The longer answer is this: Son Ian recommended I take advantage of my proximity to Baltimore (pop: 570,000) and check out the remains of the Francis Scott Key bridge, which collapsed a scant 3 weeks ago. It’s the kind of light-hearted whimsy we Boilards are known for.
The FSK Bridge opened in 1977, and it carried over 11 million vehicles annually until a container ship struck one of its piers last month. Much of the span is now underwater, posing a hazard to ships.
“My bad!”
This week the Army Corps of Engineers is supposed to be removing much of that wreckage. It should make for a cool photo op! And according to Google Maps, I was only about an hour and a half from the foot of the bridge.
How hard could it be?
So after getting a cup of coffee and a Power Muffin from The Speckled Hen in Strasburg, I set out for the greater Baltimore area.
Getting there was easy enough–until the last couple of miles, when I encountered a police roadblock. They weren’t going to let me get anywhere close to the foot of the bridge. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess I envisioned a big, Roadrunner-style “Bridge Out” sign on sawhorses a dozen yards from the shore of Boston Harbor.
No matter. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I consulted Google and found a nearby spot that should afford a good view of the salvage operation. Alas, all the property in the area seemed to be a naval base or some other official facility that prohibits visitors. Undeterred, I drove under the harbor through the miraculous Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, and approached the Key bridge from the southern end. More roadblocks. Finally, I headed further south to a private beach community, where through a combination of illegal parking and trespassing I was able to get a decent view of the Francis Scott Key bridge in the distance.
Circles represent my failed attempts to see the bridge; the square is where I finally succeeded.
FSK Bridge in the background, terminating at the head of the arrow.
So, now with that pointless project out of the way, I began a leisurely drive in the direction of Philadelphia.
The drive through the Maryland countryside was pleasant and picturesque. The road carved its way through hills dense with trees and other flora. My only complaint is that some of the signage was a bit hard to comprehend at a glance.
Signs like these remind me of the nighttime driving scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. It appears in the following clip, which is only 45 seconds. Note that the guy who uploaded the clip wants to point out you can see a pulley system moving the scenery. But we want to watch the clip just for the signs.
I know just how you feel, Pee Wee.
Along the way I passed another bridge that, like the FSK Bridge, no longer carries traffic. The Gilpin’s Falls covered bridge in Maryland’s Cecil County was originally constructed in 1860, and restored in 1959 and again in 2010. And unlike the FSK Bridge, it still sits on the same piers where it was placed in 1860.
Straight out of The Bridges of Cecil County.
Where form and function come together
The next roadside attraction requires a bit of a setup: You may recall that I’ve been charmed by Tin Man-themed yard art that I’ve spotted on my travels. Here are two recent examples:
Now, recall my photo of Rodin’s “The Thinker” that I took in Philadelphia:
Put them together and what do you get? This sculpture of “The Tinker” (note spelling) that sits in front of a brewery in York, Pennsylvania.
For some reason I think this is brilliant!
The artist claims his sculpture says something about York’s industrial history. I don’t know about that, but I’m simply taken by the whimsy and humanity of the thing. As I’ve said before: This world needs more Tin Men.
I stopped for the night in Wilmington, Delaware–less than an hour from Philly. After my big splurge on the Red Caboose Motel last night I figured I’d bed down in a simple Days Inn. Upon my arrival, I was greeted by this sign whose reference to “”the best” seems like a dubious claim.
At least they didn’t make the common error of adding an apostrophe to “its.”
Then I got to the office and saw this idling near the front doors:
Must be check-out time.
Tomorrow I’ll head back into Philadelphia. God willing.
Mail Corner
Loyal reader Brian W sent along this photo he took of a Lincoln Highway sign he spotted near Route 30 in Tama, Iowa. It dates from 1915, which is just two years after the Lincoln Highway was established.
It’s a far cry from the boring, utilitarian signage I encountered today in Strasburg.
Brew of the Day
I got today’s BOTD at Valhalla Brewing Company in Elkton, Maryland. It’s an out-of-the-way roadhouse with an empty parking lot and an nearly-empty bar. The bartender spent most of his time leaning on the bar and staring at his phone. But to be fair, it was 2 in the afternoon on a Thursday.
Middle of nowhere. Which I guess is where you’d expect to find Valhalla.
Cool mailbox, though.
I chose the Zombie Ice Double IPA. It turns out it’s a guest brew, made by 3 Floyds Brewing Co, in Munster, Indiana. Behold the golden-copper color:
The first sip suggested that this is just a basic IPA. But with subsequent sips it became more interesting. The usual citrus and hops are omnipresent, but as you move through it you detect orange peel, library paste, and shoe polish. You might not think that sounds especially tasty, but somehow it works. There’s a total lack of pretentiousness about this beer (except for its name, of course). It’s solid, genuine, and hardworking. I give it a solid 4 out of 5 stars.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should note that I paired this IPA with Valhalla’s “Big Ass Pretzel,” which is served with mustard, beer cheese, and a maple-caramel sauce that is to die for. So consider that it might just be the pretzel talking. In fact, the Pretzel gave the beer 5 stars.
