Hunting up shipwrecks is fun to do, especially on New Zealand beaches where access is open and respect for the wreck expected.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Position_of_Taranaki.png
Following a brief note in our guidebook and not-very-helpful road signage, we located the wreck of the Zephyr on the North Island of NZ in Taranaki, the 10th largest populated town in NZ, named for the nearby volcanic Mount Taranaki. With the air somewhat misty and unsettled from a recent rain, I carefully stepped over rounded stones to capture images of the remains.
The Wreck of the Zephyr
Puddled water against the blue sky frames the Zephyr ruins. On the 11th of September 1864, this top-sail schooner, built of blue gums thirteen years earlier in Hobart Town, was set to unload a cargo of timber. The ship-hands moved some of the timber by raft the day before, but with three loads left, the endeavor was incomplete due to the high waters along shore. The next day, Sunday, a sudden squall from the north interrupted plans for continuing to send the timber ashore.
After the squall, according to the captain’s statement, “the sea fell dead calm.”
The calm was not reassuring; rather it was indication of danger. As evening neared, the captain’s barometer readings dropped and a new heavy swell entered from the northwest. The captain ordered that the anchors be dropped, but when an even heavier squall blew in, the schooner began to drag the anchors just 15 minutes after they’d been set. By 8:30pm the fate of the Zephyr was irreversible.
From the captain’s report: “There being not the slightest chance of saving the vessel, she being firmly embedded in the rocks, and every probability of her breaking up next tide, I felt it my duty to abandon her in order to save the lives of the crew. Accordingly ordered them into the boat, and afterwards followed myself.”
Although the Zephyr had maintained insurance for more than a year, it had expired three days before the grounding. On Monday, the vessel completely broke up. The pieces–including chains, cable, and rigging–sold for a total of £69 9s, 6d. The recoverable timber sold for £22 10s.
In another, less calamatous wreck on the same beach, we experienced our own grounding on the shore of Taranaki: The Wreck of the Commodore.
Our rented vessel: The Commodore, the Australian version of General Motor's 241-hp, 3.6-liter V-6 sedan with a four-speed automatic.
The Commodore was no more meant to be beached on the Taranaki than the Zephyr, but there we sat. The lack of signage and the free access led us to believe that we could drive along this beach as we had in other ports on the same voyage. Wrong. The Commodore, with about a 2-inch clearance and its teeny tires, does not respond the same as the 4-wheel-drive trucks we rented for outback driving Down Under or even my little Jeep to get around North Dakota. As you can see I avoided the puddle, but I sunk the car into a quicksand pit of sandy gloop.
No matter how much we scooped out the wet sand, sweeping it away with our travel guide books, we could not budge the car. Instead it sank up to the axle. That’s when we learned about sand fleas. They didn’t bother us as we scouted around the ruins, but once we were high-centered and desperate, they delighted in pestering and biting. Hard.
With no choices left and no assistance nearby, we walked out to the main road and hiked to a not-so-nearby house for help. The story ends well for us, with a chap giving us a ride in his 4WD and then dragging loose the Commodore. We’re not so sure the story ended well for him–he wasn’t where he was supposed to be when his wife squeezed us into her pickup truck and went looking for him on our behalf. But there’s not room here for the story of a third wreck . . .
The captain’s statement may be found here:
“The Wreck of the Schooner Zephyr,” Taranaki Herald, 17 September 1864, found at paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/ where it is repeated in the Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle, 22 Mahuru 1864, p. 2
Posted in New Zealand Places by .
Apr 12
24
Model Bakery, Linton, ND
When we married–in our backyard under the apple tree–we served our guests kuchen. My husband-to-be and I worked to perfect our recipe, finally (after many taste-tests) ending up with a thin, lightly sweet crust and a custard decorated with apricots and juneberries.
Serving up wedding kuchen, July 28, 2007.
