Volkening Heritage Farm

We also visited the Volkening Heritage Farm on Saturday. Been there before, of course, but not lately. The residents were up and about to greet us.

"On a visit to Volkening Heritage Farm, you can help with seasonal farm chores, participate in family activities and games of the 1880s or simply visit the livestock and soak in the quiet," the park district's web site says, without adding that you can soak in the smells, too. We opted for the quiet and the smells.

Supposedly the place is closed to casual visitors until March 1, but the days have been so warm(ish) recently that someone at the park district must have decided to leave the gate near the parking lot open. Besides cows and horses, the farm's collection of chickens were out -- we watched numerous hens harassing one that had a bit of food it was trying to eat -- and so were the farm's surviving pigs. Sometime earlier in the winter, the pigs were thinned out to become 1880s-style meat.

From the look of things, new spring piglets will be coming soon (and calves, too). This is the pig shack, though in good weather they're usually taking in the mud next to this structure.

I've always liked this windmill.

Halladay Standard, it says. The U.S. Wind Engine and Pump Co. of Batavia, Ill., used to make these, and the Batavia Historical Society says that "by 1881, the company was called the largest institution of its kind in the world." Why the wind engine -- what a fine alternative term for windmill -- also says, "U.S. Supply Co. Omaha Neb.," I don't know and don't have the energy to track it down.

The Fox River Trolley Museum

On July 4, the Fox River Trolley Museum was running two single-car trains. We rode on this one -- Chicago North Shore & Milwaukee No. 715 -- shown here on the weedy tracks at Castlemuir Station waiting to make its run to Blackhawk Station, about two miles away.

According to the museum, the Cincinnati Car Co. built No. 715 in 1926 and it was in service on the Chicago North Shore & Milwaukee line until 1963. The car's a little worn, but otherwise in remarkably good shape. A labor of love by the museum's volunteers, I figure.

The museum's caboose, one-time property of the Illinois Central, is also in fairly good shape, though there's no indication that it's still rolling stock. The inside is open for inspection. Not luxurious, but everything an early 20th-century trainman needed: bunks, a desk and chair, small stove, WC, water tank.

The museum has maybe 10 other cars, including old CTA cars -- one not so old that I didn't ride in ones like it in the late '80s -- other passenger cars, box cars, and some very beaten-up refrigerator cars. The grounds, a slice of land between the road and a small park, also sported a couple of enormous sheltering oaks over the tracks. Grand old trees. They were probably here when the tracks carried interurban cars for real.

I sat at the base of one of them while waiting for No. 715 to be ready for our ride because it seemed like a summertime thing to do.

When the time came to ride old No. 715, this fellow took our tickets.

He wasn't the conductor, not at least for our run. That job was handled expertly by a somewhat younger volunteer likewise dressed as a trainman of yore. No doubt driving trains has been a dream of his since he was a small boy.

Independence, Interurban Trolleys & Nellie the Nudist Queen

Plenty of meat and colorful explosions over the Fourth of July weekend this year for us, but not so much beer. I don't have what it takes to be a problem drinker, I guess, because I forget to drink alcohol. Days and weeks and months sometimes go by before I remember to take a drink. During the whole of the long weekend, it didn't occur to me once, despite my previous posting.

As for the meat, I prepared that, but the explosions weren't of my own making, due to the misguided ban on recreational explosives in Illinois, which means that I'd have to drive further than I'd like to obtain fireworks. Still, the Westmont municipal fireworks, shot off last night over Ty Warner Park in that suburb, were worth the time and effort to get there.

During the day we drove to South Elgin, Ill., to take a ride on a small remnant on the Aurora, Elgin and Fox River Electric Line that's now known as the Fox River Trolley Museum. It's a museum in the sense that it has artifacts -- train and trolley cars, mostly. It also has about two miles of track. Rides can be had on weekends and holidays during the summer, and on July 4 the rides are only a dollar.

