Upper Photo: Entrance to Bozz Prints, Historic Valley Junction, Des Moines

I just spent a month in Iowa.

Admit it, unless you live there, you don’t think about Iowa much, except during the Iowa Caucuses, and the Presidential Election. It’s the 26th largest state in the United States and ranks 30th in total population, at 3.1 million. It’s in the middle in every way, literally and figuratively.

Travelers on Interstate 80 spend five hours on average in Iowa, seeing only corn and overpasses. When I announced on Facebook that I was Iowa-bound, comments were less than enthusiastic.

What was it, you might ask, that enticed me to Iowa? Sure, I intended to go, someday, but then I received this email last year from that Siren of the Plains, Jessica:

“Hi Tammy! I have been an avid reader of your blog since the beginning … I’m writing in advance of your visit to my humble, but wonderful state: Iowa!

No matter when you plan to visit Iowa, I’d like to extend my heartfelt offer to help you see the best of the state. I’m a 5th generation Iowan, Iowa Trivia Bee champion and general promoter of the State. The State Historical Society made a good choice when they hired me to do Special Projects and Outreach. I used to work at our State Capitol and would love to share it with you – and hopefully get you on a VIP tour to the top of the dome.

It would be my pleasure to share the state with you. …

That’s all for now. I’ve thought about writing you so many times – but didn’t want to be a creeper with enthusiasm. I hope that’s not how I sound. I’m just a total Iowa nerd (but the cool kind of nerd) and would be honored to help you plan the best visit to my favorite state.”

Dear Readers, this is what makes my heart soar and my soul sing – a total and complete stranger, reaching out of the abyss, taking the time to say hello, and extending the generous hand of friendship. I had just decided to go to Wisconsin to christen the full hookups at Rick and Christian’s new house, so the Iowa die was cast.

NORTHWEST

Sioux City, Pop. 82,500

I entered Iowa in the Northwest corner in mid-July, bowled over by blistering heat and confusing and claustrophobic road construction in Sioux City. With Sioux Falls, South Dakota 90 miles away, and South Sioux City, Nebraska right across the Missouri River, the entire area is known as “Siouxland.” The town has a few other nicknames, like “Sewer City.” Poor Sioux City. Adding insult to injury, its airport code is SUX.

The Sergeant Floyd Monument towered above Interstate 29 as I drove by. The 100-foot tall obelisk is his actual burial site, honoring the only member of the Lewis and Clark expedition to perish on the journey. Charles Floyd died on the outbound trip – August 20, 1804. The obelisk was erected in 1901, and his name is attached to many things in the area, including a riverboat, a boulevard, a bluff, and a river.

Never one to shy away from the sometimes onerous task of finding beauty in all places, I drove past a Hard Rock Hotel on my way to downtown Sioux City. Sioux City boomed in the late 1880s and early 1890s. Many thought it would become another Chicago on the great plains, but the Panic of 1893 halted the city’s growth.

While many of the downtown storefronts are dilapidated with boarded windows, there is remedial construction afoot.

The turn-of-the-century buildings made of Sioux Quartzite are lovely, including the jaw-dropping Prairie Style Woodbury County Courthouse (1917), recently restored. It is the largest publicly owned Prairie School building in the world.

A beautiful City Hall is next door,

yet these two architectural gems are surrounded by the skeletons of other structures.

Here’s hoping the city is renewed. The Historic Fourth Street District is leading the way, with about two blocks of refurbished and repurposed late 19th century commercial buildings.

I made my way to War Eagle Park to pay my respects to Wambdi Okicize (1785-1851), known as War Eagle, remembered as a peacemaker and great leader. He was a river boat guide and pilot on the upper Mississippi, worked for the American Fur Company, and during the War of 1812 he carried messages for the government. Due to his leadership among the tribes, Native Americans and Whites learned to work together without resorting to violence.

His daughters married the first White settler in the area.

War Eagle is buried overlooking the confluence of the Sioux and Missouri Rivers, although I wonder what he would think about all that noisy freeway traffic whizzing by.

Le Mars, Pop. 9,967

I set up camp in Le Mars, about a half hour from Sioux City, at Municipal Campground, a 1930’s WPA project with a 27-hole golf course, lovely 1930s Kasota limestone structures and a swimming pond with sand beach.

The heat index was 110, and campers were happily taking advantage of the water. I then saw something I had not seen in years – fireflies! I opened the blinds to both windows by the bed, falling asleep watching the comforting, intermittent glow.

Le Mars is home to Wells Enterprises Inc., which produces more ice cream (Blue Bunny) than any other city in the world, and the Visitor Center and Ice Cream Parlor is downtown.

Fifty-five fiberglass ice cream cone sculptures dot the sidewalks.

The main reason I chose Le Mars as a stopping point – Archie‘s Steakhouse – since 1947 and a James Beard award-winner, was closed for summer vacation. Darn it! Jess, my self-proclaimed Iowa Concierge, came to the rescue via email, suggesting an amazing pizza joint and and arranging an introduction.

Sfumato Pizzeria is set back among the grain elevators at the intersection of two highways in Alton, just a few miles from Le Mars. I was met there by Doug and Janine, who live in nearby Orange City, where he runs the local newspaper and she served with Orange City Arts. As you can imagine, our discussions were topical, lively, and thought-provoking; what a great twofer, to feed both body and mind.

Orange City, Pop. 6,141

Founded in 1870, Orange City is a quaint Dutch town with a charming European village atmosphere.

It is the home of Northwestern College, where Doug and Janine both attended.

They showed me around town after dinner (we have Janine and Orange City Arts to thank for the lovely murals around town).

My near misses of presidential hopefuls began in Orange City, when Elizabeth Warren appeared the day after I left.

NORTH CENTRAL

After a jaunt through Wisconsin and up to Voyageurs National Park in Minnesota, I headed back down to North Central Iowa in early August.

Clear Lake, Pop. 7,562

Clear Lake has been a summer resort destination since the 1870s, and it’s no wonder, with its 3,600 acres of clear, fairly shallow water (12 feet at its deepest). I made Clear Lake State Park my base of operations, and the dogs and I walked the southeast lakeshore at least twice daily.

I saw the lake from a different perspective on the Lady of the Lake, an authentic sternwheel paddleboat.

I added Clear Lake to the Iowa itinerary because of two significant sites in Rock ‘n’ Roll history: The Surf Ballroom, and the Buddy Holly crash site.

I knew The Surf was the last place that Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens played before taking that fateful plane, but I wasn’t aware of just how grand, and historic, it is. The original Surf opened across the street in 1934 and hosted some of the best musicians of the age. It burned in 1947.

