It's very early in the morning and I'm packing up to head for the great American frontier following in the footsteps of those who trod upon the Oregon Trail. Kansas City has been wonderful. Here are just a few quick impressions:
- Spring looks good in Kansas City. The same trees I saw blooming in the Ozark hills are blooming here, too, but within a controlled landscape. Tulips add brilliant reds and yellows. The fountains are going full stream. I've been here before but I know I've seen more fountains on this trip. People are out and about and the overall mood is upbeat and expectant. Spring is here with all its new growth and hope for a bountiful harvest. The harvest in the city comes in a different form, that's all.
- Mark and Lindsey were gracious hosts. Happy Hour Friday with Lindsey's folks and brother. New Orleans Jazz at the Drum Room. Latte Land and Ingredient in the Plaza the following day for breakfast and lunch respectively. The Art Museum. Another Happy Hour with jazz. Dinner at a tapas place whose name escapes me now but all was delicious. Dessert at another restaurant - pecan pie with candied bacon ice cream. It was far better than it sounds. Sunday in Lawrence, another art museum, and more good food.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The kids are doing well and seem happy. Kansas City has been good to them. Now it's time to head out on my own. What adventures lie ahead? We'll see.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Piedmont, Missouri
Visiting my relatives is what brought me to Piedmont, Missouri but the experience was even more personal than that. I attended school in Piedmont at least for some period of time in first grade and again in third grade. I spent what felt like every weekend in Piedmont from early childhood through high school. During summers I would spend a week with one or the other grandmother. And one fateful summer, my parents and sisters went off to Columbus, Ohio and left me with my grandparents. If I had any teenage social life, it was during that summer. My first kiss, boyfriends, parking (and I don't mean cars) -- these were part of my Piedmont experience. Of course I have memories from those times that are mine alone and not part of family history per se. They all came flooding back.
The first realization upon turning onto Highway 49, a route travelled in my youth, was that more than twenty years of growth changes the landscape significantly. Roads were canopied where once clear sky reigned. Where once I saw an empty field, I saw homes and businesses. I clearly remember junk yards and abandoned wrecks rusting here and there as we made our way to Grandma's. Those were not in evidence on this trip. The road that once caused car sickness with its twists and turns, seemed a pleasant winding road. Rather than a torturous route full of potential for accidents, it was a driver's delight, full of interesting sights and enough curves to require a driver's attention to the road, what I consider real driving.
The same was true of the Piedmont itself. Over twenty years of businesses coming and going, buildings going up or being torn down has changed the face of this little town. It starts sooner and ends later as one travels the main road through it. When we rode to the top of the hill my grandmother lived on, and that I visited frequently as a girl, it was clear that here, too, nature has gone unchecked. Not only can the house not be seen from town, the town can't be seen from the hill. A very different perspective, I can tell you. No more the grand view and accompanying feeling of majesty. Just another house on a hill in the woods. And not a very impressive house at that. Gone were the various out buildings I once explored as a child. Gone was the old outhouse. Gone the flower beds. In truth, there was nothing much that remained as I remembered. Well, almost. The gravel road leading to this place was always rutted and needing attention. That hasn't changed.
I've always loved hill country. I can't prove it but I believe that the need for hills is encoded in my DNA. I can travel across the flat lands of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois and appreciate their unique beauty but when I find myself in rolling hills, my appreciation is felt right down to my bones. My spirits lift. My mind clears. I feel more alive. The Ozarks definitely felt like home. Add that it's spring. Ah, the wonder of it. Red buds in full bloom blushing here and there among the trees. Dogwoods flashing their plains of white. Small leaves of butter green creating a haze around what were only a few days ago bare branches. The waters of the creeks, branches, and streams running clear. Driving through this country in some ways brought back more memories than standing on Grandma's hill. Positive memories of the best of family times. I feel more at home and enjoy spring more in the hills.
The first realization upon turning onto Highway 49, a route travelled in my youth, was that more than twenty years of growth changes the landscape significantly. Roads were canopied where once clear sky reigned. Where once I saw an empty field, I saw homes and businesses. I clearly remember junk yards and abandoned wrecks rusting here and there as we made our way to Grandma's. Those were not in evidence on this trip. The road that once caused car sickness with its twists and turns, seemed a pleasant winding road. Rather than a torturous route full of potential for accidents, it was a driver's delight, full of interesting sights and enough curves to require a driver's attention to the road, what I consider real driving.
