Dillinger Quest

Ready, set

Nov. 24, 2011

OK, I'm finished raking leaves and have my black suit on. I'm all packed to go in search of John Dillinger.

I'm going to join my son’s in-laws for Thanksgiving dinner this afternoon and from there will head to the Super 8 in Clearfield, Pa. I should get there before midnight.

Tomorrow night I'll be at another Super 8, in Michigan City, Ind., the town where the lakeshore dunes are, and where Dillinger did time.

They are supposed to have wi-fi in those places. If they don't, I'll pack my Mac in a violin case and knock over a Starbucks or a bank.

I'm doing this pretty much in reverse, by the way. The first scheduled Dillinger stop is in South Bend, Ind., where he committed his last bank robbery. The last stop on the way home will be in New Carlisle, Ohio, where he robbed his first bank.

I don't have a clue where I'll be Saturday night. But that's all right, it makes me feel more like a fugitive.

I’m carrying a case of assorted stouts in the trunk. For two reasons: It puts me in touch with my bootlegger ancestors of the Dillinger era, and also I’m headed for Ohio and Indiana without an idea of the beer supply out there.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

John F
Nov. 24

Don't eat too much turkey; it'll put you to sleep!

Reflections on Clearfield

Nov. 24

Made it to Clearfield, Pa., in just under four hours. The roads were clear so I was able to push it a bit. You may not want to read this to kids, because I only want to be a bad influence on adults: If you're less than 10 miles an hour over the speed limit, it isn't worth a trooper's time to pull you over unless it's a slow night.

Besides, this is a holiday, so they were out for big game—the drunks.

I didn't open so much as a bottle of beer till I got here. I just now polished off my first of the day, a double stout made by Green Flash Brewing Co. in San Diego. I never heard of them either until I read the label on this bottle. I highly recommend it to the black ale drinkers. At 8.8 percent, it has the alcohol content of light wine.

No Dillinger sightings yet because I'm still in Pennsylvania.

I had dinner with Dave and Linda, Matt's father- and mother-in-law, and their family. They have been inviting me to join them for several years now. The food, as usual, was terrific--turkey, yams, mashed potatoes, veggies, pies, cider, trifle. There was wine, too, and beer as well, but remember, I was behaving until I made it to Clearfield, a drive of about 250 miles or so from their house. 

Clearfield is a place nobody has heard of, I guess, but despite its obscurity it has a certain distinction. 

There are two exits for Clearfield from I-80. Between the two there is a sign telling you, if you read fast enough as you go by, that you're crossing the highest point on Interstate 80 east of the Mississippi River. That's one hell of a qualified claim, I agree, but still, the highest point.

Clearfield is also home to one of my favorite eateries, Denny's Beer Barrel Pub, which I will unfortunately have to skip yet again on this trip, as I had to do the last time I was in this neck of the Keystone State. I may be passing this way sometime next summer, and if I do, I'll make it a point to have a burger and a few Otto's red ales at the bar.

Real time note: vicissitudes of life on the road. The rechargeables in my Bluetooth mouse just conked out. It's the one recharger I don't usually pack, so I'll have to stop at a convenience store tomorrow and buy double As, along with fig newtons, spearmint leaves, and other forms of portable nourishment. 

Another great stout, I just learned as I was writing this report, is Boaks Monster Mash. It's a home-grown brew, made by the High Point Brewing Co. in Pompton Lakes, N.J., but it's billed as a Russian imperial stout. Those were stouts made by British brewers in the 19th century for export to Russia. The description on the label is "a big malty beer with lots of hops." Very tasty, and at 10 percent alcohol, it is getting me ready to go to sleep. 

Early wake-up call tomorrow. Dillinger doesn't wait.

Happy holiday to all and to all a good night.

Tracking Dillinger

Nov. 25

I don’t know if John Dillinger had time during the robbery of the Merchants National Bank in South Bend to stop and try the vegetarian egg rolls and green curry. If he didn’t, he missed something. Maybe he should have had lunch first.

