Dumb Shit #1: Paul Bunyon’s Toenails and Other Clippings

Down the Mississippi #13

 Dedicated to Pat the Waitress

Dottie’s Café

Dubuque, Iowa 

Thank you, Pat!

You etched yourself into our memory by creating a non-stop smile that totally defined our trip.

 

It’s the Mississippi River, you dumb shit!

South of the Headwaters and north of Minneapolis, the river is gorgeous, but not particularly dramatic. A Visitor Center lady somewhere around Brainerd or Baxter, Minnesota drove that point home. Obviously a newcomer to her job, her eyes went blank when we started asking her questions about “the river.” Her lack of anything particularly satisfying or useful drove us away pretty quickly. As we left, we wondered aloud if she actually knew that she was welcoming visitors to the headwaters region of the Mississippi River, the grandest river on the continent. Her lack of passion and knowledge stuck with us.

A few days later, we passed through Dubuque, Iowa. We had just spent a wonderful day with friends visiting the Potosi Brewery and Dickeyville Shrine in Dickeyville, Wisconsin. The beauty and mystique of the river had imprinted itself.

Dubuque was a pass-through town. Nothing had grabbed us that we particularly wanted to see or do, so a simple walk seemed in order. While most of the motels we stayed in served breakfast, the Lumberman’s Inn in Dickeyville didn’t. By the time we arrived in Dubuque, we wanted a meal. Dottie’s appeared.

Dottie’s Café is a classic café/diner just west of the river. We showed up between breakfast and lunch, so business was slow.

Our waitress was a dream: crusty, curt, rushed, and bright-eyed. By the end of the meal, we’d become chatty. Our conversation defined the rest of the trip. It went like this:

Kenny:                     “We are in the middle of an epic drive down the river.”

Pat the Waitress:      (with a big sparkle in her eye) “Oh, what river would that be?”

Memories of the dim-witted Visitor Center lady in Minnesota slapped at Rebecca and me.

Kenny:                     “Oh. There is a river right behind your building. Are you aware of it? Do you know its name?”

Pat the Waitress:      (with a quick smile and perfect eye roll) “That would be the Mississippi River, you dumb shit!”

“That’s the Mississippi River, you dumb shit” became the calling card of the trip, every time we laid eyes on it, regardless of circumstance.

You became the soul of our trip, Pat! You also helped us stay attuned to an amazing amount of other funny and weird shit … on a near-daily basis. Here is a smattering of images and stories.

 

Paul Bunyan’s Toenails

Bemidji, Minnesota is way north in the north country. It marks the line between the Mississippi Headwaters and the Boundary Waters between the US and Canada. Paul Bunyan and Babe welcome visitors to town along the shores of Lake Bemidji, which is officially part of the Mississippi River.

The Visitor Center that Paul and Babe lord over is like most of the others: clean, with decent coffee, interesting people, and plenty of bric-a-brac and local lore. This one also has one of the better collections of curling paraphernalia we found. In fact, it had the only collection of curling gear we found.

Giant tributes to giant folk heroes inevitably lead to striking moments that humanize these larger-than-life icons. After all, since Paul wears clothes, don’t they need to washed? Since he has hair, doesn’t it need to be trimmed and combed?

Why, then, might it come as a surprise that he also needs to trim his toenails … or so the tray of nail clippings in the Visitor Center so informed.

Muscatine Sunrises and Farewell Fair Maiden

If a road sign pointed out the location of a historical marker, we stopped. A lot of them were just boring, some were vaguely interesting, and most were generally informative. A few were hilarious.

The marker at the Mark Twain overlook in Muscatine, Iowa inspired our trip. We randomly stopped there a few years ago on a drive from Omaha to Chicago. We saw the marker and the Great River Road Scenic Byway sign just about simultaneously. I said, “Let’s do it.” Rebecca said, “Yes. Let’s.” We did, even if the planning took a few years. Thanks, Mr. Clemens.

Maiden Rock, a high bluff overlooking scenic Lake Pepin in Wisconsin, south of Minneapolis and north of La Crosse prompted us to draw a distinction between “historical” markers and “hysterical” markers. Imagine the “splat” the “beautiful young Sioux girl” must’ve made upon “precipitating” herself over the precipice. It’s nice to know ­– in a schadenfreude sort-of way – that even pre-European Native American families were whacko enough to screw with young folks’ minds!

 

Toot! Toot! I’m Strong to the Finish Cuz I Eats My Spinach….  Popeye the Sailor Man Lives!!!!

Not only does he live, he is the raison d’etre of Chester, Illinois, a tiny river town about 65 miles south of St. Louis that would seem to have nothing of real value if not for being the proud birthplace of Popeye and his pals. Popeye himself greets visitors at every entrance to the town, and a map guides even the uninterested to statues of Wimpy and Olive Oyl and Bluto and Brutus and Swee’ Pea and every other character you can think of.

“Spinach Can Collectibles” is a museum, curio shop, and mecca for Popeye-philes. We managed to while away an hour or two there, mesmerized by the sheer volume of dumb shit. We listened courteously as the proprietor/owner explained how she and her husband had acquired so many thousands of pieces of Popeye memorabilia. (They really care!!!)

I’ve known a few people in my life who are world-class talkers. One of my more irreverent descriptions of the female versions of these people is that if we listened for another 10 minutes we would know everything knowable about their menstrual cycle. They put the concept of “TMI” into a covetous position of importance.

We listened courteously while visiting Spinach Can Collectibles and Chester. I cracked the occasional joke. There was little, if any, discourse. We had a truly great time.

