2022 KC/MI Wander: Day 11

This is Part 9 of the blog post documenting my epic wandering around the middle part of the country. You really should read them in order. To that end, here's a link to Part One. At the bottom of each post, click the link for "Newer Post" at the bottom. And here is a link to ALL the pictures I took on this trip. Viewing them will require that you scroll through God knows how many pictures of parts of old cars, so you might want to just skip that altogether.

Technology. Grrr.

This is what my GPS, Google Maps, did this morning: I had carefully marked out a series of seven stops, being mindful of the opening hours of the ones that mattered to me. Since the first of those didn't open until 10:30 (turned out it was actually 10:00, but never mind), I laid on a couple of timewasting stops exploring two historical districts along the way. So I'm driving. I pass an interesting looking Romanesque Revival building off to my left, and I think, hmmm, you'd think that would be in a historical district. But Google Maps took me right past it, and on down the highway until I got to the La Porte County Historical Society Museum. 

I took that opportunity to put the top down; I don't know why I hadn't done that already. It was a pretty day.

So I told Google Maps to "continue" -- go to the next destination. Obviously, I thought, I had mistaken the Historical Society Museum for a Historical District, or the web site I was consulting had. So: back on the road, and I'm driving, and I'm driving, and I'm turning this way and I'm turning that way, and then I pass a sign saying that I was leaving La Porte County. That's when I pulled over, because I knew that my first three scheduled stops were in La Porte County. I checked the email I'd sent myself with the route, and they were all listed there. I pulled it up anew on Google Maps and found that it had skipped the first two entirely, obviously thinking that I didn't really want to see those ol' historical districts; and the museum it took me to? That's where the Kelsing Automobile Collection is housed. And now I was halfway to South Bend.

That's what Google Maps did for me.

I got back to the first planned stop, where that Romanesque building was, and wandered around downtown La Porte, looking at the old buildings and seeing what there is to see. (Not a lot: buildings from the 1890s are pretty much the same everywhere; rare enough to evoke nostalgia but common enough to be disregarded.) Then I went to the Kesling Collection. (And just to gild the lily, Google Maps couldn't find it this time -- it directed me to a soybean field half a mile up the road and around the corner. If I hadn't already been there this morning, I might never have found it.)

Now, since then I haven't had an unexplained problem with it. I've used it for the rest of the day and it's done fine.

La Porte County Historical Society Museum

Dr Peter Kelsing built the building the museum is in to use as a car museum. But things change, and about 20 years ago he sold the building to the Historical Society, but a condition of the deal is that they would keep his 30-some-odd cars and various related items on display. The museum is three stories, and is absolutely crammed with stuff, including the good doctor's cars, and his airplane, and his snowmobile, and anything else he considers museum-worthy. He seems to have good judgment on that point, and indeed the rest of the museum display, despite being "just a local county museum" has plenty of stuff interesting to tourists from distant lands, like me. Not that I took the time to seriously browse through the non-car stuff in detail, but I did note that it is not just Mary Louise Jones's dress that she made for her cousin Adelie's second child's baptism. (Don't laugh; I've seen stuff like that in county museums.) 

 Daimler: a Jag in full dress

But back to the cars: They are mostly American made, of course, but ol' Doc Kesling apparently splashed some cash in foreign markets as well, on occasion. There's a Daimler from the 1960s, for example, and a couple of pre-War Citroens; a 1967 Amphicar (which might have been bought in this country; they were sold here, briefly); a 1950 Austin sedan; a '48 MG TC; and a bright red 1938 Mercedes Benz. There are, of course, many cars that you would see in any ol' car museum: the classics of automotive display. Duesenburg, Cord, Auburn and (naturally, being in Indiana) Studebaker are all represented. And the Model T's and T-birds and a few others that, pretty though they are, are the auto-museum equivalent of canned corn at the supermarket: if they didn't have it, you'd think less of the place, even though you're not there to get canned corn.

There are plenty of interesting cars on display, besides the foreign makes I mentioned. A 1903 Duryea; a 1903 Winton (in which Dr Kesling and his wife duplicated the vehicle's feat of driving from San Francisco to New York -- and it only took 40 days, compared to the 66 days it took in 1903). There's a 1931 American Austin, a 1960 Metropolitan, and a 1948 Playboy (which inspired the magazine's name). At five bucks to get in ($4 for me, because I've been 49 for so many years), the Kesling Collection is a bargain, and you get to see all that other stuff as well. I only budgeted an hour to see it, but actually spent a bit longer than that, and could easily have stayed for half a day.

From there I went to the National Studebaker Museum in South Bend (covering much of the same ground as before). It shares a building with the South Bend Historical Museum, which may be another fascinating place, but the two are at opposite ends of the building and there's a separate fee for the other museum. So I don't know. I was just there for the cars.

Studebaker started as wagon makers in the mid-19th Century, before the Civil War. Around 1900, one of the board members advocated building motorcars. He was outvoted and they stuck with wagons, but a couple of years later they came around to his way of thinking. The museum, which covers three floors, has its display arranged in chronological groups, and includes wagons, defense production and a bit about the Studebaker family. The basement is given over to something called "Visible Vehicle Storage," cars that are maybe not in good enough condition for a first-class museum, but are still part of the collection. 

