Smoke on the Water: Pipestone Nat'l Monument 5/24/14

When you’ve gone over a year since your last NPS indulgence, and that last brush with the familiar, comforting arrowhead logo was the almost comically uninteresting Chickasaw National Recreation Area, you’re begging for anything to once again ignite the fires of travel. By this point, you’re almost prepared to revisit a nearby site, damn the mediocrity, if only to keep the demons at bay. So, when the opportunity to spend four days and three nights on the road opened before you like a nubile young lady, you took it, regardless of the overall quality of the destination. At first, there was Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument near Silver City, New Mexico, but some smartass decided to start a fire in the Gila National Forest, so circumstances forced a more northerly route. That left but one practical option (unless, of course, you wanted to drive through Kansas yet again for a few non-NPS museums), and while but a single passport stamp, it was still an official punch of the old inkpad. It would have to do. Somehow, it was more than enough. We are nothing without the highways and bi-ways of this great land, and sitting at home over the Memorial Day weekend might have left us with yet another unexplained murder-suicide for the authorities. No, we would see Minnesota. Barely, truth be told, but we’d cross the border nonetheless. We would visit Pipestone National Monument.

Conveniently located in the town of Pipestone, Minnesota, Pipestone National Monument is, above all, a humble, yet powerfully important slice of the American past. And, because we wanted to see it on this fine day, it was (naturally) on fire. Well, not right at this moment, but the site had seen a prescribed burn within 24 hours of our visit, and that left much of the tallgrass prairie decidedly crisp. The burns have been going on for decades, and while restorative and necessary, they can put on a damper on a visit that is expected to be, well, free of ash and the smell of smoke. I mean, really? Our last big trip to Idaho back in 2012 was a hot mess of burning lungs and Beijing-style skies, and here we were again, two years later, and we can’t seem to find a spot in all of North America not consumed by flames. As we arrived at the main entrance, we didn’t quite know what to think, and we’re not simply talking about the conflagration. We’ll admit it: we expected remote, tucked, and off the grid, and here we were, achingly close to roads and homes and gas stations. Yes, the precious pipestone quarries are where they have been for millions of years – and it is our civilization that has built up around them – but once again, our expectations took a little hit. From now on, we’re going to expect every single NPS site – including the National Parks – to be crushed into oblivion by billboards, pollution, and deafening noise, if only to make us pleasantly surprised in a good way when they go against the grain.

 

Preserved as a National Monument since 1937, Pipestone protects sacred Native American land, both as an apology for past sins, as well as a gift for future generations. You see, Pipestone is where many of the Great Plains Indians – from Sioux to Crow, Blackfoot to Pawnee – acquired the precious material to make the instruments later called “peace pipes” by the white man. The site’s unigrid puts it most succinctly: “Carvers prized this durable yet relatively soft stone that ranged in color from mottled pink to brick red….This location came to be the preferred source of pipestone among Plains tribes.” Such pipes became central to “ceremonial smoking,” which might involve anything from preparation for war to ritual healing and dancing. And while the pipes could take on many shapes (effigies ran the gamut of human and animal forms), the most “popular” (or at least well-known) are the t-shaped calumets. Naturally, the historical record quickly turns to the perspective of the first non-Indian to set foot in the area, George Catlin. Being the egomaniac that was his lot as a condescending paleface, he renamed the pipestone Catlinite,  which has an expectedly silly ring. The subsequent eye-rolling was no doubt universal. The site doesn’t tell us what eventually happened to old George, but here’s hoping someone carved something a little more profane into his headstone. What’s Cheyenne for “asshole”? 

The site’s visitor center, alas, is a relic from another time, and it’s quite possible it dates back to the Monument’s original declaration. The displays range from glorified diorama to “let’s use a font out of style since the Truman years,” though they are redeemed somewhat by the presence of Native artists, who spend their time crafting truly remarkable pieces. As expected, only federally recognized tribal members are authorized to pull pipestone from the area, and the waiting list for digging permits currently runs about five years. That it remains an active site adds to its charm, and for once, the presence of workers in a National Monument doesn’t bring forth visions of dreaded energy exploration. This is their land, and it’s best that they continue to draw inspiration from it. And if they make a little money from their wares, so much the better. The way I figure it, we’ll have paid them back in another 435 years or so. It is the site’s film, however, where things really come together. Titled Pipestone: An Unbroken Legacy, the brief, yet informative documentary explores the meaning of the area (and the pipestone) by using the voices of those who matter, not the dry, academic opinions of outsiders. Populated by living, breathing members of various tribes, we come to see that this is not simply history, but an insight into a current (and complex) culture. As one person puts it: “As the cross and Bible are to you, the pipe is to us.” Well said, my good woman.

