The Wilder Park Conservatory

Posted on April 8, 2019 by admin

Near Elmhurst College in west suburban Elmhurst is Wilder Park, a mid-sized suburban park that includes the Elmhurst Public Library, Elmhurst Art Museum, Lizzadro Museum, Wilder Mansion and the Wilder Park Conservatory and Formal Gardens.

This is the Wilder Mansion, named after the last family that owned the place, before the Elmhurst Park District acquired it and the surrounding land in the early 1920s.
I understand that for most of the 20th century, the building housed the Elmhurst Library, but these days it’s a wedding and event venue. Even though it was late Saturday morning, the place was closed. I was a little surprised. I expected someone to be there, setting up for a wedding.

Not far away is the modest Wilder Park Conservatory and Formal Gardens. The gardens were around back and not growing much yet.
At one room and a non-public greenhouse, I believe the Wilder is the smallest public conservatory in metro Chicago, smaller even than the one in Mount Prospect, but it has a nice array of plants. Especially when outside is still mostly brown.

Along with a few rock formations.

Outside the conservatory is a public oddity.
The sign says:

Elmhurst Landmark
1870
Urn-Adorned
Cook County Court House before Chicago Fire
of 1871

According to the ElmhurstHistory.Org: “Following the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, many people from the Chicago area collected ruins from the fire as a souvenir [sic]. Seth Wadhams, who lived in what is now known as the Wilder Mansion, brought two roof finials (decorative pieces) from the Cook County Courthouse, which had burned in the fire. One of the finials deteriorated over time. The second one remains in Wilder Park.”

It looks like you can see many of the courthouse finials in this pre-Fire photo. Strange thought that one of them might be, probably is, the obscure stone relic now miles from its original perch.

Theologian Rendered in Bubble Gum

Posted on April 7, 2019 by admin

Saturday felt like the actual first day of spring around here. Warm, partly cloudy, birds atwitter, no coat or even jackets necessary for human comfort.

We spent much of the day in the mid-sized western Chicago suburb of Elmhurst, a pleasant place we briefly considered while shopping for a house more than 20 years ago. We’ve spent some time there since, but not recently, and Saturday was a fine day for walking through some of Elmhurst’s soon-to-be-leafy, soon-to-be-green spaces.

Elmhurst is also home to Elmhurst College, a private liberal arts school that looks every bit like you’d think, with handsome buildings, mature trees, lawns crossed by paved footpaths and students here and there on a warm Saturday.
Some years ago, I took Lilly to a few sessions of the Elmhurst College Jazz Festival, whose high school and college performers play at the college’s at Hammerschmidt Chapel.
Elmhurst College dates from the 1870s, founded roughly at the same time as Vanderbilt, though it doesn’t seem to have evolved into the same sort of academic leviathan. I’m glad some institutions still eschew the upgrade to university and call themselves colleges. I suspect that Elmhurst charges about the same stratospheric tuition as Vanderbilt, however, and there’s no excuse for either of them in that regard.

These days, the college is affiliated with the United Church of Christ. It was founded by the German Evangelical Synod of North America, or the Deutsche Evangelische Synode von Nord-Amerika, one of the 19th-century predecessor denominations of the UCC.

Here’s Old Main. Or the Hauptgebaude, which remarkably has its own Wiki page. One of the more handsome structures on campus, I’d say. The front.
And the back.
The college has a gazebo. Minor, but still a gazebo. All colleges should.

What’s this? I noticed a statue not far from Old Main, standing in its own plaza-like spot.
A founding bishop with “Knowledge is Good” carved on the base in German? I’m not sure the denomination had bishops; probably not, but never mind.

No. It’s a statue of Reinhold Niebuhr in an animated pose.
I didn’t expect that. My own ignorance was at work. Niebuhr did his undergraduate work at Elmhurst College, class of 1910. His brother H. Richard, also a theologian, likewise went to Elmhurst.