The AE&FRE was once an interurban line. Naturally that brings to mind the line in "Nellie the Nudist Queen" (Stuart Ross & John Sargent, 1933) -- the only song I know that uses the term "interurban." What, that's not the first thing most people would think of?

Nellie was a city gal, more than nine-tenths pure,
Till a country guy came riding by on a ten-cent trolley tour!
His eyes were mean, his heart was black, and this interurban tramp
Beguiled poor Nell and took her back to his nearby nudist camp!

Not to worry, since Nell thrived in her new setting, becoming the nudist queen of the title. Listen for yourself.

Lincoln's New Salem State Historic Site

About 20 miles northwest of Springfield is Lincoln's New Salem State Historic Site. New Salem, Illinois, was a village on the banks of Sangamon River from the 1820s to the 1840s. It would be completely forgotten but for one thing: Lincoln lived there.

It was mostly forgotten anyway until William Randolph Hearst became intrigued with the site and bought it in 1906, and soon conveyed it to the Old Salem Chautauqua in trust. Later, that group donated it to the state with the understanding that the 19th-century buildings be rebuilt as close as possible to their original locations. Eventually, during the Depression, that happened.

I have to like a collection of "19th-century" buildings built by the CCC. As a matter of fact, the CCC seems have done a fine job.

The day we visited, October 10, was warm and breezy, and the many trees were still more green than brown or yellow. A number of enormous oaks grow on the site, and the wind made them spit their acorns at passersby. I told Ann that one thing kids of the 19th century did to entertain themselves was throw acorns at each other. She wasted no time in using the acorns that way herself, except that no kids she knew were with us. So she threw them at me.

Ford's Mechanical Salmagundi

I was ready to post last night when Blogger refused to work. Here in the First World, that's as surprising as no water coming from the tap, since the service has become so much like a utility. Nothing like this has happened to my access in more than seven years of using Blogger, even before it was part of the Google behemoth, though I've read it does happen from time to time, here and there.

As far as I can tell, it was a regional problem, affecting parts of the Midwest and parts of the South and maybe Canada. I have an image in my mind's eye of someone tripping over a cord at a Google server farm somewhere. Oops.

No point in antedating the post now, especially since I'm not posting again until next Sunday (the 13th), provided Blogger lets me. Too much for-pay to do in the coming days, and when that's over, I want to do a little nothing if possible. Nothing is a rare activity around here.

The would-be Sunday post: "More powerful than a locomotive," is one of the long-standing attributes of Superman, which sounds a little quaint to more recent ears. But I suspect that whoever came up the line (cartoonist Jay Morton usually gets the credit) was thinking of something like this:

Nothing quaint about that machine. This particular locomotive, C & O Allegheny #1601, a 2-6-6-6 locomotive by the Lima Locomotive Works, can be found on permanent display at the Henry Ford Museum, the indoor component of the complex that includes Greenfield. I happened to catch a random visitor, bathed in sunlight and dressed in light colors, for scale and contrast.

"Built in 1941 and weighing in at 600 tons, this was one of the largest steam-powered locomotives ever built," asserts the Henry Ford web site. "Designed for pulling huge coal trains over the Allegheny mountains of West Virginia, this locomotive could reach speeds of up to 60 miles per hour."

We ducked into the Henry Ford in mid-afternoon to see such cool machines, but also for the cool air. Like Greenfield, it's too large for any one visit -- nine acres under one roof, I've read, including who knows how many trains, planes and automobiles; agricultural implements; clocks; pieces of furniture; household machines; jewelry and silver; and other thoroughgoing bits of industrial-age Americana, displayed or recreated on the spot. There were entire sections we missed for want of time or walking energy.

But plenty more things were highly visible (besides the weinermobile, see June 1). Such as the friendly Holiday Inn sign, life-sized and included in a large exhibit about American car culture.