The new Surf opened in 1948, at 30,000 square feet, including a 6,300 square-foot dance floor. It closed in shambles in 1994, and that’s when the Dean Snyder family stepped in to save the day; The Surf was restored! It has the capacity for a whopping 2,100 people. The original booths alone hold up to 894.

When asked what made him do it, Dean replied, “My wife likes to dance. If she liked to fish, I would have bought her a fishing pole.”

What a modest guy.

Unfortunately there were no shows at The Surf while I was in town. During non-performance times, for a $5 suggested donation you can peruse historical artifacts and memorabilia,

stand onstage,

and even go backstage to the Green Room, its walls signed by musicians over the decades.

Just in case you don’t remember, the fated musicians were on their 1959 Winter Dance Party Tour, which was a logistical nightmare, and freezing cold.

Holly chartered a plane in Mason City to avoid another night on the bus with a broken heater. The plane crashed in a snowy field on February 3, 1959, killing all four souls aboard. Don McLean memorialized it all in a song; it was The Day the Music Died.

The pay phone both Buddy and Ritchie used that night was preserved.

So many thoughts go through my mind when I run down history like this. The crash was 60 years ago, when Buddy was 22. Would he still be alive today? They were barely off the ground; it takes about ten minutes to drive from the Surf to the site. Waylon Jennings gave up his seat to The Big Bopper, who had the flu, kiddingly saying to Holly, “ I hope your ol’ plane crashes.” I wonder how much Waylon thought about that before he died. Ritchie Valens got the guitarist Allsup‘s seat in a coin flip. Behold, the fickle hand of fate.

A map available at The Surf will direct you to the crash site. Gravel roads among corn and soybean fields lead to an oversized pair of dark-rimmed glasses.

How cool of the farmer to allow this to continue on private land. A quarter-mile walk from the glasses lies the memorial.

There was no one there but me, the butterflies, and the cicadas, so far out in the fields that there wasn’t even any vehicular traffic noise. I wondered if anyone visited anymore, but on the walk back to the car I passed six people, and other vehicles were stopping.

This was a very special and moving day for me. I drove back to the campground, blasting Buddy’s “That’ll Be The Day” on the stereo speakers.

Mason City, Pop. 27,944

Mason City is just 10 miles from Clear Lake, and it caught my attention due to a favorite architect and a favorite Broadway musical. But, this town has a lot more going for it than that.

Frank Loyd Wright overlooks his handiwork from Central Park in Mason City – the 1910 City National Bank and Hotel, now known as the Historic Park Inn Hotel, the only FLW designed hotel operating in the entire country. (He designed six hotels. Five were built, and only this one remains.)

Just a few blocks away is FLW’s Stockman House (1908), in an enclave of Prairie School homes designed by his students and contemporaries.

The town embraces its architectural history with infrastructure and murals echoing FLW design elements.

Thanks to River City Sculptures on Parade, public art, complete with price tags, is installed around town for one year, and citizens vote for their favorites.

The town then buys the most popular piece.

The title of the post you are reading comes from the song “Iowa Stubborn” in “The Music Man.” Creator Meredith Willson grew up in Mason City, and many things bear his name, including this lovely sun-dappled footbridge over Willow Creek.

Yes, “River City” is really Mason City, and Willson‘s boyhood home and Music Man Square (an indoor replica of River City) are across from the public library.

Even in the town where the Robert Preston movie premiered in 1962, there is not enough interest to keep Music Man Square open seven days a week during the summer. Perhaps the Broadway revival with Hugh Jackman as Professor Harold Hill will renew interest.

Allergic … To Corn?

(Confronting my nemesis at The Field of Dreams. More on that field in a bit …)

It started in Wisconsin. My eyes itched and watered and were so red I looked like a zombie. I couldn’t wear contacts, and I developed a painful sty in the left eye. Daytime nondrowsy antihistamines worked poorly, regular eye drops did nada, antihistamine eyedrops helped a little, and Benadryl knocked me out at night. It was early August, supposedly too early for ragweed, but I was really suffering. The symptoms got worse near farmland, improved a little after a rainstorm, and mostly abated after some time in the big city of Des Moines, more removed from all the fields. Maybe I’m allergic to corn!

Hobo Days In Britt, Iowa, Pop. 1,985

My next stop was 22 miles west of Clear Lake: Britt, home of the National Hobo Museum and Hobo Days. I passed John Delaney’s tour bus going the other way – Doh! A couple of days later, 22 presidential candidates were in Clear Lake, where I had just departed. Double Doh!

It all started with a theater marquee.

I photograph vintage neon signs. Researching Iowa, I came across the Chief Theater in Britt, Iowa. Where the movie titles would be, the sign said “National Hobo Museum.”

What, what? As a Tramp and Hobohemian myself, my curiosity was piqued. More research revealed that in 1900, Britt welcomed hobos for their National Hobo Convention after they were less than kindly received in Chicago in the late 1800s. I then stumbled upon a May 2019 article in Smithsonian Magazine, which provided a reverently in-depth tribute to the event and the people.

The moments I cherish the most are experiences that cannot be duplicated anywhere else in the world. I knew Hobo Days would be unique, and quintessentially American.

As if things couldn’t be any more awesome, Alice and Joanne from Minneapolis joined me in Britt.

I first met them in 2015 at the RVing Women convention in Shawnee, Oklahoma. We’ve explored five states together, including Oklahoma, Maine, New Hampshire, Florida, and now Iowa.

We were looking forward to catching up at our $20 per night full hookup sites at the Hancock County Fairgrounds, less than two miles from downtown Britt. Little did we know the fairgrounds was hosting stock car races that weekend! We tried falling asleep to the revving engines and cheering crowds until midnight, then the raucous drivers and revelers reliving the excitement back at their campsites, where we were packed in like sardines. Mental note: Always check the Calendar of Events when making fairgrounds camping reservations.

We visited the Hobo Museum in the old Chief Theater, learning about the history of hoboing; famous hobos like Steam Train Maury, the Pennsylvania Kid, Connecticut Slim, Frisco Jack, and Iowa Blackie; hobo symbols and vernacular; and the hobo accoutrements – walking stick, patches, beads, and monkey fist/nautical knot necklaces.

Hoboing began after the Civil War and reached its zenith during the Great Depression. Of course, none of the steam train riders are around anymore. Since 9/11 it’s been much harder to catch a freight train, but it’s still possible.

Each year in Britt, the remaining hobos, totaling around 50, camp in the Hobo Jungle by the railroad tracks and light a campfire that remains burning for the entire event.