This past weekend, on a new kuchen hunt, we visited the Model Bakery, owned and operated for 36 years by Mary and her husband. After making my way through racks of baking pans and various doughs, I met Mary in the back room, pressing out the kuchen and filling pie tins with custard and apple topping.
I caught Mary in the kitchen, ladling apple filling and pouring out kuchen custard, while her husband presses the crust. (So hard to resist poking some of that dough!)
A firm touch with the right hand and a gentle spin with the left.
It's not all sweet stuff at the Model Bakery.
Making our purchases (and drooling not a little).
According to the bakery clock, it was time for an afternoon snack. We made our purchase of cottage cheese kuchen and an apple blachinda (to share, because we’re not gluttons).
Our visit to the Model Bakery was deliberate. Mary will provide kuchen, caramel rolls, cinnamon rolls, apricot & cherry & lemon blachindas, and ham & kraut bierschkis for breakfast to all those who are registered for the 19th Annual Preservation North Dakota Historic Preservation Conference: Prairie Places Festival, to be held mostly in Wishek, ND, May 18-20, 2012. Hope to see you there!
We’ll save you something sweet.
Link to Model Bakery address: http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/231/1106526/restaurant/North-Dakota/Model-Bakery-Linton
Link to Preservation North Dakota conference registration site: http://www.prairieplaces.org/
Posted in North Dakota Places by .
Several times a year, I can be found out at the Hutmacher Farm in Dunn County, North Dakota. Since 2006, this farmstead has been under the care of Preservation North Dakota, and in recent years service-learning students from North Dakota State University have been adding sweat equity to the preservation project. While we’ve had a variety of volunteers over the years from many states (Oklahoma, Washington, Louisiana, Georgia, and many more), the majority of our volunteers are from NDSU. Wherever they come from, we’re just glad they’ve arrived!
Orientation at St. Edwards Cemetery
Before we get to work, we have an orientation to the place. Here Dr. Tom Isern takes the volunteers on a cemetery walk to introduce them to the Hutmacher family. In the distance, straight up from the fencepost, the original Hutmacher homestead ruins are barely visible.
Meeting inside the granary
Since the morning was still chilly, the orientation continued inside the protective walls of the Hutmacher granary, one of five buildings still extant on the farm site. Here’s a perfect photo to show the construction of the roof interior. A single ridgepole runs the length of the building, north to south. Laid up on top of the ridgepole are rafters, all of which rest upon rock and mud walls, built more than a foot thick. Across the rafters, past volunteers laid brush–sometimes plum but only once did we use bullberry (ouch!)–carefully pushing the brush tight to weave a rooftop. On top of the brush are layers of flax, mud, and a sprinkling of scoria. The rafter and wires hanging horizontally were used by the Hutmacher family to string up hams and sausage.
Our weekend goal was to build up the wall of the lean-to chicken house, attached to the garage, and begin throwing on rafters.
Packing up mortar for laying down rock
Here you can see the chicken-house wall, which last summer had to be taken down a few rows. Too much deterioration in the wall meant it had to be reconstructed, as shown here. A labor of love with mud mixed and spread by hand.
Mixing sand, clay, and water
Just like the Hutmacher family, we have to haul in our own water for all purposes.
Lunch time! In the background, the Hutmacher house with its restored walls and roof is visible.
All this hard work in the windy outdoors makes for some hearty appetites.
From our picnic spot inside the granary, we have a gorgeous view of western North Dakota landscape.
The weather was kinder our second day out. Smiles more prevalent, short sleeves and pulled-down hoods the order of the day.
Such a beautiful sight. The east wall (facing the viewer) and the north wall have been built up to specs, and we’ve begun to lay the rafters across the lean-to. The chicken house relied on the east wall of the garage for support, although in later years this lean-to place was used to store coal. A previous work party labored to dig out the coal remains.
The stunning view from the interior of the chicken house, standing in the doorway and looking north. Although there’s still plenty of work to do next time, our weekend mission is a success.
Posted in North Dakota Places by .
