Just the Bare Bones: Hagerman Fossil Beds Nat'l Monument 8/12/12

So what's a man to do after coming face to face with the wounds of history? After peeking behind the curtain of American myth and finding little but shame, regret, and racial animus? Why, dine and dash with a typically underwhelming fossil bed, of course, as if there could be any doubt. And while Minidoka NM angered, fascinated, and exposed, Idaho's Hagerman Fossil Beds National Monument, the poor stepchild of the "fossil family" that all but makes Nebraska's Agate NM a Death Valley-like expanse by comparison, grates with its self-imposed limitations, as if one can and should drive hundreds of miles to look upon an unremarkable field having already been plucked of its treasure. No, we do not expect any of the fossil beds protected by the NPS to be teeming with bones, but after the din of the dig has subsided, what on earth would compel a man to visit? Yes, Hagerman is important. Yes, one is glad they have removed elements of our past for further study. And yes, one would rather have this 4,281 acre slab left to the winds than the filth of a strip mall, but scientific value need not translate into eye-popping excitement. It does not, and never really could.

So what is Hagerman? Simply put, and in words more complete than I could ever hope to muster, "The 600-foot-high bluffs rising above the Snake River and comprising the Hagerman Fossil Beds reveal the environment at the end of the Pliocene Epoch." In other words, "the sediment layers from river level to bluff tops span some 550,000 years: from 3.7 million years old at river level to 3.15 million years old atop the bluff." So what did they find in this wonderland of extinction and death? Well, more than 35 plant species, along with 180 animal species, the most famous of which is the Hagerman Horse (Equus simplicidens). In hundreds of individual fossil sites, striking examples of the horse were discovered, including many complete skeletons (at least 20 such examples so far). Starting in 1929, paleontologists began their research, and over the years, their findings have startled the scientific world. Again, no one is disputing the glory and achievement associated with this fossil-rich soil. In order to ensure further study and, hopefully, bigger and better finds, the federal government had to keep treasure hunters and nitwits far, far away. By all means. But absent a few token displays at the stuffed visitor center (located several miles from the actual dig site in the town of Hagerman), much imagination is required to feel any sort of connection to the discovery. It's like trying to share in your baseball team's ticker tape parade after failing to watch a single game all season.

And while you might spend a protracted 15-20 minutes at the visitor center, what with the underwhelming film and no-more-than-a-few display cases (as well as the Minidoka NM "memorial" in one of the building's spare rooms), you will spend even less time on the sacred soil itself. See the above picture? The one with the lookout over water and such? The first of many along an extended driving tour? No, sir. A hint of things to come? Not on your life. That, dear friends, is the sum total of the Hagerman Fossil Beds experience. No more, no less, and thanks for coming. I get that I can't dive into the dirt and pull out a jawbone for my personal collection, but what on earth am I looking at? I've been told what lies before me changed science, but how would I know? Couldn't everything have been done down the road, and I was just a victim of the old bait and switch? Were shiny bones with angel choirs tucked back at the Bell Rapids Dock? Nope, this was the Snake River Overlook, and I'd been had. Okay, so there was an Oregon Trail Overlook a few dozen yards away. And? No, wait a minute, I can see the wagon ruts in the fields of grass. Yeah, that's pretty cool. <sigh>

In many ways, we feel guilty for our collective yawn at a site like Hagerman, if only because prizing the passport stamp above the park experience feels so....well, cheap. But, as always, we calls 'em as we sees 'em. We certainly count ourselves among the fossil fan base - Dinosaur NM, now that you should see - but the beds themselves, curiously enough, made us think of sleep, and we'd always rather be elsewhere. To date, whether it's Agate, Fossil Butte, or Florissant, we just don't get the appeal of looking at mounds of empty dirt and wavy grass, unless of course we're talking about a battlefield. But isn't that the same thing, you might ask? In one sense, both have as their defining element something that happened long ago, but unlike the sacred ground of a bloody skirmish, a fossil bed, even during its heyday, would never have been more than nerdy scientists hammering away at rock. Yes, I have sufficient imagination to picture them at work, but even the most eccentric geologist can't hold a candle to a bearded Civil War general atop a brave steed, roaring to be heard over cannon fire. So dig away, friends of Hagerman, and I salute your thankless, difficult work. But I'll be at the next park unit, hoping to have my juices stirred by more than the theoretical remains of an abstract muskrat.