They tend to the graves of the hobos who “caught the Westbound,”

and they run for Hobo King and Queen. They have names like Minneapolis Jewel, Tuck, Connecticut Tootsie, Frog, Songbird, Mad Mary, Sunrise, Redbird Express, The Czech Hobo, and Bookworm Bonnie.

At the Hobo Art Gallery, Leanne Castillo has been painting the portraits of Hobo Kings and Queens since the 1980s.

She is 84 years old now, going as strong as ever with the help of her daughter at the gallery. On Friday her T-shirt declared, “Paris, London, New York, Britt,” but she admitted she has never been to Paris or New York; she did go to London when her paintings were displayed at The Horse Hospital Gallery. At a special mid-morning gathering at the studio in Britt, Leanne unveiled her latest portrait of the outgoing King and Queen, The Dutchman and Crash, both of them seeing it for the first time.

Britt pulls out all the stops and hosts a town-wide party during Hobo Days, including a carnival,

high school alumni events,

music in Veteran’s Memorial Park,

a vintage car show, parade, and communal feast. I expected to be one of many out-of-towners enjoying the festivities, but I quickly realized that everyone attending was a hobo, lived in Britt, used to live in Britt, or was from nearby towns. Alice, Joanne and I were interlopers of the highest order, but that didn’t bother anyone none. They were friendly, kind, talkative and attentive – the very definition of “Iowa Nice.“

I unfolded my chair next to the ideal person for the parade. Bill is a lifelong resident of Britt and was a teacher before he retired. He now serves on the Hobo Convention Committee, and he had a few minutes to enjoy the parade before getting back to work.

He provided backstory and commentary on everyone that passed by, and I got some great photos because they all waved his way.

Bill explained that along with farming and farm equipment,

horse breeding and eggs are also big business in Britt. In a conservative town where Trump teeshirts and MAGA hat were common, everyone waved to their Democratic friends and neighbors walking in the parade.

Over in City Park, an army of homeschool students had been preparing 500 gallons of Mulligatawny Stew since 6:00 a.m. What began historically as a meal for the hobos is now served to everyone. The hungry masses lined up in doves after the parade, with pots and containers of every shape and size to carry home as much stew as possible.

When the line dissipated, a loudspeaker declared more stew was still available, even though they cut back by four cauldrons this year.

Campaigning then began in earnest at the gazebo in City Park. Candidates for Hobo King and Queen had two minutes each to explain why they were worthy to wear the coffee can crown. Most of the hobos are over 60 years old. Some are descendants of the original rail riders. Some are regular folk who have families and jobs, while others have no place to call home. Some ramble incoherently. Some appear infirm.

A group of under-25-year-olds in black clothing and combat boots, many with dreadlocks and tattoos and pit bulls, sat up front. The old hobos called them “Young Riders,” but they prefer “Dirty Kids.” They ride the rails, often on top of locked cars in a display of unrivaled bad-assery. Most panhandle. Some are loosely organized in the FTRA, which originally stood for “Fuck The Reagan Administration,” but now supposedly stands for “Freight Train Riders of America.”

Not everyone in the FTRA is known to be law-abiding.

Yet here they were, some standing up in the gazebo to be considered for King and Queen, welcomed not only by the old hobos, but by the citizens of Britt, a conservative lot who idolize Reagan and frown on illegalities and hijinks. Was this more Iowa Nice, or Britt’s recognition that Hobo Days are numbered without new blood?

In the end, a wise populace spoke. Slim Tim, whose father and two sisters are prior Hobo Royalty, was voted King, and FluX, a Dirty Kid in ripped fishnets, was voted Queen.

NORTHEAST

Decorah, Pop. 7,701

On the advice of my friend Elayne in Florida, I spent a day in Decorah, a Norwegian settlement in the Oneota River Valley. Decorah was named one of the “100 Best Small-Town Getaways” by Midwest Living Magazine.

The flag of Norway is proudly displayed around town, and there is a Norwegian Festival in late July, which I missed by a hair.

The Vesterheim Norwegian American Museum has 24,000 artifacts and 12 historic buildings and is the most comprehensive collection of Norwegian-American artifacts in the world.

Having already visited Orange City, it was in Decorah that I began to understand the gargantuan contribution immigrants made to Iowa, and it continued to be impressed upon me across the state, from Pella to Cedar Rapids to the Amana Colonies.

Dyersville, Pop. 4,220

My sole purpose for going to Dyersville was to see The Field Of Dreams, and it did not disappoint. They built it. I came.

The field was built for the movie on two separate pieces of property. When it wrapped, one family planned to go back to corn, then thought better of it when people kept coming.

There is no admission charge, but there’s plenty of merchandise for sale. You can sit on the wood bleachers where Ray and Annie sat.

While I was there, families hit the ball and ran the bases. In the outfield, people pretended to step out, then fade away into the corn. “I’m melting!” You can take a tour of the farm house. My only complaint is they built a fence around it, which is understandable considering the 100,000 visitors they get each year. However, it has ruined the sight lines between the house and the field.

In 2020, the Yankees will play the White Sox in a regular season game in Dyersville. A temporary stadium holding 8,000 people will be put up nearby the Field Of Dreams for the event.

Yeah, I’m glad I got to see it before all that nonsense. This field was never about MLB.

Dubuque, Pop. 58,276

Dubuque, named for a French-Canadian fur trader, was founded in 1833, 13 years before Iowa became a state, earning it the nickname “The Birthplace Of Iowa.”

I drove to Dubuque with the GPS set to find the Carnegie Library; it announced we had arrived in “De Boo K,” and I was immediately saddened by the blight all around me. Downtown Dubuque is a crumbling red brick city.

Directly across from the Carnegie-Stout Library is the Stout Mansion (1891), built by a local lumber baron in Richardsonian Romanesque style, now privately owned and in need of attention.

I texted Jess, “Wow, Dubuque needs much love.” She replied the the millworking industry in Dubuque was hit very hard in the 1980s and 1990s, and suggested The Millwork District for some of the town’s architectural and cultural successes. If you haven’t figured it out already, you can always count on Jess for some positivity.

She was right. The Millwork District was buzzing with activity, as was the Port of Dubuque Mississippi Riverwalk.

At the riverfront I visited the Dubuque Shot Tower and finally learned what those things are! All this time I thought they were forms of defense – high places to keep watch and take a shot. Ha!

Pockets of downtown are invitingly walkable.

The county courthouse is stunning.

It could even be seen from the Fenelon Elevator, a funicular on a hillside overlooking Dubuque, turning distance from the town into beauty worth beholding.

Also known as the Fourth Street Elevator, the funicular is the world’s shortest, steepest, scenic railway.

