Paczek's Cousin

The regional fair has been a great American tradition for sometime now. I remember the Michigan State Fair, and am sad to hear that, after much hemming and hawing (and mismanagement from Jenny), it will cease to be. However, many county fairs will continue on in the Great State of Michigan, the Alright State of Illinois, and around this Great Nation. All of this pontificating aside, the agricultural and celebratory natures of county fairs often attract unique fare, folks, and festivities. A sucker for cultural experiences, and in search of what makes Little Egypt so damn different, I decided to hit up the local Saline County Fair, whose grounds are on the edge of town.

"Tuesday Night: Motocross Racing"

Sounds promising, especially considering the competitors are drawn from the local pool, from kiddie to adult...

The local Lions were parking cars in the field and had set up a display trailer with information on drug use. Apparently that's another one of their things.

I was greeted at the front by a man passing out paper fans from a cardboard box, a.k.a. Southern Baptist Swag. The local radio station had a tent featuring some old-timey singing groups (I think it was country gospel if I'm not mistaken). This is where the polka band would be in a Detroit setup. Only a few folks were there, most of them in the rocking chair age bracket. They seemed to enjoy themselves, though, and, let's face it, the kids today have been tricked into the swing scene, but polka remains hidden from them. Something I am eternally thankful for, though, when I'm not tripping over hipster tweens when Big Daddy comes to town. But I digress.

Wandering through the carnival, I saw rides, carnies, young people, old people, etc. Eventually I wandered into the ribbon barn and saw the various baked goods, vegetables, fruits, paintings, photographs, and carvings the locals had brought to be judged. Apparently, the various prides of Saline County are a major draw for nefarious characters, as an Illinois Terrorism Mobile Command Unit was stationed at the entrance.

Wandering through the crowd, I arrived at the food trailers. HERE is where I saw her!!! I'd heard of her before, even had a few dreams about her, but here she was IN PERSON!!!

On a piece of cardboard were scrawled the words:

FRIED SNICKERS - $3

I'd heard of this before on a few food shows, but never seen it in person, much less eaten one. Now, being the generally frugal person that I am, I hesitated, but, in the end, decided this cultural and culinary exploration was necessary.

It looked a little like a corn dog, then they put it in a paper tray, drizzled it with chocolate syrup and shook powdered sugar over it. Not really crispy, the texture was a little more like goo wrapped in cake (hear it's funnel cake batter). Let me tell you, though, the texture and flavor, combined with the overall unhealthiness of it, make fried Snickers worthy of being called a cousin of the good ole Paczek.

At first, I thought it was a Southern invention (not too far-etched considering the penchant foor fried goods down here), but it seems the craze started in 1980's Scotland (a country similarly notorious for unhealthy dishes) with Mars Bars (kind of like a Milky Way, I read), and spread across the Anglophone world.

Unfortunately, I missed the deep fried gizzards until I'd spent the rest of my cash on a ticket to watch motocross racing. Oh well, that'll be another artery-clogging adventure for another time.

Catfishing

Well, as I absorb more and more of the culture of the Natives, I decided to go catfishing. I know, catfish live in the Great Peninsulas, too, but with such a diverse piscine population, I always went for the sunfish, bass, trout, etc. Now, here in Little Egypt, far from the Great Lakes, oceans, etc., I have to rely on rivers, man-made lakes, and reservoirs. I chose the latter, heading a few miles northwest to where the city water comes from: Harrisburg New City Reservoir. At first, I thought it was odd to fish in the water supply, but then I remembered fishing Lake St. Clair (i.e. Detroit's main water supply). So, I picked up some worms at the local ROC One Stop, headed up IL-34, through the levee, onto the Reservoir.

Just a few folks out, and no tasties on the road. You see, Little Egypt's man-made lakes tend to have a road built on an artificial land bar that cuts the lake in two, with a short bridge somewhere in the land bar to allow recreational navigation between the two halves. At the Reservoir (also called Harrisburg Lake, depending on your source), most of the shore line is private property, including a sizable Boy Scout camp. The only places for the public to fish are on the Lakervoir in a boat (there's a short boat ramp from the land bar), or from land bar road. So, I parked and tried my luck. I guess even the herons weren't having luck, either, though, since I didn't see them pull any snacks out. After I'd gone through 5 or 6 worms, I decided to head home.

