Atlanta ’10

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About three years ago on the way to Springfield, we stopped in Atlanta, Illinois, which isn’t far from I-55 but which used to be right on U.S. 66. These days that means there’s enough nostalgia traffic – and probably local regulars – to support the revived Palms Grill Café. We ate there three years ago, only a short time after it re-opened. Some years before that an artist named Steve Estes painted a mural dedicated to the original joint across the street.

A helpful sign under the mural says: “In its early days, weekly dances and bingo nights accompanied the blue-plate specials served at the Palms Grill Café. The “Grill” was also Atlanta’s Greyhound bus-stop. You just turned the light on above the door if you wanted the bus to pick you up. Located directly across Rt. 66 from this mural, the Palms Grill Café served Atlanta’s citizens, as well as a steady stream of Rt. 66 travelers, from 1936 until the late 1960s.

In his design of the “Palms Grill Café” mural, Steve Estes of Possum Trot, Kentucky, captured the intent of the “Grill’s” first owner, Robert Adams, an Atlanta native, who named it after a restaurant he frequented during trips to California. The mural was completed in June 2003 during the “LetterRip on Rt. 66” gathering of approximately 100 Letterheads in Atlanta.

The Letterheads are a group of generous and free-spirited sign painters from across the United States and Canada who are interested in preserving the art of painting outdoor signs and murals.

Just down the street from the mural is a small park with a handful of memorials. This stone caught my eye.

The modern sign says:

Knights of Pythias “Memorial Tree” Stone

This stone was dedicated by the Atlanta, Illinois Knights of Pythias organization as a memorial to veterans of World War I. The stone was placed under a Memorial Tree on November 11, 1921. At some unknown date, the stone was removed from its original location. It then rested behind the Atlanta Library for many years. Research continues to identify the exact location of the memorial tree. Atlanta’s Acme Lodge #332 of the Knights of Pythias was organized in 1892. No longer active in Atlanta, the Knights of Pythias, is an international fraternity founded in 1864, whose motto is Friendship, Charity and Benevolence.

Can’t remember which tree was planted by the Knights of Pythias, eh? Just goes to show you that no matter how fervently one generation wants later ones to remember something, they probably won’t. Or if they do, it’s a matter of chance as much as anything else. Then again, you can also make a reasonable argument along the lines of, Who cares which tree a long-gone fraternal order planted in an obscure town in the heart of North America in the early 20th century? Really important things will be remembered. (Except that they usually aren’t. Except by historically minded eccentrics.)

The Atlanta Library is an octagon dating from 1908. That’s a fine shape for a building. There need to be more of them. The exact reasons for choosing that shape for this library are probably lost, but I’d think it made for better lighting in an era when electric lighting, though available, wouldn’t have been as bright as later.

According to the library web site: “Near the turn of the 20th century, the Atlanta Women’s Club established a committee with the purpose of erecting a Library building. Land located next to the tracks of the Chicago and Mississippi railroad, was donated to the City of Atlanta by Seward Fields, a descendant of William Leonard. Leonard was one of the contractors responsible for helping build the Chicago and Mississippi railroad… A beautiful bookcase dedicated to Seward Fields is still in use at the Library.

Mrs. Martha Harness Tuttle… helped fund the erection of the Atlanta Library building.  In 1908, she donated $4,000 – over half the funds needed for the new structure. The Library Board adopted plans for erecting an octagonal-shaped structure as prepared by architect Paul Moratz, of Bloomington, Illinois… The new building was dedicated on Saturday, March 28, 1908.

Flotsam and Jetsam

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Long, long ago in an English class far away – junior high – our teacher asked us the difference between flotsam and jetsam. I don’t think anyone knew, so he told us. Or it might have been a question posed by our text book that the teacher then re-asked. Anyway, I’ve known it since then. I can’t ever remember ever using that knowledge in my professional writing, but so what? Vocabulary is its own reward.

Later I wondered, does The Thing count as flotsam or jetsam? That’s going to stay an unanswered question.

That same book (I think) also posed the question: Would a gnu gnaw gneiss? The consensus was no, a gnu would not gnaw gneiss. And a gnostic wouldn’t gnaw gneiss gneither.