In 1997, Niebuhr was honored with this regrettable chewing-gum statue, the work of the late Robert Berks, who is better known for his bubble-gum Einstein in Washington, DC, though I’ve also encountered his Carolus Linnæus statue at the Chicago Botanical Gardens. Carved on one of the white blocks is the Serenity Prayer, which is widely attributed to Niebuhr.

Sad to say, most of what I learned about Niebuhr at Vanderbilt — and I’m pretty sure I learned something — has evaporated after nearly 40 years. He was a U.S. public intellectual in any case, informed by his theology. Is there such a thing any more?

Thursday Whatnots

Posted on April 4, 2019 by admin

News I missed, and I miss a fair amount, which I figure is actually healthy: “For the second time in history, a human-made object has reached the space between the stars,” a NASA press release from December says.

“NASA’s Voyager 2 probe now has exited the heliosphere — the protective bubble of particles and magnetic fields created by the Sun…

“Its twin, Voyager 1, crossed this boundary in 2012, but Voyager 2 carries a working instrument that will provide first-of-its-kind observations of the nature of this gateway into interstellar space.”

Voyager 2 is now slightly more than 11 billion miles (18 billion kilometers) from Earth. Or 16.5 light hours. That’s still in the Solar System, though. “It will take about 300 years for Voyager 2 to reach the inner edge of the Oort Cloud and possibly 30,000 years to fly beyond it,” NASA says.

Not long ago, the original Godzilla — Gojira, to be pedantic — appeared on TV, in Japanese with subtitles. Not that the famed atomic beast needs any subtitles. I had my camera handy.
I didn’t watch it all, but that’s one way to approach televised movies. Not long ago, I watched the first 15 minutes or so of The Sting, a fine movie I’ve seen a few times all the way through. But other tasks were at hand, so I quit after Luther is murdered.

Later, I had the presence of mind to turn the TV back on and watch the last 10 minutes or so, when the sting is put on gangster Doyle Lonnegan. It’s a satisfying ending, but it got me to thinking.

A con with that many people would surely generate rumors. Just as surely, the rumors would make their way to the murderous Lonnegan, who wouldn’t rest until Henry Gondorff and Johnny Hooker were dead. But that’s overthinking things.

Here’s another example of a dim algorithm. Just about every time I use YouTube, I see anti-teen smoking PSAs. Or maybe they’re blanketing the medium, regardless of audience. Still, if I didn’t take up smoking 45 years ago, I’m not going to now.

That brings to mind the first time I remember seeing one of my contemporaries with a cigarette. That was about 45 years ago at a place called the Mule Stall.

The Mule Stall was a student space on the campus of my high school with a few rooms, chairs, a pool table and I don’t remember what else. It was tucked away about as far as you could get from the rest of the school, opening up to the street behind the school.

High schoolers used it, but junior high kids from the district had gatherings there occasionally as well. The event I remember might have been the wrap party for one of the plays I was in. Besides not acquiring a taste for smoking back then, I also discovered the theater wasn’t for me, except as an audience member. But ca. 1974, as a junior high school student, I did a few plays.

There we were, hanging out at the Mule Stall, when we noticed a girl named Debbie, who was in our class, pass by with a cigarette between her fingers. I didn’t know her that well, and I don’t remember much about her now, though she had curly hair, glasses and the sort of development adolescent boys pay attention to. At that moment, I guess she was on her way out to smoke the thing, though we didn’t see that.

I don’t know anything about her later life. She attended high school with us for a while, but either moved away or dropped out before the Class of ’79 graduated. I wonder if even now, she holds her cigs in yellow-stained fingers and spends part of the night coughing.

As for the Mule Stall, we had occasional high school band parties there later. One in particular involved almost everyone lining up to dance to the “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” That was fun. As Wiki accurately says, the dance was very much alive in Texas in the 1970s.

In fact, the Wiki entry has a description of the style of dance we did. Someone who did the dance seems to have written it, because this is exactly right.

“This dance was adapted into a simplified version as a nonpartner waist-hold, spoke line routine. Heel and toe polka steps were replaced with a cross-lift followed by a kick with two-steps. The lift and kick are sometimes accompanied by shouts of ‘whoops, whoops,’ or the barnyard term ‘bull s–t.’… The practice continues to this day.”

