The Perseids never became visible thanks to cloud cover that moved in with the evening, but at least sunset gave off a nice glow and showed off the downtown Chicago skyline.
On March 9, 2023, the United States Postal Service issued a set of stamps that, like “Backyard Games,” evoke Americana: “Historic Railroad Stations of the United States. “
Noteworthy railroad stations began brightening the American landscape by the 1870s and, although many fell to the wrecking ball once they had outlived their original purpose, hundreds survived. This issuance of five different stamps features five architectural gems that continue to play an important role in their community.
Each stamp in the pane of 20 is an illustration of a single station: the 1874 Tamaqua Station in Tamaqua, Pennsylvania; the 1875 Point of Rocks Station in Point of Rocks, Maryland; the 1901 Main Street Station in Richmond, Virginia; the 1918 Santa Fe Station in San Bernardino, California; or the 1933 Union Terminal in Cincinnati, Ohio. The pane resembles a page in an old-fashioned photo album, with the title “Historic Railroad Stations of the United States” and drawings of a train and a one-ride ticket in the header.
These aren’t grand urban stations. They’re less ostentatious gems of architecture, with charming, warm, and welcoming exteriors, perfect for the tired train traveler.
These stations continue to play a role in their communities today.
I haven’t been in many train stations. The grand waiting room at Union Station is, well, grand. It’s also a hike to any of the trains, and the rest of the station is a dim, confusing maze (and seems to be under constant reconfiguring or renovation).
The Pittsburgh station is below street level and doesn’t have a distinctive exterior that I know of. Because of train schedules, I’ve seen it mostly in hours of darkness. It has a lot of seating, maybe because there’s a gap between the Capitol Limited and the Pennsylvanian with many people waiting for the connection. It’s also utilitarian, with some lockers, a few vending machines, and a TV hung near the ceiling. Conveniently, it’s across the way from the Greyhound station, for those times train equipment or schedules fail.
I have only a handful of train station photos, taken from Amtrak trains when I think of it. Most of them remain active Amtrak stations. The old Ann Arbor station, however, was converted into an upscale restaurant called the Gandy Dancer. For years I had a strange idea about what a Gandy dancer was, but found out it’s slang for early railroad workers, the American equivalent of “navvies.” Wikipedia has a section on the term’s etymology. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandy_dancer
The present Ann Arbor station is an efficient but cheerless box similar to the Pittsburgh station. It’s so without distinction I don’t think I’ve bothered to take a photo of its interior.
Somehow I don’t think the newer station will be preserved as a restaurant or anything else.
I thought to check Atlas Obscura to see if there were any oddities of interest nearby. I found out there is a colorful banded rock down the street that’s across from the bed and breakfast. Since every University of Michigan building along the way seems to have benches in front, I was able to get there without difficulty (with several breathers).
Before I did, however, I found a sculpture of interest, also listed in Atlas Obscura — Arriving Home (2007) by Dennis Oppenheim. When I saw it, my first thought was: If I step through it, what will happen to Edith Keeler? (Yes, I know the Guardian of Forever is an irregular shape, but in the moment I wasn’t that literal.)
When I arrived at the rock’s location, I found other rocks. All glacial erratics? They were of different shapes, sizes, and compositions. Unfortunately, I thought, a class that had added to the collection had had the rock’s surface carved with their year. A sign or plaque would have been better. Alas.
I found the banded rock I was seeking. It wasn’t called out as special or unusual — it was one rock among some rocks.1 I wouldn’t have minded taking it and some others home with me, if it were possible to lug boulders onto an Amtrak train.
This Ann Arbor District Library page has a bit more about the collection at 1100 North University, known as “Rock Specimens on the Lawn.” It makes me regret I didn’t become a geologist (or don’t have the mental makeup to have become one).
1 Apologies to Michael L. I know “some rocks” are always in groups of three, but I beg indulgence.
J and I decided to see Save the Tunes at Chellberg Farm, but detoured to Indian Ridge Marsh, or Park 565 in Chicago Park District nomenclature. The last visit to Indian Ridge Marsh was in 2019, when the area by the Norfolk Southern tracks was open water.
First, we had to get there. We passed meadows of native flowers, including compass plants whose disappearance Aldo Leopoldo eloquently lamented. They’re thriving in natural areas in and around Chicago, such as the Calumet Region here and at Morton Arboretum.
We spotted monarchs and other insects, including an army of goldenrod soldier beetles intent on perpetuating the species.
A surprise awaited us at the end of this westbound trail (another trail, too wet and muddy to negotiate in 2019, heads south). The open water had filled in with aquatic plants in on both sides of the trail. which dead ends at the Norfolk Southern line. I hope they’re native. There was a piece of heavy equipment in the area, so I’d guess the Chicago Park District and volunteers are working on it.
I didn’t want to miss Save the Tunes, so I didn’t dawdle on the way to the lot. J called me back to look at beetles, which I never saw because was distracted by this:
This is a female white-banded crab spider, the same species of spider I witnessed killing a painted lady, an Eastern tiger swallowtail, and a skipper at Perennial Garden. They choose a flower and lie in wait for their unsuspecting pollinator prey. This one may have turned slightly yellowish after a few days on this tall tickseed flower. The ones I’d seen before (when I noticed the dying or dead butterflies) were embedded in the more intricate blooms of a butterfly bush or other flower and were nearly impossible to see. The male, by the way, is smaller and more colorful, and dines on nectar.