The same was true of the Piedmont itself. Over twenty years of businesses coming and going, buildings going up or being torn down has changed the face of this little town. It starts sooner and ends later as one travels the main road through it. When we rode to the top of the hill my grandmother lived on, and that I visited frequently as a girl, it was clear that here, too, nature has gone unchecked. Not only can the house not be seen from town, the town can't be seen from the hill. A very different perspective, I can tell you. No more the grand view and accompanying feeling of majesty. Just another house on a hill in the woods. And not a very impressive house at that. Gone were the various out buildings I once explored as a child. Gone was the old outhouse. Gone the flower beds. In truth, there was nothing much that remained as I remembered. Well, almost. The gravel road leading to this place was always rutted and needing attention. That hasn't changed.
I've always loved hill country. I can't prove it but I believe that the need for hills is encoded in my DNA. I can travel across the flat lands of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois and appreciate their unique beauty but when I find myself in rolling hills, my appreciation is felt right down to my bones. My spirits lift. My mind clears. I feel more alive. The Ozarks definitely felt like home. Add that it's spring. Ah, the wonder of it. Red buds in full bloom blushing here and there among the trees. Dogwoods flashing their plains of white. Small leaves of butter green creating a haze around what were only a few days ago bare branches. The waters of the creeks, branches, and streams running clear. Driving through this country in some ways brought back more memories than standing on Grandma's hill. Positive memories of the best of family times. I feel more at home and enjoy spring more in the hills.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Days 3 - 7 Part Two: Piedmont, Missouri
Visiting my relatives is what brought me to Piedmont, Missouri but the experience was even more personal than that. I attended school in Piedmont at least for some period of time in first grade and again in third grade. I spent what felt like every weekend in Piedmont from early childhood through high school. During summers I would spend a week with one or the other grandmother. And one fateful summer, my parents and sisters went off to Columbus, Ohio and left me with my grandparents. If I had any teenage social life, it was during that summer. Of course I have memories from those times that are more personal to me alone, and are not part of family history per se.
The first realization upon turning onto the highway travelled in my youth was that more than twenty years of growth changes the landscape significantly. Roads were canopied that were once simply lined by trees. Where once I saw an empty field, I saw homes and businesses. I remember clearly salvage yards and abandoned wrecks rusting here and there. Those were not in evidence on this trip. The road that once caused car sickness with its twists and turns, seemed a pleasant winding road. Rather than a torturous route full of potential for accidents, it was a driver's delight, full of interesting sights and enough curves to keep one focused on driving.
The same was true of the town itself. Over twenty years of businesses coming and going, buildings going up or being torn down has changed the face of Piedmont. It starts sooner and ends later as one travels the main road through it. When we rode to the top of the hill my grandmother lived on and that I as a girl remember visiting frequently, it was clear that here, too, nature has gone unchecked. Not only can the house not be seen from town, the town can't be seen from the hill. A very different perspective, I can tell you. No more the grand view and accompanying feeling of majesty. Just another house on a hill in the woods. And not a very impressive house at that.
I also have a personal affinity for hill country. I can't prove it but I truly believe that the need for hills is encoded in my DNA. I can travel across the flat lands of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois and appreciate their unique beauty but when I find myself in rolling hills, my appreciation is felt right down to my bones. My spirits lift. My mind clears. I feel more alive. The Ozarks definitely felt like home. Add that it's spring. Ah, the wonder of it. Red buds in full bloom blushing here and there among the trees. Dogwood, too. Small leaves of butter green creating a haze around what were only a few days ago bare branches. The waters of the creeks, branches, and streams run clear.
The first realization upon turning onto the highway travelled in my youth was that more than twenty years of growth changes the landscape significantly. Roads were canopied that were once simply lined by trees. Where once I saw an empty field, I saw homes and businesses. I remember clearly salvage yards and abandoned wrecks rusting here and there. Those were not in evidence on this trip. The road that once caused car sickness with its twists and turns, seemed a pleasant winding road. Rather than a torturous route full of potential for accidents, it was a driver's delight, full of interesting sights and enough curves to keep one focused on driving.
The same was true of the town itself. Over twenty years of businesses coming and going, buildings going up or being torn down has changed the face of Piedmont. It starts sooner and ends later as one travels the main road through it. When we rode to the top of the hill my grandmother lived on and that I as a girl remember visiting frequently, it was clear that here, too, nature has gone unchecked. Not only can the house not be seen from town, the town can't be seen from the hill. A very different perspective, I can tell you. No more the grand view and accompanying feeling of majesty. Just another house on a hill in the woods. And not a very impressive house at that.