Anyway, as you can tell, so far, so good. I ate egg rolls according to plan this afternoon, a little after three eastern time, at the Cambodian Thai restaurant at 229 South Michigan Street in South Bend, Indiana. That was the site of the last bank that Dillinger robbed. There’s no bank there now, just a shopping arcade.


The gang placed a lookout on the sidewalk outside the bank. A policeman was directing traffic at the intersection (I believe) of South Michigan Street and East Wayne. He heard gunfire in the bank. No one was hurt in that burst of fire. It was intended to get everyone’s attention and show that the gang meant business. It got the patrolman’s attention, but he was hurt, gunned down in the street when he came to investigate.

I have a few minutes of video of the block but I couldn’t do a whole lot of clowning around because I realized I was drawing a lot of attention to myself. Maybe people in black standing in the middle of South Michigan Street do that. I always try to disappear, but that can be a hard thing to pull off. Maybe I looked sinister. Or worse, official (God forbid).

Dillinger was working with Baby Face Nelson at that time, June of 1934.


South Bend has a lovely Main Street, and the rest of the town that I saw looks a bit sad. There are civic centers and other big buildings on Main Street, but a lot of the city has the flavor of Newark.

I’ve never been to Indiana before, so I’m enjoying the trip, but if South Bend is typical of Indiana, I can understand why Jeff lives in Brooklyn. [Editor's note: Jeff's hometown is Mooresville, Indiana, where the Dillinger family lived after they left Indianapolis. John Dillinger was living there when he committed the assault and robbery that landed him in the Indiana State Prison.]

Real time note: I just finished a bottle of Dogfish Head World Wide Stout. It’s good, but it’s expensive, so I don’t think I’ll buy it again. There are a lot of stouts that are more interesting,

I’m sitting in Michigan City, Indiana, right now. The highway where the Super 8 stands looks like every road in America with a Super 8. That’s all right, mind, because it reminds me that I’m on the road. But it’s kind of funny too. I don’t know why, but I’m laughing. Maybe because I’m on the road.

I got out to the lakeshore dunes in the failing light. But it wasn’t the failing light that you get at 4:30 back home.

There had been no road sign or sonic boom, but I crossed into the Central Time Zone today. It’s an hour earlier here, but because I’m still close to the time line, it gets dark earlier by the clock, but at that time it's an hour later and much darker back near the Atlantic.

I went to the Indiana Dunes State Park. The lakeshore dunes could be a hundred feet high. Maybe a million. What the hell do I know about estimating altitude? I climbed up one, and decided that—given that the whole thing’s made of sand—it’s pretty high up. I decided to be impressed.

The motel is next to a restaurant called the Texas Corral. I’m glad I brought a case of dark ales. There were only four taps. Two of them were light beers, and the other two were Miller and Killian’s Red, which isn’t even an ale but a lager.

I was reduced to drinking bottled beer at a bar. The steak, however, was fantastic.

On the way back from the dunes, I found the turnoff to the state penitentiary, where Dillinger did time but wasn’t very penitential, it seems.

I’ll head there tomorrow morning and see what develops. Maybe I can get a photograph of the place without being arrested.

This is from Harry, who is still not in jail.

Love to everyone.

Jack

Nov. 26

From this I can only conclude that you are in search of your Inner Bad Boy, and that your search for the perfect brew is your cover story....  Which will be found first, I wonder?

Dillinger Quest II

Nov. 26

Today was a good day and still is.

It’s not quite 9:30 and I’m in a Rodeway Inn in Wadsworth, Ohio. I didn’t know where it was until I read the little welcome card left on the bed. Just to give you a better fix on my location, “We are conveniently located between Akron and Cleveland just off Interstate 76 at exit #9.”

The card doesn’t mention the real reason I’m here. It’s the first motel in Ohio that I found next to a bar. That means I don’t have to drive home from the beer taps. I had tried another exit but they had no draft beer, so I pressed on till I found this place.