Built in 1882, the lift is 296 feet in length, and elevates passengers 189 feet from Fourth Street to Fenelon Place. The homes along Fenelon, Grandview, and the Langworthy Historic District are a world away from the tenements and vacant buildings downtown.

Galena, Illinois was a mere 13 miles away, but there simply wasn’t time. When I finally make it to Galena, which I hear so many wonderful things about, it’s unlikely I will head back over to Dubuque.

Obviously this is just my perspective. My friend Debbie over at SupersizeLife.com spent a month full-timing in Dubuque, writing three different posts about its history, museums, and outdoor activities. But in my opinion, perhaps one day Dubuque will once again live up to its other nickname, “Masterpiece on the Mississippi.”

LeClaire, Pop. 4,564

I took a drive out to LeClaire, Iowa, on the Mississippi River near Davenport, for one thing: Antique Archaeology, home of the American Pickers.

LeClaire is a little one-street town on the river, with a Buffalo Bill Cody museum (he was born there) mostly dedicated to stories of the Mississippi River.

At Antique Archaeology, they said Mike was in town for a swap meet in Davenport and might be in later, but I missed him. Treasures from the Pickers’ journeys around the country are for sale in the two storefronts.

Davenport, Pop. 102,085

Davenport, another Mississippi River town, is a 15-minute drive from LeClaire. It is one of the “Quad Cities” curiously consisting of five, not four, towns, including Bettendorf in southeastern Iowa, and Rock Island, Moline, and East Moline in northwestern Illinois (okay, I guess you can count Moline as one city).

The big draw for me was the Figge, a premier Midwest art museum. The permanent collection is impressive, including Sol LeWitt,

Frank Lloyd Wright,

Remington,

Tiffany,

Chagall, Picasso, and of course, native son, Grant Wood (1892-1942).

(Self Portrait)

The Davenport Skybridge overlooking the Mississippi River is within walking distance.

Green Iowa

Iowans like big lawns. Farmhouses are set back acres from the road, with nothing but lush green grass in between. Don’t people work hard enough in their fields all week long? Why would they want to mow such huge spaces? Their front yards look like golf courses. Sometimes a little visual interest is added to break up all that green, like an old farm implement, decorative windmill, or a circle of bricks with flowers that someone now also has to weed around.

CENTRAL

Four Days At The Iowa State Fair

It’s not the oldest – that award goes to New York. It’s not the biggest in terms of attendance; that would be Texas. Yet and still, in my mind, the Iowa State Fair is the Granddaddy of Them All.

Perhaps that is because the ISF inspired a novel and three movies (we’re not even talking about the made-for-TV movie). I never read the book by Phil Stong, or saw the first movie with Will Rogers, but to get in fighting shape, Michelle and I watched the 1945 Rogers and Hammerstein musical before hitting the fairgrounds.

(Spit if someone mentions the 1962 musical remake with Pat Boone and Ann Margret; why, that one is set in Texas!)

Wait, what? Back up. Michelle? Yes indeedy!

I was thrilled when she wanted to join me at the fair. Michelle and I went to college together at UC Santa Barbara, and since I’ve been on the road we’ve met in Sacramento (where she lives), Austin, Napa, and now Des Moines, Iowa.

I wondered why, considering how much I adore their musicals, I never saw this Rogers and Hammerstein movie. Now I know. One of my most cherished American Songbook tunes of all time, “It Might As Well Be Spring“ (my favorite rendition is by Mel Tormé), has now been ruined for me. And I thought Andrew Lloyd Weber nauseatingly repeated songs in scores! Good grief, that song was played every five minutes in the movie. R and H really phoned this one in. It was as if their agents pitched a bargain to the studio: “You can make five of their best Broadway musicals into films, and we’ll throw in one original movie score for free!”

Before I get into too much trouble with my Iowa readership (all four of them), let me say that this Rogers and Hammerstein movie is beloved in Iowa. In fact, fairgoers have been known to break into spontaneous song, singing this tune that opens the film (and I am not kidding about this):

The movie follows a rural Iowa family spending a week at the fair in an adorable vintage trailer. By the time that film was made in 1945, the fair campground was already a long-standing tradition. I naively tried to make a reservation one year in advance, only to be told that one must either be a family legacy or win an actual lottery to get a spot at the fairgrounds campground. One day at the fair, on the campground tram, I heard a story, best told late at night around a campfire, of the unclaimed 127 spots last year. Diehards waited, dry camping in an adjacent lot for a week, and a frenzied land grab ensued when the gates opened, recreational vehicles careening over hills and around curves to snag a coveted spot. They call in “Pinballing.”

The campground is very hilly. And wet. This year’s ISF sand sculpture depicted the campground on the back side, and the campers stacked on top of each other is not artistic license.

We saw trailers so jacked up and atop columns of stacked boards and bricks that I would be afraid to turn over in bed in them. Campers pack supplies to build elaborate hillside decks and terraces, then break them all down again when the fair is over.

But I have gotten soooo ahead of myself. Before Michelle arrived, I put two days of the ISF under my belt, and I met Jess in person for the first time!

How lucky am I? Jess was the freaking Superintendent of the ISF Museum this year. I am so impressed by her. Where she works at the State Historical Museum Of Iowa, they created a Mobile Museum out of a Winnebago motorhome.

She said my blog helped them decide how to tow a vehicle behind the Mobile Museum while traveling around Iowa’s 99 counties. To say I was touched would be an understatement.

Here we are on my first day at the fair, getting our priorities straight at the Iowa Craft Beer Tent, with over 400 taps. Jess also introduced me to some amazing fair food, which is way better than it has to be. (With my inflamed eyeballs (hence the prescription sunglasses), humidity hair, and forehead sweat band, I am looking particularly fetching.)

What is more quintessentially American than listening to political candidates at the Iowa State Fair? In typical just-missed-it fashion, those 22 candidates I didn’t catch in Clear Lake I also missed at the fair, while I was still up in Britt at Hobo Days. I did manage to see Bernie Sanders and Pete Buttigieg at the fair’s Political Soapbox, sponsored by the Des Moines Register newspaper.

A journalist for the Christian Science Monitor interviewed me at the Buttigieg event, but my comments didn’t make it into the article.

Michelle and I visited Jess at the Iowa State Fair Museum, and we were impressed by the historic buildings around the fairgrounds.

It isn’t just the buildings that are historic; Ye Old Mill is one of five remaining Tunnels of Love in the entire country, opening in 1921.

Water is pushed through the ride by this wheel,

and for three dollars you get three minutes riding in a boat in complete darkness.

Not very exciting by today’s standards, but imagine getting three minutes alone in the dark with your honey back in the 20s.