FINAL RATING

2/10

Righting Past Wrongs: Minidoka Nat'l Historic Site 8/12/12

Here's to lowered expectations. As so much in life is trying desperately to put on a happy face after having one's dreams dashed against the rocks of reality, any opportunity to rise above the perils of pessimism is one worth taking. Whether the road is love, work, or the latest movie from a favorite director, playing it safe is often the only way to avoid crushing disappointment. No surprise, then, that once we landed safely in the arms of the Minidoka National Historic Site near Jerome, ID, we were blissfully transported; not so much by the scar of shame the park unit so righteously highlights, but the notion that if you arrive with a shrug, you can leave with a smile. Led to believe Minidoka was but a single, unimpressive stop in an otherwise forgettable experience, we couldn't help but explode with excitement as the encounter proved to be the exact opposite. Sure, Minidoka is still a work-in-progress, with much-needed funds on the way, but at this moment in time, it's an embarrassment of riches for the historically minded. Here, amidst barren, windswept farmland, lies a reminder that for all the talk of exceptionalism and freedom, America has often gotten it wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

For the uninformed, Minidoka (the 385th NPS unit, designated in 2001), preserves some of the 33,000-acre site that once housed 13,000 internees from Alaska, Oregon, and Washington. In operation from August 1942 until October 1945, the site - also known as "Hunt Camp" - forcibly detained American citizens of Japanese descent (Nisei), as well as resident non-citizens (Issei), during World War II not because they were spies, saboteurs, or even lawbreakers of any kind, but rather because, as "potential" enemies, they were easily classified as "the Other." In sum, these men, women, and children - loyal, law-abiding, and otherwise peaceful - were stripped of their businesses, homes, and, above all, Constitutional rights, all for the sole reason that the powers that be - yes, FDR, we're looking at you - were soaked in fear, racism, and despicable bigotry. It was one of America's most shameful episodes, and proves conclusively that when the chips are down, even the mighty United States can act like a tyrannical bully. But as heinous as Executive Order 9066 was (and should always remain in our memory), it is a testament to our tendency to make amends that this site exists at all. Unlike so many - Japan included, which still can't utter the word 'Nanking' in public - we usually recognize error and try to set things right. Perhaps a National Historic Site means little to the families of those brought here against their will, but I for one can tip my cap to lessons learned. If anything, a place like Minidoka ensures that at all costs, a similar site will never be erected again. One can hope.

Thanks to a detailed park brochure (available at nearby Hagerman Fossil Beds NM), as well as newly installed exhibit panels, visitors can learn that while Minidoka was hardly a camp on par with the death houses of Europe (as if losing one's civil rights is an acceptable alternative), it was a sad, sinister place, as most was far from completed by the time internees arrived. In 1942, the sewage system had not yet been constructed, and for most, there was no hot running water. Residential blocks - complete with schools, fire stations, shops, and a hospital - were spared all expense, often consisting of hastily built barracks that were "little more than wooden frames covered with tarpaper." With winter temperatures sometimes dipping as low as -21 degrees, over 100 tons of coal a day were needed to keep the buildings even remotely hospitable. Still, no one confused Minidoka for a resort. It was hard, inhumane living, with guns and barbed wire to remind the "guests" that regardless of how bad things got, they were never allowed to leave.

Camps, needless to say, were segregated based on a ridiculous "loyalty questionnaire", which essentially asked whether or not an internee would be willing to serve in the armed forces. One might find such a question insulting on its face, given that few could be blamed for being less than enthusiastic about wanting to defend a country that treated them as prisoners, but it served to "weed out" those destined for Tule Lake, CA, the home for the dissenters (known as "No-No's"). As if to rightfully rub our collective noses in the madness of racism, Minidoka proudly displays an Honor Roll of internees who did serve their country. In fact, Minidoka had the highest number of volunteers (around 1,000) of the ten relocation centers across the country, 73 of whom died in battle. More than most, they deserve our respect and devotion for risking their lives for a country that despised them. We should all have such a sense of duty.

