Cape Girardeau History and Photos

December 10, 2013

Marble Hill Artesian Well

A trip to or from Cape Lewallen wouldn’t have been complete without a stop outside Marble Hill to fill up canteens and water jugs from an artesian well on the south side of Missouri Hwy 34. (Click on the photos to make them larger.)

Been on my bucket list

Getting down to see if the spring was still flowing has been on my bucket (bad pun) list for a couple of years, so Mother and I took off to Bollinger County to see if we could find it. We headed west on Missouri Hwy 34 and thought it was near Woodland School, but we couldn’t spot it. There was a lot of road work going on, so we were afraid they might have “improved” it like, I think, Cape County is going to do to the spring off Bloomfield Road.

After driving four or five miles, we headed back toward town. There, just before the school, just like we remembered from the old days, was a nice paved parking spot right at the artesian well.

Listen to the sound of the water

I produced a short video showing where the spring is located and what it’s like. To be honest, I think the audio of the rushing water is better than the pictures. It’s worth 1:07 of your life.

Road to be dedicated December 17

The pull-off gives you plenty of room to get off the road and would easily hold half a dozen cars parked side-by-side

The Missourian had a story that there will be a ribbon cutting December 17, 2013, to mark the completion of a project to add shoulders and curve corrections along that stretch of road.

What’s the history of the spring?

I didn’t think it would be hard to find out when the well was drilled, how deep it is, how long it’s been flowing, etc., but I struck out. I figured if anybody would know, it would be Missourian blogger James Baughn who wrote about it in 2008. James is a pretty thorough guy, so surely it’ll be in his story.

He must have run into the same problem: about the only fact he had other than a Wikipedia definition of an artesian aquifer was that it was a test drill for oil and mineral exploration.

Cold and sweet

When I went back down to Marble Hill to shoot the flags for Veterans Day, I made sure to bring along half a dozen gallon jugs to fill with the pure spring water for Mother to use in her coffee maker.

While researching this, I ran across a 1907 United States Geological publication called Underground Waters of Missouri – Their Geology and Utilization. It listed just about every source of water in Missouri and some of the surrounding states. This well, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

The section dealing with mineral waters, including Excelsior Springs, was particularly interesting. “When the the intelligent practitioner reads that a certain water is positively curative in an imposing list of diseases set forth in divers pages of testimonials from renovated statesmen, restored clergymen, and rejuvenated old ladies, and then learns from the analysis that it contains 2 or 3 grains of lime salts to the gallon, with the remaining ingredients required perhaps a third or fourth decimal point to express, he can hardly be blamed for tossing the circular into his wastebasket, with an objurgation upon quacks generally, and mineral springs quacks in particular,” Dr. Cook wrote.

OK, maybe mineral waters DO help

Then, he conceded there COULD be some benefits: “There is no doubt that much benefit is derived from most of the health resorts connected with mineral springs or wells; and while a great deal of it is undoubtedly psychic, some is unquestionable due to the use of the waters. People who are broken down from overwork or who are troubled with many incipient diseases find at these resorts rest, which they perhaps can not get elsewhere; a change of air; a new environment; distractions from trouble; and they use, both internally and externally, perhaps a much larger amount of water than has been their custom at home; these, together with faith in the curative qualities in the water (since every wise physician recognizes faith as a helpful element in cure), form a stimulus to nature in the restoration of normal action to the functions of the body.”

Just for the record, the spring waters not captured in canteens and gallon jugs, run into Crooked Creek.

December 8, 2013December 9, 2013

Cahokia Mounds Historic Site

A couple of Curator Jessica’s coworkers who are in to Native American archeology insisted that she visit Cahokia Mounds when she went up to fly home out of St. Louis. The Mounds are across the river in East St. Louis. I think the last time I was there was in the 8th grade at Trinity Lutheran School when we went on a field trip to St. Louis.