Apr 12
7
“Please Do Not Feed the Wombats”
Whatever you do, do NOT feed the wombats.
The wombats are on a special diet today at the Cleland Wildlife Park, Adelaide, South Australia, hence the sign requesting that they not be fed. But mostly you must stay clear of wombats because they bite.
The first wombat I ever saw.
This was not at all what I expected. Sort of a scruffly, shambling along creature, the wombat made no noise to alarm us, but he is all business. This southern hairy-nosed wombat is a powerfully built, burrowing marsupial who comes out at dusk to feed on native grasses–or during the day to see who’s wandered into the neighborhood. He had no fear of us, but then he is protected by law. There are little more than 100 wombats of the hairy-nose variety (southern and northern) in existence, owing to the early 1900s drought and death by dingo.
Aborigines feasted on common wombats, more plentiful than the hairy-nosed ones, but farmers and graziers found them to be just a pest. Farmers here gripe about gopher holes; imagine the size of a wombat burrow! Weighing from 70-90 pounds, wombats make big holes in the ground (and terrible messes of cars on the highway).
Maybe I shouldn’t have been sitting there, dangling my sandaled foot over the side, but I wanted to see this amazing creature from as close as possible. He has fine hairs around his nose that help stem water loss, but he never came close enough for me to tickle them, so I don’t know if they’re like my dog’s whiskers. Even though he looked rather pig-like, his coat (I’ve read) is soft and silky. I didn’t feed him, nor did I touch.
It didn’t take Jack (male wombats are jacks) long to figure out I was just paparazzi, so he made his way back to some carrots hidden in the shade (where he also had a friend–Jill). As I studied his girth, and equated him with swine, I wondered if he might be tasty.
http://zactopia.wordpress.com/2010/08/16/why-you-should-give-a-square-shit-about-wombats/
Wombats have square poop. Why? So it won’t roll off of rocks. Which is very helpful if you have poor eyesight but a keen sense of smell, and if you otherwise would not be able to find your way home.
Seems like a good place to end this Home and Away story.
Apr 12
1
Liberate Those Cups!
Quick! Get yourself to the Plains Art Museum today! April 1 is the last day to view the Misfit Cup Liberation Project by artist Michael J. Strand.
Plains Art Museum, Fargo, ND
Our travels don’t have to take us far to find something to satisfy curiosity. Yesterday (at long last) I made it over to the Strand exhibit, just one day before it starts to be packed up for a voyage to China. Yes, pottery will soon be on its way to China–and Norway and even more countries before they make their ways back to Fargo.
I first met artist Michael J. Strand a few months ago, when several of us were invited to lunch to talk about creative collaborations. Michael is way ahead of all of us. His Misfit Cup Liberation Project begins with crafting beautiful, hand-thrown cups. He trades them for a “misfit” cup, but in return for his marvelous cup, you have to give up a story. As a historian and literary editor (and coffee drinker), I am in seventh heaven to muse my way through this exhibit.
A long view of the exhibit, with a close-up sample of one of the hand-thrown cups traded for the storied cups
The cups are full of character, little chips, dings, matched sets, oddities. But the stories, oh the stories . . . Here is a small sample.
One unmentionable trade-in cup kept under wraps.
Michael J. Strand, photo opp
By good fortune (maybe because it was my birthday), as my husband and I were exiting the exhibit, the artist was entering. He graciously allowed me an impromptu photo, and answered my questions about the exhibit. When I asked him which traded-in cup was his favorite, he quickly replied, The Ex-Con, and directed me straight over to see it. He is having lunch with the contributor this week.
Ex-Con (etched into the cup is a man's name and his prison identification number)
When guests give up a cup and a story, they choose their cup–which was originally housed in the place their old cup now sits. Guests sign a picture of the cup they took. It was a marvelous idea to post the cup-shots; otherwise these works of art would disappear totally from our view, perhaps until another chance to make a trade.