I see that effervescent example of commercial neon sculpture, and it's August 1969 again, and I'm a kid aficionado of motel neon off the Interstate.

Naturally I found my way to the Kennedy death limo, a Midnight Blue 1961 Lincoln.

Surprisingly, the car wasn't junked after the assassination, but modified for further use by succeeding presidents -- Johnson, Nixon, Ford and Carter. "Hess & Eisenhardt, which had modified the 1961 limousine for use as the presidential parade car, would repair and re-customize it at a cost of more than $500,000," noted the Cincinnati Enquirer in 2003. "Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard M. Nixon would later ride in parades in the now heavily armored car, and it would remain part of the presidential fleet until 1977."

If any of those presidents worried about bad juju while riding in the car, history hasn't recorded it.

Amos Humiston at Greenfield

While we were at Greenfield, Civil War Remembrance was in full swing, an event that attracts some hundreds of reenactors to the museum for encampments, parades, demonstrations and a simulated battle or two (I hope so anyway, but I didn't see it on the schedule). Considering everything else going on at Greenfield, it was gilding the historic lily for us, and I couldn't persuade anyone else in my party to spend much time watching the reenactors, especially in the hot sun, though we did wander through some of the sales tents that provide the participants their props. I suppose they would insist on being called sutlers.

In one of the museum's larger halls was a temporary exhibition of Civil War artifacts that everyone found interesting enough to spend some time with. It included mostly what you'd expect: weapons and other soldier equipment, models of artillery and warships, period clothing both military and civilian, scary field hospital implements, photos and drawings, letters and books, and so on.

Plus a large display of Civil War era sheet music. I don't think I've ever seen such a large collection of sheet music from the period before. Or any larger collection of sheet music from any period; there were probably hundreds of sheets. Many of them were flat in long display tables under glass, but some were displayed upright. One of the upright ones that caught my eye was music for the funeral of Sen. Stephen Douglas. I would cite the title and composer, but I took lousy notes on this trip. That is, no notes.

"You know who that is?" said a middle-aged fellow, about as round as I am, standing behind the display cases. I said I did. He told me anyway that Douglas was one of the candidates for president in 1860.

"What would have happened if he'd won the election?" the fellow continued. "But he didn't. Lincoln won and Douglas was dead by 1861."

I agreed that that was food for thought, and mentioned that I'd been to Douglas's tomb recently in Chicago. (See April 13.)

He probably didn't hear too many people make that claim, so it didn't process. "You mean Lincoln's tomb in Springfield?"

"I've been there too."

Then he showed us music for a song about the orphans of Sgt. Amos Humiston. As the publisher's description of the book Gettysburg's Unknown Soldier says, Humiston "was found dead on the battlefield at Gettysburg, an unknown soldier with nothing to identify him but an ambrotype of his three children, clutched in his fingers. With the photograph as the single, sad clue to his identity, a publicity campaign to locate his family swept the North. Within a month, the bereaved widow and children were located in Portville, New York... The Humiston story touched deep emotions in Civil War America, and inspired a flood of heartfelt prose, poetry, and song."

There in front of us was a bit of that long-ago flood of prose, poetry and song. By this time I realized that this was a private collection of Civil War sheet music, and that the fellow telling us about it was the collector, and eager to tell anyone who would listen about it. I think the Humiston song sheet music was the pride of this man's collection. Good for him. The world needs people who pursue unusual hobbies.

Getting Around Greenfield

Henry Ford's industrial enterprise was all about getting around, so it's fitting that Greenfield Village includes a number of conveyances, such as the Weiser Railroad, which follows a three-mile course around the museum. Its main depot -- the 1850s-vintage Smith's Creek Depot, moved from elsewhere in Michigan -- is next to the museum's main entrance, so it was easy enough to make a ride around the grounds one of the first things we did.

