Eulogy for Margretta Larson (1952-2016)

 

Eulogy for Margretta Larson (1952 – 2016)

by Gregory E. Larson

Preface:
          We all honored Margretta on the day of her funeral. With the church so full of friends and family, I imagined that those who passed by must have thought the service was for some business titan, a CEO, or well-known public figure. No, it was a farewell for a simple, private person, Margretta, who touched so many people with her smile and kindness. She caringly made her connections one person at a time. It is a reminder that our daily interactions do have an impact on others in this troubled world.
          I want to thank all who came to the service and I give the most heartfelt thanks to my friend, Kirk Gastinger, who so eloquently read the eulogy that I wrote for the one I will miss so much.
          

           The loss of Margretta is incomprehensible. The void is immense. I want to rend my shirt, raise my fists to the sky and scream, “Why, God, why?”

          Why is she gone? God only knows.
          How will we cope with the loss? God only knows.
          Every morning, my heart sang arias and a Jamaican love song, just knowing that I could reach out and touch her. She meant the world to me. Our love, which had many facets, grew stronger each day. We wanted it to last for 10,000 years and have Douglas our dog with us, too.
          The mutual trust and admiration fueled our love and made us believe we could do anything. All was in balance. We each enjoyed our own personal hobbies and time with friends, and we also loved the time we spent together.
          I admired her figure-skating ability and was amazed at her persistence and tenacity while she practiced in the early mornings. She was a gutsy gal, physically strong, yet she had such a sweet, feminine side with her smile and her caring nature.


Margretta shows her 'joie de vie'

            Although she competed in national figure-skating competitions, many people didn’t know that the competitive side of her took a back seat to the pure joy she had on the ice. Once she learned how to figure skate, her coaches begged her to compete because her skills were so strong. She crafted her skating costumes and glued every sequin onto the fabric to make it sparkle when she moved on the ice.  The judges didn’t miss her Cheshire-cat grin while she glided past them during her performances.
          When we rode bikes together, I marveled at her ability to keep up with riders twice her size. Once in Wisconsin, I watched her stand up on the pedals as we rode up a big hill in the rain. I said to myself, “She is one tough woman.”


Margretta made me feel like a king on the tandem

           On the tandem bike, we rode all the side streets in Kansas City. I felt like a king as we pedaled to Brookside or the Plaza for coffee. We found any excuse to ride: picnics, visits to see friends, and trips to our favorite restaurants and specialty stores. Children would see the two-seater bike, then point and yell, “Hey, look!” Margretta always rang the bell and gave a big wave as we sped past.
          Our travels in the U.S. and in Europe brought out the best in us. During the journeys we’d have unexpected twists and turns. When things got bizarre, we’d look at each other, smile and laugh, knowing everything would be okay. We relished every trip and had so much fun along the way.  She was my Audrey Hepburn, and I, her Cary Grant.

Margretta at Cathedral Rock - Sedona, Arizona

          We wasted no time during the fifteen years we spent together, finding adventures around every bend and corner of our journeys together. During her cancer we were able to travel to Boston, Phoenix, Santa Barbara, and Switzerland.
          One of our traditions was afternoon coffee. She said the Germans called it Kaffestunde. Her preference for strong coffee with a cookie or pastry treat fueled our discussions. Many times our short chats would extend into hour-long discussions filled with laughter. She often shared what she was reading for her book club, the close-knit group of friends that meant so much to her.
          Margretta was a linguist at heart, and she spoke fluent German, Italian and French. She was very precise with the grammar rules of each language and was a master at verb conjugation. Her attendance at La Causerie classes were a tradition started by her mom decades ago.
          On her last day at KU Med Center, a doctor asked her a question. She responded, speaking fluent French. The doctor said, “I’m impressed with your French, but I only know how to speak English today.” Then he asked, “How do you feel?”
          She paused and spoke with determination. “I am really tired, but my French is very good.”
          I just ask God to help all of us in the days ahead. I pray that he’ll ease our pain and give us a litany of thoughts and memories to get us through the loss. We are all truly blessed to have seen her strong heart and spirit.
           Why is she gone? God only knows. How will we cope with the loss? God only knows.
          But I am convinced of one thing. There was only one Margretta, and her memory will brighten the lives of those she touched.

