on Route 108, then picked up Route 111, followed it through Brighton to Alton where we caught Route 3 that took us through Godfrey to Grafton.

Passing a sign on Route 3 advertising “Eckert’s Farm, 1 ½ miles,” we turned around and drove about a mile until we saw another sign with a picture of a big red apple on it. We turned at the sign and drove and drove and drove down a road that became narrower and narrower. At one point in a deep woods, a small sign at the side of the road read, “You’re not lost. Keep going. 1 mile.” Encouraged by the thoughtfulness of someone who understood human nature and confident that we were not the first ones to question our navigation skills, we kept forging forward. Finally, we arrived.

Not at Eckerts, but at a different orchard: Yates Farm. Not wanting to take advantage of the invitation to “pick your own,” we turned around and retraced our way back to Route 3 where we had seen the Eckert’s sign. Could we have misread the sign? Were we duped by our minds associating a picture of an apple with Eckert’s Farm? Is this an example of the confusion that afflicts old people?

No, we weren’t crazy and we hadn’t been hallucinating. The sign on the highway did, indeed, say “Eckert’s Farm, 1 ½ miles.”

We turned around again and set our minds on following the sign to Eckert’s. One mile in the right direction, where a few minutes earlier we had turned, some troll had in the last three minutes added beneath the painted red apple. “Yates Farm.”

“Huh?”

“I thought it read Eckert’s!”

“So did I.”

A look at the odometer I read 00.5, not 001.5. “We didn’t go far enough. Eckert’s is another mile ahead.”

Sure enough, a mile farther along the road, was a parking lot filled with school busses, vans, and cars –all bringing children, chaperones, and parents to find just the right pumpkin for Halloween, a bag of apples, or a jug of fresh apple cider. We had found Eckert’s just in time to save us from the attack on our self-confidence and the intensifying urge of Mother Nature. But we had been duped and confused by our own minds. Too many birthdays I guess.

John, with still dry pants, and Carrol, with somewhat restored confidence in a husband who doesn’t ask for directions or look at a map, returned to the road that took us to Grafton, a quaint little town on the banks of the Mississippi River. With several choices of places to eat lunch, we chose the Ruebel Hotel, a small, renovated, 22-room hotel with a dining room and saloon. We chose the saloon; Carrol because the dining room was closed and John because the waitresses in the saloon were blond.

After nourishing our bodies with a saucer-sized pork tenderloin, a platter full of fries, and a mom-sized dish of home-made cole-slaw, we drove around town, actually, up the town built on the face of several river bluffs. Phase II of a new condominium project sits on the bluff like a press room in the Nature’s stadium where residents can watch Old Man River push south to St. Louis. We didn’t buy one; too high.

Then we drove a few miles north on the Great River Road between the mighty Mississippi and a wide paved bicycle trail to Pere Marquette State Park. There we sat on the patio of the big stone lodge built by young men of the Civilian Conservation Corps between 1933 and 1939, watching the river go by, and soaking up a bit of bright sun that was trying to drive the autumn chill away.

Rested by the change of scenery, refreshed by each other’s company, and freed from cooking and repairing a mail box broken by vandals, we headed back to Springfield. In Godfrey, we stopped at Fritz’s for a fudge and malt concrete and a big vanilla malt. We agreed that was supper.

We pulled into the garage a few minutes before 5:00 o’clock.

Where was Jesus in the day’s experience? I don’t know. But I believe he was somewhere near, even though I didn’t see him.