A State-of-the-Art Coupon

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Not long ago, I discovered an inflated tube of Jimmy Dean Pure Pork Sausage in the refrigerator. I’d been down that road before. This time, though, the tube wasn’t at the back of the refrigerator, forgotten past its BEST IF USED BY date. Instead, the use-by date was the next day. This time I opened it up, slightly, and some foul-smelling air hissed out.

I wrote an email to Hillshire Brands, which owns Jimmy Dean, to let them know about the product failure. An automated acknowledgement came at once, then a couple of days later, another email:

Dear Mr. Stribling, [hey, they got the gender right]

It’s Christina from Jimmy Dean.

It is always important to hear from our consumers and we are so glad you sent us an email. Thank you for your loyalty.

We take pride in ensuring our customer’s satisfaction, and exceeding expectations. I am sorry for the disappointment of our mild sausage. We take quality seriously and this is not typical of our products. I have shared your feedback with our plant quality manager. 

We truly value you and via the United States Postal Service, I am more than happy to send you a full value coupon to enjoy the Jimmy Dean product of your choice. Please enjoy and have a fabulous Autumn season!

Regards,

Christina

Two days later I got a paper letter by USPS, expressing more gratitude for my communication, and including a coupon for any Jimmy Dean product – up to a value of $8.49. Not bad. Whatever else you can say about Hillshire Brands, they’ve got a mechanism in place for dealing quickly with consumer complaints.

The coupon itself isn’t like any I’ve ever seen before. The more I looked at it, the stranger it seemed – until I realized that it sports anti-counterfeiting features more commonly found on banknotes. Then again, it is a sort of money, or at least has a monetary value, and at $8.49 max value, not something the company wants reproduced willy-nilly.

All the way across the back of the coupon is a holographic foil strip with the initials “CIC” inside circles all way across. A little digging tells me that CIC is the Coupon Information Corp., a nonprofit of “consumer product manufacturers dedicated to fighting coupon misredemption and fraud,” according to its web site.

“The CIC and its members have worked with Federal, State and local Law Enforcement officials on every significant coupon fraud case since CIC began operations in 1986,” the site continues. “As of this time, CIC has not lost a single case.” We’re Batman, extreme couponers are the Joker.

But that’s not all. There’s a faintly visible pattern everywhere on the back surface of the coupon. It took me a while to figure out that it says VOID over and over. The idea is that when you go to photocopy the thing, a standard-quality printer will blur the lines together and ta-da! VOID is now written all over the coupon in a highly visible way.

Also, there are random patterns of little yellow bubbles printed at two places on the coupon. Or so it seems. As far as I can tell, those bubbles might be a form of EURion constellation, which is “added to help imaging software detect the presence of a banknote in a digital image,” according to Wiki.

Wow. I’ve got myself a hard-core, anti-counterfeiting coupon. I’ll bet more technical prowess went into it than most banknotes produced before, say, 1990.

The Amber Room

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Ed tells me that the inside of Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood  “is… seriously over the top. I like the Russian Orthodox for its restraint, and there is none whatsoever in that church.”

Must be all those mosaics. Maybe the Russians were trying to outdo Byzantine churches – taking that whole Third Rome idea seriously, at least when it comes to adorning sacred spaces. On the other hand, I’ve read that there might be more square feet of mosaics decorating the Cathedral of St. Louis than even the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood, and as far as I know no one’s claiming St. Louis as a new iteration of Rome.

The inside of Spilled Blood is just another thing I missed, not because I didn’t visit a certain place, but because I didn’t visit a certain place at the right time. That happens a lot; it has to, if you go anywhere at all. Some things, you want to miss – far better to visit St. Petersburg in 1994 than 1944, for instance. But I’m not thinking of anything quite so dramatic. Not long ago, I read about the reconstruction of the Amber Room, which is near St. Petersburg, and which wasn’t finished until 2003, meaning I missed that too.

It’s quite a story, the Amber Room. The Smithsonian says that the original room, whose construction started in 1701, ultimately “covered about 180 square feet and glowed with six tons of amber and other semi-precious stones. The amber panels were backed with gold leaf, and historians estimate that, at the time, the room was worth $142 million in today’s dollars. Over time, the Amber Room was used as a private meditation chamber for Czarina Elizabeth, a gathering room for Catherine the Great and a trophy space for amber connoisseur Alexander II.