By coincidence, I recently received as gifts two books concerning the Lincoln Highway. The first, which I read last year, is The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles. It’s a fictional account about a trip along the fabled transcontinental route. The second book, which I’m currently reading, is American Road by Pete Davies. It’s a true account about a caravan of military vehicles which traversed the Lincoln Highway in 1919, in an effort to raise awareness and promote the paving of the route.
Established in 1913, the Lincoln Highway was the country’s first transcontinental route for automobiles. It began as a patchwork of existing stretches of roadway, most of which were just rutted dirt roads. Over time it got re-aligned and paved, with gas stations and diners and motels dotting the roadside. Today, most of the old Lincoln Highway is long gone, superseded by modern interstates.
In California, I-80 roughly traverses the old route. There are a few markers and memorials a long the way. (A couple of years ago I hiked a crumbling, original section of the road near Donner Pass. Here’s the blog post and here’s the photo:)
I also discussed the Lincoln Highway and included a photo of an original Lincoln Highway marker in this blog post.
I bring all this up because today I drove around a hundred miles of the old Lincoln Highway route heading west out of Philadelphia. Most of the original route is now U.S. Route 30. I was hoping to see some ancient infrastructure and roadside structures from the Old Days, but most of the route today looks like any other two-lane highway. Yet I did spy a few elements that date back to the early 20th century.
90-year-old bridge marker
1922 bridge and (presumably) much older building. These were surely around for the Lincoln Highway’s early years.
18th-century log house along Route 30.
Phone booth in Compass, PA might not have been around for the original Lincoln Highway, but it qualifies as historic.
When I eventually arrived in Downingtown (pop: 7,900) I was feeling a bit peckish. I stopped at the mid-century Downingtown Diner, whose sign announces that it’s the “Home of the Blob.”
For the 90 percent of the country that isn’t familiar with the movie, is “home of the blob” a winning slogan for a diner?
You remember The Blob, right? It was a 1958 science fiction film that featured a young Steve McQueen in his first starring role. The plot (such as it is) involves a giant, carnivorous blob of Jell-O from outer space. Do yourself a favor and watch the trailer; there’s even a shot of the diner.
I went into the diner and was greeted by Shannon. I quizzed her about the Blob connection, but surprisingly (shockingly, even) she admitted to never having watched the movie. She did inform me, however, that the diner building was replaced since the movie was made. (“But the basement is original!”)
Though not the original, it does look a lot like the diner in the movie.
The Downington Diner doesn’t shrink from it’s B-movie connection. Not only is The Blob featured on their roadside sign, but the menu features a “Blob Special.”
I couldn’t bring myself to order the Blob Special.
Shannon, who was as friendly and helpful as they come, instead whipped me up a delicious mint chip milkshake. (“It’s green, like the Blob!”) Which is true, if you go by the green blob on their sign. But it should be noted that the Blob in the movie is red.
Shannon making a Blob-Shake.
Seriously the best milkshake I’ve ever had.
Now that I was fortified with 1,700 calories of blended ice cream, there was only one thing to do: Head over to the nearby town of Phoenixville (pop: 20,000), where the Blob’s famous Movie Theater Scene was filmed. (You saw it in the trailer, above.) Phoenixville was founded in 1849, and for years the local economy was centered on the Phoenix Iron Works. The company closed in the 1980s, and Phoenixville suffered a economic decline. But in recent years the city has been transformed, and today it appears charming and downright prosperous.
I sensed a good deal of civic pride in the spotless business district and beautiful homes. I even encountered a group of students from the local college who were spending the morning sprucing up the public spaces with rakes and brooms. These kids are seriously the best–energetic, outward-oriented, positive, friendly.
Makes me optimistic about our future!
But let’s get back to the reason I came to Phoenixville: to see the theater from The Blob. The place looks practically unchanged from its 1958 movie appearance.
Still going strong.
The Colonial Theater actually dates all the way back to 1903, when it started out hosting Vaudeville shows. Showbiz greats like Mary Pickford and Harry Houdini have graced its stage. It’s gratifying that the good people of Phoenixville have seen fit to preserve and support this historic venue. In fact, every summer the town and the theater throw a major festival called Blobfest. I’m seriously thinking about coming back in July…
It was now time to return to the Lincoln Highway, which in the form of US Route 30, cuts through Pennsylvania’s picturesque Amish county. Farm houses, rolling hills, and horse-drawn buggies constitute the main scenery. I figure these scenes are pretty much unchanged from when the Lincoln Highway was established over a century ago.