I also have a personal affinity for hill country. I can't prove it but I truly believe that the need for hills is encoded in my DNA. I can travel across the flat lands of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois and appreciate their unique beauty but when I find myself in rolling hills, my appreciation is felt right down to my bones. My spirits lift. My mind clears. I feel more alive. The Ozarks definitely felt like home. Add that it's spring. Ah, the wonder of it. Red buds in full bloom blushing here and there among the trees. Dogwood, too. Small leaves of butter green creating a haze around what were only a few days ago bare branches. The waters of the creeks, branches, and streams run clear.
Days 3 - 7 Reconnecting
The last several days have been humbling and emotionally rewarding. When I put together the plan to visit with cousins and aunts not seen for decades, I didn't have a clue what to expect. I wouldn't have been surprised if at least a few of these visits were uncomfortable and awkward. After all, other than the heritage we share, for all intents and purposes I am a complete stranger to most of these people. However, I grossly underestimated the power of family ties.
The oldest (my 97 year old aunt), the youngest (my 57 year old cousin) and everyone inbetween greeted me with open arms and generous hospitality. We shared memories of grandparents, aunts, and uncles while we perused both the pictures I brought and in some cases, the pictures they had. While I have many stories to add to the family legend, I don't necessarily have more answers. Our grandmother and her bizzare behavior continues to be a mystery. Was she married three times or two? Did she have more men in her life than that? What were the first behaviors exhibited by our grandfather that led to his commitment? Were these behaviors the result of Altzhemer's, a brain aneurysm, or Grandma's treatment of him? What kind of man was he? What did he die of?
It's clear that the Seal boys had a hard childhood. They were very poor. What food couldn't be grown and canned could be hunted or caught. But clothing, toys, incidentals -- those cost money. I was told that there was so little money that the boys had to walk to school in the winter with their feet wrapped in rags. There were no shoes. Each worked hard for what little money they had. Cutting railroad ties, running an illegal still, dropping out of school and lying about age to get into the CCCs -- nothing was beyond consideration. As young men, each found a way to provide for themselves. At least three of them were in the armed services. Some held numerous jobs before settling into what would become their primary livelihood. All exceeded what might reasonably be expected given their lack of education and support from home. And none forgot their austere background as reflected by how they handled their money in later life. Each married and had a family. They provided for that family and raised their children in such a way as to result in true affection, perhaps in some cases given grudgingly but given nonetheless.
Of course there is so much more to share than what's above but for now, it will have to suffice. When I get back from the trip, I'll go through all my notes and the pictures, organize them and avail myself of ancestry.com to find any other available historical facts. As I reflect on it all, I will probably contact the various members of the family to ask clarifying questions. I don't know what the final product will be but I know I will share it with everyone who helped me along the way.
Will I see each of these family members again? Time and fate will have a say in that but I sincerely hope so.
The oldest (my 97 year old aunt), the youngest (my 57 year old cousin) and everyone inbetween greeted me with open arms and generous hospitality. We shared memories of grandparents, aunts, and uncles while we perused both the pictures I brought and in some cases, the pictures they had. While I have many stories to add to the family legend, I don't necessarily have more answers. Our grandmother and her bizzare behavior continues to be a mystery. Was she married three times or two? Did she have more men in her life than that? What were the first behaviors exhibited by our grandfather that led to his commitment? Were these behaviors the result of Altzhemer's, a brain aneurysm, or Grandma's treatment of him? What kind of man was he? What did he die of?
It's clear that the Seal boys had a hard childhood. They were very poor. What food couldn't be grown and canned could be hunted or caught. But clothing, toys, incidentals -- those cost money. I was told that there was so little money that the boys had to walk to school in the winter with their feet wrapped in rags. There were no shoes. Each worked hard for what little money they had. Cutting railroad ties, running an illegal still, dropping out of school and lying about age to get into the CCCs -- nothing was beyond consideration. As young men, each found a way to provide for themselves. At least three of them were in the armed services. Some held numerous jobs before settling into what would become their primary livelihood. All exceeded what might reasonably be expected given their lack of education and support from home. And none forgot their austere background as reflected by how they handled their money in later life. Each married and had a family. They provided for that family and raised their children in such a way as to result in true affection, perhaps in some cases given grudgingly but given nonetheless.
Of course there is so much more to share than what's above but for now, it will have to suffice. When I get back from the trip, I'll go through all my notes and the pictures, organize them and avail myself of ancestry.com to find any other available historical facts. As I reflect on it all, I will probably contact the various members of the family to ask clarifying questions. I don't know what the final product will be but I know I will share it with everyone who helped me along the way.