 

Out back, a ¾ mile Circle Trail leads visitors through the tallgrass (or at least what remained of it), pipestone quarries, and assorted rock formations. It’s important to remember that the pipestone is not easily captured, lying as it does beneath layers of tough quartzite. As such, the prize awaits only those willing to spend weeks, if not months, pounding away at the rock with sledge hammers and wedges. Despite the instruments, it is delicate work, as too furious a blow might damage the soft pipestone underneath. As the trail snakes through the rock, the sound of rushing water is heard. Soon, one is face to face with Winnewissa Falls. No, we’re not talking about Niagara here, but it is undeniably peaceful, and a pleasant contrast to the charred prairie that came before. Even better, the Falls mask the screams of the unsuspecting, as there are angry snapping turtles about, most of which dine exclusively on young flesh. At least that’s how I acted when I encountered one of the little buggers. Thankfully, several eagle-eyed visitors warned me as I was ambling up the stone steps, and I was able to run in the opposite direction with my tail between my legs. Otherwise, I might not be here to tell the tale. Fortunately, despite the site’s proximity to a town, the center of the Monument is devoid of distraction, and the walk remains a good-natured one, despite the smell of Uncle Joe’s campfire.

Pipestone National Monument isn’t really worth 1,400+ miles of driving all by itself, of course, but until you’re obsessed with passport stamps, you won’t really understand our plight. At the very least, we saw a new state (fine, only a few hundred yards of it) and here was a rare bird, indeed: a Native American site that did not involve a cliff dwelling or ruins. For that alone, we were happy to have a new perspective. There’s a great film, an easy walk, and nasty reptiles for all. And yes, above all, beautiful art; on display and in the mind’s eye. Indeed, NPS, we are glad to be back.

FINAL RATING

6/10

Side Dish: The Corn Palace 5/25/14

London. Paris. Rome. Mitchell. South Dakota, as if you had (or cared) to ask. The proud as a peacock home of a Prehistoric Indian Village that may or may not be as authentic as a ride at Disneyland. A prairie oasis of fat, fatter, and begging for a series on TLC. A windswept diversion off the interstate that inexplicably features a "George McGovern Legacy Museum" for the man who, to this day, remains the biggest loser in the history of presidential politics. Given these testaments to the forgotten and the damned, it stands to reason that, at the center of town, bursting at its corn-cobbed seams, is the real reason any red-blooded American crosses that city boundary: The World's Only Corn Palace. If its description reeks of self-importance, never you mind. It has earned it the hard way: daring to consume its city block much like the dutiful, gorging masses who've kept it a centerpiece of Roadside America since 1892. Fine, its lofty status wasn't even possible until the Eisenhower Interstate System, but you get the idea. If you're going to be more than a dying hamlet in flyover country, you'd better have a gimmick. A hook. A reason to stop the damn car other than dynamite beef jerky. For the Corn Palace, that reason is - wait for it - corn. Millions of ears over the years, fashioned into delightfully gawdy murals, messages, and patriotic banter. So what if it looks like it belongs in Moscow's Red Square.

Let's be clear: if you're a mover, a shaker, a doer, or anyone even remotely forward-thinking, the Corn Palace is bound to offend. There's an inherent silliness, of course, to its mere existence, but more than that, its continued survival challenges our very concept of progress. If it lives (and it does, if the teeming masses on this day are any indication), it is solely through attrition. That, and our capacity to preserve the very thing that is killing us softly on any given day. We've moved on, from iPhones to Twitter, yet the old-fashioned, garishly idiotic continues to challenge that sense of advancement. When we can communicate instantly with a loved one across the globe, why on earth would anyone be awed by 275,000 ears of corn, per the brochure, "sawed in half lengthwise and nailed to the building following patterns created by local artists"? Because, despite the blips and burps of technology, we remain a cartoonish people. And for that, I thank the very stars that mock us with their indifference. For if, one day in the not-too-distant future, we suddenly upped and burned our Corn Palaces to the ground, I'd leap upon the conflagration without a moment's hesitation or regret. Because, let's face it, the loss of the Corn Palace would not represent us moving on, only its pretense. And if the great monument at 604 N. Main Street symbolizes anything, it's the truth. Not partial, end-around truth, but the whole damn thing. I've said it before: there's more Americana in a singular roadside atrocity than a thousand well-scrubbed museums. And we're at our best when we come clean about it.