I started this morning by going back to the dunes. There is a section called the national lakeshore, but that is all residential. I don’t know what makes it national. I’m a national and I couldn’t get onto the dunes. [Editor’s note: Harry asked a uniformed man at the gate house, who said there is no public beach access to the national lakeshore. Harry had to return to the Indiana Dunes State Park to revisit the lake.]

Death can occur.

                                     View from above.


It has been a tourist draw for generations. I understand that, during the time that Dillinger was in state prison at Michigan City, there were a bunch of gangsters living in bungalows behind the dunes—Alvin Karpis (a member of the Barker gang) and Baby Face Nelson were here, along with some others. 

The dunes are fun. There is sand all over the parking lots, so there are new dunes in the making. They are hills made by the wind.

                            Dunes in the making.

Taking Route 20 back from the dunes toward Michigan City brought me to Hitchcock Road. That took me straight to the state prison. I can’t believe I was able to photograph the place without interference, but I did. 

Somewhere on Interstate 94 west of Michigan City, I passed a billboard for a vasectomy service, no scalpel involved, performed in the office. It was a two-for-one sale: "Get one side done; get the other side done free." No kidding.


The route to Bluffton, Ohio, the next stop in search of Dillinger, largely followed the Lincoln Highway, U.S. Route 30, which has always been a very interesting road whenever I have driven it. The Amish drive their wagons on it in Pennsylvania, for instance. This time no buggies, but a huge wind farm that straddles the Indiana-Ohio state line. It may run a couple of miles along the highway and stretches back into the heartland maybe as far. I didn’t have the opportunity to stop, and probably would have been trespassing if I did try to get closer to them, but those machines are beautiful. They are as graceful as steam engines.

Later in the afternoon, I stopped at a rest area on one of the Interstate Highways and there were three trucks parked with oversize loads. Each one was carrying a single blade for a wind turbine.

Dillinger robbed the Citizens National Bank in Bluffton in August 1933. There is an office of that bank still in the town. Certainly not a 1930s building. Maybe they rebuilt it after Dillinger left to make it harder to rob. I haven’t confirmed that the current branch is on the site of the earlier bank. So I’m considering it as a surrogate. But I saw it, and had an espresso at the coffee shop across the street.

From there I went 10 or 15 miles south to Lima. Several weeks after the Bluffton bank raid, Dillinger was captured and sent to the Allen County jail to stand trial for that robbery. Some guys, whom Dillinger had helped break out of the state prison in Michigan City (He may have thrown guns over the prison wall.), came to the jail and set Dillinger free. In the process, they shot and pistol-whipped the sheriff, who died a few days later.

I photographed the current county jail, but again, am not sure that it is the site where the Dillinger events occurred. And again, I am surprised that no one official intervened. Of course, for all I know there are law enforcement officers studying my grainy image on surveillance video as we speak. Goodness, I have crossed a state line since then. The FBI could have jurisdiction. God, I’m glad Melvin Purvis is dead. He’s the guy who tracked down Dillinger. He’d surely shoot my ass, too.

Stories I have read describe the Lima jail as attached to the sheriff’s house. The current building doesn’t suggest that kind of domestic arrangement. Maybe—perhaps like the Citizens Bank branch in Bluffton—they rebuilt it to discourage future attempts.

The center of Lima is very picturesque. 

                            HH in downtown Lima

I walked a few blocks from the jail to the traffic circle at the intersection of Market and Main. On the way I passed a storefront plastered with wanted posters. It was the Allen County probation office. I didn’t know anybody whose picture was posted there, so you can all relax. I didn’t see any of my relatives, either.

Lima is about an hour and a half from the first bank that Dillinger robbed, the New Carlisle National Bank in New Carlisle, Ohio. 

On the way there, I passed through Tipp City, Ohio, and “Old Tippecanoe.” I have no idea what that’s about. 