Do not despair if you can’t catch the misfit cups. After the multi-nation tour, Michael will do something new with the cups that will capture our interest and curiosity. He doesn’t know just what that is yet, but he says that is all part of his research–studying the stories, “scrutinizing the function of art and craft in contemporary society.”
According to the gallery, we can expect more collaborative projects as an impulse of Engage U–”a cross-disciplinary group of art activists, students, and others seeking to develop innovative and thought-provoking art projects.” Congratulations to Michael J. Strand for getting Engage U in the public eye.
Funding organizations: Engage U, North Dakota State University, Members of Plains Art Museum, The McKnight Foundation, The Minnesota State Arts Board, the North Dakota Council on the Arts, and the cities of Fargo, Moorhead, and West Fargo through The Arts Partnership
Posted in North Dakota by .
Mar 12
29
Musings: The Jetty by Night
Slow waves slap against the sandy shore. The sun is hours-gone from the star-lit sky, and soft winds blow and tickle-up little goose bumps. Palm leaves gently sway atop a slightly inclined, smooth-barked tree. A man with his back to us stands in silhouette with his left arm straight out against the palm’s trunk, his right hand resting lightly over his heart. His ankles are casually crossed; his body, tall and lean, sucks in the night air while his shirt-tails flap lightly in the breeze.
And then, his retching begins.
He’s not alone. A friend stands by discreetly, smoking his cigarette, kind of keeping an eye on this buddy in need, but not interfering, not standing too close.
As my husband and I stand outside the gyro shop—the only place open this late to serve food—waiting for flatbread to be filled with lamb and cheese, the young people along the Glenelg jetty traipse loudly in and out of the nearby pubs, alive and bouncy with the electric thumping and reverberations of (to my ears) repetitive, wordless music. They seem like they are having fun—girls-barely-women dressed in short clingy skirts or floaty-hemmed dresses, sometimes sporting birthday tiaras or sashes announcing “bride-to-be.” The men wear khakis or black slacks or expensive jeans—no shorts; their dress shirts are unbuttoned and opened over tees. Shoes vary from sandals to curled-up-at-the-toes leather boots or, for the women, impossibly high stiletto heels. And every now and then, someone exits a pub too intoxicated to play anymore and crawls into a cab, or, sometimes, leans on the nearest tree.
Even some of the revelers drop by in the midnight hour for SouvlakiBros gyros, needing to put a little something solid in their stomachs.
The legal drinking age in New Zealand and Australia is eighteen. On numerous occasions, we’ve seen the results of not-quite-mature teens and young adults who exceed their capacities for alcohol. St. Patrick’s Day in Dunedin, 2008, was a night of the zombies. Almost comatose, young women sat on street curbs, staring vacantly, cigarettes dangling from drooping fingertips. We sat in a pub watching mobs go by; sometimes a group would stop, crowd up close to the window with their hands like binoculars pressed to the glass to see if this bar was a stopping place for them. As we drove out, university students lined the streets or congregated in doorways, on stoops, or on ragged sofas they planted on the little lawns in front of their flats. In one bizarre episode, a drunken lad lunged at our slow-moving car with a five-foot-long blow-up penis.
The street in early morning was a mess: beer bottles and cans, shredded cardboard and busted balloons, green scraps and Silly String. Twice through our open hotel window, I heard a lone walker on the sidewalk—headed home, I suppose. As the sun rose, the silence and the mood of the early morning were swept away by motorized street cleaners.
On our most recent trip Down Under we landed in South Australia during its Labor Day celebration—apparently a favorite three-day weekend for the shop-girls and college debs. The young lined up in front of the clubs, hungry for excitement, or paced the sidewalks in anticipation of a party, somewhere. The darker the night, the bigger the crowd, and the faster the heels clicked on the concrete.
When the sun came up, we knew the street cleaners would come out.
Along the jetty by day
Posted in Musings by .
During our return trip to Adelaide, South Australia, we focused on finding places students might like to visit. Tom & I are working on an overseas travel experience for university students, a trip to take place in the summer of 2013. Here and in future postings are some of the places we scouted out–the places we went and the things we saw Down Under.