The locomotive was a smoky bastard, but it got the job done. There's more than a hint of authenticity in that. The conductor narrated along the way, but at least he (and once, she) didn't make a lot of bad jokes, thus bucking tradition among tourist conveyances that offer narration. A surprising amount of the museum grounds is undeveloped. Most of it, in fact, with the train snaking through wooded areas and wetlands that have been the object of restoration efforts in recent years.

We looped all the way around Greenfield, getting off where we started. Not far away, we spotted a horse-drawn omnibus, which we impulsively decided to ride too.

"The omnibuses in Greenfield Village were styled after an omnibus operated by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad in the early 20th century, and are pulled by teams of Percheron draft horses," explains the Greenfield web site. It doesn't explain how tight the inside of the omnibus feels, with two rows of seated people facing each other and away from the open windows. Then again, people were generally smaller 100 years ago.

But Lilly and I didn't ride inside during that first omnibus ride. As Yuriko and Ann were getting in, the inside seemed full, so the driver said to that the two of us could ride up front with him. I was surprised -- your insurance allows that? -- but I wasn't about to say no, so we hopped up next to him. The Percheron draft horses were completely focused on their task, but there was still something a little unnerving at first about sitting a few feet behind these enormous animals, listening to them huff and rattle their harnesses and clop their shoes on the street. Nothing remarkable for omnibus patrons in 1910, but a century has reconfigured all the everyday sounds for the inhabitants of 2010.

All through the day on the streets of Greenfield, Model Ts could be seen going here and there. I didn't take a picture of one. Even now, most people can imagine roughly what they look like, which is some kind of testament to their success.

Toward the end of the day, when we were pretty much exhausted and didn't want to walk anywhere else, we did line up to ride in a Model T. Besides our cafeteria lunch, it was the only thing we waited for, but it wasn't a Disneyland- or Six Flags mass line. After only about 15 minutes, we boarded a Model T Depot Hack, one of the larger of the Model Ts (seats six), and spent about five minutes plying the streets of Greenfield while the driver told us about the vehicles.

A knowledgeable tour guide ought to tell you things you didn't know, and our driver, a gentlemen of distinguished gray in period driving clothes, did so. I didn't realize, for example, that hundreds of thousands of the cars are still in existence and in running order (I've forgotten the exact number), enough to support an active aftermarket in Model T parts. Also, their famed black color was standard only after assembly-line mass production started in 1915. Before that, it was a different color every year.

I asked whether the Model T still needed leaded gasoline, guessing that there might be some kind of grandfather clause for the grandfather of autos. No, the carburetor has been reconfigured to use modern gas formulas, the driver said. Environmental regs trump to-the-marrow authenticity in this case.

Gog & Magog at Greenfield

Besides Edison's complex (see yesterday), there are plenty more historic structures at Greenfield, roughly organized into themes or "historic districts" such as "Main Street" and "Working Farms" and "Porches and Parlors," which are historic houses. In one place or another on the museum's 240 acres, you'll find a roundhouse, a windmill and a covered bridge; barns and waterwheels; a machine shop, gristmill, printing office, tin shop and glass shop. There's also a church, post office, tavern, riverboat, bicycle shop and courthouse. The bicycle shop happens to be the one that the Wright Brothers owned, and the courthouse one in which Lincoln did some lawyering. The homes of Ford, Edison, Noah Webster and Robert Frost are on site as well.

We saw a fair number of these things, but of course there was much we didn't. One day was clearly not enough to do the place justice. Luckily, we didn't miss some of the highlights, and I don't just mean Edison's workshop or the Wright Bros. place of business. I mean the likes of Gog and Magog.

The figures are perched above the entrance of the re-creation of Sir John Bennett's establishment. Sir John was a noted Victorian clockmaker, dead by the time Ford had his shop moved from London and reconfigured in Dearborn in the early '30s. The Depression was on, so I suppose pretty much everything was for sale, including entire buildings, if the price was right. In any case, Sir John's shop has come a long way from the smoggy climes of Victorian London. The odd thing is why Ford wanted it here, since most of Greenfield is distinctly American.