Minidoka NHS features a 1.6 mile loop trail that winds around the former locations of the staff housing, administrative area, root cellar, and Barracks Block 22. It's a somber, reflective walk, and it will only get better in the years ahead. Recently, the park submitted a $3.7 million proposal for a visitor center in the historic warehouse building. No longer forced to share space at Hagerman's already cramped VC, the revamped structure should allow for additional interpretation and preservation of memories (it's expected that Minidoka, like Manzanar, will emphasize the words of former internees). In addition, further stabilization and rehabilitation will continue, as newly added acreage fleshes out the larger story of the camp. Still, despite the current minimalism, the site's power is maintained largely through the sense of isolation one feels on this lonely spot in the middle of nowhere. In many ways, it could easily be 1943 all over again, with little by way of modernity to inrtrude on the solemn proceedings.

If the trails and sparse buildings - along with a 1945 replica fence - aren't enough to satisfy your historical curiosity, keep in mind again that Hagerman's VC tries its best with a "Minidoka Corner" of artifacts, pictures, and a timeline. Far from complete, it's a reasonable solution until the new VC is completed on-site. On that day, a second visit will be warranted, which is a rare thing to say about many of the Idaho NPS offerings. And here's to more farmland being acquired, though it stands to reason that many in the area would rather forget the scars of the past, and they just might hang on to keep the demons at bay. But for us, Minidoka NHS made the whole thing worthwhile, pushing aside those smoke-filled skies for at least an afternoon and reminding us that above all, the NPS has the power to change minds. Hearts might be harder to come by, but it won't be for lack of effort.

FINAL RATING

9/10

(Don't) Climb Every Mountain: City of Rocks Nat'l Reserve 8/12/12

Given my well-earned reputation as the Clark W. Griswold of the National Park set, it seemed wholly out of character for the Cales to have entered the state of Idaho without first checking the news. The weather we knew would be clear and calm, but what of forest fires? Not seeming to allow for the possibility that a historic drought might set the Gem State aflame, we drove along without a care in the world, crossing the border from Utah thinking the crystal blue skies above would hold for the duration of our latest journey. And while that delusion would soon be shattered, we were at least treated to a smoke-free excursion through the City of Rocks National Reserve, even if it would remain little more than a stamp and dash. You see, City of Rocks is a world-class climbing destination, boasting numerous challenges rivaled only by Yosemite. Now that's all well and good, but among our many virtues, the Cales don't climb. Not ladders, not staircases, and certainly not steep rock formations. This would be a detached, eyes-only stop along our tour, and the sooner we could leave behind the athletic and the daring, the better.

City of Rocks National Reserve, differing from a Preserve only in its lack of complete federal protection (the state of Idaho partners with the NPS), is a tight, densely packed "city" of fetching granite displays, but it's more realistic to label it a small town. Perhaps a hamlet. While there is beauty here, it's hardly an endless sea of rock, and it's not out of bounds to suggest that Idaho could take the whole thing over without anyone bothering to notice. We're both unapologetically in favor of protecting land from development wherever and whenever one can, but the NPS label should carry a bit more dignity, and setting aside a playground for risk-takers might be pushing it just a bit. Again, not that these rocks don't flirt with greatness, but we've seen bigger and better elsewhere, all without the pretension the "National Reserve" label implies.

Let's also not forget that, simply put, City of Rocks is one hell of a journey for very little payoff. There are back roads and dirt patches galore, as the whole thing is tucked away from anything resembling a major highway. More than that, the tiny towns on our way to the park were all boarded up and tumbleweed-heavy, not due to the bad economy, mind you, but rather the fact that it was a Sunday, and country folk from Idaho don't do a damn thing when church is in session. So without gas or food or anything resembling life, we chugged along until we hit Almo, the unlikely host for the park's visitor center. Erring on the side of humility, the VC had the necessary stamps and magnets, but also an unmistakable loneliness, as the ranger jumped up from her seat as if interrupted for the first time in weeks. She aimed to please (she all but threatened me to watch the movie), but we had to move. Before walking out the door, however, she warned me not to take the dirt road leading out the west end of the reserve. "Go back the way you came," she said, implying utter destruction if we failed to heed her words. So, the Cales being the Cales, we ignored her advice in order to shave off a large set of repeat miles. Would we pay the ultimate price?