A Google search for ”Old Tippecanoe, Ohio,” turns up gibberish. A sign as I entered the neighborhood (I think it’s part of Tipp City) says it was founded in 1841,which is the year that William Henry Harrison, the original Old Tippecanoe, was inaugurated as president and died.

Anyway, there were a lot of old buildings there, and that was fun. New Carlisle, despite its youthful name is fairly old too.

The bank building [Editor’s note: dated 1882 on its façade] appears to be vacant now, but there are two large photos in the window that show the outside and inside of the bank as it was in the ’30s.

There is a plaque on the wall saying that this was the first bank that Dillinger robbed.

The beer is a lot better here than it was in Michigan City. I had two local brews, both from the Great Lakes brewing company. One was a spiced Christmas ale and the other was called a Dortmunder, which tasted almost like an amber ale. They also had Smithwicks, the Irish red ale, and Guinness stout on tap, so I was OK.

Real time notes: I just finished Hooker Imperial porter (Why “Imperial,” I have no clue; maybe it’s a brand name, so that’s why I capped the word.), and that was very strong, bitter, and good. I am now working on Samuel Smith’s oatmeal stout, which is always terrific.

I’m sinking into one of those gentle alcoholic fogs, so this is all that I will trust myself to write tonight.

This is your Road Warrior (You can read that as code for wise-ass.) signing off.

God bless us every one.

Jack

Nov. 27.

Wind turbines "as graceful as steam engines."  Only you could come up with that!

Alan

Nov. 27

There's a picture of the original Allen County Jailhouse at http://reocities.com/Athens/olympus/4172/ohio.html

As for Imperial Porter, that was apparently high alcohol the Brits exported to Russia (I read this somewhere this weekend, but cannot vouch for its accuracy.

Harry

Here’s a photo of the new county jail.

Alan

Not as scenic.

Harry

It's probably harder to break out of the new jail, but that's a case of the practical overriding the picturesque.

The change put me in mind of an exchange in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." Paul Newman is casing a bank and find that it has been renovated with security measures. The dialogue goes something like this:

"What happened to the old bank? It was beautiful."

"People kept robbing it."

"A small price to pay for beauty."

End of the Road

Nov. 27

Back home safe and sound. Nobody shot at me the whole time.

There is rain coming. I left it in western Pennsylvania, but it could be here in a day or two.

The ride in both directions was beautiful. The trees are uniformly bare except for one weeping willow near I-80 in Ohio or Pennsylvania. When the leaves are off, you can see the fractal subdividing of the limbs. 

Most of the fields are yellow now, and then all at once there is one that is a vivid green. 

Today's photo was taken yesterday morning. It's Lake Michigan viewed from the top of one of the dunes.

Dillinger’s bank-robbing career lasted 13 months. He left the state prison in Michigan City in May of 1933 and robbed the bank in New Carlisle in June. He committed his last bank robbery, in South Bend, in June 1934. Weeks later, in July, he was shot dead in Chicago at the age of 31. 


No doubt he was a bad guy and not somebody you want living next door, but he also looked for a short while like he was beating the system at the height of the Great Depression. So he became a folk hero.


Those 13 months included two jailbreaks, one that killed an officer and another that was almost comical because he used a toy gun. There were also shootouts in the Midwest, hideouts in Tucson. These are all official records, and official records are almost as reliable as folklore.


I only saw part of Dillinger country in three days. Who knows? Some day I may buy another case of ale and go back. Maybe to Indianapolis to see if I can find his grave.


I wonder where Melvin Purvis is. I'll have to look that up.

History and steak sandwiches

Greetings from Philadelphia

Feb. 18, 2012

We left home about 10:30 and reached Best Western Independence Park in good time. The hotel is easy enough to find: Get off I-95, make three lefts, and you’re there.

Unless Chestnut Street is blockaded for road work. No real problem, just funny. We parked on Third Street, a block short of our destination, and went to find the place. As it turned out, we weren’t a hundred yards away.