Will I see each of these family members again? Time and fate will have a say in that but I sincerely hope so.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Day Two - Richmond, Indiana
April 3, 2010
Richmond, Indiana 8:32 am
Got up, got dressed, loaded the car, settled the bill and headed for Paulee’s. From the outside, Paulee’s looks twice as long as it really is. And the outside has recently been painted giving the impression that the inside would reflect the same. Not so. The diner has ten stools facing the compact cooking area. There are no menus. What’s offered is displayed on one of those old-fashioned black boards. I don’t mean the blackboards that need chalk, I mean the ones that are like corduroy but with much deeper ditches. Little white letters and numbers are fitted into the ditches to hold them while they spell out what’s being offered and for how much.
When I walked in, there were three men at the counter and the young cook on the other side. All looked up when they heard the door open, looked my way, and seeing a stranger, returned to their meal or paper or cooking. I sat down, leaving one stool between me and the nearest gentleman. He looked my way and we exchanged “Good Morning’s”. He reminded me of my dad’s friend, Millard Cramer. A good-looking man in a hard kind of way. A man whose livelihood requires brawn and being out of doors in all weather. His face was tanned and weathered. His eyes were buried in smile wrinkles. He sported a James Dean hairdo. The other gentlemen were at least twenty years older than he; the cook, at least twenty years younger. There was little talk. The warning whistle of the passing train filled the space.
The cook came over with a cup of coffee and asked me what I’d like. He added he could make anything I’d like as long as it didn’t come covered in syrup. A quick check of the offerings on the board and I ordered two eggs over medium, smoked sausage, and whole wheat toast. I watched as he prepared my meal. The large cook top is reserved for frying meats. A smaller electric grill is used for the eggs. A pot with clear liquid and a basting brush sits between the two. Dip, splash and swish. Dip, splash, and swish. Both griddle and cook top are oiled and ready to receive the food. Eggs in each hand, quick tap, one handed break and drop. The eggs are cooking. Smoked sausage bigger than expected, cut down the middle and split. Slapped on the cooktop, a weight placed on top to not only hold it down and keep it straight but to make the most contact of meat on heat. Eggs flipped without breaking the yolks. Meat flipped. Toast in toaster. Somehow all came together at the same time and were served in one hand while he poured more coffee in my cup with the other.
As I ate, the men drifted off one by one while others came in. A family – mom, dad, and daughter. Another senior gentleman. A man and his wife. Elderly but spry. All greeted by first name by the cook and in at least two cases, orders filled without a word being said.
The seats taken did not offer two seats together for the couple so I volunteered to move down one to accommodate them. The husband immediately began to talk to me, teasing me about getting to sit by him. I learned that he and his wife have been married 68 years. They’ve lived in Richmond their entire life. Looking at the two of them, I blurted out, “You must have married when you were teenagers.” As it turns out that was the case. They met when she was thirteen and he, fifteen. They married when she turned sixteen. I commented that he must have seen a lot in his lifetime. He agreed and added, “But the worst has been the last six years.” I regret not following up on that comment but instead, I paid my bill and left.
As I walked back to the car past the abandoned train depot, the dumpsters filled with construction debris, and under the graffit-covered overpass, I knew I just witnessed a Saturday morning ritual for those individuals. Comfortable and predictable, yes. But too bland for me.
As I drove out of Richmond, at the last light I saw a man holding a placard, “Jesus said, Give to man what’s man’s. Give to God what’s God’s.” Across the street a sign in front of a small real estate office proclaimed, “We are all Americans.”
Richmond, Indiana 8:32 am
Got up, got dressed, loaded the car, settled the bill and headed for Paulee’s. From the outside, Paulee’s looks twice as long as it really is. And the outside has recently been painted giving the impression that the inside would reflect the same. Not so. The diner has ten stools facing the compact cooking area. There are no menus. What’s offered is displayed on one of those old-fashioned black boards. I don’t mean the blackboards that need chalk, I mean the ones that are like corduroy but with much deeper ditches. Little white letters and numbers are fitted into the ditches to hold them while they spell out what’s being offered and for how much.