The Jetty, Glenelg, South Australia
After a long trip, beginning in Fargo with stopovers in Denver and San Francisco, we crossed the ocean to Sydney and then Adelaide. Adelaide is our study site. Yes, we call this work. Just a block worth’s of a walk from our hotel takes us to the jetty, where we sop up the glorious sun and relax just a bit from hour nearly 30 hours of being strapped into airplanes and trapped in airports.
We stayed in Glenelg (named for Glenelg, Scotland, and Lord Glenelg), which has been a port since 1836. Glenelg is mainland South Australia’s oldest settlement, so a great spot to take students studying history and travel writing, and an even better place for us to cool our jets. Glenelg origninated as a stop for fisherman, dropping cargo, and even mail. “Glenelg” is also a palindrome, so there’s just all kinds of ways for us to find fun here.
Mid-March is nearing the end of South Australia’s summer, but these beach-combers don’t seem to mind. We don’t either. With temps in the 20 degree Celcius range (high 60′s for us) the weather might be seem a bit cool for the natives, but it is perfect for us Fargoans. Glenelg and the jetty are just a few kilometers from Adelaide’s city center, and so it’s a perfect place for us to stage our research operations and to call home away from home.
Thank you, little seagulls, for helping to frame the view.
Signage takes on the shape of fish, while boaters take on the sea. We walked to the end of the pier, where we found a couple fisherman throwing out some lines. Observers like us tried to identify a small catch, multicolored, small and flat, and not like anything we (or anyone stooped around there with us) had seen before. The result was a thumbs-down for edibility, and the fish was dropped back into the Indian Ocean (usually called the Southern Ocean here). The next fisherman brought up something more identifiable–a squid. This went into the “keeper” bucket, much to everyone’s delight.
After our stroll, we went back to the hotel, thinking that a short little nap was in order. Too bad for us, it was after dark when we woke (we really knew better than to try to sleep just a little), and our options for supper were few.
After being denied entry to any of the hoppin’, young people’s clubs, where when we asked if they were serving food we received a curt, “No,” we found one late night food-serving place: SouvlakiBros Charcoal Yiros. This was a good thing (even though the Souvlakis didn’t spell gyros the way we think they ought to). We opted for the lamb–mine with three kinds of chunked-up cheese, Tom’s with a spicy something and yogurt.
We sat at a picnic table, watched the public trains go by, as well as the dancers and daters (and some of the over-embibers), and scarfed down our gyros with a cold soda. It was the perfect end to the day, and a great beginning of our study tour.
Dec 11
8
Back to New Zealand, Part 1
Mid-November we set out for the University of Waikato, located in Hamilton, North Island, New Zealand. Our flights took us from Fargo to Denver to San Francisco; from there we crossed the ocean to Auckland. In-country, we took a domestic flight from Auckland to Wellington, and then we made a mad-dash drive to Hamilton.
As you study the map, you’ll wonder why in the heck we flew south from Auckland to Wellington, and then drove back north to Hamilton–when Hamilton is just a few miles from Auckland. It’s kind of a long story and involves a slight lapse in attention. When we made our travel plans we thought we were presenting papers at Massey University in Palmerston North, but really we were at the University of Waikato in Hamilton. That’s what happens when you deal with two absent-minded professors. We didn’t get to our destination by the most direct route, but we’re cool with that.
Map of New Zealand's North and South Islands. Of note for this trip, find Auckland, Wellington, Palmerston North, and Hamilton.
Our day started out with a ride to the airport chaperoned by Herb of Doyle’s Taxi. Herb is a retired bicycling fanatic who has pedaled about 35,000 miles, his favorite route is to go east from Tulsa into the Ozarks. He regaled us with camping stories and remembered vistas, kind of getting us in the mood for our own travels ahead, and he lamented that “people don’t see those views anymore. It’s all just getting from point A to B.” Not so for us.