We sought out fair events like the children’s butter sculpting contest;

mutton busting;

the pie eating and three-wheeler competitions;

and cow chip throwing.

When we needed a respite we wandered the food halls;

perused the produce;

marveled at linens and textiles;

and rode the Sky Gliders.

For tired feet, moving from one end of the fairgrounds to the other, sightseeing, and just to get away from it all, high above the crowd, they were just the ticket.

We ate our faces off.

We were especially enamored with anything impaled on a stick.

We returned one evening to see Foreigner in concert,

and don’t get me wrong, they put on a great show. But, the opening band, Night Ranger of “Sister Christian” fame, seemed so damned happy to be: A) above ground; and B) performing anywhere, they really rocked the Grandstand.

I bought their merch instead of Foreigner’s, and I won’t even wear the tee-shirt ironically.

I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but the first butter cow appeared at the Ohio State Fair in 1903; eight years later, the Iowa State Fair displayed its first one. Shhhh, don’t tell anyone this either, but it’s not solid butter; it’s sculpted around a frame. While fairgoers swelter in the heat and humidity, the butter cow stays cool in a refrigerated enclosure in the Ag Building. This year the display also included Sesame Street characters, to commemorate the show’s 50th anniversary on public television.

Sarah Pratt from West Des Moines has been in charge of the cow since 2006, making her only the fifth sculptor in 108 years.

Michelle and I wore “First Time Fairgoer” buttons available at the Information Booth, prompting more Iowa Nice. Fairgoers asked where we were from and if we were enjoying the fair, giving advice for activities and upcoming events. Many seemed genuinely surprised, and proud, that we came from Seattle and Sacramento just for the fair.

There is an app for the ISF, but it felt overwhelming. Michelle and I relied on the daily brochures from the information booth. We saw more by doing all the activities in a given area before moving on to the next one.

On our final day at the fair we got to meet blog reader Barbara and her husband John, camping at the fair from their home in Albia.

Barb and John were set up nearby the Cow Bus, which won the campground decorating competition the night before.

I met the owners of the bus on the tram a few days before that. Over one million people may visit the fair annually, but it’s still a small world.

Des Moines, Pop. 216,853

I was very excited to get to the big city of Des Moines (“Dez Mow-knees,” according to the GPS) after weeks in the Wisconsin Northwoods, the Border Waters of Minnesota, and the small towns of Northern Iowa. At the campground, all checked in, I was walking back to the rig when I heard the repeated pops and cracks of gunfire! I turned to the young man escorting me to the site in a golf cart, “Is someone firing weapons over there??“ He replied, “Yeah, it’s just clay target shooting next door. But they up in the air and away from the campground.“

I was not comforted.

Des Moines did not disappoint, with restaurants;

live music;

(North Carolina band American Aquarium at Wooly’s, the old Woolworth’s Department Store downtown)

a River Walk;

(The Des Moines River)

(Pagoda at Governor Robert D. Ray Asian Gardens)

art;

(Cowles Commons)

(Pappajohn Sculpture Park downtown – 28 modern sculptures valued at more than $40 million)

and the Farmer’s Market.

(Polk County Courthouse)

I even got a personal tour of the Iowa State Capitol from Jess, who used to worked there.

It was a real insider’s tour, including employee staircases and an exit tunnel under the building.

I commemorated my last night in Des Moines with a Steak de Burgo at the Big Steer, serving up steaks since 1984.

Steak de Burgo is a specialty known only in Des Moines, which is a butter and Italian herbs sauce atop a tenderloin (some add cream). It was divine.

At the Big Steer they “milk” the cow angle.

I intended to eat in the bar but learned that was not possible. It was Friday night, and the place was packed. Becky, a Des Moines native, asked if I would like to join her when her name was called. So Iowa Nice!

The Other White Meat

I have to hand it to Iowa pork producers. They have really saturated the Iowa market with their message.

Along with the ubiquitous pork on a stick at state-wide carnivals and fairs,

they also promote the “Tenderloin Trail,” a passport listing the greatest tenderloins in Iowa.

(A tenderloin is basically a hamburger with fried pork instead of beef.)

I made a special trip to Prairie City and Goldies, serving one of the biggest and best tenderloins in the state. I took half of it home for dinner!

Pella, Pop. 10,255

The Iowa immigration story continued when Michelle and I took a day trip to Pella, a traditionally Dutch community, and home of Pella Windows and Doors.

Of the 6,000 people employed by Pella Windows and Doors nationwide, 2,700 of them work in Pella. Iowans work. The unemployment rate in Iowa is 2.5 percent, below the national average of 3.7 percent. Hiring and help wanted signs were posted practically everywhere I went.

Pella’s Vermeer Windmill is the tallest working grain windmill in the United States.

The Klokkenspel marks time with mechanical figures dancing to 147 computer-controlled carillon bells.

The Molengracht Canal is designed to look like a canal in the Netherlands and features an ornamental waterway, working drawbridge, and lush planters. You can see why Pella’s nickname is “A Touch Of Holland.”

I stocked up at In’T Veld Meat Market and Opa’s Deli, including Frisian Farms smoked Gouda cheese, ham salad, Pella Bologna, and chipped beef dip.

The Pella Historical Village includes a blacksmith shop, general store, heritage hall, church, and oddly, the boyhood home of Wyatt Earp.

Photos practically jump into your camera in Pella. It’s a lovely little town.

I bet it’s especially pretty during the Tulip Festival in May.

Winterset, Pop.5,271

Michelle and I also daytripped 35 miles from Des Moines to Winterset, a little town with two claims to fame: The birthplace of John Wayne; and the setting for the book and movie, “The Bridges of Madison County.”

John Wayne was born in this little house in 1907. Even though the family left when he was still an infant, that didn’t stop Winterset from claiming and exalting him. Next door is a new museum and gift shop.

It’s 1965. A National Geographic photographer stops at an Iowa farmhouse to ask directions to the local covered bridges. The woman of the house, an Italian immigrant who met her husband during World War II, is home alone while her family is at the state fair. Thus begins a four-day romance in “The Bridges of Madison County,” which I never bothered to read, and I regret Michelle and I watched after our afternoon in Winterset. Talk about a vanity project. Clint Eastwood was 65 years old when he starred in the leading role opposite 46-year-old Meryl Streep. So schmaltzy!

But, I loves me some covered bridges; as you may recall, I couldn’t get enough of them in Vermont!

Five of the original 20 Madison County covered bridges remain, and Michelle and I chose to visit three that were close together – the Cutler-Donahoe (1871);

the Holliwell (1880);

and the Hogback (1884).