Of course, when one travels through Pennsylvania’s Amish country one is obligated to take advantage of the Intercourse photo-op.
There’s got to be a story behind the name change.
“Please come again.”
After Intercourse I had a cigarette, and then headed into Strasburg, which is a well-known railroad Mecca. In addition to several impressive railroad museums, a steam-powered railroad, a model railroad display, and antique stores jammed with railroad memorabilia, Strasburg has a motel comprised entirely of old, full-size railroad cabooses.
Not your father’s motel. (Well, not my father’s, at least.)
When I was a lad I begged my dad to let us stay at a place like this while we were on a driving vacation. What could be more cool than sleeping in a railroad cabooses? Dad said no, however, figuring that the fun factor (such as it was) wouldn’t justify the compromises in terms of comfort. But today I made a different calculation. So, over a half-century later, I’m finally spending the night in a caboose. It’s actually a nice little room, and the funky floorplan and high windows really lends a certain charm. Plugs, I’m surrounded by other railcars and a full-size steam railroad. I admit, however, that if my wife were with me this would not be an option.
Finally!
BsOTD
Today’s Brews(note the plural) Of The Day come from Spring House Brewing Company in Strasburg. Their tavern on Main Street is comfortable and inviting, with ancient dark-wood paneling and a dark-wood stairway to unexplained upstairs rooms. My server (Dani) didn’t know how old the building is, but the ripples in the front window glass suggest at least a century.
Cozy tavern.
The brewery had 13 of their own beers on tap, and I found it hard to choose just one. So I ordered a flight of four. And then, I ordered another flight of another 4. What follows, then, are my eight Brews of the Day.
Server Dani, who delivered my 8 Brews of the Day.
My first 4 Brews of the Day (in order from left to right)
Empty Terrarium: Nitro Fruited IPA (6.3% ABV). Watery. Boring. A slight tinge of citrus but no real flavor and no fizziness. It’s like a chocolate Easter Bunny after the first, decapitating bite: no head and not hoppy. 1 star out of 5.
Commander Salamander: Fruited sour (4.5%). Seems to start with the same base as the Empty Terrarium, but somehow it’s fizzier (without really becoming hoppy). The sour taste is quite enjoyable–it’s fairly understated; more like sour apple gum than a lemon Warheads (TM) hard candy. This would be satisfying on a warm day (which today is not). It’s one of those beers that you should only have one of–not because of the alcohol, but because the second pint could be cloying. For the first glass, though, it’s quite satisfying. 3.5 stars.
Tasty Little Devil: Imperial Milk Stout (7.5%). Characteristic sweetness and creaminess of a milk stout. More roasty than chocolatey, But a slight peppermint note on the finish evokes a Christmas hot chocolate. Well balanced. I give it 3.5 out of 5 stars. I would have given it a 4 if they upped the alcohol at least to 8 percent, which in my mind is the floor for anything called “Imperial.”
Kerplunk! Imperial chocolate stout (8.0%). The punctuation is part of the name, presumably taken from the Milton Bradley game. A bit harsher than the Tasty Little Devil. But more importantly, this doesn’t really attain its potential. Reminds me of brownie mix stirred into water. 2 stars.
Next four Brews of the Day.
Painted Pony: English style brown ale (5.4%). Nicely balanced. A bit on the bitter side (which maybe is the “English style” coming through?) Definite chocolate notes. Good backbone. The kind of beer you’d enjoy at the neighborhood pub at the end of your 12-hour shift in the mines. 3 stars
The Angler: Cali Pale Ale (5%). Definitely the California style. Clean, citrusy, bright. It’s perfect for those of you who like this style of beer. Which I don’t. But I know quality when I taste it, so I’ll give it four stars.
Demon Squirrel: Amber lager (5.3%). Now this is interesting. Malty, with some hints of fruitiness. Very balanced hops. Heavy carbonation adds dimensionality and compensates for the neutral finish. Flavorful without being overpowering. 4.5 stars.
CASK Mild Party: Dark mild (3.3%). The name of the style (“dark mild”) says it all. Intentionally served at room temperature, this is a dark-colored beer with absolutely no structure, backbone, carbonation, or even flavor. It has the consistency and mouthfeel of dishwater. It tastes like watery tea that’s been left in a styrofoam cup on the dirty Formica counter for a day and a half. And it can’t even deliver a mild buzz. It’s the kind of beer that makes you question your faith in God. 1/2 star.
I’ve been working on a top-secret project (which will likely be revealed by the end of the year) and it involves, oddly, Benjamin Franklin. I’m not making this up. And this project has made clear to me how much my grasp of American history is lacking.
