We turn left and head up the winding Hickory Avenue gravel road. Dust kicks up behind us in thick clouds as the small rocks hit against the bottom of the car. We are traveling through an area that I have hunted and fished. The Smiths own much of it. They are all related to each other somehow.
Soon we are at the intersection of Skunk River Road (253rd Street). It’s a right turn down a dirt road to the river. We used to go that way when we went to Jackson’s cabin with I was a kid. I have always kind of liked it because the trees are grown up and form a canopy over the road. My Dad usually can’t resist a dirt road but this time we go on by and head towards the other Skunk River Road (265th Street).
Down the road a ways is a relatively new house. When they were doing work for a pond nearby they dug up a large unusual rock deep in the ground. The landowner was convinced it was a ceremonial rock of some sort that was left by the Indians. No one else seemed to think it was anything but a large, somewhat unusual rock.
He called Dad and asked him to come and take a look at it because he knew Dad knew a lot about the Indians and the artifacts they left behind. The fellow was so sure it was something significant and actually got angry when Dad suggested it was probably just a natural rock formation. He invited everyone he could think of hoping someone would agree with him regarding the origin of the rock to no avail. He even invited someone from the State Archeologist Office to take a look at it. He was reportedly furious that the archeologist would not agree with him.
I heard the guy moved the rock to the location of his new house and then built the house around it. I have never seen it but I assume it is still there. I remember some of my Dad’s friends joking about it several years later.
We go on. The intersection of Hickory Avenue and Skunk River Road (265th Street) is a four way stop. The house on the corner on our right is another Smith. I had one of his sons in school. He was a hard working likeable kid. If you go straight here you go over the hill and down into the river bottom. My friend, Steve, lived in a cabin down there for a while. I visited him once. He had a pet raccoon that lived in the closet and could go outside through a special door Steve had built.
Left would take us by Allen Shook’s place and then over to the old highway 218. We turn right and look at all the cattle on the hillside and we head toward the river. The hill is steep and the road swings to the left. My mother can’t pass this point without telling about the time they started up this hill when she was a child and that it was too steep for the old car and it started to creep backwards. Somehow they got it stopped and then backed up the hill that day.
The road leads to Faulkner Bridge but it is gone now and so we turn right down another steep but short hill. On the right is one of my favorite places. I wrote about it in another piece some time ago. On the left is a boat ramp and a small camping area. This is the place where I turned the six squirrels I caught in the live trap loose.
The river to the left is where a drunk yelled at Terry and I as we were canoeing by and threatened to shoot us with his pistol. He waved it around some by never fired it. We waited out in the middle of the river until the guy and his buddy got in their car and left. I never told my parents about that because I thought it would scare them.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Rides (#1 of Many)
A while back I wrote twelve installments about rides my Dad and I would take to the northwestern part of Henry County. We did venture into Jefferson County, too For us rides in that area were the most frequent. The second most frequent direction was rides to the southwestern part of the county. I will write about those in this series.
It is important to realize as I write these that I include them in what appears to be one long ride but was really often shorter rides that covered a smaller amount of territory. But, for the sake of trying to include all of the options I will write about rides to the southwestern part of the county as one long ride.
This usually started by either going southwest on the Oakland Mills Road or west on Highway 34 and then south on county Highway W55, also know as Franklin Avenue. Today we head south on Jefferson Street which becomes Oakland Mills road at the edge of town…south past Irish Ridge Road and Dad begins to talk about the abandoned rock quarry over the hill to the west near what is now Mt. Pleasant’s sewage treatment plant. I hunted rabbits back in that area when I was a teenager.
We continue over the hill and down towards Big Creek. There is another rock quarry near the road on the right. We have hunted for fossils in there a few times and I took several summer science students on trips there to chip fossils out of the rock. Crossing the bridge we can see remnants of the K-line railroad bridge that crossed the river there. The rest of the road to Oakland Mills pretty much follows right on top of the old railroad bed.