 

Making America “Great” AGAIN

Chester also came to define a significant part of mid-America along the Mississippi Valley: the horror of Trumpism.

We detoured about 40 miles east from Chester to visit Rebecca’s birthplace, Carbondale, Illinois. She has not been back for oh, something like seven decades. (Just in case you are interested, we stopped at the County Courthouse to get a copy of her birth certificate. You never know when you might need a notarized birth certificate. It was 45 minutes and $4 very well spent!)

That area, we realized, is Trump-loving coal country. The first signs appeared as we drove east, toward Carbondale. Coal trucks lined a side road heading toward the river patiently waiting for their turn to unload their load onto a barge. We are not sure, but we think the coal went from there to China where it can be burned with fewer environmental restrictions, thus further degrading our only planet and our only habitat.

When we returned to Chester the next day, we became astutely aware of the endless string of coal trucks rolling through town on their way to the barge loading facility. The Popeye lady angrily explained what we were watching: The mines are a few miles north of Chester; the barge loading facility, a few miles east. The trucks roll ­­–– heavily and noisily –– through Chester all day every day. Since neither the mines nor the loading facility are within the city limits, the truckers pay nothing to the town to help fund the wear and tear on the roads. That burden rests with Chester’s business owners and residents, who also get to endure the traffic, noise, vibrations, and smoke in addition to the potholes.

While the Popeye lady was not overly happy with the civic irresponsibility of the mine operators, others in the community were. Between Chester and Carbondale, we saw a telltale sign.

We passed Frank’s Real Bait Shop, a general store and bait shop advertising shad guts and leeches along with milk, eggs, bacon, crickets, minnows, and beer. I, of course, needed to check it out; Rebecca rolled her eyes, arched her back, and stayed in the car. The most interesting part was the old Chevy parked beside the shed sporting a bumper sticker that identified an apparent point of political pride for the driver. It read, “Deplorable.”

The message made me think of a couple of signs we had seen a day or so earlier while passing through the hamlet of Grand Tower, Illinois. As we drove, I glimpsed the signs. They caught enough of my attention that we stopped and turned around. (They had escaped Rebecca’s notice entirely.)  The left-hand sign read, “Congratulations President Elect Donald Trump. Let’s keep the coal rolling and the people working.” It noted its sponsors, Congressman Mike Bost and Jackson County Board Member Dan Bost. The right-hand sign thanked the Knight Hawk Coal Mine “for our jobs in the coal industry.”

“Misguided,” “Thoughtless,” “Mean-Spirited,” and “Heebie-Jeebies” are but a few of the thoughts that ran through my mind then and now. My inner voice is actually much, much coarser, angrier, and more alarmed, but I work hard to keep it at bay … usually unsuccessfully.

Race Car Toilet
Harlan Malone was a Trump supporter too. I know because he told me so when I asked. He assured me that things in America had to change. We had too many lazy, no-good people living off government handouts, and we had a government that was so screwed up that those people made more money by not working than they would make by working. The diatribe continued for a pretty good while.

Despite his political leanings … and the fact that Rebecca was somewhat appalled by the way he treated his female employees and his attitude toward women in general … I found him amusing and clever. After all, who else would think to mount a stripper’s pole-dancing pole in the middle of the pimped-out school bus that he calls his “party bus” or host “Harlan Malone’s Topless Gospel Choir.” To be honest, I really liked him!

Harlan owns a terrific restaurant called the “Blue Biscuit Café” that is directly across the street from the BB King Museum in Indianola, Mississippi, another one of our short detours away from the river. We visited it with my brother Joe who drove with us for about a week. (The Museum, by the way, is exceptionally good but a full description will have to wait for another day.)

The food at the Blue Biscuit was just what you’d hope it would be for a totally funky restaurant in the heart of the Delta directly across the street from the BB King Museum. No complaints! Harlan was the icing on the cake. About the time our food arrived, he walked to our table, pulled out a chair, turned it around so he was leaning over the back, and proceeded to spend the next hour or so regaling and entertaining us … including a full guided tour.

The tour included the Men’s Room … located to the left of the Women’s Room since women are always right. (See why Rebecca has some doubts.) Like most Men’s Rooms, it had a urinal and a toilet. In this case, however, the urinal was a trough made from an old galvanized beer bucket, and the toilet was fully outfitted with a steering wheel and rear-view mirror, I guess to keep the patrons entertained while they waited.

 

You thought the answers were “Lombard Street” and “Hannibal, MO,” you dumb shit!

Here are the questions: 1) What is the crookedest street in the U.S.?  2) Where was Mark Twain born?

From our seat, the crookedest street in the U.S. ­– Snake Alley ­– is Burlington, Iowa’s greatest claim to fame. As soon as we pulled into town, everyone assured us we had to see it. Understanding why is easy: it has FIVE curves and covers 275 feet! WOW!!!!! Lucky for us, that one is now checked off the bucket list. When you plan your trip to Burlington, you simply cannot afford to miss it!

Unlike Snake Alley (shall we say “underwhelming”?), Florida, Missouri ­– Sam Clemens’ birthplace 20 miles west of Hannibal – was memorable and moving! Clemens did not move to Hannibal until he was 4. Mark Twain State Park in Florida, MO is one of the finest we visited, and the interpreter, Marianne Bodine, ranked with the most interesting and knowledgeable of all we encountered. Great work, Marianne, and our trusty Ford, “Mr. Bixby,” proudly wears his Mark Twain State Park decal, right along with the decal from the crossroad in the Delta where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil …. for real!

That’s enough for now. This blog entry is long enough. But the pause is arbitrary. There is A LOT more dumb shit yet to come!

 

© 2018 Kenneth Mirvis