Growing up in California, I never learned much about the Continental Congress or the Revolutionary War or really anything that took place before 1849. I’ve made a few attempts to remedy this, including my trip with friend Vic to Salem, Mass.
So I’m now trying to fill in some of the gaps in my education Which is why this morning I found myself in The Quaker City for a few days of exploration. What could go wrong?
My crash course on Philadelphia actually began on the plane ride. I’d taken a red-eye from Sacramento, and my seatmate was a garrulous Philadelphian (if you’ll permit me that redundant phrase). He was on his way home after a vacation with his wife, but they were taking separate planes. It seems there was some kind of booking mix-up related to the use of frequent flyer points. But the real point, for my purposes, is that he was unexpectedly flying solo and looking for someone to talk to. And having learned that I was going to be sight-seeing around his home turf, he spent the next few thousand miles sharing his insights about the city. (Did you know that Elphreth’s Alley is the oldest continuously-habitated street in America?)
Anyway, I got breakfast and a Nissan Sentra near the airport and set out for downtown Philly. Ben Franklin is certainly well represented around the city. Bridges, parkways, institutes, boulevards, schools, and various other features of the city are named after Franklin. There’s even a large, modern sculpture of his distinctive bespectacled face and stringy hair on a random street corner.
“Big Ben” sculpture from 1992.
While chatting up the National Park ranger at the Ben Franklin Museum, I learned the following story: Some years back the Philadelphia Inquirer was taking up a collection for a Frank Sinatra mural somewhere in the city. A rival paper objected, pointing out in an editorial that Philadelphia should instead create a mural for one of its native sons. And, perhaps as a joke, the editorial noted that Larry Fine (of Three Stooges fame) is one such native son. The idea nevertheless caught on, donations were made, and the mural was painted at the location (S. 3rd and South Street) where Fine was born.
Giving Ben Franklin a run for his money.
A bar in the same building capitalizes on the Fine connection as well.
But I digress. I was talking about how Ben Franklin has captured this city’s imagination. And in addition to all the named structures and graven images, the city has been tagged with various plaques that commemorate Franklin’s various activities in the area. For example, on St. Stephen’s Church is a brass plaque which claims Ben Franklin conducted his famous kite experiment on this site in 1752.
Built in 1823 at 10th and Ludlow, which may or may not be where Ben flew his kite.
Here’s a closer look at the plaque:
Now, it turns out that there’s considerable debate as to whether this is really the site of Frankin’s kite adventure. And while the “Certified” marker above the plaque would seem to lend credence to the plaque’s claim, it turns out the marker relates to the church building, and not to the plaque.
A few blocks from the dubious kite claim is a bare steel pipe structure outlining where Franklin’s last family home had stood. Ben’s kids had the house razed some years after he died. But in the 1940s, archeological efforts uncovered the foundations of the house. The steel “ghost house” was erected in the 1970s, since there were insufficient records or drawings to reconstruct the house itself.
The ghostly outline of Franklin’s house, marking its exact location some two and a half centuries ago.
Finally, and inevitably, Franklin’s body rests in Philadelphia, not far from the ghost house. He is buried at Christ Church Burial Ground under a smooth marble tablet that’s perpetually covered with a scattering of pennies from passersby.
“A penny saved is a penny earned.”
Even allowing for some resume-padding, it’s an impressive list of accomplishments.
Of course, Philadelphia isn’t all Ben Franklin and Larry Fine. For example, there are these random nudes built into a pedestrian walkway. For no discernible reason.
There’s got to be a flying buttress joke in here somewhere...
There’s also Auguste Rodin’s bronze sculpture The Thinker on the grounds of Philadelphia’s Rodin Museum:
I think I can…I think I can…
You probably know of this piece. Rodin actually cast a number of identical bronze Thinkers. I remember once seeing one at Stanford University. But I’ll forever associate it with Dobie Gillis, who had a habit of sitting next to the statue in a copycat pose.
Kind of inevitable.
And if that’s not enough, today I also ran into some literary luminaries that you don’t often associate with Philadelphia. In the Philadelphia Free Library’s Central branch (built almost a century ago in the beau arts style) one finds a bust of Charles Dickens in the Rare Books Room.
Have you ever noticed how Charles Dickens resembles Don Quixote?
Not far from the Dickens’ bust is his actual pet bird, now stuffed and mounted in a glass box.
That’s so Raven.
The bird is (was?) a raven by the name of Grip. Grip even gets some speaking lines in Dickens’ novel Barnaby Rudge. But she (for Grip is a female) also played a much more important literary role: She is said to be the inspiration for Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven.
Wasn’t Nevermore the title of a Nirvana album?
As we all know, Poe lived in Philadelphia for six years. And one of his Philadelphia homes still stands. I will be visiting it on Friday, so we’ll be returning to this theme later.