We used the barnyard term. An administration with no sense of history apparently razed the Mule Stall in the 1990s. Now the site is parking.

Fiji Ginger

Posted on April 3, 2019 by admin

Almost warm today. So close. But not quite. Such is the slog of spring until those brilliant May days, and not even all of them are spring-like.

Recently spotted an oddity on the shelf, a 6.7 oz. jar of the ginger people Organic Minced Ginger (that’s how it’s styled). I was visiting a store I don’t often visit, one that carries unusual and imported goods, and whose continued existence I wonder about. That’s because I suspect many of its goods are available online and somewhat cheaper, though I haven’t tested that idea.

As for Organic Minced Ginger, it’s odd only because of something on the back of the jar: MADE IN FIJI.

Fiji Water is from Fiji. That’s the only other product from that South Pacific nation that I’ve ever seen, or can think of. Guess ginger grows in Fiji, but how the economics of getting it to the United States work, I couldn’t say.

Maybe it’s no ordinary ginger and commands a premium (I forgot to check the price on the jar). So I checked elsewhere and sure enough found a web site that asserts that Fiji ginger has exceptional properties. Good for what ails ya. Pumps up your vim.

“Organic Pink Fijian Ginger may provide temporary relief of digestion, nausea, sore muscles and is known to provide a metabolic boost,” Wakaya Perfection says, though it’s careful to note that the FDA hasn’t evaluated those statements.

What is Wakaya Perfection? An organization seemingly associated with David Gilmour, the billionaire who founded Fiji Water and who owns Wakaya Island, which is one of the nation of Fiji’s islands. (He’s not the member of Pink Floyd.) Gilmour does not, however, seem to be involved in the ginger people.

Think I’ll stop my trip down this particular rabbit hole now.

Minor Election Day

Posted on April 2, 2019 by admin

Local elections today. In as much as any of them got any wider attention, the runoff for mayor of Chicago did. Out here in the suburbs, the elections were for village presidents (mayors), school boards, library boards and the like. The only contest of even mild interest in my particular suburb will determine who will succeed the current mayor, who’s been in office since Hector was a pup.

I’ve received a number of campaign postcards recently, but this election didn’t rise to the level of robo-calls. I don’t think I got any in the run up to the vote today.

I almost forgot to vote. But I remembered about an hour and a half before the polls closed, and walked to my polling place. There were the scattering of signs at the parking lot entrance.

Low voter turnout is almost guaranteed in an election like this, but it occurred to me that that means the votes of those who do turn out thus count for more. In a statewide election, you’re one of tens or hundreds of thousands, or even more; in a local election, you might be one of hundreds.

Hercules Mulligan, Patriot

Posted on April 1, 2019 by admin

I had ramen at home for lunch on Friday. Unremarkable, except I ate my ramen sitting out on the deck. No coat necessary to keep warm. The setting made the tasty noodles, vegetables and broth that much better.

The warmth didn’t last. It couldn’t. By the evening, drizzle. By Saturday, a late winter chill that hasn’t gone away even yet. Today came the bonus of wind gusts blowing the only way wind blows in cold weather: in your face.

Croci and a few weeds and a purple flower or two now poke out of the ground to tease us about spring. Maybe that counts as cruel. But April is also the month when, suddenly, the grass will be green again.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided it was time to read Ron Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton, which has been on my shelf for quite a while. I don’t regret it. It’s a weighty book, as befits a weighty subject, but also a lively read that illuminates Hamilton’s character and ideas.

There are also plenty of interesting and sometimes entertaining supporting characters. My favorite so far: Hercules Mulligan, only partly for the name. Hamilton met him not long after coming to New York, just before the Revolution.