Fishing isn't like most other activities, though. Even when you haven't succeeded, or really accomplished anything tangible, it's still a good use of time. Plenty of quiet and peace, closeness to nature, etc. Time to think, organize my thoughts, but sometimes I think a little too much. Women often drift into my mind when I think too much, especially with all of the relationship -> fishing analogies. Oh well, time to reel in and find a new spot.

"She never did get married..." -- Evansville Pt. 2

Crossing the mighty Ohio, I still had a mile or so to go before I left Kentucky. I could see a few miles of urban sprawling up ahead, though, so I knew I was close.

Earlier that morning, I set up an itinerary: visit Goodwill/Salvation Army, check out a Slavic general store, visit the local all-purpose museum, take in some historical buildings, and soak up the third largest city in Indianer.

Thrift stores were a bust, and SlavMart closed down a few years back. Not too hungry, so on to museuming.

The Evansville Museum of art, science, and history is nestled towards one end of a riverfront park/promenade. The cool air inside was welcome in the balmy heat of summer in Southern river towns. A donation box sat at the front, but no entrance fee is charged.

The first floor covers the history of the growth of Evansville from nothing marsh land to post-Rust-Belt boomtown. Believe it or not, the Army turned to Evansville to construct some transport vessels (maybe rivers are less scary than oceans, seas, and Great Lakes...). Pretty interesting exhibit on those factories, the ships, etc. Also some sprinklings of prairie life and gazebos. Also, just like the Detroit Historical Museum's basement, there were mock streets with old shops, a dentist, and a doctor's office (all mid to late 19th century). In one room down one of these memory lanes were miscellanea from the Museum's back-rooms. Included was a translation by Oscar Wilde of some Polish poem, a letter written by Voltaire, dueling pistols, etc. Eclectic and surprising.

Moving upstairs there was an Ancient Art room with pieces from the Ancient Egyptians, African tribes, old Chinese dynasties, old Japanese dynasties, Native Americans (including the Mayans), an all around nifty and surprising smattering for such a (comparatively speaking) small city museum. The outstanding exhibit, though, was courtesy of the estate of local eccentric and posthumous philanthropist, Elizabeth Zutt (1915-2006).

According to what I gathered from pamphlets, displays, and docents, Miss Zutt was one of those fading midwestern eccentric art fiends. You know the kind who would lobby for saving the Old Courthouse (she did, in fact lobby to preserve some old building along with local art students) or spend thousands to erect art in public places, but not the kind of hipster that's taken over the game in recent years.

From the Museum's website:

Miss Zutt was a graduate of the Ward-Belmont School in Nashville, Tennessee, and the University of Wisconsin. She completed a degree in library science at Columbia University in New York City and worked for 30 years at the Evansville-Vanderburgh Public Library.

Sounds like the type of life George Bailey saved Mary from, but it seems Miss Zutt had a good go of it all. She traveled EXTENSIVELY (passports showed markings from every continent save the frozen one), sending home missives along the way. Not content to merely be well-travelled, though, she purchased art from anywhere and everywhere. A lot of it was in the tacky noveau art vein (she had a peculiar love of modernist sitting implements), but also included Islamic and Hindu illuminated manuscripts, landscapes, and other delights for the eyes.

While surveying the wonders and the travesties presented, I noticed an older gentleman in blazer, tie, and slacks sitting on a bench. He looked pretty official, and I wasn't sure if he was guard or guide. After being in the same room with someone for a while, though, the natural instinct to make small talk overcomes shyness.

I began:

So, just one woman collected all this?

--Yep.

[Oh, they have Southern accents here, too...]

That's pretty amazing!

--Yeah, she was really big into art. Did you know her?

No, I'm from Detroit.

--Oh, well, she was big into art. Every few months she'd come by here to inspect the new art exhibits. Give it a look over, see if she liked it.

Wow! I couldn't imagine just collecting all of this in my house, though.

--Yeah, this is only part of it, though. I don't care for a lot of it. You didn't know her?

No...

--Well, she gave half to the University, and half to us.

That's a lot. I couldn't imagine having the time and money to do that.

--Yeah, she traveled all the time with her mother. I don't think she ever did get married.

