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Prairie

Prairies are a part of Indiana’s natural heritage, I’ve been told, according to this rest stop sign anyway.

The girls were inside and I was walking the whippets.  I noticed from afar, across the manicured expanse of Kentucky bluegrass, what appeared to be an informational board for the casual passerby.  Naturally curious (and myself being a casual passerby), I trekked through the grass to read this beacon of knowledge.

Perhaps the sign itself was a victim of fire?  Or maybe it’s yet one more icon of yesterday, fallen into disrepair.  Judging from the number of toll roads I had to pay to get through Chicago, it’s apparent that the national Interstate budget isn’t sufficient anymore.  Sad, although it was kind of amusing to see that this sign still remained, all the way out in what is obviously not native prairie.

The field was also littered with structural foundations, but I couldn’t figure out for what.  Another mystery lost to time.

–Simon

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Chicago

Last week we had an unexpected Wisconsin revisit.  This time, it was under less jovial terms, as Liz’s grandfather had passed.  Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Hintz.

As for our own far less spiritual journey, we opted to pass through Chicago this time.  While most likely a benign experience for locals, I enjoyed it, and made note of landmark buildings.

The Skyway–Chicago sure has a lot of toll roads
The Sears Tower (formerly), or the Willis Tower now–once upon a time the tallest building in the world
A passing shot of the skyline
The John Hancock Center–important to me because I watched it collapse in an episode of Life After People

–Simon

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Pass!

Okay, I have one more Wisconsin post, and this is the last one, I promise.

Admittedly, I should have posted this sooner, to establish a more cohesive chronology.  But this isn’t as interesting as the nature posts, since I’m just ranting here.

I am calling attention to the little town of El Paso, WI:

Fuck this place

I can only conclude that this place’s existence is entirely dependent on the fact that state route 24 intersects with I-39, creating a settlement out of opportunity, and therefore so aptly-named: El Paso.

We made the mistake of stopping here last year, on the way home.  There was one gas station, and it uses its location to exploit a price hike, but it does so in a tricky manner–advertising the price of gas with a car wash, but that fine print is a little hard to read from afar.

The men’s restroom was out of order, so I was forced to use a porto-potty, which was the most disgusting confined space I’ve ever been forced to endure.  After retching to the point of delirium, I went into the station to buy hand sanitizer–which they didn’t have.  So I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of rubbing alcohol to substitute.

Yet we forgot these experiences, and made the mistake of stopping there again.  After abandoning the drive-thru at the local McDonalds because we were unwilling to wait 20 minutes, we got gas, and fell victim to the false-advertising again.

So, if you ever find yourself in this town, my advice–just drive on.

–Simon

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Aldo Leopold

Sometimes events align in an uncanny relation.  I recently parodied a book from my youth: A Sand County Almanac, by beginning a series of posts from my childhood journal.  I recalled that the book’s setting was in Wisconsin, so when we took our trip up there recently, the book was on my mind.

Then, when driving into town on a liquor run, I saw this:

Curious, I delved deeper and discovered that there is no “Sand County” in Wisconsin, at least not as a political delineation.  The name is used in reference to the geographical region of Wisconsin which has sandy soil.  I wondered: how far did that region extend, and was this turn of phrase in the common local lexicon–and therefore this business name being of no relation, or was this business name indeed an intentional nod to the author?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a clear physical boundary of “Sand County”.  But the Wausau region is still very glaciated and sandy, being interspersed with a lot of lakes, so I think it qualifies.

Additionally, I discovered Leopold has a historical marker.  Obviously the marker would be placed in the physical region, so I input the coordinates into a map:

Wausau is about 50 miles away, and on the way home, the closest we got was 31 miles.  So while I’ll never know the above business owner’s intentions, I think this concludes that we were officially in Sand County, and enjoy the historical significance for what it is.

–Simon

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You’ll Burn Your Eye Out!

One of the parental killjoys that has stuck with me over the years has been my father’s aversion to sparklers.  Liz, however, had a very different childhood experience, so fireworks are less of a novelty to her.  Admittedly, I still giggle whenever I set off a bottle rocket.  I guess the bar’s been set pretty low.

I will attempt to quote my father’s response to a childhood inquiry regarding purchasing sparklers: “Those things are made of magnesium, which burns at 3000 degrees centigrade!  They use magnesium flares to weld underwater!  No you can’t have one!”.  That may not be a direct quote, but it includes all his points.

So when Liz picked some up for the kid, I thought about this past conversation.  A quick Google search reveals that, depending on the composition, they burn upwards of 1600 degrees Celsius–not quite as hot as my father claimed, but I still wouldn’t want to touch the flame.

But, like getting salmonella from raw cookie dough, some experiences are worth the danger risk.  Personally, I think it was just an excuse to avoid spending money on something superfluous–a reason that makes far more sense to me now as a father myself.  I wonder what goofy thing I say that my own kid will remember forever.

Ah well.  For now–fire!

–Simon