My final sighting of the day was a pair of American goldfinches on a pair of compass plants, with the female closer to the trail. At Perennial Garden, I’d noted the goldfinches favored the tiny stand of compass plants there.
Aldo Leopold would be happy.
On a 2013 visit to Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois, I came across this gem at a crossroads near the Pomona Natural Bridge. Finding the photos again, I was curious about what this building had been and when it closed for good.
It’s the Pomona General Store, and even the New York Times published an article about it.
At an Illinois Country Store, Nostalgia Sells Best
July 15, 1987
The store was built in 1876 when Pomona, about 15 miles southwest of Carbondale near the southern tip of Illinois, was a railroad town with more than 500 residents and a shipping point for produce.The original wooden store burned down in 1915. A rebuilt store burned in 1917, and a brick store was built the same year to replace it.
I dug around newspapers.com and found a little of the store’s most recent history starting with the 1970s, when media mentions picked up. Over the next couple of decades, the store changed hands a few times. It also attracted attention as a relic — an old-school general store in an era of big box stores. For years it seemed to be a center of Pomona community. Even after it closed, its location was used for community events like bake sales.
A few people have mentioned surprise the gas pump was in place (as of 2013) as they are “very collectible.” I found a photo from 2022 that shows the pump still there. Perhaps the Pomona community keeps a watchful eye on it.
The store must have closed between 2000 and 2002. Over the next decade or so, it deteriorated more than I would have expected. I’m reminded of what I saw of the TV series “Life After People,” which speculated how plants, wildlife, and other forces would eat away at the infrastructure and buildings humans have wrought after they were no longer maintained.
I imagine someday in Pomona the ivy will finally take over the store, and time will erase the memories.
One of my favorite stays may have been the shortest. It wasn’t a choice, but came about serendipitously.
The drive from Superior, Wisconsin (Amnicon State Park), to Kabetogama, Minnesota, started late, after the summer sunset. J and I spent eternity passing through what, at night, looked like sparsely populated areas. It was a relief (literally) to find a roadside bar. When we arrived at the planned destination, it was probably after 1 a.m. — late enough to find the windows dark, the door locked, and the phone unanswered. It turns out family-run lodges aren’t like a Hilton or Marriott, with 24-hour desk attendants. Oops.
I was too tired to sit up or think, but I didn’t fancy trying to sleep in a car not designed for camping. Somehow I came up with the thought of calling around, which was not easy to do because cell coverage was weak and intermittent. It was difficult both to find places through Yelp! or websites, then to make phone calls. I can’t remember now, but I think i made some calls that went unanswered before I got to Arrowhead Lodge (still in the “A” section). A tired-sounding woman answered.
I quickly explained the situation and probably warned her the call might drop. She said she had space for us — hallelujah! When I said we’d be right over (before she changed her mind), she answered, “No hurry. I have to get dressed.” Yikes.
Arrowhead Lodge is 2.5 miles, or 7 minutes, from Sandy Point Lodge via dark rural roads. I didn’t know if I could stay awake that long. We made it after 2 a.m.
I stayed in a no-frills room with several beds to choose from, a fan, and maybe a radio — my memory is dim. The floor had a shared bathroom, in which several people (maybe even over time) had left assorted toiletries. I didn’t mind — all part of the adventure and shared outdoor experience. I didn’t see anyone, though, and several of the rooms were empty (open doors).
In the morning (a mere few hours later), we ate a great breakfast (al fresco, I think). Our perch overlooked Lake Kabetogama, which I’ve since learned is “Kab” to the locals, plus a flock of white pelicans. If we hadn’t been due to join a Kettle Falls cruise, I could have stayed there the rest of the day, but we left reluctantly. At the cruise departure point, J. realized his camera bag was missing. We raced back to Arrowhead to find our host keeping an eye on it while it took up a barstool. With our wee hours arrival and forgetfulness, she must have thought we were quite the characters.
Sadly, I took only a few poor photos at Arrowhead Lodge.
Later the owners, including the poor soul I’d woken up, sold the resort. The new owners have restored Arrowhead. which had deteriorated over the decades since its 1931 opening in the extremes of Minnesota’s climate. The first part of the video below shows the restoration effort and is well worth a look.
In addition to Orville Redenbacher, I found Howie the Big Bull in Valparaiso, Indiana. He’s in front of Kelsey’s Steakhouse. According to Roadside America.
The statue started as mascot for Howard and Sons Quality Meats, made a newsworthy move to a new location in 1991, and again in 2014 . . . If you choose to eat, for des[s]ert you can also eat Howie in the form of a chocolate cake shaped like a cow.
I discovered this Roadside America attraction in June 2021. I was going to look for it, but it happened to be on the way from the Ann Arbor bus drop-off area to Kerrytown. Amusingly, while most of my trips to Ann Arbor have featured great weather, this one was exceptionally rainy. I even got caught in a Gene Kelly-style downpour, minus the hat, suit, and dancing.
When out and about, if I remember I’ll check the Roadside America app (or Atlas Obscura) to see if there are any local oddities like Muffler Men. I found out there’s an unusual statue of Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn king and agricultural scientist, in Valparaiso, Indiana. This was taken August 15, 2020, when he was one of the people you could sit this close to unmasked.