When I walked in, there were three men at the counter and the young cook on the other side. All looked up when they heard the door open, looked my way, and seeing a stranger, returned to their meal or paper or cooking. I sat down, leaving one stool between me and the nearest gentleman. He looked my way and we exchanged “Good Morning’s”. He reminded me of my dad’s friend, Millard Cramer. A good-looking man in a hard kind of way. A man whose livelihood requires brawn and being out of doors in all weather. His face was tanned and weathered. His eyes were buried in smile wrinkles. He sported a James Dean hairdo. The other gentlemen were at least twenty years older than he; the cook, at least twenty years younger. There was little talk. The warning whistle of the passing train filled the space.
The cook came over with a cup of coffee and asked me what I’d like. He added he could make anything I’d like as long as it didn’t come covered in syrup. A quick check of the offerings on the board and I ordered two eggs over medium, smoked sausage, and whole wheat toast. I watched as he prepared my meal. The large cook top is reserved for frying meats. A smaller electric grill is used for the eggs. A pot with clear liquid and a basting brush sits between the two. Dip, splash and swish. Dip, splash, and swish. Both griddle and cook top are oiled and ready to receive the food. Eggs in each hand, quick tap, one handed break and drop. The eggs are cooking. Smoked sausage bigger than expected, cut down the middle and split. Slapped on the cooktop, a weight placed on top to not only hold it down and keep it straight but to make the most contact of meat on heat. Eggs flipped without breaking the yolks. Meat flipped. Toast in toaster. Somehow all came together at the same time and were served in one hand while he poured more coffee in my cup with the other.
As I ate, the men drifted off one by one while others came in. A family – mom, dad, and daughter. Another senior gentleman. A man and his wife. Elderly but spry. All greeted by first name by the cook and in at least two cases, orders filled without a word being said.
The seats taken did not offer two seats together for the couple so I volunteered to move down one to accommodate them. The husband immediately began to talk to me, teasing me about getting to sit by him. I learned that he and his wife have been married 68 years. They’ve lived in Richmond their entire life. Looking at the two of them, I blurted out, “You must have married when you were teenagers.” As it turns out that was the case. They met when she was thirteen and he, fifteen. They married when she turned sixteen. I commented that he must have seen a lot in his lifetime. He agreed and added, “But the worst has been the last six years.” I regret not following up on that comment but instead, I paid my bill and left.
As I walked back to the car past the abandoned train depot, the dumpsters filled with construction debris, and under the graffit-covered overpass, I knew I just witnessed a Saturday morning ritual for those individuals. Comfortable and predictable, yes. But too bland for me.
As I drove out of Richmond, at the last light I saw a man holding a placard, “Jesus said, Give to man what’s man’s. Give to God what’s God’s.” Across the street a sign in front of a small real estate office proclaimed, “We are all Americans.”
Friday, April 2, 2010
Day One - Michigan to Indiana
Date and Time: April 2, 2010, 9:55Mileage: 117466
Cost to fill up: $2.99 per gallon. $34.87
Arrived in Richmond, Indiana: 2:20
Route: I 94 to US 127 to US 40
I particularly like travelling "blue" highways. Two lanes lacking shoulders bring me close to the land and the people. And unlike on the interstates, I see the wonders and the eyesores of American living upclose and personal. With Easter this weekend, the occasional yard had been transformed into a Easter Bunny wonderland. One yard in particular was so cluttered with pastel Easter eggs hanging from trees, inflated bunnies, plastic spring bouquets, and other Easter/spring paraphenalia that the newly green grass and real daffodils were overwhelmed. And then there are the homes -- everything from dilapidated and abandoned to palatial with well manicured lawns, crystal lakes, and spewing foutains. Three houses stood out for me. One was decidedly the ultimate Victorian. Gingerbread decorations, turret tops, wrap-around porch, stained glass -- if it hadn't been so large, I would have said it reminded me of the candy house in Hansel and Gretel. Definite overkill. That one was in town; the other two were wonderful Queen Anne farm houses surrounded by miles of fields. One of them was three stories high! Clearly these were the wealthy farmers of days gone by. In addition to the acres and acres of empty fields waiting for spring disking and planting, there was no lack of livestock. Shetland ponies in one lot, a goat herd in another, horses, cows, and chicken. In fact, I passed a house-sized chicken. Out in the middle of no where. Just standing lookout I suppose.
I passed a sign announcing I was entering a target zone. I had no idea what that was but I think it may have something to do with the shields that were placed in front of the mailboxes along the road. If I hadn't passed the turn off to Adrian not too far back, I might not have paid attention but, well, that and the religious and political signs of the area put me on alert. "Repent" "Get right with God" "Jesus is the reason for the season" This last one was held by a rotund young lady dressed in bright orange standing by the roadside. "Legislators leave our constitution alone." And then I passed the grave site of Annie Oakley. Target zone? Annie Oakley? Maybe her ancestors are still practicing.