Herb, our Doyle's Taxi chauffeur.
We were packed so efficiently and arrived so early that we managed to open up the airport bar. Not too bad a start to the first leg of our trip—a fairly short jaunt to Denver.
Okay, so we made it through check-in on time, with about an hour to spare. When you're traveling overseas, the airlines like you to be an hour and a half early. We made it.
From Denver we flew to San Francisco, the better departure point for Auckland than Los Angeles. In fact, if you can avoid LAX on any count, then you should do so.
On our overseas flight, I got lots of reading done—a Kindle is a handy way to read big books—AND I got to take in a movie: Red Dog, The Pilbara Wanderer. Red dog is a “hitchhiking, people-loving,” farting (I’m afraid it’s so) adventurer, known for “stopping cars on the road by walking right in the path of an oncoming vehicle until it stopped and then he would hop in and travel to wherever the car driver was going.” The movie’s a hit in Australia, with onsite filming of this pretty-much-true story in the Pilbara.
Statue of Red Dog in Dampier, Western Australia, http://goaustralia.about.com/od/wa/ss/red-dog.htm
It’s a long journey over the ocean to get to Auckland, but upon arrival, you’re greeted warmly with friendly smiles and wood carvings.
Welcome gate at Auckland. Music plays, the crowds are thin, and you know you have arrived in good order.
This sign might not look too friendly, but the sentiment is: “Tainui joins with the people of Aotearoa in welcoming all visitors and offers a prayer that enjoyment, enlightenment, friendships & a safe journey be your constant companions, always. Nau Mai! Haere Mai! Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” (You don’t find anything like this at LAX.)
Nau Mae! Haere Mai!
You’re welcomed in New Zealand, but your foodstuffs are not. Better drop all liquids, foods, plants and other forbiddens here.
Hefty fines if you don't follow instructions. New Zealand is very careful about the introduction of foreign bio matter.
As you make your way through the airport, you’ll pass through the duty-free sections. We usually pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel to carry while in country. If you were so inclined, you could also buy cigarettes, but NZ has beat us to the punch in the cartons with nasty labels. Ick.
- Eeeuuu. New Zealand’s cigarette smokers are assaulted with nasty images.
Once inside the terminals and awaiting our transfer flight to Wellington, we stopped in at our favorite airport pub, the Bach Ale House & Café. A “bach” (pronounced “batch”) is a colloquial NZ term that refers to your vacation home—maybe a beach house somewhere, but according to the sign, it might also conjure up these notions: “temporary escape/sanctuary/water/sand/old furniture/crayfish pots/dried seaweed/windswept/smiling faces/books/surf/broken paddle ski/cards/woodpiles/chilly bins [coolers]/carefree/childlike/memories…”
The Bach Ale House & Cafe has a large presence in the Auckland airport. An inviting stop, with its wooden seats--polished to a warm glow--and promise of tasty brews.
The waitresses are friendly.
The food is mouth-watering good.
Lamb burrito with chili sauce and sour cream.
We didn’t try the pies (pronounced “poiz,” if you say it right), but they were tempting.
Egg McMuffin, New Zealand style.
Before long, it was time to catch another plane. From Wellington, we drove (quickly adjusting to round-abouts and the wrong side of the road) north to Hamilton and the University of Waikato, where we attended the NZ Historical Association conference. Tom and I both presented papers–Tom on recapturing North Dakota WPA tours, and me about memory artists of the plains and prairies.
- Unlike American conferences, in New Zealand we take breaks for “tea.” Tea, mid-morning and mid-afternoon, consists of baked, fried, and toasted treats–healthy, of course, and interspersed with fresh fruit and sweets. Tea and coffee available in abundance. The table shown here was one of five, always filled with food at tea-time. The New Zealand university tradition is to fill the tables with even more substantial servings for the noon meal. It is amazing that so many New Zealanders are slender–much more so than our US counterparts.
- One more stop here for our good friend Beattie, and then it’s back to Wellington to see what’s up at the New Zealand National Archives.