Margretta is miles from nowhere in Weminuche Wilderness, Colorado

Margretta Larson (1952-2016)

         

Gentle Giants in the Countryside

World-Renowned Budweiser Clydesdales
Internet - public domain photo

Gentle Giants in the Countryside

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

           On the large stone wall next to the wrought-iron entry gate, the understated sign read: WARM SPRINGS RANCH. In smaller letters below: HOME OF THE WORLD-RENOWNED BUDWEISER CLYDESDALES. The motorized gate opened, and I drove the car forward where a guide greeted us and gave instructions on how to proceed. A translucent sky in the cool spring morning had slowly turned bright blue during our drive through the Missouri countryside to reveal the budding trees and green valleys. My wife, Gretta, and I had arrived at the ranch near Boonville for a tour of the Clydesdale breeding operation, and were fortunate to have tickets which sell out months in advance.

Warm Springs Ranch near Boonville, Missouri
photo by Gregory E. Larson

          The 300-acre ranch was directly before us, nestled in the hills adjacent to the Missouri River. It was a horse farm with massive barns, white fences, green fields, and giant horses grazing the hillsides. As we drove towards the parking lot, Gretta exclaimed, “Look!” She pointed to a foal with wobbly legs in one of the pens. It looked like a baby camel and made jerky movements while it followed the mother horse.

          “That horse doesn’t look very old.” I said. In fact, we later learned the foal was born just five days earlier.

Five-day-old Clydesdale Foal with Mother
photo by Gregory E. Larson

          We entered the large red barn and walked to the breeding room where we were told the tour would start. There were no mood lights or padded walls . . . no soft music. The horses must already have an idea about what to do when they are brought together.
          At the beginning of the tour we viewed a short video which had clips of the baby Clydesdales in the Super Bowl commercials. When it ended, our guide stood by the massive beer wagon and shared many stories and facts about the horses and the ranch.
          Warm Springs Ranch is the only location where the Budweiser Clydesdales are bred. The ranch contracts with various breeders to bring in stallions that have the desired breeding qualities. The breeders select horses with these specific traits:

·        White noses

·        White lower legs

·        Black mane and tails

·        Eighteen hands in height at the shoulder (approximately six feet)

·        Overall chestnut-bay color

          The male foals which grow to meet these requirements are neutered to become geldings and trained to become parade horses.
          There was a collective gasp from the women in the tour group when the guide told us the gestation period for Clydesdales was eleven months. We learned that when one of the mares is ready to deliver, the ranch manager receives an electronic notice from a sensor. Whether it is night or day, he is there to assist the deliveries.
          When did these gentle giants become the icon for Budweiser? The beer-wagon and horses idea was implemented by the Busch family to celebrate the repeal of prohibition. They wanted to tell the country they were ready to deliver a product that would quench the public’s thirst. Strategic deliveries were made in 1933 by the drivers and the teams of horses to famous personalities such as Franklin D. Roosevelt at the White House and to the former governor of New York, Al Smith. With photos appearing in all of the major newspapers, the Budweiser brand became associated with the Clydesdales.
          Today there are Clydesdale ranches in the Midwest, and on the East and West Coasts to serve as headquarters for multiple teams of the famous horses. From these locations, the crews and horses have a busy schedule to attend over 300 events and parades during the year. They tour the highways to their destinations in style and comfort in large red eighteen-wheel trucks with sparkling stalls in the air-conditioned trailers.
          Everybody loves a parade, and the Budweiser beer wagon and the Clydesdales have become a part of Americana. Good times, happy times, the best of the best — the Clydesdales reflect a feeling of pride and strength. In a process that takes six hours, the horses are groomed and harnessed in leather and brass, then finally hitched to the wagon to become the stars of the show. For early morning parades, the handlers are required to begin the preparation in the middle of the night.
          Each horse weighs over one ton, with the entire team weighing over 16,000 pounds. They pull the symbolic beer wagon which weighs only 8,000 pounds, thus the exertion for any one horse is minimal. The largest horses are hitched closest to the wagon since their massive strength is what gets the wagon rolling. The lead horses are selected for their agility and responsiveness to the commands from the driver.
          An important part of the beer wagon is the driver holding the reins. Good upper-body strength is required to hold the leather straps and guide the eight horses. The tension on the reins can exceed 75 pounds, thus two drivers are required to take turns during the parades which can be as long as ten miles and last several hours. The drivers have a single Dalmatian as their companion. The large, spotted dog is now a symbolic image of its original function, which was to guard the wagon from thieves during beer deliveries.