Studebaker Hawk

Up until World War II, Studebakers looked pretty much like any other car on the road. They had a full line of vehicles, any of which could easily be mistaken for a Ford or a Chevy or a Buick. But after the war, Studebaker started to diverge in looks from other carmakers' products. They were the first company to completely re-design their vehicles, where the others simply updated pre-war designs. Studebaker made the distinctive 1948 Champion and then the 1952 Commander, which evolved stylistically into the Hawk line of cars for which the company is best remembered. They were longer and lower and the fastest cars on the road, though their slightly avant garde lines, with a vaguely European feel to them, weren't for everyone. As the 1960s approached, Studebaker was flailing, financially, and new designs like the Lark and the Avanti weren't enough to save the company; nor were mergers with other failing car companies like Packard. Studebaker ceased US production in 1963, and Canadian production in 1966. The last vehicles made in both factories are on the floor of the museum.

The last Studebaker made

Well. A hundred and twelve years, that's a pretty good run. I'm sure I won't go as long. My shareholders would never allow it.

From South Bend, I drove up into Michigan, to a glass studio in Benton Harbor that I'd been told about by someone at another glass studio. It was a small place, and near the end of the day pretty much deserted. But the woman working there gave me a quick tour and told me about their educational program for local high-school students. It was about what I'd expected but not what I'd hoped for. There were a few very attractive but very expensive grey vases done by one of the instructors, and some interesting student pieces. I went on to Kalamazoo, to the "big" studio downtown, which was just starting its monthly Art Hop. The glass on offer there was even more of a disappointment. There was a pretty blue and white set of sushi dishes -- a place setting for one -- but there was only the one, so I passed on it. Everything else was kitschy.

I apologise for how long it's take to put this post up; I know everyone is getting worried, waiting for this to drop. I'm sure social media is burning up with people asking when it will happen. I'm just guessing about that, of course: I'm not on social media. But the wi-fi at the crappy hotel I'm in is inadequate, and I'm having to use my phone as a hot spot, which means it's taken hours longer to edit and caption my pictures than it should, and every link in this post is the product of minutes in waiting. My Lord, what did we do before there was wi-fi?

2022 KC/MI Wander: Day 10

 

This is Part 8 of the blog post documenting my epic wandering around the middle part of the country. You really should read them in order. To that end, here's a link to Part One. At the bottom of each post, click the link for "Newer Post" at the bottom. And here is a link to ALL the pictures I took on this trip. Viewing them will require that you scroll through God knows how many pictures of parts of old cars, so you might want to just skip that altogether.

My first stop this morning was for breakfast, at the Red Apple in Dixon, Illinois. Good food, good service, good prices, and the place was clean. The only problem was that, since I had started my Google Maps instructions directly from my motel (in the email I'd sent myself) but actually started the drive from the restaurant, I seemed not to be on the right route. But once I followed the directions to the point where the two routes converged, everything was okay. 

Technology. Arrgh. I'll say no more.

Miners' monument

So I followed my planned route first to the memorial for the 289 miners who died in a mine fire in Cherry, Illinois about 120 years ago. The monument stands on the mass grave of the men and boys who died that day. They were mostly Italian-Americans, so half of me felt a sort of bond. 

Starved Rock

After that, I went off to Starved Rock State Park, along the Illinois River.  Pontiac was a chief of the Ottawa (or Odawa) tribe who was murdered in 1769 by people from the Illinois tribe. (He, like Black Hawk, also has a war named for him, but that plays no part in this story.) The Illinois indians had a village near the Illinois River; that village was attacked by the Ottawas (and their allies, the Potawatomis) in revenge for the murder, and its inhabitants took refuge on a high bluff overlooking the river. Rather than come down and be massacred, they slowly starved to death on top of their rock. That gave the rock the name Starved Rock, and it's now the centerpiece of a State Park.

When I got to the park, I followed the signs for the Visitors' Center. I turned off the park road into a vast parking lot, nearly empty except for lines of port-a-potties. I tooled around the lot, saw nothing that looked like a visitors' center, then made a driving tour of the rest of the park. River Area; Lodge; Campgrounds; Overflow Parking Areas (several of them). Still saw nothing, so I went back to the original location. This time I saw it, hidden behind the first row of port-a-potties and a bus. So I parked and went up to find out where Starved Rock was. There was a map in a signboard that told me it was an "easy paved path with two staircases" and a little over half a mile's walk.

view from the rock

It turned out that that "easy paved path with two staircases" takes you up to a boardwalk that goes around the rock. It has nice views of the river, but otherwise is nothing worth seeing. Oh, and those staircases? Five stories' worth.

