Ohio Part III

[Edit: The images are still failing to appear. I’m working on it.]

On Tuesday I made my second solitary drive into Springfield. The previous afternoon I had checked to see if the historical center was open (it wasn’t). I also briefly went into the public library, seen here.

I also went into a nearby building just on account of it looking relatively aesthetic. I saw a sign that indicated there was a second-hand book store. I went in and a tall man showed me where the books were kept, some in shelves and others still in boxes. I skipped over the fiction and the many cookbooks I saw, and after a while chose five history books. I brought them to the counter, where the tall man looked down for a split second and cheerily said: “five dollars!” I must have looked confused, because I was. “I’m feeling generous.” It turned out this building was the old library, and that the brick building (pictured above) was the new one. So the prettier building was converted into a literacy center. During our brief conversation, the man said he had taught business English in Chile for two years.

I walked across the street past some buildings, a small church, and those statues to Clark and Toulmin carrying my pile of books toward the car. I then drove around looking for food. I settled on the only place I could find; a pizza place. I ordered, sat, drank water, and read my book. The woman who took my order and then brought me the pizza saw me reading my book on Russians and said in a Midwestern-y accent: “Aww, doing homework? That’s no fun” while smiling. She returned later to see if the pizza was satisfactory. But of course it wasn’t homework, and I was in fact quite entertained reading about Perestroika. 

So returning to this same area the following day, I made it my sole mission to see the historical center.

I walked in where two girls about my age told me where to go. It looked like they were just waiting for someone to enter. They asked me to sign my name, and then I went inside.

I flew back to Boston on the morning of December 7th. Frost covered all the empty corn fields.

Clark County -Ohio Part II

In the late morning I drove toward Springfield Ohio. The recent fire in Oakland California was a major news subject. I saw a few Trump signs in peoples’ lawns. I saw a single Confederate flag beside an American flag positioned on a jeep beside a yard littered with lumber. I drove in somewhat of a circle seeking my destination: George Rogers Clark Park. I then drove up a slight hill as I listened to Tom Ashbrook interview Evan McMullin about the dangers that populism pose to the Constitution. I parked, finished my coffee, ate my croissant, and walked outside.

There was one other person walking across the park, but besides that I was in solitude. There was a plaque on a nearby stone that had been installed by the Daughters of the American Revolution which was dedicated to the Battle of Piqua (or Pickaway). This battle on August eighth, 1780, was, as I learned: “the largest Revolutionary War battle West of the Alleghenies.”

I continued walking, this time down through a narrow tree-walled dirt trail with little brown signs signifying their names. It reminded me of the Greenwood cross-country course in Melrose. I emerged at the other end at this Shawnee camp reconstruction, which I decided to explore for a while

I then went down the road to where the hill slopes down and looks over an intersection of roads near the highway. A sign advertised volunteering opportunities. Empty cars were parked near idle buildings. There sat the stone foundation of a house built in 1924 century for a man named John Keifer (1802-1863), the cousin of successful general and Ohio politician J. Warren Keifer (1836-1932). There was also a larger plaque exalting the victory in the Battle of Piqua; for this was the site of the battle.

It was here that General Clark, for whom Clark County is named, and a thousand Kentucky militiamen fought a British-aligned enemy comprised of Shawnee, Delaware, Mingo, and Wyandot Indians. They suffered fourteen deaths and thirteen injuries, whilst delivering at least three times as many casualties to their enemy. It was also here that Shawnee chief Tecumseh was born in 1768. In 1780 he would have been of course just twelve years old.

Clark chose not to pursue the Indians when the fled, and instead burned the settlement, corn, and vegetables. The Northwest territory was then expanded, and the National Road made its way to Springfield in 1839. I saw several statues and paintings at various spots in Springfield depicting Clark “as he may have looked” as an idealized twenty seven year old general.

The best representation in my view was in the center of Springfield near another sculpture marking The National Old Trails Road.

Clark stands here on this rock looking over the heads of passersby and into the distance, as if seeing the future. Future wars, future enemies, future harsh winters, and long marches.

Nearby is a similar and imposing statue by the same artist of H. A. “Harry” Toulmin Sr., the patent attorney for the Wright bothers’ flying machine. Not too long after the first humans flew did a famous Ohioan make the first step onto the moon.

I don’t suppose the choice of these two figures, each a frontiersman of sorts, is accidental. Whereas one is a visionary, the other is a soldier. They are the twin halves of power standing resolutely beside the road, daring us to expand; either Westward across the untrod landscape, or upwards into the sky…and the stars.

This is Country -Ohio Trip

On December 5th, I drove along the main road in Troy, Miami county Ohio, listening to NPR in my friend’s car. I stopped at something called Tim Hornton’s to acquire coffee and a croissant. Next I decided to stop outside one of the numerous Protestant churches in the area.

The churches there, like probably most places in America, stand out architecturally from the everything else. Nearby people picked parking spots and walked to their respective workplaces, gyms, and breakfast joints. It was colder than Massachusetts. My coffee functioned effectively as a handwarmer for 50% of my dorsum manuses. I continued walking around the center of the town.

People walked. Cars drove. I’m so used to automatic walk signals that I spent several minutes waiting for the light to change before a kid on the other side pressed the button. I made my way back to the car and drove in the direction of Springfield.

I stopped at Lost Creek Reserve just outside of the town. I parked as I listened to a few jolly folks make facetious references to a TV show I’ve never heard of. No one else was there on a Monday Winter morning

Any and all of my biases regarding the flat terrain of the Midwest have been confirmed. Except for a few birds, I was in solitude. I was later told that the trail I walked along runs six miles and is usually trudged by dog-walkers.

The most ostentatious object in the area was this barn.

Dozens of birds chirped and flew to higher ground as I approached. Beyond that, it was empty.

“Yep” my friend said later when I met up with him. “This is country.”