Nobody mentioned the closed street when I called the hotel the day before because it was a water-main break that came as a holiday surprise.

We went back to the car, got our bags, and left them at the desk because it was too early to check in. Then we parked the car in a convenient deck around the corner, where it will sit until Monday.

We strolled through the national park, saw Carpenters Hall. This is a guild hall for the Carpenters Company, which set standards and rates for carpenters. It was offered as a venue to the first Continental Congress in 1774.

In 1776 Congress moved into the Pennsylvania State House. That’s where the Declaration of Independence was signed, and years later where the Constitution was framed.

This is hilarious: There is a security check to get in. No weapons allowed, including pocket knives, a sign says. Anybody with a bag has to unload it in front of a lady at a table. Everyone else has to hold out his jacket so another guard can make sure no one is packing an Uzi.

I didn’t have a bag, so I went through fast. I sat on a stool against the wall while they looked at the contents of Joanna’s purse. The guard scowled at me and said, “Are you waiting for someone?” This lady. (I pointed to Joanna.) “You have to wait over there,” she says.  Maybe she thought I was going to blow up.

There is no pat-down or metal detector, and I didn’t tell them about the switchblade in my vest pocket. I hold it a good and worthwhile thing for citizens from time to time to disobey the representatives of government, even if it is only the National Park Service.

Was the irony lost on everybody but me that we were Americans being searched to enter a national monument called Independence Hall?

Joanna and I waited the best part of an hour to get into Independence Hall, because they can only take 85 people at a time, and the place was very popular today.

You are led into Independence Hall on a tour with at least two park rangers. One talks while the other makes sure nobody wanders into forbidden places to touch things.  This is probably a necessary precaution because most of the brick- and woodwork that remains is original. At least, that’s what we were told before we went in.

(I remember my only tour through the White House, a long time ago, when I was in high school. The place was packed. We were being channeled through narrow lanes defined by ropes and were inching our way shoulder to shoulder. One lady, unable to resist natural human curiosity, reached out a finger to touch the damask fabric that our tax money had paid for. Wow, did a guard bark at her.)

The first stop inside Independence Hall isn't the assembly chamber, but a court room. That's why I call this one "Joanna goes to court."

As cynical as I like to think I am, it was an uncanny thrill to stand in the assembly chamber at Independence Hall and see the chair that General Washington sat on when he presided over the Constitutional Convention. Even wise-asses get choked up about some things.

To me, the Constitution is much more interesting than the Declaration of Independence. The Declaration was written in anger. People are always angry about something, so who cares?

The only part that impresses me is that certain rights are deemed “unalienable.” Jefferson listed them as life, liberty, and the pursuit of property. The last word was later softened to “happiness,” and to this day nobody has figured out what it means.

Maybe it means I can keep my pocket knife when I walk into Independence Hall.

When you read the Constitution, you realize how cooperative a document it is. There were all kinds of interests in the room. There were guys who hated each other.

But they remained cool-headed enough to put together a system that more or less works. They knew human nature and the almost universal need to push people around, so they didn’t let anybody get too powerful. They shared a dread of mob rule and of special interests. Can you imagine politicians doing anything like that now, in the age of video sound bites and attention-deficit disorder?

We walked down Ninth Street to the Italian market, and that was fantastic. Butcher shops and street stands selling fruits, vegetables, and used power tools.

So we got to the legendary Geno’s and looked for the end of the line. It went back to the corner, snaked around and then went for maybe a block more. I don’t care how good a Philly cheese steak is. Lots of people know how to make them. It ain’t a half-mile line's worth better than somebody else’s. The wait at Pat’s across the street was about as silly.

I would have felt like a New York yuppie if I took that kind of punishment just to say that I had eaten a steak sandwich that was mentioned on television. So we walked back up Ninth Street and walked into Lorenzo’s, at Ninth and Christian Streets, where I was privileged to introduce Joanna to a very good Philly cheese steak.