Gog and Magog strike the bells every quarter hour. They're the British Gog and Magog, not the end-of-days Gog and Magog, and are associated with the giants reputed to roam ancient Albion (before shorter Britons took over, presumably). They're the traditional guardians of the City of London. A long-winded explanation of that connection is at the Lord Mayor's Show web site.

As for the building, the Greenfield web site says: "In 1931, Henry Ford had the original five-story building trimmed down into a smaller two-story building. Except for the clockwork and a few parts of the building front, the building itself and its interior were created in Greenfield Village. Today it serves as a sweet shop."

Note the dragon weathervane up top. I'm pretty sure I've never seen one of those before. It's a little hard to see in my pic; a better one's here, plus a description: "The dragon — made of hammered copper and detailed with sharp claws, taut bat-like wings and a fiery tongue — is a quiet masterpiece of design, craftsmanship, and balance. Its swept wings and extended tail are designed to catch even the slightest breeze; its head is weighted with lead in order to balance the body and allow for free pivoting."

Edison at Greenfield

One of the star attractions of Greenfield is Menlo Park workshop. It was Edison's, after all. As I told Lilly as we entered the grounds of the re-created lab, with fitting exaggeration, "You know who Edison was. He invented everything."

There's a small complex of Menlo Park buildings at Greenfield: a machine shop, an office, a glass-blowing facility -- because all the light bulbs had to be individually blown at first -- and the two-story lab, a Machine Age marvel stocked with the tools Edison and his men used to fashion devices of wood, wire, glass, and metal.

In 1876 Edison moved his operations from Newark to Menlo Park. The probable reason? The price of real estate. According to Edison - A Life of Invention by Paul Israel (1998), "Most likely, Edison simply wanted to build the kind of laboratory that he had begun working toward ever since his return from England and he found Newark too costly. In December 1875 he had sent his father to investigate possible sites, and at the end of the month he purchased two tracts of land and a house in Menlo Park.

"A mere whistlestop located twelve miles south of Newark on the railroad line to Philadelphia, Menlo Park had been part of a failed real estate development and Edison was able to purchase this property for $5,200. As the new year opened, he set his father to work erecting the new laboratory, which cost over $2,500 and was completed by March 25. A few days later, Edison moved into the new laboratory where he would not only produce some of his most famous inventions, but also create a new model for invention that became the cornerstone of modern industrial research."

The Menlo Park lab had been long since abandoned for better industrial digs by the 1920s, when Ford decided to re-create it in Michigan. Over 40 years might have passed, but a lot of Edison's men were still around to help with their memories of the lab and with donated artifacts (except for Tesla, probably). Edison himself was still around, in fact. Photos and blueprints were consulted too.

Some of the original building was transferred from New Jersey; other parts had to be built anew. Oddly, all the topsoil from the Menlo Park site was also removed and placed under the re-created buildings at Greenfield. Hard to say how many toxins came with the soil, since the notion of brownfield remediation was still decades in the future.

Be that as it may, on the first floor of the lab a Greenfield employee demonstrated an Edison phonograph. Not the very first one, on which the inventor famously played back "Mary Had a Little Lamb" in late 1877, but the next model, of which only a handful survive, and only one is on public display. The one he was displaying.

He then advised us to go upstairs, which we would have done anyway. Waiting for us were long wooden tables, wooden chairs, glass- and brasswork everywhere, Edison electric conduits and light bulbs, and rows and rows and rows of chemicals and other substances in bottles arrayed on shelves on both walls. At the far end of the lab was an organ.

An organ? I asked the Greenfield employee waiting to talk to us on the second floor. "Edison worked his men pretty hard," he said. "The organ was for relaxation toward the end of long days, so they wouldn't completely burn out." (To use an anachronistic term, I suspect.)