“A gift to Peter the Great in 1716 celebrating peace between Russia and Prussia, the room’s fate became anything but peaceful: Nazis looted it during World War II, and in the final months of the war, the amber panels, which had been packed away in crates, disappeared.” (The whole article is here.)

Burned in a bombing? Buried in an unrecoverable place? Put at the bottom of the Baltic Sea by torpedoes? There are a number of ideas about what happened to the original, but nothing conclusive. Nothing like a good mystery involving treasure.

The Web of Things

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Driving along today, I saw Halloween decorations for the first time this year: a large pretend spider web stretching from the ground to the roof of a one-story house. Or many it wasn’t pretend. I wondered out loud – Lilly was in the car – what you could catch with a web that size. Maybe some birds, or squirrels, or people out giving away copies of The Watchtower.

That just goes to show people spend their money on the oddest things, unless the web was homemade by giant arachnids in the house (in that case, stay away, children). Then again, not long ago I found a trove of 8.25 in. x 3.5 in. postcards in a resale shop bin, and I paid 25 cents each for them. I suspect few cards that size, if any, are made any more. But more importantly, they remind me of childhood trips. They weren’t that hard to find 40-plus years ago, and take home as souvenirs.

I’ve already mailed some of them to Ed, a collector of hotel/motel cards, but I still have a few, such as a Howard Johnson’s card from Silver Springs, Fla. We never stayed at that particular one, but the brand has early, and pleasant, associations for me, along with Holiday Inn, Rodeway Inn, and maybe a few others, though we often stayed at independents.

Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood

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October became more October-like today, at least the way that month is usually felt in these Northern Hemisphere latitudes. Cool and clear, in other words. A fine day to take the dog for a long walk around one of the small lakes at the Poplar Creek Forest Preserve, in fact the lake in the third picture here (and we wandered under that vast old willow in the picture, too).

My experience of early October in St. Petersburg, Russia, was a lot colder. The place felt positively Decemberish. That didn’t stop Russians, or us, from strolling down Nevsky Prospekt, though it did persuade us not to buy any frozen treats from vendors. Ordinary Russians, on the other hand, seemed quite fond of eating ice cream on the street when the temperatures were barely above freezing.

At the meeting of Nevsky Prospekt and the Griboyedov Canal, the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood appears, just a few blocks away.

Naturally, we had to take a closer look at the church. Its exterior is splendid up close, but I’m sorry to report that it was still closed in 1994. According to the church’s Wiki article in English, the building didn’t reopen until about three years later, following significant restoration. I’m not sure I knew it at the time — even though the information must have been my guidebook — that it was built on the site where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated in 1881.

Two Texas Churches

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Just before getting back on the train and leaving downtown Dallas, I took a look at the Cathedral Shrine of the Virgin of Guadalupe — Cathedral Santuario de Guadalupe.

The cathedral’s web site tells me that “the Cathedral is the mother church of the 630,000 Roman Catholics in the nine-county Diocese of Dallas. Today, the Cathedral serves the largest cathedral congregation in the United States — as well as the largest Latino parish congregation — with 25,000 registered households.”

I had the place all to myself, as far as other human beings were concerned, for a few minutes on that Wednesday afternoon. Light was pouring in through the stained-glass windows on the west side of the church. It’s a lovely church inside, an example of High Victorian Gothic Architecture, finished in 1902.

Nicholas J. Clayton designed it. He’s another bit of Texas history – a prolific Irish-born architect who seems to have designed everything important in Galveston before the Hurricane of 1900 – that I had to look up (but not the hurricane; I read about that as a lad, and remained fascinated by it). One of these days, I need to go back to Galveston and look around, since I can’t remember much from my last visit, 40-odd years ago.

Not far from the cathedral are these small brick constructions.

As near as I can tell, they mark the site of the social center for a neighboring parish, Our Lady of Guadalupe, which eventually merged into Cathedral of the Sacred Heart – the former name for the cathedral pictured above, which was then renamed to honor Our Lady of Guadalupe. Whatever the case, below Mary are the words “Guadalupe Social Center, Dallas, Tex. 1946.”

On the smaller plaque is an inscription in Latin. I have to like that. How much more public Latin is there in downtown Dallas?