We came back, checked in to the hotel, and then went to Penn’s Landing. There’s a skating rink there that plays a lot of Miami Vice sounding music, but there was no shooting or exchanges of briefcases for cash, at least when we were there.

Night had fallen. We sat on a bench at the water's edge looking at the lights. There’s traffic and Christmas lights on the Ben Franklin Bridge to the left, and across the river at night, even Camden looks good.

Then we went bar hopping, and they were just lined up on Chestnut Street. We hit the Triumph brew pub and had their amber ale and a lager called Honey Blond. Then we went across the street to a bar with billiards tables and had a couple of stouts and an amber.

That’s where we met a chatty mechanical engineer named Tom, who works in nanotechnology for a medical research firm. Engineers are very shy, he said, except when they are drinking. He asked me why I was wearing a tie and then asked me for advice in buying suits.

Then we discovered Eulogy, a place focused on Belgian brews. There was one ale called Gulden Draak, as in gold dragon, that was very dark, sweet, and good. Then we had Chimay, which is holy—brewed, after all, by monks—and Harry, not being ready to quit, ordered an ale called La Chouffe, which may mean “gnome.”

I got us back to the hotel somehow and here I am, saying (somewhat redundantly) good night to all, and to all a good night.

Harry

Feb. 19

I am a Philadelphian – born and bred. Although I’ve lived in Manhattan for all of my adult life and half my adolescence, I retain Philadelphia habits: I don’t fight subway doors; the time I did ended badly.

I’ve been to the historic sites in my birth city – and the birth city of the U.S. – many times.

Independence Hall is, in fact, in “the bloody Fifth Ward,” my grandfather’s fiefdom. [Editor’s note: Beatrice’s grandfather was a influential machine politician in Philadelphia.]

Fast forward: my closest cousin, Enid, and her delightful husband (late husband, alas) used to arrange mini family reunions. On one of these occasions in Philadelphia—where they’d put us up in a hotel near Independence Hall—there was icy torrential rain.

Alan and I decided to go to Independence Hall.

After waiting in a long line we were finally admitted—where another line was long. I was removed from the line.

I was wearing a black raincoat, white pashmina scarf on my head topped by a rain hat–bright red on the outside and with black and white stripes on the inside. And I carried a black handbag that was large.

As Alan was permitted entry, I was asked to remove all my outer garments: coat, scarf, rain hat, even a suit jacket. I was patted down. Everything was examined including the multitudinous/multifarious contents of the handbag. One would think that the zany rain hat would not be considered to be in the wardrobe of a terrorist, but no, I was the terrorist suspect of the day. And in MY city. (Oh grandfather, where are you when I need you—in your own bailiwick!)

So Joanna, welcome to the club.

Beatrice

More from sunny Philadelphia

Feb. 19

We started walking around the neighborhood this morning, reading the blue historic signs—Benjamin Franklin used to have a house here, a popular banker lived almost here, George Washington walked somewhere nearby and maybe stubbed his toe here—and sort of headed in the direction of the Liberty Bell.

The last time I was in this neighborhood, the Liberty Bell was still exhibited inside Independence Hall. Now it has its own museum on the mall. But I had learned that on Saturday, so I didn’t get lost looking for it.

We were walking up the street by the mall and saw our first sighting of the day: a bunch of people standing in formation with their hands up. All right, a free-somebody rally—and right outside the Liberty Bell Museum. Maybe they are supporters of a federal prisoner. I haven’t seen the morning paper. Who’s been indicted? A popular banker? Newt Gingrich? Martha Stewart again?

I took the attached photo from a distance and then moved in to investigate. As it turns out, it is a group familiar to those of us who go in and out of Penn Station. It’s the Falun Gong. And they are doing their morning meditation exercise, which only coincidentally looks like they are being arrested by the Red Army.

