Good Lord!

I have seen the 25-year plan for Pacific. In 25 years there will be no Pacific; it will be at the bottom of a man-made recreational lake ringed with McMansions, and somebody will make big money. Historic flooding in 2015, then worse in 2017, twice drowned half the town's housing and businesses; in 2017, the water topped the railroad tracks for the first time. The town was now floodplain and there was no two ways about it. Some residents FEMA'd and some didn't. When we're weary some developer will propose a glamorous lake in place of the sleepy little town and grease some pockets and make it so. But my mind was elsewhere when today I saw the little white country church lifted on pallets way up in the air, and thought, "Good Lord!"

I know buildings get raised and moved, a task I can't even begin to comprehend, and here I could watch it happen by hopping out of my car and telling a worker how amazed I was, and could I take a photo.

"Is the church being raised because of the flooding?" I asked, above the roar of the Bobcat. (Here, "bobcat" is both noun and verb.)

"Just like we raised the other houses around here," he said, and for the first time I looked around and saw that more than half the houses on the street, formerly ground-level bungalows, were now poised on new, high, solid concrete foundations -- ten feet high? twelve feet? More? The doors in front and back were now accessed with handsome new wooden staircases that one could tie a rowboat to. Those folks were staying put, flood or no. And my heart was glad.

Death of a Small-Town Paper

Our local newspaper covering Eureka, Pacific and somewhere else -- Gray Summit? -- came in the mailbox every two weeks bearing news of VFW suppers and church fish fries, all-you-can-eat breakfasts, Railroad Days and the bank's Customer Appreciation Day, flea markets, photos of prize-winning kids or teachers or the high-school play, and canned advice by our local Edward Jones agents. But it has died.

The paper -- The Current -- over the past year got thinner and thinner, a signal that advertisers had either deserted it or their ad people weren't aggressive enough, and a healthy newspaper must be 70 percent advertising. It used to have two plump sections, and occasionally a third special supplement. I had read every inch, sometimes laughing ("Local Photographer Almost Gets Picture Published"). I read about the new mayor at 8:30 a.m. on his first day in office firing every town employee including the city clerk who'd worked there 25 years. That's-a called drainin' the swamp. One time the mayoral candidates were Ms. Pigg and Mr. Titter. I learned that from the paper and will never forget it.

For a while the electronic Patch brought news and I called because I used to be a reporter, but their $50 per article was paltry. It takes all day and mileage to run around collecting information and interviews to put together just one news article, or learn enough about a person or business to write a feature story, and for local politics you must sit through the aldermen's meetings, etc. and can't leave, and covering politics in three towns means there are three such meetings to go to, not just one. Life is too short. The dying Current changed publishers three times, thinned and died. I will miss it. Along with bringing useful news (no disrespect intended) I used its obituary pages to peel potatoes on, at the same time reading those life summaries and how everybody was connected to everybody else and will be dearly missed.

Chokin' His Chicken

So I go to buy a pound of barbecue and. . .

No, that's not how this begins. Rather, this town has a scarecrow contest every October and all the local businesses create, dress, and put on the street their own life-sized scarecrows, all very fanciful, and then the townspeople vote for their favorite. The post office's scarecrow is dressed like a postman. The bank's scarecrow is a woman in a garden hat watering a money tree. The gym's scarecrow rides an exerbike. Some are so elaborate that the owners cover them like mummies in plastic when it rains.

As the pumpkin lattes, pumpkin beers, and pumpkin snickerdoodles come out, so do the scarecrows, and the barbecue place took its scarecrow out of storage and this is the first I've seen of him--the swine! So I thought I would overshare. He reminds me of someone I used to know. The expression on the chicken's face is precious, so here's  a close-up.

I'm so grateful I moved to Missouri where there's barbecue and humor.

Spring in a River Town

Circumstances had me staying (alone, but not unhappy) at a B&B in far southern Illinois, in Elizabethtown, on the Ohio River, facing Kentucky. The B&B's address is Front Street and Main. Because of melted snow and rain, E-Town's Front Street was entirely underwater, just feet from my window. Above is a view of Front Street, and the photo below is the corner of Front & Main, and the yard and fence of the very nice B&B.