Richmond is a sleepy town. Not small but not large. Clearly not the town it once was. I headed for the historic district, the jazz museum, and the chocolatier. I'm sorry to report that the jazz museum was disappointing, not in the information it shared but in the display and artifacts. The historic district has unrealized potential. Perhaps in better economic times it will come alive. Now, too many empty buildings and too much cutting corners weigh it down. The chocolatier, Ghylain, however, was wonderful. My lunch/dinner of an Italian baquette smeared with pesto, topped with chicken, fresh mozzarella, and basil leaves hit the spot. And the dessert was to die for! Quality chocolate, pistachio mousse, chocolate cake. Perfect. Tomorrow I plan to have breakfast at Paulee's, the oldest diner in Richmond. In the meantime, with a full tummy, I headed for the Walk of Fame.
I asked for directions at the jazz museum. At first it appeared no one was going to be able to help me but I was saved. A very young salesman (the museum is located in a furniture store) drew a map for me and I was off. I did find a park that looked like it might contain the walk but it also looked overgrown and disreputable. I decided to return to the hotel, check on line for directions, and check it out in the daylight tomorrow after breakfast.
Mural on side of building in the historic district
The old depot
Paulee's, the oldest diner in Richmond
Another old building in the historic district
Desserts at Ghyslain's
Side of the building housing Ghyslain's as well as a wonderful Kitchen and Gourmet shopThursday, April 1, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010 -- April Fool's Day! And this fool has a list of "to do" items to complete before leaving early tomorrow morning. Wash and wax the car, go to the bank, purchase a magnifying glass, fill the tank, clean out the refrigerator, check all windows and doors, change the sheets on the bed (it may be the only time they get changed between my leaving and my return), trim the herbs and pull back the English ivy that is invading the flower bed, pack, load the car, take pictures of the front and back yards showing how things looked when I left. Double check everything.
Roger's plane leaves at 9 something which means he will need to head to Detroit by 7:00 or earlier. I plan to get up and head out the same time he does. I will go west to Jackson and then head south to Richmond, Indiana. Richmond is not only a mecca for antique hounds, it is also the home to a museum and gallery honoring early jazz greats -- Starr Gennett Historic Site & Gennett Recording Studio Walk of Fame. Neither Roger nor I knew of this nearby jazz destination but Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Bix Beiderbecke, Hoagy Carmichael, Tommy Dorsey, "Jelly Roll" Morton, Joe "King" Oliver, Fats Waller, and others recorded at this little and little known studio in the heartland. In addition to the museum, there is the "walk of fame" with three-dimensional, cast bronze and colored tile mosaic emblems in the form of 78 rpm phonograph records featuring the Gennett label design and an artistic mosaic rendering of the represented musician. A smaller, bronze plaque is installed next to each record to recognize the accomplishments of the inductee(s).
There is also a chocolatier located in Richmond. A definite stop in spite of my hope to lose weight while on this journey. Remember, chocolate has known health benefits and I owe it to myself to take advantage of them. Starting late tomorrow, pictures will be included in this blog giving you a visual to go along with my ramblings.
Roger's plane leaves at 9 something which means he will need to head to Detroit by 7:00 or earlier. I plan to get up and head out the same time he does. I will go west to Jackson and then head south to Richmond, Indiana. Richmond is not only a mecca for antique hounds, it is also the home to a museum and gallery honoring early jazz greats -- Starr Gennett Historic Site & Gennett Recording Studio Walk of Fame. Neither Roger nor I knew of this nearby jazz destination but Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Bix Beiderbecke, Hoagy Carmichael, Tommy Dorsey, "Jelly Roll" Morton, Joe "King" Oliver, Fats Waller, and others recorded at this little and little known studio in the heartland. In addition to the museum, there is the "walk of fame" with three-dimensional, cast bronze and colored tile mosaic emblems in the form of 78 rpm phonograph records featuring the Gennett label design and an artistic mosaic rendering of the represented musician. A smaller, bronze plaque is installed next to each record to recognize the accomplishments of the inductee(s).
There is also a chocolatier located in Richmond. A definite stop in spite of my hope to lose weight while on this journey. Remember, chocolate has known health benefits and I owe it to myself to take advantage of them. Starting late tomorrow, pictures will be included in this blog giving you a visual to go along with my ramblings.
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