The bus driver made a wrong turn and we ended up in East St. Louis, driving through neighborhoods that looked like a bombed-out East Berlin after World War II. We wide-eyed kids peered out the windows in fascination, but the driver and our chaperones were more than a little uncomfortable. They were trying to figure out a way to explain the loss of a whole 8th grade class. My impression was they were prepared to go down with the ship rather than have to do that.

Museum was closed

When we pulled into the site, we found the museum area was closed. Because it was a cold, windy day, we opted for a quick walk-around and then planned to head over to the Gateway Arch. The fall colors had pretty much peaked, but there were still splashes of brilliance here and there. (Click on the photos to make them larger.)

Monk’s Mound

Off in the distance and across the road was the largest of the earth structures in the park: Monk’s Mound, named for a group of Trappist Monks who lived on one of the nearby mounds and who gardened the first terrace of this one and nearby areas.

Largest earthen mound in North America

The historical site’s webpage says this is the largest man-made earthen mound in North America. You get a hint of how tall it is when you see this steep staircase.

Now, back a couple of years ago when I was doing a lot of bike riding, I was in pretty good shape. I used to like to surprise techs who would come to service the cellular antennas on our building by running up the stairs.

Rashly, I said to Jessica, “Want to race to the top?”

Curator Jessica, who checks the obits every morning to see if I have kicked off so she can claim my Ohio collection of photos for her museum, gave me The Look and a nod. After about the first 20 stairs, I remembered that my travel partner is half my age (OK, MORE than half my age, but who counts half a decade or so) and is a runner. She showed the old man some mercy by matching my speed.

I kept my eye on the steps

By halfway up, I was gazing down at the steps so I couldn’t see how many more were left to climb. When we got to the top, I was congratulating myself for having gauged my energy levels just about right. I wasn’t even breathing too hard.

That’s when I looked up and saw that the mound had TWO levels and we had just reached the top of the first one. My legs turned to rubber.

On the way up what I hoped was the final set of stairs, I spotted lots of interesting viewpoints that called out for me to stop to record them. It was interesting how I kept finding more and more of those the higher we go.

That couple you see going up and down the mound? They said they climb it two or three times to stay in shape.

I refrained from remarking that one trip up says you can pass the aerobics test. The third trip up would mean you failed the IQ test.

A puzzle for space aliens

Once you regain consciousness at the top of Monk’s Mound, you can look west for a spectacular view of St. Louis and the Gateway Arch at the left of the frame.

If I’m reading the map correctly, the flat mound in the middle foreground is Mound 42, also knows as Merrell Mound. It is well preserved and supposed to be very near in its original form except that the top was leveled to support a house that stood there for nearly 100 years.

In the far distance is a huge mound that is larger even than the one that nearly killed me. Future archeologists (or space aliens) will have a field day trying to reconstruct the religion of the area’s inhabitants based on the relics they find there. What is it? It’s a modern-day landfill.

[Editor’s note: I think there’s only one more Curator Jessica story left from this trip: her visit to the Gateway arch, including a photo of her licking the arch, which I convinced her was a requirement of all first-time visitors. (THAT’LL get even with her for the Mounds expedition.)]

December 7, 2013

Signs of Christmas

There are several things that indicate that Christmas is here : eggnog, a box of chocolate-covered cherries (better than a trip to the dentist to see if you have any cavities) and a card from Joe Snell with a handmade ornament in it.

I don’t know how many years Joe has been making these things, but I could lay my hands on five of them in the top of the ornament box.

Photos of Joe and his Dad

Joe and I went to school together, worked on the Central High School photo staffs and were members of Trinity Lutheran School’s Scout Troop 8. I got to know him and his parents well. Here are some other stories with Joe in them.