“[Hamilton] had all the magnetic power of a mysterious foreigner and soon made his first friend: a fashionable tailor with the splendid name of Hercules Mulligan….” Chernow writes. “Born in Ireland in 1740, the colorful, garrulous Mulligan was one of the few tradesmen Hamilton ever befriended. He had a shop and home on Water Street, and Hamilton may have boarded with him briefly…

“Later, during the British occupation of wartime New York, Mulligan was to dabble in freelance espionage for George Washington, discretely pumping his foppish clients, mostly Tories and British officers, for strategic information as he taped their measurements.”

Later, regarding the events associated with Evacuation Day in New York — November 25, 1783 — Chernow relates the following: “The morning after he entered New York, Washington breakfasted with the loquacious tailor, Hercules Mulligan… To wipe away any doubts about Mulligan’s true loyalties, Washington pronounced him ‘a true friend of liberty.’ ”

Mulligan ought to have a plaque somewhere on Water Street. He’s buried in Trinity churchyard in Lower Manhattan. If I’d known that last year, I might have looked for him.

As for Evacuation Day, New York holidays aren’t any of my business, but that’s one that ought to be brought back, even if it’s more-or-less at the same time as Thanksgiving.

Happy 11th Anniversary, Sam & Emily

Posted on March 31, 2019 by admin

Sam and Emily’s wedding was 11 years ago now. That gives me just a little pause. I think I was going to post some images for their 10th anniversary last year, but forgot. Then again, why the overemphasis on multiples of 5 or 10?

Eleven’s a nice prime number. According to people who make such lists, the 11th anniversary is “traditionally” the steel anniversary. Sure, why not?

Who decided that? I don’t feel like looking into the question, but I suspect the notion of various gifts for various anniversaries evolved over the years, and was put into modern form by Victorians (for sentimental reasons) and early 20th-century ad men (for commercial reasons). The usual suspects, in other words.

Be that as it may, here’s an image of many members of the family as we were then. And Jesus.

Also, all of the grandchildren of Sam and Jo Ann Stribling.

The first image has been on the wall in Lilly’s room, or at least the room she uses when she’s home, for some years. The second one’s been on our refrigerator for years.

Boh Cameronian

Posted on March 28, 2019 by admin

Not long ago I was informed that I could add a relatively inexpensive item to the Amazon basket to bring an order (that other people in the house wanted) up to the no-shipping-charge level. Funny how that works, but what to get?

I believe this is derisively known as a First World problem, but even in a context of affluence, that doesn’t count as a problem. It isn’t even an annoyance. Also, isn’t it time to retire that hoary old division of the world? (Not bad, but not my favorite song of theirs; that would be “Invisible Sun.”)

I decided I didn’t want to add to my household clutter, even things you (I) can’t have too many of — books, postcards, cheap coins, maps — so I got a box of Boh Cameronian.
Boh Cameronian! It’s been nearly 25 years since I had a fine cup of Boh, which is tea from the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia. I became acquainted with it on my first visit to that nation in 1992. Two years later, we visited the Boh tea plantation up in the highlands.
Note the long-sleeve shirt. The Cameron Highlands were a hill station for a reason.

I’ve never seen Boh tea on the shelf in the United States, unlike Typhoo tea, even in stores that carry unusual or rarefied imports. In more recent years, I checked on line for the tea. I found it, but at astronomical prices.

I hadn’t checked in a good while, and never on Amazon. When facing my First World problem, I was inspired to look for Boh. A box of 60 bags was available there for about $12, plus no shipping. Twenty cents a bag. More than, say, Lipton, but you don’t buy Lipton for nostalgia value, or much of anything but price.

Even if I took the recommendation on the box and limited one bag to making one cup of tea — which I suspect is merely to encourage more consumption — that would be 20¢ a cup. More likely I will make a pot with each bag, or about three cups: around 7¢ a cup. Entirely worth it.

The marketing blarney on the box is in English and Chinese. The English:

Boh Cameronian takes its name from the Cameron Highlands, one of those special regions in the world blessed with a superb environment for growing teas of unique character and quality. Here, at 5000 feet above sea level at the scenic Boh Gardens, time-honored methods and innovation are combined to yield fine teas. Founded in 1929 by J.A. Russell, the pioneer of Malaysia’s tea industry, Boh teas are today renowned for their freshness and distinctive flavour.