Sad to say, little E-Town is broken-down and boarded up except for 2 B&Bs, two bars, a liquor store (where I bought a bottle of Jim Beam, it was that depressing), and one gas station doubling as the town cafe. Another restaurant -- on a boat, anchored in the river right off Main Street, the E-Town Restaurant, is famed for its fried catfish and I'd looked forward to crossing there on the walkway and eating some. In the top photo you can see where the floating restaurant had been (on the left) and in the far right upper corner, between the trees, you can see it, with the blue roof, tied to some trees. The rushing waters broke the lines that held the restaurant in place and men went out on boats and caught it before it floated any farther down toward Cairo, Illinois, where it meets the Mississippi.

I hadn't seen the Ohio River since leaving Ohio (after a brief residency) in 1980. Odd to see it again when I never expected to. Understood more completely when I saw E-Town how people get annoyed with the way things are.

The Dismal Science

"Hi, Galaxy," I said to my phone. "Call The Medicine Shoppe." A Walgreens recording answered. Figuring that Galaxy messed up, I myself dialed the Old Towne pharmacy I'd used for 14 years. Chillingly, the Walgreens tape answered again.

It was surreal. I'd picked up a refill three days before from the familiar pharmacists and techs in the drab little Shoppe that kept only one of each item on its shelves, and had a rack of greeting cards that I alone (I think) bought from.

I drove there. Medicine Shoppe #1390 has closed. All prescriptions were transferred to the Walgreens a quarter-mile away, the sign said. No chance to ask questions or say goodbye before the staff--a motley, earnest, totally sterling team of women whom I trusted with my life--dispersed--to where?

Walgreens welcomes "Customers of Medicine Shoppe #1390"

I'd shunned the Walgreens because The Medicine Shoppe ladies saw my husband through his two and a half years of fatal illness; they'd rented me crutches; they'd witnessed my weepings and ailments, phoned and argued with doctors and insurers, knew all my secrets, and had never, not once in 14 years, given me the wrong medicine. I saw them save their meds from floodwaters. My insurer tried to force me to fill prescriptions by mail and I refused. My loyalty is non-negotiable.

Closed now. Maybe bankrupt. Or not profitable.Could have been franchisee's retirement, corporate downsizing, or higher rent. Maybe unable to compete with the Walgreens, grocery-store, and Walmart pharmacies within a two-mile radius. Possibly new rules for Medicare prescription payments. But no goodbyes. The weirdest sort of shock and heartache. And they're all out of work. They call economics "the dismal science" for a reason.

Walgreens had a sign outside to welcome me. Things could be much worse. But I wanted to cry.

Brown Eggs, Subtracted, Alas

Farmer Bob's "Brown Eggs" truck at its usual roadside spot at 11 on Wednesday had no canopy or patio chair and the cardboard sign saying "Brown Eggs" was stowed in the pickup, and as I approached Farmer Bob got out of the cab and I said, "You sold out all your eggs already?"

Farmer Bob said, "The health department says I can't sell eggs on the roadside any more." His eggs weren't refrigerated and they have to be. So he wasn't selling eggs, just telling every customer that skidded to a stop nearby, cheerfully expecting to purchase henfruit, that they could buy his eggs at his house on Highway B. By my reckoning that's 15 miles and out of the way of most of his regulars. Sad because seeing his one-man business on the roadside was a bright spot in my rural day and I daresay it was a bright spot for him too.

You needn't be French to know eggs come out of the chicken with a protective coating ("bloom"), and dont need refrigeration until they're washed, but I guess they don't know that here. Farmer Bob had zucchini to sell, though. I selected one, and he gave it to me free. I hugged him because I don't think we'll meet again. Joylessly I drove into town to the gas station, my next errand, and vacuumed out my eggless car.