Along we went, driving carefully through the park, trying desperately to justify this first leg of the trip. Would we have come here without the passport stamp? Of course not, but even when we know we're in for a less than stellar installment, we try to make do, giving the surrounding rocks as fair a shake as they deserve. And so we passed the assorted "big name" rocks - Camp, Treasure, Elephant, Bath - as well as the brilliantly named Parking Lot Rock, all with one eye on the clock, and a second on the looming exit via City of Rocks Road. Since we didn't care one whit for the exercise element of COR, we decided to focus on the historical nature of the landscape, which has the added bonus of being pretty damn important. You see, City of Rocks was a landmark for westward travelers as early as 1843, using the California and Salt Lake Alternate Trails to reach the much-promised opportunity in the West. By 1848, the Mormon Battalion opened the trail from Granite Pass via Emigrant Canyon to Salt Lake. As the unigrid informs us, "In 1852 some 52,000 people passed through City of Rocks on the way to the California goldfields." Needless to say, railroad expansion ended the popularity of the route, although settlers made their homes here beginning in the 1890s.

So what of the treacherous exit? For 11+ miles of washboard dirt and chaotic dust, it wasn't half bad, and the road leading to Chaco Canyon was certainly worse. We had to take it slow, but once we reached Oakley, we knew we'd made the right decision. Just then, we noticed that the skies had gotten a bit hazy for our tastes. Finally checking the internet and the region's potential hazards, it was revealed that the whole damn state was ablaze, and we'd be lucky to escape without flirting with asphyxiation. Still, we had no choice but to press on, leaving behind the spot for our first-ever stamp from the Blue/Pacific Northwest region. Sure, we shrugged a bit during our blink-and-it's-gone stay, but they all can't be winners. Obligation is a jealous lover, and it needs to be fed.

FINAL RATING

5/10

Side Dish: The Butte, Montana Experience 8/14/12

On June 8, 1917, through the usual combination of incompetence, poor safety standards, and the perils of going to work in a dark, flammable hole, 168 miners lost their lives in what remains the deadliest event in the history of American hard-rock mining. Then and now, it is known as the Granite Mountain/Speculator Mine Disaster, and it came to define the ever-widening gap between management and labor in these United States. More specifically, it stands tall as a shining, pitifully sad example of what Butte, Montana is all about, and how through decades of dangerous, often thankless effort, America powered itself on the backs and bones of the working man. Now, before I launch into a particularly off-key version of The Internationale, let it be said that while we came to this bizarre, historically rich town to pay our respects to the grit and grime of the nameless and the faceless, we also came to have fun; at least as much fun as one can have while safely above ground and not choking to death on toxic fumes. And while we couldn't possibly explore every last corner of Butte, we'd spend a good part of our morning within earshot of what made this community hum and buzz for the better part of a century.

To be fair, a full accounting of Butte, Montana would have to include a semi-conscious bar crawl, sleeping with a prostitute, gambling away the rent, a tour of the Copper King Mansion, taking a bus up the Continental Divide to visit North America's largest Madonna, a ghost tour, and the punching of at least one Irishman. With only a few hours left to us on a hazy August morning, however, we had to be selective, so we stuck closely to the mining theme. This means, of course, a visit to the World Museum of Mining, which we had suspicions would be less about the controversies of labor conflicts and more a testament to the equipment and vigor of happy workers. On this score, we were not disappointed. For an admission price we couldn't help but think was a week's pay back in the day, we started off with the site's Hell Roarin' Gulch, the expected Potemkin village of recreations, diversions, and mind-numbing evasions. As we walked stupidly along the worn planks and dusty "streets", we encountered a tack shop, saloon, bath house, dentist, jail, and city hall, among other standard mining town facilities. Stripped of the pain and violence surrounding any and all camps of the time, the air was instead punctured by the giggles of young girls, all of whom were deeply immersed in panning for garnets, which one must assume were just this side of phony.