Well, I guess at least she got to do...

--Yeah, she did what she liked. Don't think she ever got married, though.

The amount of disappointment and subtle tisking in his voice was a bit surprising in an art museum. But some of the Natives, especially the older ones, are fairly to staunchly conservative, at least on social issues. Many arties (artists, hipsters, etc.) always talk about thinking outside of the box, forging new pathways, often just falling into a new norm where out of the box is a new box in and of itself. The Natives have their own boxes, and they be a bit musty and worn from the years, but they are new to these eyes.

Snaking to Evansville

Monday and Tuesday off and the rest of the week, 3:30 PM - Midnight... I was ready for a little vacation, especially after a month in Jeff Foxworthy's Fantasyland. Turned fishing over, even bought the tools, but rain put a damp on that plan. Besides, fishing can happen almost anywhere and/or anytime. No, I decided to find the nearest Metropolitan area, i.e. Evansville, IN.

Evansville isn't one of the big cities you usually hear of (although Detroit is only mentioned on the more thorough lists), but I figured a Metropolitan area of 300,000 was a damn sight better than Harrisburg's 30,000 "Micropolis." Looking at Google Maps, I decided to avoid a Toll Bridge by dipping through Kentucky (adding about 2 minutes to an approx. 1.5 hour drive).

So, heading east on IL-13, I cruised the radio dial until some poppy sensation set me a-dancing. Time to blow past Equality, Shawneetown, and Old Shawneetown. Up and over the mighty Ohio, landing on Kentucky's fair shore. Now I'm getting somewhere. Or, at least, that's what I thought to myself as I encountered 4 former gas stations (I believe 1 may still sell gas now), 2 of which promised the best food this side of somewhere or other, 1 that boasted excellent liquor prices, and another that promised likewise for tobacco. Truly, I had discovered a more Native set of Natives.

Twisting, writhing, the highway cut through farm after farm, hill after hill, homestead after homestead. A freeway would most likely not fit here, or would be so lopsided, you might as well just double stack the thing. Truly a wonder that this place was settled. But, then again, the Natives have shown themselves capable of Spartan and innovative lifestyles.

One thing that frustrated me greatly, though, was driving behind a tractor on these roads. With flat straightaways about as sparse as martini bars in the Forest, I found myself crawling at 30-40 mph behind some John Deere contraption meant to save time for the farmer, but, obviously, not the metropolite on his/her way between settlements. I realized, though, that, for those tied to the land, there isn't much else to do sometimes. From sun up, until sundown, there is field after field to be worked and, unless you need something desperately in town, no need to rush much of anywhere. Their work, and life, are tied to where they live. So, there, on the highway, two cultures clashed and, for the most part the Natives won. I was forced to content myself with having a tractor set my pace. Anyway, on to Evansville.

Rocky-Tonk

A Saturday night spent at home is generally an evening wasted. So, I pulled on some jeans, my "Commies Aren't Cool" t-shirt, stepped into my Wal-Mart specials, hopped into my Buick and headed for the levee. Just before the stop light, I saw Sisco's Bar & Grill. A kind of roadhouse on the edge of town with a gravel parking lot sandwiched between a body shop and some storage units. Since a large biker rally is going on not too far away, I was a little apprehensive about checking out this place, especially since a sign outside promised live music. Bikers, if Pee Wee' Big Adventure has taught us anything, are enormous patrons of the arts. Enormous, slightly to moderately armed, hard drinking, rap sheet-having patrons of the arts. About halfway to one of two sleepy towns, though, I figured, biker bar or no, I needed some entertainment. So, I pulled a U-ey and headed back through the levee to Sisco's. Not spotting any bikes in the lot, I figured the beatdown:goodtimes ratio was in my favor.

I saw a mass of middle-aged tipsiness stagger out collectively. Some law of physics or mathematics might describe it, but the whole was definitely more than the individual in terms of stability. Parked and spruced, I felt the pound of a bass drum as I approached the door.

"'$5 Cover?' Damn! Well, it's just money... And, besides, it's close to midnight, will I really have to pay?"