It’s now getting late, but I do have two more items to share from today. The first is:
OBELISK CORNER
I was taking an afternoon walk through Philadelphia’s Woodlands Cemetery. It dates back to the 1840s, and has a distinctive Victorian air about it. Many of the grave markers take the form of obelisks, with some quite large specimens cropping up here and there.
…or are you just happy to see me?
But take a closer look at that one in the center. Though it doesn’t appear especially large in the photo, it’s actually about 15 stories high. In fact, it’s the largest gravestone in the Continental U.S. Let’s take a closer look:
For perspective, note the two stacked sarcophagi at the foot of the obelisk.
The obelisk marks the grave of one Thomas Wiltberger Evans, who died in 1897. You never heard of him either? It seems that the man with the country’s tallest headstone was a….dentist.
And now, let’s finish up with the
BREW OF THE DAY
I drank my BOTD at Manayunk Brewing Company, which sits in a cavernous, historic cotton mill on the banks of the Schuylkill River. The cotton mill dates back to 1822, and it operated (making cotton or, later, wool) until 1992. At that point it became a brewery.
My words can’t do justice to the wonderful setting. Not only is the historic building awe-inspiring, but there’s an old railroad (?) bridge crossing the river right behind the brewery. And I had a great spot in the sun to enjoy the view.
First cotton, then wool, now ales.
I couldn’t find any info on this bridge that’s directly behind the old cotton mill. Uncle Ed, please help!
I had my heart set on getting one of Manayunk’s home-made brews. But sadly, my server informed me that they lost their entire brewing setup to a flood a few years back. It seems that flooding has been a recurrent problem, judging from the “high water mark” signs in the bar.
However, a few of their beer recipes are still being faithfully produced by local brewing partners. I selected the Schuylkill Punch, which is being brewed by Yards Brewing.
“How would you like a nice Hawaiian Punch?”
This is nothing like what I normally drink. It’s light, with a body light iced tea. There’s almost no malt. And with an ABV of 4.5 percent, it has about half the alcohol of my usual brews.
But this is an exceedingly smooth beer, and it complemented the warm weather perfectly. It’s slightly sweet, with distinct citrus notes of grapefruit, lemon, and some tropical fruits. Carbonation is low, but it has a nice head. Overall, I’d call this a “session” beer, especially if your session is outdoors on a warm day next to the Schuylkill River. I give it 3.5 stars out of five. If they could up the flavor a bit (maybe brewing it with more fruit), I’d knock it up to a solid 4.
Like Texarkana and many other cities across the country, Starkville once had a “Union Station.” Unlike many of those other Union Stations, Starkville’s was not grand or ornate or even impressive. It was pretty much just your basic depot, one of many on the Mobile & Ohio line. Behold:
Starkville’s Union Station, as it appeared in 1916.
The station was built in 1914, and after the trains quit stopping in Starkville the building was converted into a pharmacy. In the course of time the pharmacy closed. And then, this morning, I had my breakfast in Union Station.
Union Station this morning. (This is the view from the back, to match the historic photo.)
Front view. Looking good after 110 years!
They’re calling it “The Coffee Depot” these days, though from the inside you’d never know it had once been a train station. Renovations were completed just last year, and it opened for business in June. The Coffee Depot is one of those modern, quality-focused coffee bars that cater to college students and what we used to call yuppies. It’s the first such place I’ve seen on my trip so far.
Yuppies and college students in their natural environment.
Though the breakfast menu is limited, the food is quite good. I had something called a “Depot Bowl,” which involved an acai base, strawberries, almonds, and peanut butter. The service is incredibly attentive and friendly. I would make this my usual coffee spot if I lived here.
The Coffee Depot is located in the heart of Starkville’s historic downtown. Among other notable historic structures is the 1902 John M. Stone cotton mill. It closed and was sold to MSU in 1965 to house the university’s physical plant. Then, a few years ago, it was converted to an (enormous) events center.
More windows than the software aisle at Best Buy.
Relic from the days when every word was abbreviated.
Starkville’s Main Street is a wonder to behold. It’s full of historic buildings, almost all of which have been lovingly restored. The pedestrian-friendly sidewalks are outfitted with benches and street art, and some of the cafes have outdoor seating. On top of all that, the sun finally came out and we’re enjoying glorious January weather.
The Hotel Chester, built in 1925, is still in operation.
Note the 1937 State Theater, which is now a music venue.
I think it’s no mystery why Starkville prospers while some of the other towns along this route are slowly dying. It’s got to be the presence of a major university. All that youthful energy, their future-oriented perspective, and of course their student loan money are all drivers for the local economy.
As much as I hated to leave the sunshine and the pleasant town, it came time to get back on the road. I was overdue for Reform. I speak, of course, about the town of Reform, Alabama.