Welcome to Utopia

Carol invited me to stay with her at the Poet's House, 404 Granary Street, in New Harmony, Indiana, population 800, founded in 1814 by the Harmonists, Germans who came to the then-wilderness on the Wabash River to establish an ideal society. They built cabins the first winter and brick dorms that still stand. These progressives believed in honor, sharing, hard work, friendship, education, and going to heaven -- everything good but sex. Men and women lived in separate dorms. Those already married could live together but chastely. The Harmonists' experiment failed, but they built a fabulous church that their leader saw in a dream, a brewery (try the beer from their recipe, Harmonie Bier), a granary, a workingman's library and a town with prayers and poems posted along the cobbled, tree-lined residential streets and at its famous Inn and gardens and Roofless Church and two labyrinths -- symbol of the city. It's all about beauty and spirit and views of cornfields. Everything there becomes art. Above is the Poet's House living room, showing the simple look that is typical (the flooring is poplar wood; through the doors is an herb garden); a photo taken in a oversized chair sculpture near the Inn. And the more-than-awesome "bier" from the 1816 recipe, available only at one cafe, called Sarah's; I will drive six hours round-trip to get another one. A wonderful and refreshing visit. They need to move this town to Missouri.

General Store, Powell, MO

"Twenty or thirty years ago" this general store in Powell, MO, closed. Along with it, at the center of town, is an abandoned Baptist church (no steeple) built of stone, and a DX station, its roadside sign now tangled in treetops. Another way to describe Powell is that the post office is open although no one works there, and there's a place that publishes gospel music and has since the composer of "I'll Fly Away," Mr. Albert E. Brumley, lived in Powell. He wrote the hymn in 1929, truly Divinely inspired, because it's been recorded by every gospel artist worth mentioning including Andy Griffith, Aretha Franklin, Crystal Gayle, Johnny Cash, and Kanye West. Brumley also wrote 600 other songs. Powell is in the far southwest corner of Missouri where there's not much but scenic Ozark beauty and farming. You'll have to drive 17 miles to buy a Snickers bar. I'll put up some more Powell pictures, but first, this fascinating and unique storefront sign made of horseshoes. That's Divine inspiration too.

The Middle West

Fall is Church Supper Time in rugged rural Missouri; praise the Lord for ham, potato salad, slaw, green beans, white beans (savory not sweet, just as I would make them; my friend Ace ate two plates full); best homemade applesauce ever, coffee, iced tea and homemade desserts, served by the friendliest Midwesterners. Ace asked the dessert table people special permission to eat two desserts (lemon pie; pumpkin pie sans Reddi-wip). Cost of meal $9 for adults; I bought. Some churches charge only a "free will offering." Note "The Middle East" biblical-era and modern maps tacked up behind the people; obviously Bible-study material. The most important part of any church is its basement. Rather go there than any restaurant.

Do you ever attend church suppers in your area? People were so glad to see us strangers they showed us photos of their grandchildren. This particular church is far out of the way, in the remains of a tiny town alongside the train tracks. In fall the Catholic church raffles off a live pig; I never buy a chance because I'm afraid I'll win. Another church has a whole-pig roast, and yet another church an awesome pork sausage dinner; that's the one they pour you a glass of milk at table. In spring, fried fish at Lenten church suppers is so good it just about converts me.

Friendly Wenona, Illinois

Can y'all stand another photograph of Illinois? I was a stranger there for a few days, and got to stay in the friendly town of Wenona, upstate, where nobody bothered me even if I did go to the town bar and order a draft Budweiser. My luck it was Wing Night, they had 19 different kinds of sauces, and I had a plate of honey mustard wings. My total bill for dinner including the beer was $3.70--way, way better than a sharp stick in the eye.

German Contributions to America

Visiting Hermann and other formerly German settlements along the Missouri River, one remembers the things German immigrants brought to America; how wonderful:

• Breweries
• Beer gardens
• Wineries
• The town band
• Oktoberfest
• Clock towers
• Turnverein (fellowship groups, like today’s “athletic clubs”)
• Bratwurst (and knackwurst, liverwurst, wieners, and so on)
• Dance halls
• Potato pancakes
• Music schools and conservatories
• Pumpernickel bread

Thank you!