And while the actor portraying a fire-spitting labor radical calling for assorted heads was conspicuous by his absence, we did appreciate the inclusion of some standard mine imagery, which here amounted to a headframe (100-feet high!), ore bins, flat rope hoist, and a randomly placed pick-axe. No one was around to provide any context, but that's part of the museum's charm. If we had a guide, we might wonder why the focus was on process rather than the ever-present spectre of death. Thankfully, the village did include a Vietnam Wall of its own, a tribute to the 2,500+ lives lost to mining (in the Butte area alone!), making one wonder how we'd react if, say, white collar management ever carried this degree of daily risk. Here, though, is a living tribute to the Orphan Girl Mine (aptly named, I'd expect, given that few ladies could hope to have a living father in Butte), which operated from 1875 until 1956, producing as much as 7.5 million ounces of silver. It, like all other mines, ran 24/7, unless of course production had to stop while corpses were removed from the vicinity of treasure, or some uppity foreigner had the cheek to demand a living wage.

So while we learned precious little concerning labor activism and all-American exploitation, the museum did see fit to carry on a quite public doll fetish, which might have provided unintentional insight as to how the money interests viewed their employees. The faux town was littered with dolls - some broken, all filthy - most standing in for actual human beings that might scare away the tourists with their incessant coughing and assorted illnesses. Then, as if to flirt that much more with inexplicable randomness, there sat a room teeming with more dolls per square foot than any other spot in America. Sure, they had the standard varieties, but what the hell....why is that entire shelf filled with Star Trek characters? Or Planet of the Apes? And is that the doomed captain from the Titanic? The collection is impressive to be sure, but unless these things are to be sold at auction and the proceeds donated to some miner's medical bills, why the hell are they at a museum dedicated to working people? Anything, I suppose, to keep us from knowing that Butte was defined by alcoholism, VD, and murder for most of its history. What's that? Dead fathers and brothers? Look over there! The dolls! Ain't they cute?

From there, it's all about the historic town center, complete with roads so steep one wonders how anyone survives a single winter. The steepest, most extreme angle of all, though, was the road leading to the Memorial. While I have no proof, I must believe that the town fathers fought the inclusion of this "scar", if only because it contains reminders that Butte was founded on the union ideal, and that people as noble as Omar Bradley once stood shoulder to shoulder with those who fought against the working man. The Memorial, again, is a somber, heartbreaking piece of history, and while few remember the victims, it bears repeating that most were freshly scrubbed immigrants, much like those who do so much of our current work in the shadows - encouraged and supported in private, while damned and marginalized in the light of day. It is here, more than any musty museum, where the sacrifices of our true heroes are driven home, and just once, I'd like to see the same amount of country-first, patriotic gush surrounding Labor Day as we now devote to military veterans. Unless, of course, we also want to be reminded that the same soldiers we now pander to on a daily basis were often wielding the rifles that gunned down strikers, guilty only of wanting to feed their families.

After a much-needed commemoration, why not wrap it up with a poisonous pit? More specifically, the Berkeley Pit, an open wound of toxicity that threatens to envelop all of Butte in its murderous embrace. Just a quick drive from the Memorial, Berkeley Pit is what remains of the now-retired mining operations that took place from 1955 until 1982. Now, instead of extracting mineral riches, the hole is being pumped full of water not exactly ready for Deep Rock or Dasani. A combination of Horseshoe Bend drainage, stormwater flow, undergound mine workings, as well as the souls of the damned, the pit has the soothing appearance of a boat-ready reservoir, when in fact it might possibly kill on contact. No one seems to be willing to go on record with potential dangers and pitfalls, but for the $2 admission fee, one should expect some degree of candor. Maybe not. The pit itself is 1,780 feet deep (the water depth itself around 1,000 feet), with a width of 1.25 miles. There are over 40 billion gallons of water in the pit, adding 2.6 million gallons per day. At this rate, the damn thing will overflow its banks some time in the near future, thereby contaminating the area's ground water, but no one seems to be overly alarmed. Even when a migrating flock of snow geese landed on the water and died soon after in 1995, excuses were made and the town kept its promise to sell the pit as a loving ode to the mining industry. Though it remains a Superfund site (the water is a delightful mix of copper and cadmium, with an arsenic chaser), it's a source of great humor that Butte itself is not embarrassed by its presence.