Joanna said she had read about them in the paper but hadn’t run into them before. They had their literature stand and photos of oppression from the old country. And as usual, it was all very peaceful. This demonstration was strictly silent except for some very non-aggressive meditation music from a portable CD player.

There not being much to keep us by way of conversation we moved on.

The Liberty Bell museum has panels of information about the bell and the folklore surrounding it. There is no evidence, for instance, that it rang in connection with the vote for independence on July 4 or the reading of the Declaration on July 8. Maybe it did. Maybe not. People later believed it did.

Even during the Revolution, the bell was considered a sacred artifact. When the British approached Philadelphia, the bell was secretly removed from the city and stored outside town.

The bell began with a commission in 1751 to commemorate the 50^th anniversary of the colony of Pennsylvania. It was the liberty represented by William Penn and his followers that gave the bell its motto, from Leviticus: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” (No, I didn’t quite remember the exact quote and had to look it up.)

The bell delivered from London wasn’t up to standards and so Pass and Stow, two local bell makers, were hired to fix it. The museum ranger said Pass and Stow made one that they rejected and then made the current bell in 1753. My reading suggests that these were recasts made of the same metal, but of course, I'm not sure.

When I looked up the motto, I also discovered that the original bell was made at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry. Whitechapel about 130 years later would become Jack the Ripper’s territory. It’s amazing how history comes together sometimes.

Nobody knows when the bell cracked first. The crack was drilled out so the edges wouldn’t grind together, in the expectation that it would return the bell’s tone. The museum has artifacts—a watch fob, a Grand Army of the Republic pin, and a walking stick—made with bits of the metal that was drilled out during the repair. 

As I understand it, the bell was reintroduced to ring for George Washington’s birthday in 1846. According to the ranger, the repair worked for a time. The bell rang all morning and then by afternoon sounded wrong. An investigation discovered that a new crack had emerged from the top of the repair and circled up to the top of the bell. There was no way to fix that because the structure had become too weak. It runs right through the “and” and keeps going.

Near the Liberty Bell museum is a Museum of the Constitution, but that is not run by the National Park Service, although they did require a search of Joanna’s purse. There is a Bruce Springsteen exhibit that includes photos, a car, and other stuff we didn’t see. We asked a lady about the exhibits, and the place sounded semi-boring.

Franklin’s grave is located conveniently across the street from the mall, in Christ Church cemetery. This is a few blocks from the church, and a sign explains that it was purchased as a burying ground after the church yard filled up. A brick wall runs around the cemetery and there is a section of metal fence next to Franklin’s grave, which is right next to the sidewalk. Either that, or they just dragged the marble slab over next to the sidewalk so people can throw pennies on it. Does history get more convenient than that?

The cemetery is closed in January and February, so we couldn’t go in to read the headstones. That is always enlightening, especially in old graveyards. ( I recommend particularly the Granary Burying Ground in Boston, where Mother Goose and Paul Revere are supposedly buried.)

We went to the garden of the Betsy Ross house. There is a fountain there with a couple of bronze cats on it. She was born Elisabeth Griscom. She married three times. Ross was her first husband. According to the information posted at the site, she may in fact have sewn flags for Continental ships during the Revolution. She is buried, also under a marble slab, with her third husband at the side of the yard.

The pepperpot soup and wassail at City Tavern are almost by themselves worth the trip the Philly. Throw in a cheese steak, the Italian market, and the taps at Eulogy, and I’m all set. The incidental presence of historical and cultural attractions make me feel almost virtuous. Does it get better? 

Joanna and I were craving red meat, so dinner was at a place on Market Street called Marmont. One of the wines we tried was from Chadd’s Ford, Pa. A lot of the wines I’ve had from the Middle American States—New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey—are fruity and kind of lightweight. Just not that interesting, This one was surprisingly serious.

We went to Euphoria to share three desserts: an Allagash Tripel, Founders Porter, and Palm amber. Euphoria indeed. Oh, I slept well.

Love to all.