Drivers and Dalmation
Internet - public domain photo

          Our tour guide passed around one of the horseshoes for the giant hooves. It weighed five pounds and was twenty inches in length around the curve from end to end. The parade horses require re-shoeing every four to six months. The guide pointed out an interesting detail on the cast horseshoe — a small clip angle that points upward on the front of the shoe. This angle transfers some of the pressure from the shoe to the front of the hoof, thus reducing the stress on the nails at the underside of the hoof. We were told if the angle didn’t exist, the horses would require three times as many re-shoes.
          Although our tour group was eager to see the baby horses, we first met Duke, a retired parade horse. All of the horses we saw impressed us with their calm manner, and we were told that it was okay to use the flash on our cameras. The relaxed character trait of the breed allows them to endure all types of stressful situations that occur when performing before large crowds where unexpected noises and lights are encountered.  

Tour Guide with Duke, a Retired Parade Horse
photo by Gregory E. Larson

          The body temperature of a Clydesdale is 101 degrees. When it was our turn to greet Duke and pet his nose and neck, we quickly noticed the warm sensation when our fingertips were close to the horse’s hair. Duke never tired from the attention he received. He was always ready for more people to come up and marvel at the majesty of his presence.
          Near the end of the tour, we visited the stalls where two sets of mares and foals were resting. The foals, which spent most of their time lying on the hay, were about one-and-a-half months old. The moms were always available when the young horses became hungry, which was quite often. The Clydesdales reveled at the attention and nuzzled the cameras and cellphones with their curiosity. 

Foal with Mother
photo by Gregory E. Larson

         After the tour and the free beer, we wandered out to the parking lot and noticed a small group of people standing by the exercise pens where we’d seen the baby Clydesdale. The mom and baby were resting, so we walked over to a pen where one of the parade horses, covered with a blanket, stood looking at us. His look seemed to say, “Come on over and visit with old Bud.” He was proud to get the attention of the small group. 

"Come on over and visit with old Bud."
photo by Gregory E. Larson

          All of a sudden, people noticed that the baby Clydesdale was up and running with its mom, which immediately caused our group to hurry over to the their pen. Old Bud wasn’t too happy that his brief popularity was gone. He let out a big N-a-a-a-y, as if to say “Why is everybody leaving me? What’s that little horse got that I don’t have?”

Five-day-old Clydesdale
photo by Gregory E. Larson

          The five-day-old was the star, and it came right up to the fence with its mom nearby. We were glad we’d come to see what it was like to live a horse’s life at Warm Springs Ranch. Undeniably, we all want to be loved, and the horses were no exception.



Green Grass in Arizona

Green Grass in Arizona – A Day at Spring Training

travel commentary

Gregory E. Larson

           Alcides Escobar, the first Royals batter of the day, walks up to home plate and steps into the batter’s box at the sun-drenched ballpark in Surprise, Arizona. I’m overcome with feelings of nostalgia as I look out over the verdant field and see a stadium that could be in Memphis or Chattanooga, you know, one of those AAA-sized ballparks. It’s an intimate setting for 10,000 fans, but big enough for the bigs. After fouling off a few pitches, Escobar hits a high, pop fly.