It was a real “twofer” moment when the Cutler-Donaho included a Head In Hole photo op! I just love those things.

This photo really cracks me up.

Winterset has a lovely downtown square, based around the Madison County Courthouse (1876).

Corny Iowa

There is an awful lot of corn growing in Iowa, and soybeans, which the locals just called “beans.“ Lines of small signs stand at the ends of field rows, declaring the name of the seed company and the variety of seeds planted.

(Sure, these signs exist in other states, but there’s just so darned many of them in Iowa!) At first I thought they were inspired advertising, but to my untrained eye every row looks exactly the same. Same green, same height, same fullness. Perhaps a farmer can tell if one strain is outperforming another.

Cruising Along Highway 6 – Grinnell and Menlo

Like so many states with highways built before the Eisenhower Interstate System, Iowa is restoring and promoting historic Highway 6.

Grinnell, Pop. 9,218

Grinnell, a college town voted one of the Top Ten Coolest Small Towns in the Midwest by Budget Travel, is on Highway 6. (Grinnell College (1846) was named “Most Hipster College in the Nation“ by HuffPo.)

The 1854 cofounder of Grinnell, Josiah Bushnell Grinnell, a staunch abolitionist who gave shelter to John Brown when he fled Kansas, is buried there.

The literal jewel of Grinnell is a “jewel-box” bank designed by Louis H. Sullivan, the mentor of Frank Lloyd Wright. (Wright worked for Sullivan from 1887 to 1893 and referred to him as “LieberMeister.”) Sullivan coined the jewel box description to convey a square brick structure with treasure inside.

Sullivan built eight of these banks in the Midwest. Merchants National Bank (1914) is now Grinnell’s Chamber of Commerce and Welcome Center.

The terra-cotta portal is fantastic, giving great visual interest to an otherwise boring facade.

The building is adorned with a rose window, handcarved wooden check desk, and pink Tennessee marble flooring.

The windows on the east side of the building are stained glass, a whopping 15 feet high by 40 feet wide.

Grinnell is a shining example of a small town’s modern use of retired public buildings. The Hotel Grinnell is the old junior high school built in 1921.

The Periodic Table, a bar and restaurant, is in the old locker rooms.

The gymnasium, now known as the Ball Room, is an event space,

as is the auditorium.

Menlo? Man! (Pop. 342)

Just outside Des Moines there is a stretch of Highway 6 known as “The White Pole Road,“ so-named for the white utility poles that lined the thoroughfare. Neon sign hound that I am, I heard about the Menlo Man, in Menlo (duh), who has been restored and waves to passing motorists.

I waited until dusk to make the drive, excited to see him in all of his neon glory.

Drat!

Here is what I posted on Facebook.

Towns And Trails – Madrid and Perry

Madrid, Pop. 2,597

Iowa is a bicycling haven. The state is repurposing those old railroad rights of way, reminding me of the George S. Mickelson Trail through Deadwood, South Dakota, and the Razorback Regional Greenway in Northwest Arkansas.

Even though I’m not a cyclist, I had to see the High Trestle Bridge in Madrid, on the High Trestle Trail, which runs 25 miles through four counties and five Iowa towns. Jess bikes, and one afternoon she showed me the best spot to park nearby and walk to the bridge.

(In Iowa Madrid is pronounced MAA-drid. There’s a Nevada too – neh-VAY-duh. Tripoli? Trip-OH-la. Peru = PEE-roo.)

The High Trestle Bridge spans a half mile, 13 feet above the Des Moines River Valley.

“From Here To There,” an art installation by David B. Dahlquist, crowns the bridge, making for some great photo ops.

There are 43 twisting, steel ribs meant to elicit the sensation of traveling down a mine shaft, in honor of the area’s coal-mining history.

The middle span is lit in blue LED lights at night, but I wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to walk a mile each way from the parking lot in the dark. Here’s a photo I found on the interwebs from a more intrepid traveler.

Perry, Pop. 7,702

Perry is on the Raccoon River Valley Trail, but currently that trail and the High Trestle Trail do not meet. Perry would like to change that.

Trails have been instrumental in giving rebirth to small towns, and Perry has made things very comfortable for bicyclists. Not only is there a bicycle shop, but Perry’s downtown is walkable, with over 30 buildings on the National Register of Historic Places and lots of public art.

The Hotel Pattee has been lovingly restored and focuses on Perry’s railroad past. (In 1881 Perry was the division station for the Chicago, Milwaukee, and Saint Paul Line.)

Ames, Pop. 67,154

Ames is the home of Iowa State University, and the largest Grant Wood murals ever made.

The murals were commissioned by the university in the 1930s. “Breaking the Prairie Sod” depicts the laborious work of the first Iowa farmers.

Upstairs, the multi-panel “When Tillage Begins” is based on a quote by Daniel Webster, “When tillage begins, other arts follow” – apropos subject matter for Iowa’s Ag university. (It was the 1930s, so we will forgive Grant that the only women in the murals are delivering water and in the Home Economics Arts.)

Jess played tour guide again at the University. Not satisfied with merely going straight to the library, she strategized our route to take us through the Memorial Union,

the Fountain of the Four Seasons by Christian Peterson,

Beardshear Hall,

and by Sir Lancelot and Elaine, residents of Lake La Verne since the first pair in 1935.

EAST CENTRAL

The Amana Colonies, Pop. 1,900

What a difference an hour and a half drive makes! I headed east from Des Moines to spend five days in the Amana Colonies, a settlement established in 1855 by German separatists, “Inspirationists,” seeking religious freedom.

I traded shotgun blasts for the mooing of cows, who meandered along the fence next to the motorhome, eating grass and driving the dogs crazy.

When I posted on Facebook that I was going to the Amana Colonies, someone replied they were “overrated.“ It made me chuckle. Some of the advice given by well-meaning friends and acquaintances is filtered through the perspective of a finite vacation. But, I was not spending five precious days of a two-week vacation in the Amana Colonies. I was also meeting a long-time blog follower who was already camped there, and I intended to use it as a base for daytripping. Not to mention, no matter where I am, I am a temporary resident. It was time to take care of some small repairs, do laundry, and wash the car, at a minimum.

The Germans who formed the Amana colonies are often confused with the Amish. While they eschewed worldly things like music, dancing, radios, and even baseball, they embraced technological advancements, making them excellent farmers and stewards of the land. They arrived in Iowa in 1855 after establishing colonies in New York, but they wanted more space to grow, and the city of Buffalo was creeping up on them. They purchased 25,000 acres along the Iowa River.