ANNO DOMINI MCMXLVII HUNC LAPIDEM ANGULAREM CENTRI SOCIALIS PAROECIAE B.V.M. DE GUADALUPE EM. MUS ac ILL.MUS SAMUELIS CARDINALIS STRITCH SOLEMNITER BENEDIXIT.

Not too hard to figure out. Samuel Cardinal Stritch blessed the social center’s cornerstone on this site in 1947. At the time he was the Archbishop of Chicago.

During this visit to Texas, but in San Antonio, I also visited St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a much smaller house of worship near Ft. Sam Houston. Once upon a time, in the misty lost past, ordinary civilians could drive right through Ft. Sam – as everyone called it – no stops, no questions asked. Now all the entrances are barricaded. So you have to drive a long way around the fort to get to St. Paul’s.

I mention the fort because the church was originally established in the late 19th century to serve Episcopalians posted at Ft. Sam. It’s a church of beautiful simplicity inside, with some fine pews and stained glass.

There are also a few plaques on the wall that harken back to other times. Such as this dark one.

In Memory of T.J.C. MADDOX Assist: Surgeon U.S. Army BORN Dec. 12, 1852 Killed in action with Indians Dec. 19, 1885.

TJC Maddox seems to be this fellow. Remarkably, I’ve found found the story of his death on line, which was around the time the U.S. Army was busy chasing down Geronimo.

It’s possible, though I don’t know this for a fact, that relatives of Dr. Maddox who were members of St. Paul’s in its early years memorialized him with this plaque on the wall at the back of the church, where it remains into the 21st century.

Klyde Warren Park

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Among the things I did today, I mowed the lawn. It’s still green and was getting long. But with any luck that might be the last time until April.

Also, I visited HealthCare.gov to look around. No time for real shopping today, but I wanted to see whether there were any connectivity issues. I didn’t encounter any problems.

Various works of art weren’t the only thing I saw in Dallas. There was also the following. Call it a work of commercial art.

No ordinary ice cream truck, from the looks of it, but part of the food truck revolution. Or maybe “revolution” is too strong a word. Anyway, there seem to be more food trucks in cities than there used to be, and I suspect their offerings are a cut above what trucks used to serve — and they charge accordingly. What’s da Scoop? doesn’t look like the kind of operation that’s trolling for dollars from kids. It probably wants adult lunchtime business.

I didn’t find out. I would have considered it — ice cream would have been refreshing on that hot afternoon — but they were closing by the time I wandered by. So were the other food trucks parked in a line next to them. All of them were facing one of Dallas’ spanking new parks, which until recently was air space over a highway.  Now it’s Klyde Warren Park, a strip of greenery and other park amenities built over the Woodall Rodgers Freeway, a recessed road that now goes through a three-block-long tunnel underneath the park.

Some years ago, I interviewed Milwaukee Mayor John Norquist, near the end of his term, and he spoke at some length about how highways don’t belong in CBDs. He felt so strongly about this that as mayor, he oversaw the demolition of a short freeway in Milwaukee. I sympathize with the idea. They get in the way of walking around. If you can’t get rid of the thing, building on top of it seems like a good idea.

The park, which opened only last year, also features an incredibly detailed sign about how it was paid for: a public-private partnership that spent $110 million building it. Private contributions were about $52 million. Other funding sources were from bond sales, various state agencies, and $16.7 million from the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009.

Oh, really? Texas took some ’09 stimulus money? Well, money’s money and I say for their part, the taxpayers of the entire United States – or Treasury bond buyers worldwide, if you want to think of it that way – did a nice turn for the people of Dallas and visitors who happen by, of which I was one.

The Nasher Sculpture Center

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I don’t know a lot about sculpture, but I did recognize this face.

Or at least the artist, Joan Miró. His work’s pretty hard to mistake for anyone else’s. After visiting the Samurai Collection in Dallas, I headed back toward downtown proper, and the choice of two museums presented itself: the Dallas Museum of Art or the Nasher Sculpture Center, which are across the street from each other. Yuriko and I went to the DMA back in ’02, before the Nasher was even open, and while it would certainly be worth another look after over 10 years, I picked the Nasher. I make that kind of choice by going to the one I’ve never been to before.