Off to the west of the bridge about a mile is the site of Mt. Pleasant’s original waterworks plant. There was a small dam there at one time and water was pumped from the reservoir to the town. We have been to the site many times on foot and in a canoe. I once caught a big catfish right where the old dam was. All that is left now are a few stone remnants of the structure in the bank of the creek. On one walk back in that back in that area I came across a small spring bubbling out of the ground.
Big Creek County Park is also back that way. It is as close to a natural area as you can get in Henry County because the only way you can get there is by walking or when the creek is high enough by canoe.
Going on down the road there is a large pond on the right hand side of the road. Shortly after the pond we have to make a decision. We can continue on Oakland Mills Road to Oakland Mills or turn left on the gravel Hickory Avenue. Hickory Avenue takes you to two different Skunk River Roads. One is dirt and is also known as 253rd Street. The other, gravel, is also known as 265th Street.
Let’s take Hickory Avenue.
It is important to realize as I write these that I include them in what appears to be one long ride but was really often shorter rides that covered a smaller amount of territory. But, for the sake of trying to include all of the options I will write about rides to the southwestern part of the county as one long ride.
This usually started by either going southwest on the Oakland Mills Road or west on Highway 34 and then south on county Highway W55, also know as Franklin Avenue. Today we head south on Jefferson Street which becomes Oakland Mills road at the edge of town…south past Irish Ridge Road and Dad begins to talk about the abandoned rock quarry over the hill to the west near what is now Mt. Pleasant’s sewage treatment plant. I hunted rabbits back in that area when I was a teenager.
We continue over the hill and down towards Big Creek. There is another rock quarry near the road on the right. We have hunted for fossils in there a few times and I took several summer science students on trips there to chip fossils out of the rock. Crossing the bridge we can see remnants of the K-line railroad bridge that crossed the river there. The rest of the road to Oakland Mills pretty much follows right on top of the old railroad bed.
Off to the west of the bridge about a mile is the site of Mt. Pleasant’s original waterworks plant. There was a small dam there at one time and water was pumped from the reservoir to the town. We have been to the site many times on foot and in a canoe. I once caught a big catfish right where the old dam was. All that is left now are a few stone remnants of the structure in the bank of the creek. On one walk back in that back in that area I came across a small spring bubbling out of the ground.
Big Creek County Park is also back that way. It is as close to a natural area as you can get in Henry County because the only way you can get there is by walking or when the creek is high enough by canoe.
Going on down the road there is a large pond on the right hand side of the road. Shortly after the pond we have to make a decision. We can continue on Oakland Mills Road to Oakland Mills or turn left on the gravel Hickory Avenue. Hickory Avenue takes you to two different Skunk River Roads. One is dirt and is also known as 253rd Street. The other, gravel, is also known as 265th Street.
Let’s take Hickory Avenue.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Grandpa’s Barn Revisited
Grandpa’s barn looked huge to me when I was eight years old. It was a typical farm fixture in the 1950s in rural Iowa. We lived in town and there was a smaller version of that barn across the alley from our house. It was locked up tight and I wasn’t allowed to explore it because it was on Mrs. Hall’s property.
I remember getting as close as I possibility could to it and peaking through the cracks between the vertical barn boards. I really couldn’t see anything but pitch black but I told my sister, Loretta, that I could. She didn’t believe me and asked what I saw. I, of course, wouldn’t tell her I saw nothing. So, I think I just said “things” and said no more. I am sure she wasn’t fooled.
That’s one of the reasons I liked Grandpa’s barn. It was wide open and full of adventure. I wasn’t restricted in any way except to stay out of the section where the cows were. No problem there because I was scared to death of them.
The big rusty red barn was across the barn lot northeast of the house. Its six-foot lightning rods looked small pointing up at the sky along the peak of the roof. It seemed like it was quite a ways from the house but now realize it probably wasn’t nearly as far as I remember. I walked between the scavenging chickens to get there.
A farm has a smorgasbord of odors. Not all of them bad. They change with the seasons. The fall oders might be the most pleasant. There are some not so pleasant odors like hog or cattle manure but fresh turned soil or corn stalks aren’t so bad…somewhat pleasant in fact. Cut grass or straw has a fresher, richer touch. In the barn there is a blend of cow manure, hay, straw, feathers, and dust. Lots of dust! Maybe not the best place for a kid with lots of allergies but still a place impossible to stay away from.