The seven villages, each with a church and communal kitchens, were spaced approximately one mile apart, equating to a one-hour cart ride. The colonies of Amana, Middle Amana, High Amana, East Amana, West Amana, South Amana, and Homestead (already named when it was purchased) each have their own unique character and attractions.

Perhaps the person who found the Colonies overrated didn’t take the $20, 2.5 hour tour I took from the Amana Visitor Center.

We saw an historical film at The Amana Heritage Museum in Amana;

toured the Communal Kitchen and Cooper Shop in Middle Amana;

shopped at the 150-year-old High Amana General Store (once operated by the grandfather of the man who founded Amana Refrigeration);

and learned about all those church services at the Amana Community Church Museum in Homestead.

The approximately 1,800 Amana residents were given an eighth grade education, a place to live in apartment-style quarters, clothing, credits, and five meals per day in exchange for their labor and attending 11 church services per week. There were 60 communal kitchens, each serving 30 to 40 colonists.

We toured the one original kitchen that remains.

The Great Depression was hard on everyone, and by 1932 the membership overwhelmingly voted to cease the communal lifestyle. The lands were placed in the trust of the Amana Society, which still manages them today.

Today the Amana Colonies thrive through farming, cattle, the generation of electricity (made with the methane from cow chips!), and tourism. Popular items for purchase include antiques, woolens, meats and cheeses, wine, beer, crafts, and furniture.

A Whirlpool factory is in the old woolen mill, and the Amana Society has allowed limited development of other tracts of land. Speaking daily German mostly ended with the Baby Boomers, but church services are still held in both German and English.

Iowa City, Pop. 76,290

Having visited Iowa State University in Ames, it was only fair that I stopped in at the University of Iowa in Iowa City, 20 miles from Amana. Home of the Hawkeyes, school is back in session and the streets were hopping with pedestrians, bicycles and scooters.

The Old State Capitol Museum in the center of U of I’s Pentacrest made for a good photo.

I didn’t visit many cemeteries in Iowa. Perhaps it’s because they are, in general, understated and stoic, like so many Iowans. There isn’t a lot of Victorian romanticism or dramatic headstones. Take, for example this cemetery in High Amana.

One fabulous and downright creepy exception can be found in the Oakland Cemetery in Iowa City.

How would you like to have this towering over your grave for the rest of eternity?

Known as the Dark Angel, it was commissioned by Teresa Doleful Feldevert for the loss of both her young son and husband. Legend has it that it was a gold, shimmering eight-foot statue then, but when she died, the statue began to turn black, starting with the eyes. Starting.with.the.eyes. Shudder.

Don’t touch it! Stories abound about those who did and died an untimely death. All the paranormal investigator types have visited The Black Angel, claiming strange sounds and temperature fluctuations.

Amana was also an excellent jumping off point to rendezvous with a President, a Starfleet Captain, and a farm boy turned internationally acclaimed artist.

The President – West Branch, Iowa, Pop. 2,359

Before I went to West Branch, the only thing I really knew about Herbert Hoover when he was President during The Great Depression. I had heard of “Hoovervilles” – shantytowns for the poor and unemployed – and I knew the Hoover Dam bears his name.

It is my goal to visit all Presidential Libraries and Museums in the United States, and my experience in West Branch illustrates exactly why this is important to me.

When I pulled into town I expected a library, but not an entire 1800s village. The neighborhood Bertie grew up in until age 10 is entirely preserved in a 186-acre National Historic Site, including the birth cottage,

his father’s blacksmith shop,

the school,

and the Quaker church where his family worshipped.

It is truly a time capsule – such a rare commodity these days. For example, the 1700s John Adams and John Quincy Adams homes in Quincy, Massachusetts are now surrounded by urban sprawl.

West Branch reminds me of Plymouth Notch, Vermont, where Calvin Coolidge was born and raised, which has been preserved in the same way. These sites honoring Presidents from the 1800s, who hailed from small towns, give us a rare glimpse into our shared rural American past.

Little Bert was orphaned by the age of 10, both parents dying in their early 30s from health conditions. He was shipped off to Oregon to live with an uncle for awhile, eventually making it to Stanford, where he studied geology.

He worked in a coal mine immediately after graduating, leading to him hearing about an opportunity in a gold mine in Australia – for a 35-year-old. He bought a suit to make himself look older.

He traveled the world and made his fortune in mining, developing a reputation for finding gold and mines that paid.

He met his wife-to-be, Lou, at Stanford, another Iowan, both of them born the same year. They lived abroad, including London and China (where they were rescued by United States troops during the Boxer Rebellion.)

Hoover was so distraught by the food crisis in Belgium during World War I that, as a private citizen, he invested his own time and money to help. The clerk at the library told me that to this day, Belgians come to the library and shed tears over his humanitarianism and philanthropy. This is a statue of the goddess Isis that the country gave to Hoover to thank him for his generosity.

His works in Belgium eventually led to public service, where he became Secretary of Commerce under Coolidge.

When Coolidge did not seek reelection, the party nominated Hoover, and he became the 31st President of the United States.

There was no joy or love in being President during The Great Depression; he was not reelected. He is the only Iowan ever to be President, and one of a handful of sitting presidents who did not retain the office; FDR carried all but six states. Will Rogers wrote, “We all know that you was handed a balloon that was blowed up to its utmost. You held it as carefully as any one could, but the thing blowed up right in your hands. Well, they’re just ain’t much you can do in a case like that. … No, it wasn’t you, Mr. President. The people just wanted to buy something new, and they didn’t have any money to buy it with. But they could go out and vote free and get something for nothing. So cheer up. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

It appears that Hoover’s true legacy was his work as an elder statesman, when Presidents Eisenhower and Truman and others tapped him to undertake relief missions. In his career, Hoover provided food to 57 nations. In his later years he lived in a New York Waldorf Astoria apartment, preserved at the library,

writing books, receiving guests, and watching baseball on his new color television. He died in 1964, 20 years after Lou.

The Hoovers are buried on a hill in West Branch, overlooking the place of his birth. In minimalist Quaker style, the markers are austere.

A Ranger sat on a bench as I approached, and we talked for awhile. As we parted he said, “I have something for you. We have a buckeye tree on the property. Here’s one I picked up today. It’s good luck!“

That darned Iowa Nice struck again, in the most charming, heartfelt way.

The Starfleet Captain – Riverside, Iowa, Pop. 1,039

In 1985, Riverside City Councilman Steve Miller suggested that Riverside be the “small town in Iowa” where Jim Kirk was born, as Gene Roddenberry wrote in the book, “The Making of Star Trek.“ Roddenberry replied, “I think that’s a very enterprising suggestion. As far as I’m concerned, the first volunteer has it!“

Thus began Riverside’s claim to fame into the 21st Century, as the 20th century brought the decline of the mill, the closing of the lightning rod factory,

and an interstate that passed them by.