Okay, so I didn't get blown in some back alley by Butte's oldest living madam. So we didn't eat bad food with bad people as dense smoke filled the air. And no, we didn't go into an actual copper mine (having done so in Bisbee, AZ, why spend the extra cash?). So why, then, come to Butte? Once one accepts American history as a largely untold story of men behaving badly, places like Butte take on a grandeur they otherwise would not deserve. Butte is, speaking frankly, a hateful town: a dirty, nasty, blood-soaked setting of sin and savagery that reflects the worst in our natures. Is it any wonder it's also the birthplace of Evel Knievel, our nation's most obnoxious, fists-first showman? So by all means, after you've tasted death and denial and all that comes with being a predatory city on a hill, wrap it up with a gravesite. Evel's gravesite, if you must know. He's Butte's favorite son, and also its most typical. He died as he lived, full of piss and plunder, out loud and in pieces. If he had to exist at all, it's best his blood ran red with the stink of his Montana ancestors. Tough, unyielding men, who knew all about the big con, and gave it their all in spite of the inevitable heartbreak.

Side Dish: Kansas Cosmosphere & Space Center 5/27/12

For someone like me – fat, lazy, unmotivated, cowardly – there are any number of ways to feel worse about my self-imposed lot in life, but none more effective than a visit to one of America’s hallowed halls of heroism. Fortunately, there was just such a spot on our latest venture into the nation’s farm belt, tucked ever-so-gently into the unassuming town of Hutchinson, Kansas. No, I’m not talking about the justly famous Salt Museum (we’ve covered that, remember?), but rather the town’s other attraction, the Kansas Cosmosphere & Space Center. Here, in a complex designated as a “Smithsonian Institution Affiliations Program,” a visitor – any visitor, including the weak and retreating – can become fully immersed in the 20^th century’s most lasting achievement: the evolution from primitive rocketry to landing on the moon.

It’s a journey of science, logic, and brain power, and as it’s also located in one of the country’s most reactionary outhouses, ever the more impossible. For here, in Kansas of all places, sits one of the finer tributes to the men and women of the space program ever built, and one worthy of your time, effort, and hard-earned dollars. For a mere $12 a ticket, one can enter the Hall of Space Museum (the IMAX film and some kid-friendly lab are extra), stand agog, and feel that much more worthless about one’s relative lack of achievement. It’s a place where ego goes to die, reducing someone of my ilk to a staring contest with the uber-macho Buzz Aldrin where, quickly flinching, I acknowledged that yes, while I can recite every Best Picture winner or inhale a half-dozen Hot Pockets in one sitting, he, among other things, walked on the fucking moon. And didn’t shit his pants! At least not out of fear.

I knew we were in for an intimidating afternoon when the kid at the ticket booth – I say “kid”, but everyone appears younger to my decaying heap – looked up just long enough for me to notice that he was reading (for pleasure, apparently), the most complicated book I had ever seen. I assume it was calculus, or something similar that made me feel retarded inside of two seconds, but whatever it was, he didn’t appear shocked and confused by the material. I felt like leaving right then and there because, although I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person, I’m not fond of being humiliated, especially when I’m paying for the privilege. Tickets secured, we passed the massive IMAX reels (as well as a cafeteria, where they no doubt themed everything from burritos to ice cream with a clever space moniker) and made our descent into the museum. Would we emerge flabbergasted? Dumber than when we entered?

Admittedly, while the immediate sight of a Swastika was not exactly unexpected in Kansas, it did seem odd in a respectable museum; at least until I realized that any journey through space must begin with the Nazis. We might not want to admit it, but many of the technological advancements of the Cold War period are due to Hitler’s scientific team (Wernher von Braun chief among them), and without the pursuit of “wonder weapons” (V-1 and V-2 rockets, primarily), one wonders if we’d still be in pursuit of our first moon shot. Sure, over 100,000 forced laborers died during the making of these weapons (shockingly, Hitler took some time off from the Holocaust and used mainly Soviet, French, and Polish “workers”), but all was in pursuit of the greater goal: reducing the whole of Europe to an ash heap. Thankfully, Nazi Germany failed in its quest for world domination, but the resulting weaponry – and scientific minds – helped usher in an unprecedented era of achievement and danger.