Reform (pop: 1,700) was incorporated in 1898. The story goes that a visiting evangelist urged the community to “reform,” and the townsfolk figured that was as good a name as any. Sadly, it appeared that none of the local businesses have capitalized on the obvious possibilities for a good pun or double entendre. Remember my visit to the town of Cool, California? Those people made use of the potential their name afforded. And Weed, Calif. sells T-shirts with its name in large letters. But not reform. There is no Reform School, no Reform Church, no Reform Fabricating Plant, and definitely no local chapter of Ross Perot’s political party. Even worse, the town apparently couldn’t be bothered to put up a sign at the city limits, thus denying me a photo opportunity.
On the other side of the ledger, Reform counts among its native sons a number of football luminaries: Tony Dixon of the Dallas Cowboys, Doug Elmore of the (then-) Washington Redskins, Michael Williams of the New England Patriots, and James Malone, who was head football coach at Northeast Louisiana State College in the 1950s. (Vic, that list was for you!)
Moving on.
I next came to the town of Northport, Alabama (pop: 31,00), which is planted on the periphery of Tuscaloosa. Northport is another college town. The influence of the University of Alabama is everywhere.
Call me Deacon Blues.
And, as we saw in Starkville, college towns tend to be more lively. Northport’s downtown restaurants were packed, and a whimsical art gallery was just opening. The arts scene is big here, with art walks held on the first Thursday of each month, and a major arts festival each October.
I love the posture of this rabbit.
Artist Larry Godwin made this dog, “Rusty,” out of scrap metal in 1983.
But it’s not all arts. Like so many of these towns, Northport has a rich railroad heritage. Remember the girder bridge in the “Roll Tide” photo, above? It’s part of a railroad trestle that was once the longest in the United States. It was designed and constructed for the Mobile and Ohio Railroad in 1898.
The word “spindly” comes to mind….
After taking a nice stroll in sunny Northport, I headed across the river to Tuscaloosa (pop: 101,000). Given all the focus on the Crimson Tide I felt compelled to make a visit to U of A (student pop: 39,000). It’s admittedly a beautiful, historic campus that feels orderly and cloistered. I especially enjoyed checking out the student art installations at Woods Quad.
“Goldie 1971,” created by U of A alum Joe McCreary, is supposed to evoke the decline of Birmingham’s steel industry.
While in Tuscaloosa I stopped for lunch at Jack Brown’s Beer & Burger Joint. The place had just opened three months earlier, and it was packed to the rafters. What a setup! It felt like a roadhouse/dive bar, with that seat-of-your-pants vibe and tons of regulars bantering good-naturedly with the bartender. But wait: It turns out Jack Brown’s is a (privately-owned) chain of 17 restaurants. You can watch the owners telling the story here:
Anyway, chain or no chain, this place has customer service dialed in. Even though the place was packed, the staff were all over me, refilling my drink, bringing me food, asking about my trip, answering my questions about the town.
I decided to order the “Shocker” burger (a hamburger topped with fresh jalapeños, fresh habaneros, house-made Shocker sauce, and 2 slices of Pepper Jack cheese). I asked one of the servers about the sauce, but he said it was a trade secret. No matter; it was truly delicious. I topped it off with a deep-fried Oreo, which is evidently Jack Brown’s trademark (and only) dessert. It tastes kind of like a beignet, but with a core of softened chocolate cookie. What’s not to like?
While I ate my Shocker the manager speculated about the success of the place. It’s not just the awesome customer service and great food, he said. It’s also the “Notch Club.” All it takes to join is drinking 100 beers at your local Jack Brown’s. (After today I am already 2% of the way there, but more on that later.) Once you achieve Notch status, you get an official shirt, your picture goes on the wall, and you get invited to special events just for Notchers. With each 100 additional beers you get a patch for your shirt. And when you get to 1,000 beers, you become a “Saint.” Saints undergo a special investiture ceremony, get some kind of robe or something (I can’t quite remember the details here), and they get to add their own custom burger to the menu that is offered each year on your Saint Day. I tell you: If I lived in the south, I would be all over this thing.
Jack Brown’s manager and the guy who refused to divulge the ingredients of the Shocker Sauce.
Restored and rested from an enjoyable lunch and a few drinks, I got back onto Route 82 East. I’ve noticed that 82 is generally a straight road, but with gently rolling hills to vary the horizon as you drive. At this stage in these cross-country trips I find myself viewing the road, with its uniform signage and federally-mandated lane widths, to be a familiar, comfortable friend. Also, as I’ve mentioned in prior blogs, these US highways tend to be assembled out of pre-existing local roads, and therefore you have no choice but to cruise right through the center of each town along the way, as US 82 becomes, say, Main Street. Or you could think of it as Main Street filling in for US 82 for a few miles. Either way, it guarantees that the driver encounters the brick-and-mortar communities along the way.