          While the ball hangs in the air over the center fielder, the woman seated next to my wife, Gretta, states matter-of-factly, “Can o’ corn.”
          The old-time baseball term for an easy catch was one I’d not heard in decades. It said so much about the crowd at the spring training game in the Cactus League. Most of the 8,800 fans who come to see some baseball are retired folks from all over the United States. It’s a crowd that has a deep knowledge of the game but most of the fans are out to have a good time. The stress-o-meter in our section in the shade of the upper deck is next to zero. During the course of the game we share where we live and who we’re routing for. We’re there for the love of the game and to appreciate the talent on either team.
          I have three items on my checklist: (1) Have fun. (2) Get some stats for my brother who is setting up his fantasy baseball team. (3) Make an executive decision selecting food and drink.
          I descend the stairs from the small upper deck and look towards the plaza along the first-base side of the field. The food and trinket tents are set up like a state fair. What should I get? Funnel cakes? Corn dogs? Craft beer? Lemonade? Brats? Maybe all of the above. I gravitate to the fresh-squeezed lemonade stand (Gretta will like that) and order two giant lemonades, one with strawberries in it for me. I add a corn dog and curly fries. The gal taking my order finds a small, beat-up cardboard box to serve as a carry-out container.
          The daytime game takes me back to the old traditions when games were played in the afternoon, and school boys hid transistor radios in their classroom desks to listen intently through the earpiece when Maris and Mantle were at bat.
          The solitude at the spring training game hits me in the second inning. There’s very little PA noise. No flashing lights. No chants with pounding drum noise. The announcer identifies each batter as they come to the plate. Nothing more, except when Row N in Section 115 is told they’ve won Papa Murphy’s Pizza Coupons to be redeemed at the local franchise.
          Some late-comers to the game get some friendly haggling as everyone in their row stands up to let them get to their seats. A lady at the end of the row announces to the new arrivals, “We’ll let you in this time, but you get only one potty break.”
          When the Royals are up to bat, I recognize Rusty Kuntz, the Royals’ first-base coach down on the field. He’s always got a smile on his face and talks to all of the players within earshot. He’s an old-timer, but he acts like a young coach at a little league game. Heck, I wish I could hit the ball and run to first base just to get a slap on the back and an encouraging word. He’s a one-man welcoming committee for any Royal that makes it to first base.
          I frantically write the players names on my dollar program and score sheet, then use some custom hieroglyphics to keep track of what happens. Interpreting the chicken scratches becomes more difficult as the game progresses. What the heck, we’re here to have fun.
          The Royals are looking good in every facet of the game. They’re hitting the ball with authority, making home runs, triples and singles with ease. They’re bird-dogging the ball when the other team is up to bat. Double plays seem routine and the over-the-head catches in the outfield draw big cheers from the crowd. The pitchers are moving the ball around the plate and changing speed on different pitches. This could be another good year for the boys in blue.
          Everything is easy-peasy in the stands, but I can’t imagine the stress on the players, especially the Roster Invitees, those from the minor leagues selected to participate in spring training due to their promising talent. This might be their only chance to break into the majors. Each crack of the bat, each bounce of the ball could mean success or disaster to their statistics. Fate could give them a life of multimillion-dollar contracts or ride on the bus from Spokane to Redmond. I think of the years each player has donned a uniform, from little leagues to now, always hoping to make it to the big-time. Both teams substitute players at a torrid pace as if there are revolving doors on the dugout. My score sheet has become illegible.
          Bubba Starling comes to bat for the Royals. Hey, maybe we could start a Bubba fan club. I turn to Gretta. “We could get a chant going for this guy. How about Hubba-Bubba, Hubba-Bubba?”
          Well, it seemed like a good idea. We’re having fun in this make-believe summer in the middle of March. At the seventh-inning stretch I keep my tradition of singing Take Me Out To The Ball Game by singing it one syllable out of sync: Me out to the ball game, take . . .  me out to the park, buy . . . Gretta laughs as she gives me a weird look, just like she always does when I sing it that way.
          All too soon the game is coming to an end. With a 7-1 lead, a Royals pitcher, a Roster Invitee named Moylan serves up a fat ’tater to an Angels batter for a three-run homer in the top of the ninth. That’s not going to look good on Moylan’s pitching summary. But shortly thereafter the Royals record the third out and the game is over.
          Say it ain’t so. The grounds crew rushes out onto the field and the crowd files out. I take one last look at the lush field before we walk out into the parking lot in the desert.
          The rental car thermometer reads 93 degrees. I pull out of the gravel lot and Gretta says, “I heard the forecast is for snow in Kansas City – about the time we get back home.”

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Frank Lloyd Wright - Usonian House Moves to the Ozarks

Bachman-Wilson House at Crystal Bridges Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Frank Lloyd Wright - Usonian House moves to the Ozarks

Bachman-Wilson house travels 1200 miles to new home

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          “A Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house has been moved from New Jersey to Arkansas! Why in heavens name would anyone want to do that?”

          My excitement got Gretta’s attention. “Where is it?”

          “In Bentonville. The Crystal Bridges Museum purchased it and moved it to a site on the museum grounds. It opens for tours in November. We’ve got to see it.” 
          I thought of the long list of Wright buildings we had seen through the years at various places throughout the United States . . . Fallingwater . . . Hollyhock House . . . Arizona Biltmore . . . Price Tower . . . Taliesen (East and West), and many more. I was salivating at the chance to see another one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural treasures.
          “We’ve not seen the Crystal Bridges Museum, yet,” said Gretta. “Let’s make it a road trip.”
          On the internet I was able to find some additional information before we began the journey to Arkansas. The Crystal Bridges Museum, designed by architect Mosha Safdie, opened in 2011 to display the large American art collection of the Walton Foundation. The museum is located in a wooded valley on a 120-acre site near downtown Bentonville, Arkansas. A main feature in the valley is the Town Branch Creek which bisects the property.