Within a few rooms, one can immediately sense that chief among the museum’s virtues is its commitment to detail. One will not want for facts and figures at the Cosmosphere, though instead of dry, dull lectures, the panels and displays add to a sense of wonder, at least for anyone who gives two shits about the latter half of the 20^th century. If anything, those years – culturally and politically – were defined by the ever-present threat of mass death, and how the weapons of war also contributed to our greater understanding of the universe itself. The museum moves delicately through the post-WWII years and into the Cold War, all with objective detachment, choosing the historical record over any rank agenda. Sure, this is Kansas, and with Kansas you get Boeing, but if it’s propaganda, it’s the kind any rational person could believe in. At the very least – and it’s more than evident as the museum works through the test pilot era into the more overtly “nuclear age” – we see quite clearly that whatever the Cold War was, it brought out our competitive fire. We are, it seems, at our best when we have something “evil” against which to measure ourselves. Sure, this also leads to blacklists and paranoia, but at least our kids were majoring in physics and not dead-end uselessness like Communications or, ahem, Sociology.

The test pilot era, complete with the breaking of the sound barrier, never fails to send me into a tailspin of emasculation, for this was when men were truly men, and tough sumbitches like Chuck Yeager defied the odds and risked death for no other reason than the call of progress. Admittedly, men like Yeager also beat their wives, ignored their children, and drank away the better years of their lives with regret and disillusionment, but it all seemed worth it when we had something big to believe in. These men appealed to the better angels of our nature, and for once, they produced a patriotism that didn’t feel divisive and soaked in Republican party talking points. Again, this was science, and Jesus didn’t have much to say in the face of quadratic equations and elliptical orbits. I'm guessing he still doesn't. From there, the displays hit Sputnik, the moon race, and eventually, the missile era. Curiously, the Soviet Union received a fair amount of press, including a rather large room with the standard Russian music piped in. It felt glum, like standing in a bread line, but kudos to any American institution that gives credit where credit is due. Even to godless Communists.

At last, the museum moves full tilt into the easy applause line – the men and machines of the moon years – and from every corner, we see space suits, capsules, and even the Apollo 13 command module, Odyssey. There are replicas, sure, but most of what we see is the real deal, including an Apollo white room that was one of three in existence. Much is on loan from the Smithsonian, and I’ll be damned if they didn’t have a gen-u-ine moon rock, now and forever the most valuable substance on (though not of) planet Earth. And who knew they called astronaut diapers “fecal management subsystems,” though the name is less troubling than trying to imagine someone like Neil Armstrong chipping a lunar golf ball while up to his mid-back in excrement. There are also astronaut cameras, a Saturn I-B rocket fin, and the expected assortment of astronaut chow, none of which looks any worse than my average fast food lunch. A particular treat is the display housing the actual Liberty Bell 7 capsule, recovered in July 1999 after being lost at sea in 1962. The story of LB7, as tragic as it was for astronaut Gus Grissom’s ego (the hatch blew early, causing the destruction of one expensive piece of equipment), becomes even more depressing in light of Grissom’s ultimate fate in the Apollo 1 fire.

Everything ends with the space shuttle, appropriately enough, though there was a perfunctory display regarding the space accomplishments of private enterprise. The possibility of civilians flying in outer space is exciting, but far less so when one realizes that as with most in this life, only the very rich will ever get a taste. This is why the achievements that came before that wacky Branson guy mean much more on their face – these were national goals with a national purpose, and thanks to tax dollars, we were all, in some way, part of the process. Private space accounts read more like eccentric ego boosts; more about profit and headlines than anything tangible and lasting. And the Cosmosphere never falters in that respect, tipping its cap to the bravery and sacrifice involved, but never forgetting the failures and vast public resources necessary to produce those inspiring successes. We had goals and did all we could to achieve them. In our current era of ennui and pointless wanderings, it’s a lesson we could stand to learn all over again. Even if I'm destined for a diaper that won't see outer space.

And Justice for All: Brown v. Board of Education Nat'l Historic Site 5/27/12

The beauty of the Brown v. Board of Education National Historic Site is that it remains, unlike so many official documentations of America’s past, a tribute to an idea. Avoiding the usual stories of war or Great Men, Brown v. Board chronicles the struggles of the unknown; brave, unsung men, women, and children who had the audacity to suggest that the Constitution was sincere about its enumeration of equality. For while battlefield honors are welcome and vital in order to understand the national narrative, so much was left undone by a white majority either hostile or indifferent to the suffering of millions. 