Going in, there were stalls on the right and the milking section on the left. All were separated from the center walkway by sturdy wooden gates. Old tack, covered with a thick layer of dust, hung on the walls or draped over the gates. The back third or so of the barn was separated from the rest of the barn and it was where the cows were when the weather was bad or they wanted to be out of the sun. There were huge feed bunks in there and that part of the barn was open to the ceiling high above.
The other two thirds of the upper part of the barn was the loft…a virtual cathedral of wonder to every young boy who entered. If there are sacred places for young boys, barn lofts have to be high on that list. They are sometimes called haylofts because that is where hay is stored. That was in the day of the rectangular hay bales that could be stacked to ceiling.
Climbing up into that loft was like stepping into another world. We built forts between the bales, and castles with high parapets. We gazed out across our imaginary kingdom from the big loft window high up in the barn. It was only limited by a young boy’s imagination.
The ropes and huge pulleys hanging from the top of the barn ceiling were the rigging for our sailing ship and the soft bales made a great cushion for our feigned falls in our imaginary battles.
We sometimes hung dangerously over the cattle stall area of the barn or climbed to the very top to inspect the new baby pigeons in their nests. We captured a few young ones with the naive thought that we would train them to be homing pigeons. The first time we let them loose they flew away and we never saw them again.
Oh, that barn was a special place! It still is in my memory.
I remember getting as close as I possibility could to it and peaking through the cracks between the vertical barn boards. I really couldn’t see anything but pitch black but I told my sister, Loretta, that I could. She didn’t believe me and asked what I saw. I, of course, wouldn’t tell her I saw nothing. So, I think I just said “things” and said no more. I am sure she wasn’t fooled.
That’s one of the reasons I liked Grandpa’s barn. It was wide open and full of adventure. I wasn’t restricted in any way except to stay out of the section where the cows were. No problem there because I was scared to death of them.
The big rusty red barn was across the barn lot northeast of the house. Its six-foot lightning rods looked small pointing up at the sky along the peak of the roof. It seemed like it was quite a ways from the house but now realize it probably wasn’t nearly as far as I remember. I walked between the scavenging chickens to get there.
A farm has a smorgasbord of odors. Not all of them bad. They change with the seasons. The fall oders might be the most pleasant. There are some not so pleasant odors like hog or cattle manure but fresh turned soil or corn stalks aren’t so bad…somewhat pleasant in fact. Cut grass or straw has a fresher, richer touch. In the barn there is a blend of cow manure, hay, straw, feathers, and dust. Lots of dust! Maybe not the best place for a kid with lots of allergies but still a place impossible to stay away from.
Going in, there were stalls on the right and the milking section on the left. All were separated from the center walkway by sturdy wooden gates. Old tack, covered with a thick layer of dust, hung on the walls or draped over the gates. The back third or so of the barn was separated from the rest of the barn and it was where the cows were when the weather was bad or they wanted to be out of the sun. There were huge feed bunks in there and that part of the barn was open to the ceiling high above.
The other two thirds of the upper part of the barn was the loft…a virtual cathedral of wonder to every young boy who entered. If there are sacred places for young boys, barn lofts have to be high on that list. They are sometimes called haylofts because that is where hay is stored. That was in the day of the rectangular hay bales that could be stacked to ceiling.
Climbing up into that loft was like stepping into another world. We built forts between the bales, and castles with high parapets. We gazed out across our imaginary kingdom from the big loft window high up in the barn. It was only limited by a young boy’s imagination.
The ropes and huge pulleys hanging from the top of the barn ceiling were the rigging for our sailing ship and the soft bales made a great cushion for our feigned falls in our imaginary battles.
We sometimes hung dangerously over the cattle stall area of the barn or climbed to the very top to inspect the new baby pigeons in their nests. We captured a few young ones with the naive thought that we would train them to be homing pigeons. The first time we let them loose they flew away and we never saw them again.