Our friend, Dr. James Beattie, launches his new book (a revision of his dissertation--there's hope for all of us recent graduates), Empire and Environmental Anxiety: Health, Science, Art and Conservation in South Asia and Australia, 1800-1920 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2011) . There were only a few copies on hand, so I scooped up one quick and obtained the author's signature. You an only imagine my surprise in the check-out line, when I found out it cost $160NZ (about $125US!). I guess if the press charges that much per book, it doesn't have to sell so many copies to clear its expenses!
Posted in New Zealand Places by .
Aug 11
19
“What’s a SuchyFest?” asked Ben.
Saturday last, August 13, we spent at the Hall. The Bohemian Hall, more precisely, located near Mandan, North Dakota. Mandan is home to the Suchy (pronounced soo-key) family, farmers and musicians. About ten years ago they started an outdoors concert tradition: Saturday Night at the Hall, titled after a song Chuck Sucky wrote and made famous here. Ben (Chuck and Linda’s son) told friends he was coming home to play this night with the family of musicians. He was surprised to learn that somewhere along the way, folks began to call the annual event a SuchyFest. Why? Because when this gang gets together–with spouses, friends (quite possibly 400 of their nearest and dearest), a saxophone player, and dozens of juneberry pies, you’re in the midst of a prairie festival.
The Bohemian Hall
When I was growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska, my folks would take us to the Eagles Hall. There’d be a mile-long buffet of homemade casseroles, slabs of meat, breads, sweet desserts, and kool-aid for the kids. Tables were set end-to-end throughout the banquet hall, covered with thin plastic tablecloths and decorated with a variety of salt & pepper shakers. After filling our plates to overflowing–with the admonition from Mom that we’d better eat every bit we took–we all sat in folding chairs, family style, to feast and visit with neighbors. Kids were wiggly and elbow-to-elbow with adults, at the beginning of the evening anyway. When dinner was done, the tables were cleared and the chairs were folded and stacked in a noisy clatter. Dads moved the tables up against the walls, while teens ran big brooms over the floor and little kids were otherwise unhelpful.
Once the room was cleared, chidren were sent upstairs to a big, enclosed loft. Blankets were spread on the floor and a movie–reel to reel–began. While moms and dads danced the night away in the Hall, the older kids babysat the younger, and never once did I feel like I was missing anything by not being downstairs. The only regret is once when my parents gathered us three kids a little bit early in the evening. I never did get to see the ending to Babes in Toyland.
It’s something like that at the Bohemian Hall, just a few miles from Mandan. Smaller than I remember, but big to kids. It’s those memories that come to mind when Chuck Suchy sings Saturday Night at the Hall, the last tune on this night’s program.
Early arrivals
Seasoned fans know that if they want a good seat, they’d best arrive early. These folks were set up an hour and fifteen minutes before the show was scheduled to begin.
Word must have gotten out: There's good food inside the Hall. Barbecue and pulled pork sandwiches, with a side of juneberry pie.
The food line was slow to form at first, but then it was long and steady. In fact, those who stood in the long queue were rewarded with the last of the sandwiches and desserts. This man, watching the line go by, might have missed his turn altogether.
Family time
The weather was perfect, and while waiting for the music to begin, these folks got in some quality family time.
I’ve always been a people watcher, (There’s a note in my Jr High yearbook from a friend who says, “Stop staring.”). Evidence of mutual friendship just makes me feel good.
And then there’s the music!
Saturday Night at the Hall—video and music
Ben Suchy gets the show started.
Richard Torrence and Ben Suchy rock.
The Dollys, harmonizing the lonesome Cattle Call
The historian, Tom Isern, takes his turn in the spotlight.
Andrew Pierzina
Shane Akers on Dobro
Mystery saxophone man
Linda and Chuck Suchy, the folks who got this all started.
Singing the concert to a close.
About this same time next year, grab your lawn chairs and blankets and find your place at the Suchyfest on the prairie.