Speaking of which: I’ve noticed some cultural themes as I’ve been driving through this part of the country. Some of them are what you’d expect: Lots of barbecue joints, lots of churches, lots of American flags. But some of the stereotypes are not in abundance. I have not seen a single Stars and Bars flag. I have seen only one sign professing support for Donald Trump. And while I’ve seen a lot of pickups, I’ve actually seen far more Nissan Altimas. [Editor’s note: Evidently Altimas are manufactured in Mississippi and Tennessee.]One welcome surprise (compared to my experience in California) is that gasoline can be purchased for about $2.59 a gallon.
The ubiquity of crosses all along the highway is perhaps most foreign for this California native. Most of the time it’s a simple and low-key statement in someone’s front yard, but today I passed an enormous display that was quite in-your-face. It’s really too big to be conveyed in a single photograph, so I took this video:
Don’t be cross…
The display is the life work of one William Carlton Rice. He’d been building, expanding, and maintaining this “cross garden” from the 1960s until his death in 2004. His family promised to maintain it after his passing, but old-timers say the place ain’t what it once was. If you’re interested, brief descriptions of the project and W.C. are here and here.
I noticed that somehow the road leading to W.C.’s property was lined with still more giant, wooden crosses….
Daylight was growing short when I got to the town of Prattville (pop: 38,000). It was founded by the eponymous Daniel Pratt in 1839. Pratt was an industrialist from New Hampshire, and he figured that the flow of Autauga Creek, which runs through the area, would be a good power source for 19th-century industrial applications. Before long a thriving city had grown up, and today, for some wonderful reason, much of the historic town remains intact, like a giant time capsule. (Check out this list of historic structures from Wikipedia.)
I arrived at Prattville just at dusk, and I must say it felt otherwordly. The lighting was like a Thomas Kinkade painting, the creek was flowing steadily over a stepped dam next to the cotton gin manufacturing plant, and a young couple was holding hands and walking across a bridge.
Next to all these industrial remnants is the historic business district, which is now largely oriented toward tourists.
As it was getting dark, I decided to spend the night in Prattville. Tomorrow I will make my way into Georgia.
Brew of the Day
I got my BOTD at Jack Brown’s in Tuscaloosa. It was a milk stout from Southern Prohibition Brewing in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
It was a very drinkable beer. Only lightly hopped (as is customary for this style of beer), it also had very little foam. The color was dark brown, like espresso. It even had a bit of roasty, espresso taste, though this was well balanced by the sweet, creamy goodness of lactose. I found this to be a rich, tasty brew, and at only 5.2 ABV, I treated myself to a second glass. Definitely worth 4 starts out of five.
This morning I left my motel in Greenville and resumed my eastward journey on US 82. After about 15 minutes I came to a familiar town: Leland, MS (pop: 3,900). I had come through Leland just last Spring, when I made my storied road trip along the Blues Highway (i.e., US Route 61). You’ll recall that The Blues Highway is a north-south route that roughly parallels the Mississippi River, and it intersects Route 82 in Leland. And as we learned in last year’s blog post, Leland is the birthplace of Muppets creator Jim Henson. Which seems pretty random.
Less random is the fact that the Mississippi Legislature named this stretch of US 82 after native son B.B. King.
The thrill ain’t gone yet.
About a third of the way across Mississippi I came to the town of Greenwood (not to be confused with Greenville, where I started today’s journey). Greenwood was established at the confluence of the Yalobusha River and the Tallahatchie River. Yes, that Tallahatchie River. The one into which Billie Joe MacAllister jumped, as described in Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe.” That song references a “Tallahatchie Bridge,” but the bridge Gentry was supposedly thinking about was destroyed by vandals in 1972. A few years later, in 1976, Max Baer Jr (who you know as Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies) made a movie version of Gentry’s song. The movie used another bridge in the Greenwood area, but this too was demolished in 1987.
We are left, therefore, with Greenwood’s Ashwood Bridge as a decent stand-in for the place where Billie Joe ended his life. This bridge was constructed while Gentry was living in Greenwood age 12, and it stands just a block from the school she attended. So it’s certainly plausible that it was in her mind when she wrote the lyrics.
One of many Tallahatchie bridges.
Certainly it would have served Billie Joe MacAllister’s purposes.
Indeed, the good people of the Mississippi Country Music Trail have placed a marker at the Ashwood Bridge to commemorate Bobbie Gentry and her song. Appropriately, however, they stopped short of saying that this bridge and the one in the song are one and the same.
Another sleepy, dusty Delta day.