Harry

Karl

Feb. 20

As it happens ... 

We were by the Springsteen exhibit Saturday just across the block from you. My kids think Bruce is pretty cool but they were joshing us anyway: Springsteen's so old he was one of the founding fathers and so on and so forth ...

Back home from Philadelphia

Feb. 20

I was surprised at how much fun Philadelphia is. Any place can be fun, sure. Even Newark if you know where to go.

I managed to get lost, and as far as my rules go, that makes a great trip complete. I got into the wrong lane on the traffic oval (It isn’t quite a circle, so that’s what they call it.) in front of the art museum. That put me on a narrow road following the bank of the Schuylkill. I tried to find a place to turn around but wound up in Fairmount Park, and since I was headed in the general direction of the museum, decided to continue.

I found a parking lot where we left the car and walked up the hill toward the museum through a sculpture garden of Revolutionary heroes. There was a figure holding a telescope and that was John Paul Jones. Count Pulaski, for whom the Skyway is named, was there. So was a jug-eared Lafayette with a grin rendered by somebody who hates the French.

We had to pass up the van Gogh exhibit because it was 10:30 in the morning when we got to the desk and the tickets on sale at that hour weren’t good till three o’clock. I wasn’t going to last that long.

We covered the late 19^th century, including a few van Goghs, on the first floor and made a quick pass through a few of the 20^th century galleries.  We broke for lunch and went to the second floor.

The second floor includes an Asian wing. Touring the Chinese galleries was especially intriguing for me because I had a guide. There were pieces of porcelain and furniture similar to ones that Joanna saw in her grandfather’s house in Canton, when she was a very young girl before the Reds came.

Several structures have been reconstructed in the museum—a Japanese tea house and temple, a Cambodian temple, the ceiling of the reception house from the Forbidden City in Beijing, and a temple dedicated to Guanyin, whose name in Cantonese may be Gunyum. I’ve been working on it, but I’m relying on memory here, so I may not have it quite right.

Anyhow, she is a female deity from the Chinese pantheon who has been adopted, as many have been, into Buddhist lore. She is a symbol of motherhood, and is the Buddhist equivalent of the Virgin Mary.

The medieval galleries are terrific, too. They include a cloister with a working fountain and vivid paintings (mostly altar pieces) of saints, including two Franciscans with knives stuck in the tops of their canonical tonsures who were martyred for preaching in a mosque in Morocco. Also many representations of the Virgin Mary, who is the Christian equivalent of Gunyum.

Never did make it to the Dutch masters, who are my favorites. (Also Monet’s favorites, by the way, at least according to the note with one of his paintings. That was a portrait of a round, happy fellow with a clay pipe and a beer. It was called “Le bon bock.”)

I thought for sure that Route 30, the Lincoln Highway, would have an entrance to the New Jersey Turnpike. Surely not. So when I got to Hammonton, I took Route 206 north through the Pine Barrens and eventually picked up the turnpike at exit 7.

Today’s picture makes me realize that there is a visual theme on this trip. “Hands up” is in fact kind of appropriate. I didn’t actually get arrested, but after we started driving home I noticed a “violation” envelope stuck under the windshield wiper. When we stopped for a light I got out and retrieved it.

Apparently, we had parked not in the lot for the museum but for the Fairmount Waterworks. (Mechanical Engineering carried a story about it when the building was restored a few years ago.) There was a two-hour limit on parking in that lot, and of course, the museum took more time than that, and we didn’t even see it all.

Guess I’ll have to go back. After all, I don’t know where else to get Gulden Draak.

Home safe. Love to all.

Harry

Feb. 21

Wish you were here in Allentown with me to find a "fun" place to go to.

Actually, I did find a very nice brewhouse where they brew several decent beers. But this town has seen better days... or has it?

John F.


Feb. 22

Allentown. What a coincidence, John.

That's where the Revolutionists hid the Liberty Bell when the British occupied Philadelphia.

Harry