But I paid cover anyway, and received a black mark to the hand. On the door, a "No Smoking" sign was hung with care, but the place was filled with a Raleigh-an haze, not the least coming from the other side of the bar. There were about 30 people inside, counting the band and bartenders. The place was a pretty good size, half with the bar, stage, and some tables and chairs; the other half was a "game room" with pool tables, dart boards, and a hoard of 10 Natives (the women too removed to see casually). In the bar and stage part, there were a few Natives at the bar (some suggestively clad and painted-up [though that wasn't doing much for them] nearby boyfriends), and a pride of cougars (most with less to be proud of than others) lounging at a table.

Minx plays mostly hard rock to metal covers. Lead singer with a scalp lock mohawk, the rest with varying facial hair arrangements. They were pretty decent, especially for middle of nowhere folk. They thundered through some standards with egregious tinny reverb as their thanks. Still, the music was loud, there were people, and there was booze.

I tried to order a glass of whiskey but was told they only sell mixed drinks and beer (at least that's what a caught through lip reading and periodic aural lucidity). So, I got a Jack and Coke and surveyed the place a little more.

The ashtrays strewn across bar and tables wouldn't have done much to fool a stray sanitarian, but there's something about smoke that makes a bar a bar. The glut of Natives in the back sat pretty self-absorbed in their own world, huddled around beer and pizza. The band was, more likely than not, raucous background noise to them. The girls at the bar ranged from redneck purtty to average to kinda cute to "dark lighting does wonders for you." They almost all had men in tow, though, so I didn't even worry about it anymore. The cougars were into dancing, and lured a few of the boyfriended to dance, though, which was fairly enjoyable (more comedic than sexy, trust me, though I'm still not sure where those 3/4 pants and stillettos fall on that spectrum).

A little ways into the night, Minx launched into "All Summer Long" and made me miss home. Sure, drinking, bars, and live music all make me yearn to be Hamtramck-side again, but Kid Rock's tale of love in the Water Winter Wonderland hit another nerve usually left untouched in the midst of nature here.

Sure, there are rivers, streams, trees, high hills, animals, and all that natural stuff, but it's not mine. It's kind of like driving a rental car or staying in a hotel. Sure, it's nice to be in something different. The view's nice, there's a newness about everything, the Natives are generally hospitable. In the end, though, there's an odd comfort to being back in your own bed, even if you don't clean the majority of the blankets everyday. And that smell may not be "New Car" but it lets you know "This is mine." This is the same kind of comfort that I felt driving past abandoned factories and through empty neighborhoods. Sure, the place needs some fixing up, but I knew it from childhood and it was mine and I am its in a strange geomaternal sense.

When I'm here, I want to be there. But, I know when I'm there, all I can think of will be getting back into the Forest.

Paczki Day Now

Herein you will find the rantings and ravings of a Metro Detroit ex-pat living abroad in the wilds of Southern Illinois, but not entirely by choice. To be fair, this may only seem to be the wilds by a kid who spent most of his life growing up in Warren, MI, with significant time spent in Hamtramck. Harrisburg, IL, is a city of around 10,000 people with various villages, cities , and unincorporated riff-raff surrounding with pop.s ranging from 78-20,000.

The Big 3 are Farm, Mine, and Oil. Everyone at least knows someone (whether him/herself, friends, or relatives) employed in one of these professions. Twangs and drawls combine in some unholy dischord. Words are said in a way that not even Mr. Shaw could have foreseen. Naturally, jumpsuits, bib overalls, baseball caps, and camouflage clothing are a fact of daily life. Ever-present, too, are Baptist congregations.

I guess what I'm trying too say is that all of the multiculturalism and diversity prized in Detroit never prepared me to be deprived of both and plopped into cultures where I am constantly in the minority. Never have baled hay, driven a big rig, or gigged frogs. Country music and chewing really aren't my things. Really, a fancy fish out of water.

On Memorial Day, it hit me, though, that the Natives and I do share some things. Standing in a "crowd" of about 20 folks in front of the Old City Hall as the tobacco incense curled upwards, I watched a parade of 10 vets, listened reverently as the Battle Anthem was raised by a teenage local, heard a few poems and tributes, all for thanking our vets and honoring Our Great Nation. No fireworks, no brass band, no jet flyovers. The sheer genius of this simplicity of the Natives impressed me, and evidenced the bond we shared as human beings and Americans. I appreciate the simplicity, the simplicity...