He also told us that Edison told Ford that the re-creation was almost exactly correct, except for one thing. Namely, that it isn't cluttered enough. The impulse of open-air museums everywhere, I think, is to deny essential human clutter.

Giving the Henry Ford Museum Its Due

It was hard to believe that the price of gas edged down in the days before the Memorial Day weekend. When has that ever happened before? By the time I wanted to buy more than I usually do so that we could drive several hundred miles, which was over Memorial Day weekend, I paid less than $3/gal. here at home and less than $2.60/gal. closer to our destination of Dearborn, Michigan. It was the automotive equivalent of a fair wind at our backs, though I guess that wind would have a faint gasoline odor to it. By the time we returned to northern Illinois, we'd put about 780 miles behind us.

Not an epic journey, but long enough. What did we see for our trouble? Among other things, an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. Note that daughter #1 and #2 are positioned under the weinermobile's upraised stern, though I didn't plan it that way.

That's a 1952 model. It's one of many, many items found at the enormous Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn and the adjacent open-air museum, the vast Greenfield Village. The weinermobile may be the museum's most photographed item. As one of the more lighthearted items, it may also be part of the reason the museum doesn't get its due.

It's only my impression from reading about the Henry Ford and talking to our Model T driver at Greenfield Village (more about which later), but for a museum with a collection of such astonishing breadth and depth and quality, it isn't widely appreciated or even known. Maybe some of notion of Henry-Ford-as-eccentric sticks to it: that Ford, he went around collecting cars and machines and stuff, and tucked them away in his own museum. Got some buildings too. He went all the way to New Jersey for Edison's lab, you know. What a rich goof. Why couldn't he build an art museum on the East Coast like a normal ultrawealthy person?

Also, the museum implicitly and sometimes explicitly touts the glories of material progress. Because human beings stubbornly remain human beings despite all our machines, greater theoreticians than me have determined material progress to be an illusion, and a lot of people have quaffed that notion like Kool-Aid on a hot day in South America.

The museum's location is probably another factor. It seems reasonable to me that Ford would build a museum in Dearborn. But for the purposes of guidebooks and such, that makes the place a regional, not national, attraction. If you happen to be near Detroit -- and why would you be? -- check out all the cars and machines and stuff that Henry Ford squirreled away. That is to say, East- (and West-) Coast provincialism is a factor.

I've wanted to visit for years, and was not disappointed. My takeaway from the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village is that it's a national treasure. Anyone with any interest in this nation of ours should visit sometime.

Naper Settlement

"Naper Settlement, the only nineteenth-century outdoor historic village in metropolitan Chicago, began in 1969 as a cooperative effort... to preserve examples of that city's heritage as an agricultural village before development completely transformed Naperville into a 'technoburb,' ” writes Harold R. Wilde in the Encyclopedia of Chicago. "The 13-acre 'living village' in downtown Naperville encompasses 27 historic relocated, recreated, or restored structures, including a Gothic revival church (1864), operational blacksmith and print shops, the first hotel built west of Chicago, and the Martin Mitchell house (1883), deeded to the city in 1936 and for many years Naperville's historical museum."

Naper Settlement's collection indeed spans the decades -- of the 19th and early 20th centuries. Very early Naperville is found in a log cabin...

... and a re-created stockade. The original stockade, according to the sign, was built for the Black Hawk War but never saw any hostilities. Later, it was used as a pen for animals.

Martin Mitchell was a Chicago-area brick baron, or rather bricks and other building material, of the late 19th century. He certain used enough bricks to build his house, tours of which were available when we visited.

The volunteer guide wasn't exactly overflowing with information, but she did mention in passing that Mitchell had three children, but no grandchildren, and that one of his daughters was a dwarf.

Pow-Wow Sunday in Naperville

Windy fall has arrived, for now anyway, following a modest thunderstorm Sunday night. But during the day, Sunday was warm and summerish. So the thing to do was go to a pow-wow in the western suburbs.