While I was up there, I noticed a belvedere on the next bluff, not too far away, from which I figured I could get a decent photo of Starved Rock. So off I went. Got up there, got my picture, came back down. Just for fun, I counted the steps: 303. That's three hundred and three steps up, and three hundred and three steps down, very slowly. I should have made that trek before I developed arthritis in my right knee. (Which, by the way, if I only have arthritis in my right knee, why is it that it's my left knee that always hurts? Just one of life's little mysteries.)

Naturally, I sweated up a storm. Good thing I'm by myself in the car.

As I drove to my next stop, in Pontiac, Illinois (named for the murdered Ottawa chief, not the car) I recognised that I was passing out of the pleasant rolling countryside and into the flat, boring, Indiana-style landscape, with straight roads and pointless stop signs. 

Once in the town of Pontiac, it was easy to find the Pontiac-Oakland Car Museum: it's right across from the courthouse. The town provides free wi-fi in the downtown area (that is, the blocks facing the courthouse; basically anywhere that's close enough to hear the uninterrupted Greatest Hits of the 1970s and 1980s that play from a series of speakers all around the courthouse). I decided to grab lunch first, something light, so I stepped into a restaurant on the corner. On the Specials board there was a listing for Chicken Pot Pie Soup, which sounded interesting; I like chicken pot pie. I asked the waitress about it; she claimed that the restaurant is "known for it," so I ordered it. (She did admit that she's "not a pie person" and has never tried it herself.) It wasn't bad, but an hour and a half later I thought I was going to be sick. Literally: I went to the public library and stood in the rest room waiting to barf. Didn't, though, so when the urge subsided I left. Did not feel 100% though for the rest of the day.

'57 Chevy Artcar

By the way, you might remember that some time back there was a craze going around the country for painting uniform sculptures to raise funds for various charities. I know in San Antonio we did cows. A town in Kansas that I went to did miniature Swedish horses. Somewhere I've seen buffalo done up in all kinds of arty ways and scattered around town, and I seem to recall a town that had armadillos; I don't remember where that was. And Winnipeg, Manitoba, did polar bears, so it was an international craze. Well, the town of Pontiac joined the craze by having artists paint ... Chevrolets. Go figure. 

The Pontiac-Oakland Car Museum is free to visit. That is the only thing in its favour. It's a fairly small space, and the display consists of only 16 cars, a few cases of Pontiac-related memorabilia, and a small gift shop. The information given about the cars ranges from none at all to the bare minimum. Most cars have a sign that gives the year and model, the number made, and the name of the owner. The rest have no signage at all. The museum makes no effort at educational purpose, despite having quite the impressive looking library in its space. Presumably all those books and papers contain information about Pontiac and Oakland cars. The displayed vehicles are shown in such a way that only a part of them can be seen. You can't walk around them at all. 

1978 Pontiac Phoenix Hatchback

Consider the 1978 Pontiac Phoenix Hatchback, set up with a tent exploding from its rear end. What does that look like from the back? Was it an available option for buyers of the car? (It looks like it might have been.) What would such a thing add to the price of the car? How many people sprung for the tent-thing? In 1978, the American auto industry was still recovering from the 1973 Gas Crisis, and the introduction of regulations requiring catalytic converters. I remember how crappy American cars were in those years. Hell, I owned one of them (a '76 Monte Carlo, which, despite its limitations, I loved). Did the '78 Phoenix manage to introduce anything innovative? (The tent was an oddity, but not an innovation; VW Microbuses had had tents built in long before, and I've seen similar things on cars going back all the way to the 1930s, if not before that.) 

Or the 1960 Pontiac Ventura. A beautiful car, displayed in the milieu of a service bay. Don't you know I'd love to be able to walk around and see what those back lights look like? How the fins are treated? The rear bumper, the trunk lock? Small things, and yes, I'm sure I've seen all those things before, on the many previous 1960 Pontiac Venturas that have passed through my life since that year. (My God, that's very nearly my entire life.)

And what the Hell is a Pontiac Firefly? Was it just so supremely unsuccessful that I never saw one, or knew of its existence in the world? And what's the relationship of Pontiac Motor Division to Oakland? Why do they share a museum? (I actually have some idea of that, but how many visitors to the museum don't?) How much effort would it take to answer these basic questions? Too much, it seems, for the Pontiac-Oakland Car Museum. 

I left, feeling actually pissed off that I'd gone so far out of my way to see that museum. Never mind the other places I went to; the car museum was my reason for what was in essence a half-day detour from where I'm going. And for sixteen cars and almost no information. (It certainly didn't help that, just yesterday, I'd visited such a large and well-presented car collection in Coralville, Iowa.) The fact that it was free to visit is small consolation for the time wasted.

I was almost out of cash, so I'd found a Chase branch close to my planned route, in a town near Joliet, and plugged that into my Google Maps route. (on the bright side, that detour got me 40 miles without a turn, so I could play the music on my USB for a while without worry.) It took me to the entrance of a subdivision six miles out of my way. I looked the address up again, put it in again, and this time it took me to the correct location, about a mile farther down the road.

Technology. Grrr. 

After that I made only one stop, to see a statue in Munster, Indiana. After having driven to that location, I have the idea that Hell is very much like the Chicago suburbs.

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