Crystal Bridges Museum designed by Architect Mosha Safdie
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

     How the Bachman-Wilson House, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1953 found its way to Arkansas is its own unique story. The Usonian-style home was designed and constructed along the Millstone River in New Jersey for Abraham and Gloria Wilson. Gloria’s brother, Marvin Bachman was a Taliesen Fellow in Frank Lloyd Wright’s design studio. It was through his association that the Wilson’s were able to convince Wright to design them a home.

          Usonian houses (named for the United States of North America) were Frank Lloyd Wright’s Depression-era design solutions for modest residential architecture with the goal of using good design principles and lower-cost construction techniques. Most were single-story homes with few partitions, where space flows between the common areas. The Bachman-Wilson house is a rare Usonian house with a second-level.
          The house was purchased in 1988 by Lawrence and Sharon Tarantino, architectural designers who lovingly restored the details and built complimentary Wright-style furniture.
          Unfortunately, the dwelling was too close to the Millstone River, and flood waters damaged the interior and exterior more than once. The Tarantinos concluded that it would not continue to survive at its original location, and they began looking for a buyer who would move it.
          In 2011, they were watching the CBS Sunday Morning show, which had a segment describing the Crystal Bridges Museum.  They contacted the museum to see if there was any interest to move the house to Arkansas. The museum purchased the house and developed plans to physically move it in such a way to keep the historical accuracy intact.

Bachman-Wilson House is now open for tours
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          The tidbits of architectural information continued to fuel my fascination with the move of the house from New Jersey to Arkansas, but I saw a much different kind of interest from Gretta. She seemed to be focused on the idea of a relaxing road trip. For her, the Bachman-Wilson House was a novelty – another museum object, albeit a 3D object, to ponder and view.          
          Before the trip, she recalled our visit to Fallingwater, Wright’s iconic 1937 residential design which was perched above a waterfall in the Pennsylvania woods. “It was such a pretty day when we were at Fallingwater. I loved walking in the woods and touring the house. I remember the large living spaces and the views to the decks and the woods, but the other spaces were so tiny – the bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchen. I don’t think I could live in one of Wright’s houses.”
          On our day of the visit and tour of the Bachman-Wilson House, we walked along one of the three miles of hiking trails on the museum grounds. It was early December and the leaves had fallen from the trees, but the oak-leaf hydrangeas and other shrubs in the valley along the creek reflected rusty hues.  Then I saw the house through the trees and the reflection in Crystal Springs Pond. It was partially visible and appeared almost as an illusion. My first thought was an apparition in an Ozark holler!

Bachman-Wilson House above Crystal Springs Pond
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          We met the tour group at the museum and wound our way up the hill to the front lawn of the house. Our guide explained that Wright purposely made the front of the house turn its back on the public. There were few windows to the front lawn. The major element was the long horizontal wall of concrete blocks.

Front Exterior Bachman-Wilson House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
Courtesy Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville, Arkansas
Photo by Nancy Nolan Photography

          “It’s not a very big house,” said Gretta. My thoughts exactly, but it was very pristine-looking with the long overhanging roof and the narrow band of windows, called a clerestory which separated the wall and the roof.
          The guide shared that all of the concrete blocks and the concrete floor in the house were rebuilt as closely to the original specifications, since those items were unable to be removed and relocated. All of the other elements of the house were carefully deconstructed and packed into two moving vans for the 1200-mile road trip from New Jersey to Arkansas. The house was then rebuilt on a site selected above the Crystal Springs Pond to mimic the original site near the Millstone River in New Jersey.
          We entered the house and walked along a short, narrow hallway which had a low, mahogany wood ceiling. Then voila, the space opened up to a large living room with a high ceiling, and a beautiful southwest view of the woods and pond. The afternoon sun created bright patterns on the Cherokee-red concrete floor which had radiant heat built into the slab. Built-in benches and shelves lined one side of the living space, and a custom-designed light fixture was a feature at the side of the room.