During our 2007 visit to Dallas, we went to NorthPark Center, the mall the late Raymond Nasher developed. It has an unusually large and visible collection of sculpture and other art, so I knew about his affinity for collecting. Nasher’s museum, designed by Renzo Piano, doesn’t disappoint. There are plenty of fine items to take a look at, both inside and out in the sculpture garden, where the Miró stands. (“Caress of a Bird” (“La Caresse d’un oiseau”), 1967.)

The museum says of its collection: “Surveyed as a whole, the Nasher Collection demonstrates considerable balance between early modern works and art of the postwar period, abstraction and figuration, monumental outdoor and more intimately scaled indoor works, and the many different materials used in the production of modern art.  Perhaps its single most distinguishing feature, however, is the depth with which it represents certain key artists, including Matisse (with eleven sculptures), Picasso (seven), Smith (eight), Raymond Duchamp-Villon (seven), Moore (eight), Miró (four), and Giacometti (thirteen).”

Here’s one of the Moores. Can’t mistake his blobs for anyone else, either.

The Nasher’s definitely worth wandering through, inside and out. One irritation, though. Only some of the outside sculptures had signs. Maybe the information can be accessed in the self-guided audio tour, but even so every work ought to be accompanied by a written description, or at least a small sign with title, artist and year. Take this unlabeled example:

I thought, that looks familiar. Seen something like it – where? Then I remembered some of the works at the FDR memorial in DC. Sure enough, same artist, George Segal. Fittingly enough, the Nasher one is called “Rush Hour” (1983).

Or maybe “Sad People Walking Through the Cold” would be more fitting. Seems to have been a motif of Segal’s.

The Samurai Collection

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The Ann & Gabriel Barbier-Mueller Museum: The Samurai Collection takes up the second floor of the St. Ann Building in Dallas’ Uptown district, which is a walkable distance from downtown, even in the late-summer heat. The museum is another new attraction for the city, open only since March.

To reach it, you enter a first-floor restaurant, pass its reception desk, and then go up some stairs. It’s a small museum with a single focus: samurai armor, weapons, masks, and related items. The museum asserts that its “collection of samurai objects is one of the largest of its type in the world and is displayed in the only museum outside Japan whose focus is samurai armor.”

Go up to the cool, quiet reaches of the museum, and pretty soon you’re face-to-face with the likes of him:

It’s a somen (full-face mask), made of iron, leather, horsehair, lacquer and silk lacing, dating from mid-Edo – the 18th century. During earlier periods, when a samurai might actually have to do battle, somen weren’t that popular, since a mask like that can obscure your vision. In the more peaceful Edo era, that wasn’t such a concern, and the masks had a revival among samurai (at least those who could afford them).

Another cool item at the Samurai Collection is this helmet.

It’s an akodanari kabuto, a melon-shaped helmet of iron and lacquer and dating from the Muromachi period, or the late 15th to early 16th centuries, when it was entirely likely that a samurai would be fighting someone. The museum says that “the construction of this kabuto, with twelve plates covered in protruding rivet comprising the helmet bowl, is unique. There is no other known example.”

These are fine artifacts, but they aren’t as grand as some full armor that the Barbier-Mueller has. In this case, one for a man, another for a boy.

The larger suit, the museum notes, “was assembled during the Edo period and incorporates several older components. The helmet displays stylized horns known as kuwagata and a frontal ornament in the shape of a paulownia leaf, the crest of several important families…” As for the smaller suit, it’s late Edo. “Boys of samurai class families began training to become warriors at a very young age… at around age 12, samurai boys participated in a ceremony known as genpuku, wherein they received their first armor and sword.”

All in all, a high-quality collection, and not such a large display that you can’t leisurely take in most of it in one visit. It’s as if a single room of some vast, first-water museum – the British Museum, the Met, the Art Institute – had detached itself and landed in Dallas. So why Dallas? The museum’s name says it all: Dallas real estate mogul Gabriel Barbier-Mueller and his wife Ann, long-time collectors of this kind of art and artifact, wanted it to be there.

Here’s a 2006 D article about Barbier-Mueller, scion of the Swiss family of that name who decided to live in Dallas, in as much as anyone with four houses lives in a particular place. It begins with the amusing line: “Gabriel Barbier-Mueller owns a lot of stuff.” Well, so do I. It’s just that a lot of his stuff is more expensive.