It’ll be another great Saturday Night at the Hall.
Posted in North Dakota Places by .
Jul 11
2
Heaven on Fire
Once when my father (who then lived in Washington state) visited me (in Texas), we sat on the back patio, slurping iced tea on a very hot day. As I refilled our glasses, a tiny bit of tea spilled onto the wooden planking of the patio floor, emitting an audible sssssizzle. My father, mopping his brow with his red kerchief, cursed: How can you live in this hell hole?!
When temps are that hot and winds blow dry dust-swirls at your feet, you do wonder if you’ve slipped into hell. That’s why this oasis in Oklahoma is like heaven. Medicine Park, founded on July 4, 1908, is just that, heavenly, and on this day in June, a hellish 109 degrees in the shade, the water is a cool draw.
Heavenly Scene at Medicine Park, Oklahoma
Kids tube, chilling off their backsides; grandparents escort grandkids who splash and yell; and each generation finds its own way to cool off, whether it’s just dipping your toes in the water or taking the full-body bath.
Tubing at Medicine Park
Named for the healing waters that feed it from Medicine Creek, Medicine Park is the first planned tourist resort to be built in Oklahoma. At first it was just a scattering of tents, but then native cobblestones were used to construct the houses and hotels and restaurants, composing a rustic look in the pristine landscape. The rich and (in)famous ventured from near and far, including Pretty Boy Floyd, Al Capone, and Bonnie and Clyde. Roy Rogers and Dale Evans made the resort their honeymoon retreat.
Cobblestone House, Medicine Park. Photo by Tom Isern
Cobblestone is an abundant natural resource in Medicine Park, shown to advantage in this and other original cabins that still stand today.
Cobblestones close-up. Photo by Tom Isern
Extraordinary sample of cobblestone construction
We made the stop because we’re interested in the buildings as much as the waterscape. In the old days, there were two inns, Baird’s Health Sanitarium, a dance hall, canteen, petting zoo, bath house, general store, a bait shop, a hydro-electric power plant (providing water for the new town of Lawton was one of the reasons Medicine Park was developed) and a cafe. Now there is a row of tourist cabins where you can buy anything from Icees to fine art, and there are inviting restaurant and pub options. The Outside Inn, now called The Old Plantation, shows off the cobblestone construction repeated throughout the compound.
Plantation Inn (Originally the Outside Inn)
Medicine Park was recently named by Budget Travel Magazine as one of the Top Ten Coolest Small Towns in America.
Taking the footbridge at Medicine Park. Photo by Tom Isern.
Walkways, lined with cobblestone walls, lead from the town to the water.
We strolled along the sidewalks, shot photos, and mopped our brows–much like my father–in the heat. Little did we know that that the hellfire conditions of our day’s venture were a portent of the flames that were soon to come.
Fire nears Medicine Park. Photo found at http://www.swoknews.com/main.asp?SectionID=11&SubSectionID=98&ArticleID=35680
On Thursday, June 23, artillery practice at nearby Ft. Sill started a small fire. Strong winds swept the fire beyond interior firebreaks, and drought conditions fueled the flames. Before long, more than 5,000 acres were on fire and thirteen Medicine Park homes were destroyed. Residents of the area were evacuated and did not return until Saturday.
For a video account, see:
http://news.sky.com/skynews/Article/201106116018738
Among the more than 250 fire and emergency respondents to the heaven-on-fire blaze were members of the nearby Paradise Valley Volunteer Fire Department.
There’s a happy ending to this story. Medicine Park will continue with its 4th of July bash this weekend, celebrating its 103rd birthday.
Entry to Medicine Park. Photo by Tom Isern.
Map of Medicine Park area. Found at http://www.medicinepark.com/ This web site is a terrific source for history and current events and includes stunning 360 degree imagery of Medicine Park sites.
This Home & Away entry is from the Great Plains Expedition, Summer 2011
Posted in Great Plains Places by .