Living Space Bachman-Wilson House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
Courtesy Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville, Arkansas
Photo by Nancy Nolan Photography

          I noticed the mitered edges on the mahogany face of the balcony trim above the dining area, where spaces all seemed to converge near the fireplace. The tour guide pointed to the tiny hearth which was open to the room, and shared with us that the Tarantinos had to set the logs vertically on the grate to get the flue to draw the heat properly.

Dining Bachman-Wilson House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
Courtesy Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville, Arkansas
Photo by Nancy Nolan Photography

          The remainder of the first floor of the house, although finely detailed, was a series of small spaces for the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. The guide shared that Wright did not like a lot of clutter, thus he didn’t like enclosed garages where things could pile up. Once outside, he showed us how the cantilevered roof had enough overhang to create a carport.

Guest Bedroom/Study Bachman-Wilson House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
Courtesy Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville, Arkansas
Photo by Nancy Nolan Photography

          At the end of the tour, we stood in the warm afternoon sun looking at the exterior of the house above the pond – a peaceful view of Wright’s simple design.
          My mind was trying to digest all of the details to compare them in the historical context of Wright’s creations. It looked to me like a perfect teaching tool where those who don’t know much about Wright could learn some of the simple design principles of his organic architecture.
          I wondered what the general public thought of the house, so I asked Gretta, “What’s your impression, now that you’ve taken the tour?”
          “It has that Frank Lloyd Wright look. You know — kind of angular, lots of glass, and interesting open space on the inside. I couldn’t live there. It doesn’t seem homey and cozy. I don’t like fru-fru interiors, on the other hand, I don’t like something as edgy as a Frank Lloyd Wright house. His buildings seem more like art objects — something to look at.”
          In a relaxed state, I stood there in the sunshine and continued to soak in the surroundings, ambience of the day and the setting. I don’t know if I would enjoy living in one of his houses . . . maybe . . . maybe not. It would be fun to give it a try. I listened to the spring water babbling into the pond and gazed at the mahogany doors, the red concrete, and the light filtering through the large expanses of glass, all surrounded by the woodsy setting.  Something to look at . . . yes it is . . . and so much more.

Rear Exterior of Bachman-Wilson House
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Quirky Road Trip Stuff

Preface:

          Don’t ever let me board a tour bus. I answer to my own schedule and decide where I want to go. I like to find the odd-ball stuff (yes, I have seen the world’s largest ball of twine). The best times are when I wander the streets in a foreign city or a little rural town in the Midwest just to soak in the local vibe — to take a walk and see which way the wind blows. It is amazing what you can find.

          I’ve written sanitized travelogues, but the nitty-gritty is for me. That’s what makes travel what it is — a unique set of experiences. Here are some of the funky happenings on a recent road trip with my wife to Arkansas.

Quirky Road Trip Stuff

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          The waitress at the restaurant wore a big smile and stood with her arms wrapped around the menus. Her western-style get-up-and-go outfit matched the dining room which had a Country and Western theme, complete with varnished hitching posts and wooden fence railings, along with a dose of corrugated metal walls. “Do you want to sit in the restaurant area, or do you want to eat in the bar and watch the roping exhibition?”

          This was the place that our B&B host had recommended for dinner, Lucky J’s Steakhouse and Arena, located two miles southeast of Carthage, Missouri. I had no idea that a full view of the arena was available from the eating establishment. I should have taken a clue from the parking lot full of giant pick-up trucks and horse trailers.

          “I gotta see this!” I told her. She directed us to the bar area where stools were lined up along a countertop/rail that faced a large expanse of glass. Yee-haw! In front of us was a full view of cowboys twirling their ropes while riding their horses at full speed towards an escaping steer. The thirty cowboys each took their turn as a steer was released into the arena.

          Giddy-up! In all our travels, this was a first: a steakhouse meal with a view of cowboys, horses and steers kicking up dust and manure on the other side of the glass. It was a real wish-you-were-here moment.

Jasper County Courthouse - Carthage, Missouri

           On our visit to downtown Carthage, we had a caffeine fix at the Mother Road Coffeehouse, which uses the term Mother Road as a reference to U.S. Highway 66. The storefront faced the town square where the afternoon sun reflected off the massive stone walls of the courthouse. We sipped steaming coffee and watched the patrons come and go. I wondered what stories they could tell, especially when I saw the man with the long hair and graying beard. The head band and the army fatigues looked right out of the ’60s. At first I thought he might be a vagrant looking for a warm place. But he chatted with the staff and the owner, and he sounded more like an educated businessman. When he left the shop, he walked across the street, unlocked the driver’s side of a shiny ’55 Chevy, backed out of the diagonal parking stall and drove off down the street. Untold stories rolled out of sight.