Brown, then, while a pivotal legal drama – and arguably the Supreme Court’s finest hour – was more than a single event; it represented decades of struggle and sacrifice on the part of those few bother to remember. But as we cannot recall each and every life, nor can we enshrine in marble all the names of those who soldiered for justice, it is fitting that in this humble structure in Topeka, Kansas – Monroe Elementary – we commemorate neither the beginning nor the end of a movement, but rather the entirety of a process. In this way, the Brown NHS is a de facto Civil Rights Museum; a place for reflection, pride, and yes, a healthy dose of shame in the face of the great American contradiction.

The difficulty, of course, is how any one building – even one as significant as Monroe – can encapsulate so complex a movement as the drive for equality. Brown v. Board of Education, as we know, was more than just one plaintiff, or even one case. While this specific decision came after the NAACP encouraged 13 parents in Topeka to attempt to enroll their children in all-white schools, thereby creating the grounds for a lawsuit, the eventual triumph (Chief Justice Warren, through sheer force of will, ensured a unanimous verdict striking down school segregation) cannot be detached from other, equally important cases of the era, from Briggs v. Elliot (South Carolina) to Boiling v. Sharpe (Washington, D.C.). Thankfully, and to the National Park Service’s credit, the Brown NHS does not attempt to treat the case in isolation.

While the facts and figures are handled with great care, answering the need for historical context, the site never forgets that after the judicial robes are put away and the court houses closed, the wants and needs of actual human beings remain paramount. As such, Brown strikes a perfect balance between the law and our collective humanity; a tough-minded, Constitutional lesson with a much-needed moral undercurrent. This is no dry, detached exercise in pedantic study, then. Instead, we are hit with the full brunt of emotion, and how segregation belittled, dehumanized, and humiliated. With sanctioned segregation at the school level, it necessarily hit children the hardest.

Monroe Elementary, which houses both the interpretive site and visitor center, was one of four segregated elementary schools for blacks in Topeka. Due to declining enrollment, it closed for good in 1975. The historic site itself opened to the public on May 17, 2004, in celebration of the famous decision’s 50^th anniversary, though the initial designation came via Congress (and President Bush’s signature) in 1992. In the eight years since the ribbons were cut, the NPS has performed admirably, especially in light of the fact that the site is not among the most visited. There’s nothing slick and fancy to attract the kids, and given our capacity to forget, few Americans want to travel to Kansas to remember the sting of bigotry. By avoiding the site, however, people are missing out on an important lesson in getting it right; when education can do more than distract an unruly child for a few hours and actually add perspective.

The NHS has four main components – not including the bookstore – all of which enrich the overall experience with both the personal and the political. First, there’s the Auditorium, where the film “Race and the American Creed” plays on an endless loop. Consisting of a conversation between a young girl and a long-time friend of her grandfather, the film is in stark contrast to so many subpar efforts that litter the NPS system. It’s a genuine keeper, and an essential place to start, especially if you are touring the site with young children. Next up, one visits the “Education and Justice” exhibit, which uses photos, video, and interpretive media to give voice to the otherwise anonymous Americans who fought for equality long before it was fashionable (or safe) to do so. Above all, we get the sense of great risk, and how the fight for integration was long, difficult, and not simply a matter of a judge’s ruling, as important as that was to enshrine equality in our books of law.

Down the hall from there is the “Legacy” room, which chronicles the ultimate impact of the decision, and how the Civil Rights movement was far from over; a process, in fact, that continues to this very day. Once again, the exhibits are the key, and for once, the NPS spared no expense in articulating a vision that isn’t a prisoner to musty, dated materials. Just as important, the site’s displays demonstrate that this is no simple matter of equality for blacks alone. Certainly, the United States has a specific history in how it has treated African Americans, but the ultimate legacy of Brown is that injustice for one is injustice for all. Last, there is the “Expressions and Reflections” area, housed in a former kindergarten classroom. Visitors can, in the words of the exhibit map, “share their experience by recording a 30-second message, forming comments with select words on a board, or by electronically entering comments into several interactive displays.” Many works by children are on display here, an important factor to be sure, given that bigotry only survives if it is taught. And while this stellar NHS is far from the last word, it is nonetheless a treasure; a moving testament to the work that is always far from complete.

FINAL RATING

9/10