The event was at the Naper Settlement, an open-air museum in Naperville, Illinois, that features many old structures of the city, spared from destruction and gathered to the site in the last 40 years or so. It's been more than 10 years since I last went there, for an event of a different sort -- a Civil War re-enactment. I don't remember that they were doing any particular battle at the time, since there weren't any in this part of the country, just having a mock blue-and-gray fight.

We watched the Indian dancers for a while. The drumming had, sometimes, a hypnotic rhythm. And it's impossible not to admire some of the complicated regalia, which looked like a remarkable lot of work to put together and keep together. But after a while, we came to the conclusion -- at least I did -- that it's better to be a participant than a spectator during an event like this. So we wandered off and came face-to-face with birds of prey. Or, as they prefer to be called in these more enlightened times, raptors. Such as this one:

More about him tomorrow.

Vermilionville, Acadiana

Vermilionville, an open-air museum in Lafayette, Louisiana -- "a Cajun/Creole Heritage & Folklife Park" -- is a first-rate example of that kind of museum. It has a pretty setting on the Bayou Vermilion, for one thing. Its lush landscape, described in great detail by the pamphlet you receive when you pay your admission, is another (now I know that Spanish moss is a member of the pineapple family). The place also has 19 buildings of pre-20th-century vintage, and of various original uses, but all from the part of the state called Acadiana, the concept of which seems to be a 20th-century invention.

To digress, Acadiana has its own flag, which I'd never seen nor heard of before. Not to be confused with the older flag of Acadia.

But the museum had more than interesting buildings in a good setting. The morning I visited, June 16, I ran into a couple of interpreters who not only knew their stuff, but could play their stuff. Stationed in the La Maison des Cultures, a Creole house dating from the 1840s, was a Creole fiddle player whose name I can't remember and which I couldn't spell even if I could remember, so French was it. Perhaps in his early 30s, the fellow was tall but not quite lanky, dark of hair and eyes but not quite so dark of skin, and dressed in what I took to be mid-19th century workingman's attire. We talked for a while about the peopling of Acadiana. I think he was glad I had some notion that Cajun and Creole were not the same, but rather ingredients in the ethnic (shall I say it?) gumbo that is Louisiana.

I was the only visitor at La Maison des Cultures, so we talked a while, and then he fiddled a while. "This," he'd say, "is how they play it in such-in-such a place." Then he played a few bars, or if inspired, more than a few. "Now this," he'd continue, "is more like such-and-such music, but you know, they listened to this-and-that music, too, so it's all mixed together." (Like gumbo.) More playing followed. I couldn't remotely keep up with him, so fluid was his demonstration of various styles and substyles. A remarkable talent.

In the 1890s schoolhouse, L'Académie de Vermilionville, I learned that the state of Louisiana suppressed the speaking of French in the schools for much of the 20th century, since that fact was written in large letters on the chalkboard (in English). I also met "Bob" (I can't remember his name either), an Acadian with an accordion. Tall like the fiddle player, but older and Caucasian, he too was in period clothes, and was just as talented. "I heard this when I was a boy," he'd said, and then launch into a blur of hand and finger movements that made the accordion sing. "Now this one, you might have heard in such-and-such a place." More music would emerge.

I wouldn't have heard it in such-and-such, since my experience in Acadiana is sadly limited. But I left Vermilionville early that afternoon, and left Lafayette itself the next day, wanting more. I'd say that's the mark of a good destination.

Juicy, Plump, Red Tomatoes

I'd never seen a typewriter quite like this before. But that's why I go to places like Historic White Pine Village in Ludington, Mich., to examine its trove. Whether in Dallas or West Fargo or rural Iowa or urban Osaka, just to name some of the places I've visited such museums, interesting objects are always lying around open-air museums. Occasionally you see astonishing ones.