If you like, you can watch Bobbie Gentry perform the song here:
So, we got the blues, we got frog puppets, we got the Ode to Billie Joe…what else is this part of Mississippi known for? That’s right, it’s in the middle of the Bible Belt. Exhibit A can be seen on US 82 just outside of Greenwood. It’s a 120-foot-tall, 20-ton cross, complete with spotlights and surrounded by a set of speakers that perpetually play religious piano music. The cross was erected in 2021 by The Rev. Dr. Jim Phillips of North Greenwood Baptist Church.
Now, while that might look to you to be a one-of-a-kind project, take a look at what I encountered just 30 minutes further down US 82:
This one, however, dispenses with the piano music and instead displays a dozen tablets with scripture engraved on them.
I was unable to dig up anything about this second cross, other than it was erected in 2014 and it is 120 feet tall (just like the one in Greenwood). I also learned that evidently there are a number of other, identical crosses scattered around the state.
This second cross is on the outskirts of Winona (pop: 4,500). Like so many other towns from the 19th century, Winona sprung up around a railroad station (and not the other way around). In this case, the railroad was the Mississippi Central. The station and the town were established in 1860 and 1861, respectively. Winona’s rail service was discontinued by Amtrak in 1995, but the station still stands.
I had a particular reason for wanting to visit the depot: I had read a newspaper article touting a worthy restaurant named “The Tracks” that had opened in the depot in 2019. I found the depot easy enough, but the restaurant had evidently gone out of business.
Winona’s forlorn depot, now stripped of trains and eateries.
A passerby saw me looking in the windows and said “You’re scopin’ the place out because you want to open a restaurant here, huh?” I told him I was actually just looking to eat at a restaurant, not open one. He responded that the owner moved his restaurant to another location when the city started construction on a big clock tower across the street. I get the sense that the city was trying to improve the commercial attractiveness of the area, but it backfired when one of their few businesses got angry about the construction noise and dust. I grimly observed that a whole block of historic buildings across the street from the depot were all closed, and none seemed to be about to open any time soon.
Wouldn’t this make a great historic business district?
I asked my new friend if he had any suggestions for getting lunch. He directed me to a mobile barbecue rig that comes to the area on the first and third Saturday of each month. I thanked him. Then he asked me if the recommendation was worth a few bucks, “so as I could get a cup of hot coffee.” It was.
The mobile barbecue joint was a family affair set up in the parking lot of a State Farm office. The wife (or maybe the daughter) took my order from a trailer.
A small but steady stream of patrons kept coming by while I waited for, and then ate, my food.
Meanwhile, the husband (who calls himself “Grill Master Shawn”) and his friend (?) were working the barbecue.
Grill Master Shawn and sidekick.
While the cole slaw was forgettable, I have to admit that the pulled pork sandwich was one of the best I’ve eaten. So if you ever find yourself in Winona on the first or third Saturday of the month, check out the Grill Master!
On the way out of town I passed an old Ford dealership, which is in remarkably good shape. According to my research, it was built around 1920, making it one of the earliest buildings dedicated specifically to Ford. (Recall that the Model T had first come out just a dozen years earlier, in 1908.)
Have you driven a Ford…lately?
This dealership, owned by one E. K. Myrick., was Mississippi’s first Ford dealer.
At the end of today’s travels I came to the town of Starkville, Mississippi (pop: 25,000). Starkville is known for several things, not the least of which is Mississippi State University. In fact, you see the college mascot (a bulldog) everywhere.
This one is a little weird, but it scores points for originality.
But I have known about Starkville for a different reason, since I was a mere lad of 8 years old. That was the year my Dad let me buy a record album for the family stereo, and for reasons now unclear to me I selected the Johnny Cash at San Quentin live album. One of the songs on that album is “Starkville City Jail,” whose lyrics describe how Johnny Cash was arrested for picking flowers in the town in 1965. Or so he says. The full story is here. Anyway, the only thing I knew about Starkville until today was that it was where Johnny Cash got arrested for picking flowers.
Oh, and here’s the song:
Tomorrow I plan to take US 82 through the rest of Mississippi and into Alabama. But first, I need to leave you with the:
Brew of the Day
I got today’s BOTD at a restaurant called Georgia Blue in Starkville, MS. It’s an imperial IPA made by Southern Prohibition Brewing in Hattiesburg, MS. They call it “Crowd Control,” for reasons that I’m unable to divine.
As you can see, this beer is slightly cloudy and has a thick head. The mouthfeel is smooth and pleasing. This beer lacks the strong, bitter hoppiness of the California IPAs that I’m familiar with. As a result of all this, the beer is quite quaffable. In terms of taste, pineapple and citrus notes predominate. But the taste is somewhat one-dimensional. It lacks the complexity you’d want from an imperial IPA. The ABV clocks in at 8 percent. Overall, it’s a serviceable beer, but not worth driving to Mississippi for. I give it 3.5 stars out of five.
Chasing Phantoms 