You might miss it if you didn’t know it was there. On Riverside’s First Street, tucked between two taller turn-of-the-century brick buildings, is a little yellow house serving as a salon.

Behind the salon a stone marker is set:

A few doors down from the salon is Murphy’s Bar and Grill.

In the movie reboot starring Chris Pine as Captain Kirk, Kirk gets into a bar fight in Riverside at the Shipyard Bar, where The Enterprise is being built.

What a great example of art imitating life imitating art. This is the first reference to Riverside in any of the Star Trek franchise.

At the Voyage Home Riverside History Center, there is a back room dedicated to Riverside history, and the rest is Star Trek DIY and cardboard standup heaven.

The front door makes a familiar electronic “whooshing” sound as it opens. A big score – Commander Data‘s desk from The Next Generation is on display.

But, most exhibits are homespun, with love.

“You have to check out the transporter – it works,“ the woman said, because the disc lights up when you stand on it.

Merch purchased for my Trekkie sister, I was just about to leave when I was told I couldn’t miss the “exhibit” in the unisex bathroom.

Here’s the view from sitting on the toilet.

The Artist – Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Pop. 133,174

Margaret lives in Vancouver, Washington and read my article in the Washington State Bar magazine when I first hit the road. She is retired from the law herself now, currently traipsing around the United States in an Airstream, taking art classes. Nice work if you can get it!

We finally met in person at the campground in the Amana Colonies and spent the afternoon in nearby Cedar Rapids.

Grant Wood’s funeral home carriage house studio drew us there. Unfortunately, it is open only on weekends, and we were there on a Tuesday.

There was still enough Grant to go around. The Cedar Rapids Museum of Art houses the largest collection of Wood’s works, at over 200 pieces.

It was illuminating to see his expressions in other media, like found objects, and wood.

(“Lilies of the Alley,” tee hee)

It was also wonderful to see this study he painted in preparation for the murals at Iowa State University.

The original door to his studio at 5 Turner Alley is in the museum. A spinning arrow indicates if he is in, out o’ town, having a party, or taking a bath.

Cedar Rapids has a Grant Wood gem in the Memorial Window at Veterans’ Memorial Auditorium.

Wood spent three months working with the glass artisans in Munich to make the piece.

I really enjoyed Cedar Rapids, which reminds me a lot of Spokane, Washington. The downtown is restored and bustling, a river runs through it, the Quaker Oats factory is less smelly than it used to be,

and the Czech Village/New Bohemia neighborhood is glistening after coming back from a devastating flood in 2008.

Czech immigration to Cedar Rapids in the 1870s was driven not by farming or lumber, but by a meatpacking plant.

Other work soon followed, in a foundry, a wagon works, and dairy equipment at J.G. Cherry Company.

The New Bohemia District is small, but home to fun shops and restaurants, including Des Moines-based Raygun

and Fong’s Pizza. I loved the original Fong’s in Des Moines but never got a chance to return, so I finally got my Fongolean Beef pizza!

SOUTHEAST

Eldon, Pop. 916

If it weren’t for Grant Wood, I highly doubt a tourist would purposefully go to Eldon, Iowa. They have a Carnegie library there, but there are not many geeks like me that are into that sort of thing (and theirs sure needs a lot of work). The town suffered a major setback with the railroad ceased operations in 1980.

Eldon is home to the “American Gothic” house, the subject of the famous painting by Grant Wood.

The House was donated to the State Historical Society of Iowa in 1991 and is now a State Historical Site. It is empty and rarely open for events, but the adjacent visitor center is free, and excellent. There is a fun exhibit about the second most parodied painting in the world. (The Mona Lisa is the first.)

It is also free to grab a hay fork and don overalls or the apron of the dour farmer and his daughter and put yourself in the painting by having your photo snapped in front of the house by a staff member.

Deb was especially good at it, jokingly chiding that the pitchfork I chose was too tall.

The painting’s story is a good one. Wood never owned or even stepped foot in the house. In Eldon for an art exhibit, he sketched the house on the back of an envelope, never to return. (The owners spied him doing it and tidied up, anticipating a visit.) The “farmer” was his dentist, and the “daughter” was his sister. They never posed together for the painting. He promised them he would alter their appearance and no one would recognize them. That’s mostly true for his sister (who said that being in the painting was probably the most important thing that ever happened to her).

His dentist, on the other hand, was changed very little, and that did not set too well with him. Here are the two subjects, meeting together for the first time to see the painting; just look at that dentist’s face and body language!

I have seen “American Gothic” at the Art Institute of Chicago, but I didn’t know the museum bought the painting from Wood in 1930 for $300, setting off the Regionalism Movement. That’s a lot of money during the Depression, but it is estimated to be worth over $65 million now.

Farewell

It was only fitting that on my last night in Iowa, Jess, her coworker Vania, and I had dinner, in a jewel box bank (not one of Louis Sullivan‘s), in a farm town. Things really came full circle. We met at the new Caucus Bistro in Ladora, population 281.

The bank opened in 1920, only to close in 1931 because of the Great Depression. The tellers’ cage is still intact; the bar is inside.

The wine is in the safe.

Somber, pragmatic platitudes about thrift and diligence are etched near the ceiling.

Black and white photos of visits to Iowa by hopeful candidates who became presidents line the walls.

The food was fantastic!

We decided against this menu item.

We had the Inaugural Balls for dessert.

I drove the 11 miles back to the Amana Colonies as the sun was setting, casting a golden glow across the fields. The green smell of corn and freshly cut grass reached my nose as I listened to some more Buddy Holly. “Everyday, it’s a gettin’ closer, Goin’ faster than a roller coaster … ”

Large white tents and portable toilets appeared in the fields; they had not been there the day before. The air was cooler than just two weeks ago; there would be no need for the air conditioner overnight. Harvest was approaching and fall was not far behind, telling me it was time to say goodbye to Iowa. And I was sad about it.

Epilogue

I covered a lot of ground in Iowa in four short weeks, but it took a lot of driving. I parked Nellie in five locations (Le Mars, Clear Lake, Britt, Des Moines, and The Amana Colonies) and chewed up the miles in Toad, in some instances driving two hours one way for a day trip. In this way Iowa reminds me a lot of Vermont – plenty to see, but lots of open spaces, requiring copious car time.

There is way more to Iowa. I did not get the chance to see, just off the top of my head, the Loess Hills, Pike’s Peak, Clarinda, home of Glenn Miller, and so much more.