Oh, that barn was a special place! It still is in my memory.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Summer Writers' Camp
In October of 1982, I went to the fall conference of the Southeast Iowa Writing Project. These early events were held at a hotel on the highway near the Amanas. They later moved to the Marriott in downtown Des Moines. I liked the Amana site because it was much closer to home and not nearly as congested.
There were a number of impressing speakers at this event. Teachers, writers, area education agency consultants, and professors from the University of Iowa were part of the group. One was a Cedar Rapids teacher named Barb Scott.
Barb told about a unique project she and others had come up with. They patterned it after the sports camps that are offered for kids in the summer only it was a writers’ camp. They charged 4-6 graders $75 to be part of a weeklong half day camps. For some reason Barb had stopped doing the camps.
I was intrigued! I thought it was a viable option for Mt. Pleasant and a perfect way for me to earn some money in the summer time. I explored the option with the school district administration and got the go ahead to do it.
I decided to try to make it a positive supportive environment for young writers. I wanted the camp to be pressure free and comfortable. There would be no assignments and no grades. Kids would simply be encouraged to write and share their writing.
My plan was to charge $25 per person for the week and meet each day from 9:00-11:30 with some kind of snack time built in. In later years it was supported with Phase 3 dollars. I limited each group to no more than twelve students. We would have several computers available for those who wanted to write using them.
I sent flyers out through the district with a form to interested kids to sign up and pay the fee. I was inundated with interest and had enough to have two sessions. There was a waiting list of nearly 30 kids. I would have had more camps but just didn’t have the time with graduate school. From that point on every year we had far more kids interested than we could accommodate.
I gathered some unique things for the participants. Each would get some pencils, pens, paper and a Summer Writers’ Camp T-shirt. When each student registered they indicated their size and it was then given to them the first day of their week. That proved to be a good move and provided walking advertisement for the camps.
The camps continued for several years. Some weeks we had two going on at the same time and I hired another teacher to help with them. Heather helped me with several ones and was really great to have around.
I turned it over to others when I left the district and it continued for a few years and then died out. I felt bad that it didn’t continue but there really wasn’t much I could do about it. Maybe I’ll do something like that again someday?
There were a number of impressing speakers at this event. Teachers, writers, area education agency consultants, and professors from the University of Iowa were part of the group. One was a Cedar Rapids teacher named Barb Scott.
Barb told about a unique project she and others had come up with. They patterned it after the sports camps that are offered for kids in the summer only it was a writers’ camp. They charged 4-6 graders $75 to be part of a weeklong half day camps. For some reason Barb had stopped doing the camps.
I was intrigued! I thought it was a viable option for Mt. Pleasant and a perfect way for me to earn some money in the summer time. I explored the option with the school district administration and got the go ahead to do it.
I decided to try to make it a positive supportive environment for young writers. I wanted the camp to be pressure free and comfortable. There would be no assignments and no grades. Kids would simply be encouraged to write and share their writing.
My plan was to charge $25 per person for the week and meet each day from 9:00-11:30 with some kind of snack time built in. In later years it was supported with Phase 3 dollars. I limited each group to no more than twelve students. We would have several computers available for those who wanted to write using them.
I sent flyers out through the district with a form to interested kids to sign up and pay the fee. I was inundated with interest and had enough to have two sessions. There was a waiting list of nearly 30 kids. I would have had more camps but just didn’t have the time with graduate school. From that point on every year we had far more kids interested than we could accommodate.
I gathered some unique things for the participants. Each would get some pencils, pens, paper and a Summer Writers’ Camp T-shirt. When each student registered they indicated their size and it was then given to them the first day of their week. That proved to be a good move and provided walking advertisement for the camps.
The camps continued for several years. Some weeks we had two going on at the same time and I hired another teacher to help with them. Heather helped me with several ones and was really great to have around.
I turned it over to others when I left the district and it continued for a few years and then died out. I felt bad that it didn’t continue but there really wasn’t much I could do about it. Maybe I’ll do something like that again someday?
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