The typewriter, with its odd wings holding the keys, was merely interesting. I found it on the desk in the museum's reformulated doctor's office -- always good places to visit, to remind you that the tools of medicine have improved over the decades. An early 20th-century medical office isn't quite as scary as, say, a mid-19th century office and its objects. Still, the glass-and-brass anaesthetic machine at White Pine's medical office, probably the pride of some Michigan doctor ca. 1910, looked like something Edison tinkered together as a lesser invention, and maybe something that would lend itself to unfortunate mishaps if not used exactly right (oops, forgot to mix in the oxygen).

Across the street -- so to speak -- was the clock room, with its weird non-synchronous tick-tocking coming from dozens of clocks lining three-and-a-half walls. Among other things, I learned the name of a whole genre of clocks I'd never heard before, though I recognize the shape: the Ogee, or the Og Clock. And, for that matter, that there are such things as grandmother and granddaughter clocks. (UK clockmonger John Shone writes about them here.)

What North American open-air museum doesn't have a one-room school? The White Pine Village one-room school had all the accouterments, too: uncomfortable desks (we could sit in them), slates for writing, a potbellied stove that would probably have warmed only the teacher, a portrait of Washington, a 44-star flag -- current to 1890-96, between the admissions of Wyoming and Utah -- lunch pails, a yellowed poster picturing "Our 22 Presidents" (current to Cleveland's first term), and a dunce cap. Come the day when the self-esteem movement has fizzled, such gear will make a comeback, mark my words.

Pretty much every open-air museum has a general store as well, complete with various shelves, barrels and other old-time merchandising devices, and White Pine did not fail in that regard either. Naturally some old-time merchandise was also on display, including a handful of deathless brands such Clabber Girl and Morton Salt. Others on the shelves weren't quite as familiar: Steamship Brand Molasses Candy, Union Leader Smoking/Chewing Tobacco, Dexo cooking grease. And then there was White Star Brand Tomatoes, pictured below.

This is a closer look.

What on Earth is that hammer and sickle doing on the label? The label adds that the tomatoes were distributed by the Cooperative Central Exchange of Superior, Wisconsin, a Finnish-American organization. Remarkably, you can read all about the cooperative here, including the fact that "... during the split within the Socialist Party of the United States in the early 1920s, key members of the CCE staff supported the left-wing faction, which favored recognition of the Third International and which was to become the Workers' (Communist) Party of America."

So that's it. Bolshie tomatoes, and not afraid to put it on the label.

Visiting Tom and Sarah

No domestic trip of more than a few days is really complete without a visit to a presidential site and a cemetery, if you ask me. So it was a bit of good luck that the Lincoln Log Cabin State Historic Site is in Coles County, Illinois, not far south of the Amish country that we visited over Memorial Day weekend. As soon as I found that out, I knew I had to drop by.

Strictly speaking, it isn't a presidential site. No president, including Lincoln, was born, lived, died or did anything significant there. The land in Coles County belonged to Lincoln's father and stepmother, Tom and Sarah Lincoln, which they farmed while Abe was off in Springfield making a name as a lawyer and politician. The future president did visit as often as he could, though.

The log cabin that you see today is not theirs, but a Civilian Conservation Corps replica. It seems that the original Lincoln Log Cabin was packed off to the Columbian Exposition in 1893 and after that -- oops, now where did it go? The furnishing and other farm buildings are also of the period, the 1840s, but not of the Lincoln's.

But was a good enough facsimile, and included other farming structures. The surrounding territory was freshly green, and it was warm but not too warm. There were also short trails to walk around and, elsewhere in the site, shelters with picnic tables. Ultimately we had lunch at one of these, made on our camp stove: beans and bacon, mostly. Something 1840s about that choice, but not the propane used to cook it.

Below are a few pictures. More about the cemetery tomorrow.

The cabin itself.

A current resident of the nearby barn.

A trail leading away from the cabin. The reproduction of an 1840s farm includes a fence of the period off in the distance, but doesn't go so far as to include crops.