Joe’s Mother’s obituary
Stan Snell (the comments are better than the story)
1963 Boy Scout Pre-Camporee
Photographic feeding frenzy
Troop 8 group shot

December 6, 2013December 6, 2013

“Wind Tugging at My Sleeve”

On the way to catch her plane in St. Louis, Curator Jessica and I took a side trip over to Kaskaskia Island. About two-thirds of the way to what was left of the town, we spotted a cemetery out in the middle of the farmlands. With a little searching, we found a road that took us to Kaskaskia Cemetery. (The name “Cemetery Lane” helped.) (Click on the photos to make them larger.)

It was a cold, windy day that didn’t lend itself to wandering around much. When we got back to the car, I told Jessica that this was exactly what Gordon Parks was talking about in his poem In This Huge Silence, then I called the post up on my iPad. I like it well enough that it’s worth repeating.

In this huge silence

The prairie is still in me,

in my talk and manners.

I still sniff the air for rain or snow,

know the loneliness of night,

and distrust the wind

when things get too quiet.

Having been away so long

and changed my face so often,

I sometimes suspect that this place

no longer recognizes me—

despite these cowboy boots,

this western hat and

my father’s mustache that I wear.

To this place I must seem

like wood from a different forest,

and as secretive as black loam.

This earth breathes uneasily under my boots.

Their odor of city asphalt

doesn’t mix well with the clean smell

of wild alfalfa and purple lovegrass.

It puzzles me that I live so far away

from our old clapboard house

where, in oak tree shade,

I used to sit and dream

of what I wanted to become.

I always return here weary,

but to draw strength from

This huge silence that surrounds me,

knowing now that all I thought

was dead here is still alive,

that there is warmth here—

even when the wind blows hard and cold.

“I lift my eyes up to the hills”

Shortly after we got back on the road, I noticed the normally effervescent Jessica was unusually quiet and she had a strange, distant look on her face. A few weeks later, I sent her an email asking if she remembered that moment and would be willing share what was going through her mind.

Here is her response: I don’t mind sharing what I felt that day, and still feel now, although it’s difficult for me to analyze why I reacted so strongly…

Perhaps it was the perfect storm of circumstances; I wonder if I had been there alone if I would have reacted the same way. I apologize in advance that this may be disjointed and difficult to follow, but so is the inside of my head, sometimes.

I think the word that first came to my mind when walking through the cemetery was desolate, but I didn’t mean it in terms of death, at least not human death. I remember feeling that the world was very much alive there, almost relentlessly so, with the wind constantly tugging at my sleeves. I think the desolation I felt was more from the loneliness of the spot.

Here was this wind-whipped cemetery in the middle of harvested fields on a gravel road with no houses in sight. I remember being amazed at how recent some of the graves were, and I wryly wondered if there was anyone left in Kaskaskia to bury or to mourn.

Impermanence and mortality are not usually things that bother me, but I felt the weight of those very strongly in that place. I also felt exposed, obviously emotionally, but physically, too. That landscape was so featureless (I know not literally, there was a river channel and a few trees) that I felt as if there was no shelter from it. It was like it forced itself upon me, demanding and unrelenting.

This is why the opening lines of Psalm 121 have always spoken to me: “I lift my eyes up to the hills – where does my help come from?” Hills and mountains are comforting to me in their strength and solidity; flat just seems barren. So, wandering around in this place made me feel like it was the cemetery at the end of the earth. That photograph is beautiful, by the way. When I see it, that loneliness comes back.

Now to Gordon Parks’ poetry. I think that poem was the perfect example of words capturing emotions that, at the time, I really couldn’t define. I think I was under control until I read the line about Parks having been away so long and changed his face so often that his home no longer recognizes him.

A fortress penetrated

I wanted to pry into her subconscious because I recognized what she had experienced was the same overwhelming feeling I shared with you two years ago after shooting a farm auction. I’m pretty good at walling myself off from my subjects, but sometimes the fortress gets penetrated.

We’re back to normal

Her funk didn’t last too long. By the time we got to St. Genvieve, she was her normal perky self. She might have momentarily lost her composure on Kaskaskia Island, but, fortunately, she didn’t lose her head in St. Gen.