You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July 2015.

 We have passed the city of Mitchell, South Dakota many times while heading to other destinations. Signs for the palace along highway 90 have enticed us to stop. Well, actually not. But having seen the signs for enough times over the  y’ears’, I guess we were just worn down.

Driving through downtown, we followed signs, directing us deep’ear’ into the city. When we arrived, I have to be honest, it didn’t feel like a palace. It had a rather large storefront, with onion shaped spires on the roof, reminiscent  of a Russian orthodox church. The large mural designs on the side of the building were made out of  corn, the cobs sawn in two. It is said that when winter comes, the corn in the murals feed the birds and the squirrels throughout the long cold season.

The 125 year old building, hosts different venues during the year. They have announced  they have started ‘corn’struction this y’ear’ with plans created by an ‘ear’chitect to upgrade the palace. Entering the palace,  there was a reverential focus on corn, the founder of the feast.

Having a daughter who attends Concordia Moorhead, we have had our fill of Corn-laced slogans. The mascot for the college is the fighting Cobber. Their battle cry is “FEAR THE EAR!” (Not that I have felt f’ear’ in the presence of cobs, either with or without kernels.)  Students assert that they are part of the ‘Cobb’ernation.  School events like parents weekend and Homecoming, have been promoted as “Join the Cornspiracy,” and “Born to be Corn”.

Being inside the palace, it felt like we were walking the halls of Concordia Moorhead. The style of the inside of the building, as well as the seating looked very similar. In the center of the arena on wood floors, a make shift gift shop had been set up. There was the opportunity to purchase  a multitude of corn related novelties.  There were exhibits extolling the properties of produce that had sustained them for years.

We left the palace with the knowledge that we could cross that off our list with no need  to return. In the end we took a selfie with ‘Corn’elius. All in all the experience was just, well… ‘corn’y! 

Advertisements


We arrived at the monument as part of a never ending line of vehicles. The parking lot wound around the base of the site. We found a spot across from the visitor’s center. We waited 10 minutes for a grey haired gent to decide he was ready to leave. Sometimes it is amazing to see people who are so clueless of what others needed.

A hike around the tower allowed us to view the monument from many different angles. It was breathtaking. It could be seen from miles away, a chub of rock rising out of the surrounding forest. Up close the we had a better sense of how massive it was. The cracked rock soared to about 1200 feet. If you looked close you could see climbers as small as ladybugs halfway up, scaling the surface of the wall.
Signs were posted along the path, requesting that we respect this sacred site by staying on the trail. Brightly colored prayer cloths fluttered from branches in the light breeze, God’s to-do list.
There are many stories told about the origin of this monument. Science and myth collide. For more information follow this link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devils_Tower

In the last month the monument has been in the news. Native people want to change the name back to Bear’s Lodge. Others want to keep the Devil’s Tower moniker. The argument reminds us that there is hell to pay when relationships are forged by force, and falsehood.


Register Cliff

A few hours north of Cheyenne near the town of Guernsey, Wyoming is Register Cliff. It is about a 30 minute drive off of I-25.

Meandering through town, we arrived at  the historical site. There were no park rangers . Our entrance fee was the dust we breathed from the vehicle ahead of us.

The site was a mound of limestone rising over 100 feet.  The air was warm and still. Birds had nested in the underside of rock crags that looked like beehives. There was constant movement as tiny birds flew around defensively, returning occasionally to inspect their nests.

Along the base of the cliff  were the names of emigrants. Heading West in the mid 1800s , their names were scratched into the the soft stone. We had to look closely to identify the carvings of the settlers, from visitors who felt they needed to add their name and date. I guess everyone who carved their names into the face of the rock were travelers of one sort or another.

Close to the cliff site were ruts from the wagons heading west. They were about five feet wide and looked like troughs. It was the visible path of hopes, dreams, and adventure.

Barb and I  attempted to imagine the life of these nomads. It was difficult to do with our electronic gadgets and the level of comfort we enjoyed. Google was always there to show us the way (as long as there was a cell signal). We drove a vehicle that softened the jolts with shock absorbers,  stayed in hotels that promised comfort.  Even if one is an outdoor enthusiast, hiking gear has advanced to levels of functionality, not dreamed of by these emigrants.

Settlers, with the prospect of a promise, headed west, facing dangers. They needed  to make sure they had ample food for their family and livestock. Infections could kill them. Wild animals stalked them. Native Americans struggled on how to respond to these intruders traversing their lands. Forts were set up to protect the travelers, mainly from the Native Americans. Treaties were made and broken, there was conflict and massacres. Ultimately they were herded into reservations and forgotten.

Stories were told by the victor and the vanquished. Like everything in history, nothing can be explained or fixed by a sound bites. There is no road back. There is only the opportunity, going forward, to treat others as you wish to be treated.

Name etched in limestone

 

Ruts from wagon wheels


Barb and I have decided, in our retirement that we would like to visit every state in the U.S. There will be a series of blogs chronicling our progress towards our goal, and some sights we saw there.

As a child my family traveled a lot. We settled down in Hawaii, living there longer than any other location. I believed I was an Island boy. I ate exotic foods and spoke pigeon english.  Moving to Minnesota for school I was introduced to a foreign place with temperature extremes I had never experienced before. It was hard for me to embrace this region as home.

Much of my life has been lived in limbo, not able to declare where home was. Before getting married I asked Barb where she would like to live when we got married. There was only one place for her. Minnesota. I would tell people that I lived here for love and the day I stopped loving my wife, would be the day my taillights could be seen headed south.

Children were born and we set about raising them. In time our children had children and they have all freely embraced Minnesota as their home. I still was reluctant to call Minnesota home.

We decided to dip into Barb’s bucket list. She had always wanted to go to Hawaii. So we went. Everything was new to her. For me there were places I recognized, and places I didn’t. Driving down the street I grew up on, I realized that I didn’t recognize the house of my youth. I could have identified it with a bit more persistence. What I realized was that, not only did I not recognize the house, I didn’t recognize the child that grew up in that house.

What I came away with was a deep understanding that Minnesota is my home.  I’m not an island boy, I haven’t spoken pigeon english in fifty years. I am  a Minnesotan. This is where my heart is. This is home.