          The perimeter of the square was full of antique shops decorated for Christmas. Inside the shops, the booths were stuffed with old Santa mugs, bubble ornaments and decorated Christmas stockings. The best discovery of the day was a tandem banana-seat bike that conjured up images of a Christmas morning over fifty years ago — images of kids in pajamas jumping up and down while circling shiny new bikes parked next to a Christmas tree. I touched the banana seat and gave the bike a once-over. I couldn’t figure out if the wheelie attachment on the back of the bike was needed or if it was just for show.

Banana-seat tandem bicycle with wheelie bar



          Our drive took us to Bentonville, Arkansas, and the quirky stuff just kept popping up. We checked into the 21C, a trendy museum/hotel filled with unique art. Its location complements travelers like us who planned to visit the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville. Contemporary art filled the lobby and vestibules, and spilled out onto the front plaza as well. Our favorite piece of art was the 1962 Fleetwood Cadillac Limousine parked near the entry. The paint job looked a little weird so we approached it, while the hotel doorman followed us to explain the car. His pride was evident.

1962 Fleetwood Cadillac Limousine covered with coins - 21c Hotel art - Bentonville, Arkansas

 

           “Let me show you the finish on this piece of art!” he exclaimed as he hurried ahead of us. “Look closely at all these circles. They’re coins that are glued all over the car! I’ve been told the artist, Monica Mahoney, wanted to celebrate Sam Walton’s Five and Dime store and the founding of Walmart. Look here at this Indian-head penny. It’s the only one we can find.” He pointed to a spot on the hood. “We run the engine once a day and we take the car through the wash once in a while. This car is eighteen feet long and it weighs a bunch with all that money glued to it.”
           My favorite art on the inside of the hotel was a screen at the elevator lobby. It was constructed of fan units removed from old CPU’s from personal computers. All of the little fans were wired up to a noise sensor. The more noise that I created caused more fans to turn on. If I clapped or shouted, the whole bunch began spinning.
          The American art at the Crystal Bridges Museum was almost overwhelming. In the middle of a several-hour trek through the museum, we were at the spot where the art began to chronologically switch from traditional to contemporary. We thought our eyes were deceiving us when we noticed an unusual reflection in the museum glass. It appeared as multiple giant Pinocchios marching around a corner of the museum. On closer inspection, we discovered an eight-foot wooden Pinocchio sculpture of Disneyesque appearance, and the surreal moment came when I snapped a picture of my wife standing next to it (she is the one on the right). I realized I was viewing an artistic re-creation of Walt Disney's re-creation of a mythical wooden puppet that comes to life . . . quirky, to say the least.


Pinocchio and my wife (she is on the right)

           The trip ended with my having to deal with two pet peeves: Christmas marketing music and leaf blowers.

           The music was on the speakers in a cozy breakfast/bakery near the hotel. It was early December, and the standard fare of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree and Burl Ives singing Have a Jolly Holly Christmas added to the song blitz. The lyrics haunted me all the way back to Kansas City.
           The leaf blowers were not hard to miss as we walked the multiple nature trails on the museum grounds. A small army of landscape workers blasted air through the motorized tubes to push the fallen leaves off the walkways, street, and grass edge on the road to the museum. I guessed there were several trillion leaves on the ground of the 120-acres of woods, so the workers should have plenty of job security. Their equipment droned for hours, pushing leaves from one side of the grounds to the other, at a museum that touts its green initiatives.
           On the last morning, I arose early to capture some morning-light photos of the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house which was relocated onto the museum grounds (more details on it in a future blog). The floating mist hung above the Crystal Spring pond in the stillness of the natural setting, but as I walked closer to the museum and the house, the noise warned me that the leaf blower crew had already started their work. I approached a vantage point above the Wright-designed house and spied a worker blowing leaves off the front walk. He stopped, placed his leaf blower near the front door, then went inside. Frank Lloyd Wright, nature lover and creator of Organic Architecture had to be rolling in his grave.

Leaf blower at entry to Wright-designed house