The company offers a short history of Russell and the Boh plantation here.

I haven’t opened the box yet. It came just yesterday. A pleasant moment over the weekend might be the time to make a pot of Boh. I doubt that I can wait for that first cup till it’s nice enough to sit out on the deck, but I bet I’ll enjoy the some Boh al fresco in the near future.

Evergreen Memorial Cemetery, Bloomington

Posted on March 27, 2019 by admin

Sometime in the late 1990s, I visited the David Davis House in Bloomington, Illinois. As Lincoln’s campaign manager in 1860 — and important in getting him nominated in the first place — Davis was a behind-the-scenes man at a critical turning point in U.S. history. Lincoln put him on the Supreme Court in ’62.

On Sunday, I took a quick look at the house. As handsome as I remember.
But that isn’t why I swung through Bloomington. I wanted to see the Evergreen Memorial Cemetery. An impressive array of stones among the still-bare trees and brown grass.

Some sizable memorials, too, befitting the prosperous place Bloomington was in the 19th century.

Not a huge amount of funerary art, but some.
I’d come to visit the Stevensons. Here’s the Adlai Stevenson famed for being shellacked by Eisenhower but also for his denunciation of Soviet behavior on the world stage.

This Adlai Stevenson was 23rd Vice President of the United States, from 1893 to 1897, during Cleveland’s second term.
Had President Cleveland’s cancer in ’93 been more aggressive, or medical science not up to its extraction — a few years earlier, probably not — this is also the Stevenson who would have been president.

I didn’t know the Scotts also memorialized on the stone: Matthew and Julia Scott. Turns out Stevenson was married to Letitia, Julia’s sister. Also, Matthew T. Scott was a business partner of Adlai Stephenson, with a distinctly 19th-century CV: land speculation, newspaper publishing, a coal mine.

Just before I left, I took a look at something a little more unusual.
According to a nearby plaque, the carving memorializes an airplane that crashed into the tree that used to stand there.

“On May 31, 1948, a group of citizens gathered at Evergreen Memorial Cemetery’s Civil War Veteran’s enclosure…” the plaque begins.

That must be here, very near the tree.

“… During the ceremony, a WWII trainer plane flown by James A. Tuley and passenger Chester H. Frahm was flying over Evergreen… to drop poppies over the grounds. The plane crashed into this tree, killing Frahm and severely injuring Tuley,” the plaque continues.

“In 2015 this tree had to come down and cemetery employees felt something more needed to be done with the wood from the tree… chainsaw artist Tim Gill was contacted and he accepted the challenge.”

The Pantagraph published a fuller version of the story.

Oak Grove Cemetery, LeRoy

Posted on March 26, 2019 by admin

One place I wanted to visit during Sunday’s micro-excursion was the Evergreen Memorial Cemetery in Bloomington, Illinois, but just before I arrived at the town of LeRoy (see yesterday), which is about 20 miles from Bloomington, I spotted the Oak Grove Cemetery off U.S. 150.

I pulled in. Why not? I expected a small cemetery, but it stretched back for acres, with plenty of well-established trees that will probably fill out nicely beginning next month.

Oak Grove Cemetery, LaRoy Illinois There weren’t a lot a large memorials, but whoever Robert Flegel was, he and his wife Mary got an obelisk after their passing in the early 20th century.
Whatever else he did, Flegel fought to save the Union, according to the inscription: Co. K, 108th Illinois Volunteer Infantry. Looks like his descendants or other family members are keen to decorate the many Flegel stones.

There are a lot of Munsters at Oak Grove as well.
Further back away from the road are older stones. Mostly 19th century, including some pioneers of McLean County, probably.
According to Find-A-Grave, spiritualist Simeon H. West was buried in the cemetery after he “departed this life Apr. 2, 1920.” I hadn’t made his acquaintance yet — that happened later in the day — and I don’t remember seeing his fairly large stone.

Been There, Seen That

By Dees Stribling