 

And what is that truth, you might ask? That if anything defines us, it's the need to be distracted at all costs. For a minute, for an hour; increasingly, for a lifetime. At one point, a place like the Corn Palace did the trick, but now that it's long passed the authenticity stage, pausing briefly at irony, only to double back to a post-ironic authenticity that approaches farce, it will take much more to keep us interested. Or will it? Why, after all, do so many come? Because the atlas tells us to? Because we want to feel superior to such blatant kitsch? Because this is the one and only time dad gets to make a decision while on vacation? All of the above, and more, though I suspect 9 in 10 couldn't provide a coherent answer. But one by one, as if on cue, we arrive, we stare, we snap photos, and without fail, buy cheap crap we couldn't possibly want or need when not seduced by the romance of the road. Take the t-shirt: who but a madman would wear such an admission of failure when not among the strangers of a distant locale? And what's really behind the drive to consume a corn-shaped sucker, massive popcorn ball, or a strip of venison jerky that could double as a meter stick? Perhaps, at the end of the day, we're paying the ultimate respect to high-fructose corn syrup, the very thing most responsible for our sagging frames and clogged arteries. Like tributes before a god.

So is that it, then? Staring at "corn art" and the waddling maniacs who spent a small fortune to share the stage? Perhaps, but the Corn Palace is more than mere eye candy. As a fully functional piece - a concert hall on one hand, a gymnasium on the other - it's Mitchell's social center, in addition to being the siren song for the big, blobby blur of roadside rubbish. Still not a believer? What if I told you that William Jennings Bryan gave a speech here during his 1900 presidential campaign? Or that Lawrence Welk brought his bubbles - not once, not twice, but thrice? And then there's Louie Anderson. And Kenny Rogers. Willie Nelson, Eddie Rabbit, Charlie Daniels, Weird Al Yankovic, and in August of this year, Pat Benatar. It's where the stars came (and come) to shine. For the locals, a place to graduate, play a ball game, or chat about hog futures. No mere relic gathering dust in the corner, the Corn Palace lives and breathes with the people themselves; a South Dakota marvel that happens to bring the country together like little else in the region. On this relatively quiet May afternoon, one can't help but summon the sights and sounds of one of these bigger Mitchell nights; a time when the trappings of farmer and grease monkey alike yield to the more unifying, clarion call of cheesy goodness. As it should be. 

Side Dish: Oklahoma City Nat'l Memorial & Museum 4/30/13

On April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh, shocking to the American psyche in that he violated the expected norm by being white and non-Muslim, parked his Ryder truck bomb in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, walked away, and heartlessly watched as 168 men, women, and children were senselessly murdered in the worst act of domestic terrorism until 9/11. Citing revenge for Waco, creeping government power, or any number of idiotic right-wing excuses that passed for explanation at the time, McVeigh was swiftly caught, tried, and executed in 2001. And while his insignificance as a human being has long passed from the earth, his act - still a fresh wound for so many - continues to resonate in Oklahoma City. It's tempting to say the bombing hasn't come to define the city, but there's no escaping its centrality to the area. Sure, the arrival of the NBA's Thunder and revival of Bricktown have done much to prove a genuine resilience, but above all, this is the prairie metropolis where violence came calling in an unprecedented fashion. Fortunately, in the spirit of both historical accuracy and emotional heft, the Memorial and Museum will stand in the place of bloodshed, minimizing nothing, but ensuring that when all is said and done, the victims retain a center stage in our national memory.

So why a side dish and not a full NPS review? True, the NPS participates in the site's continuing relevance, but while rangers man the memorial component, the museum remains in private hands (Oklahoma City National Memorial Foundation). And while instinct tends to favor the Park Service's backing, this is one site where the experience is utterly seamless. In fact, the cooperation makes sense, given the federal worker/civilian nature of those who died. It was an attack on the government, yes, but all of Oklahoma City suffered, and why not a partnership going forward? So yes, it's an "affiliated" site, per the official record, and not counted as a full member of the family. Regardless, it just happens to be the gold standard for all memorials, and stands toe to toe with any NPS site in the country. And though natural beauty is studiously avoided, the power the site generates can never be denied. From the 168 memorial chairs, stunning in their simplicity, to the Gates of Time that chronicle a city just before and after the attack (bookending a Reflecting Pool that was once NW Fifth Street), designers Hans and Torrey Butzer have emphasized clean, unadorned consideration. The site asks that you bring your own understanding of the event, pushing little save the idea that at bottom, where a building once stood, only memory remains. It's a graveyard, crime scene, and confessional all at once; a spot where we come to interrogate our own capacity for incivility.

And while the Memorial itself is flawlessly realized and beautifully understated, it is the Museum that truly resonates. If all one asks is to understand - a crucial element for those not alive at the time of the bombing - then OKC has performed brilliantly, providing a learning center so exhaustive and exhausting that it's impossible to imagine what could be improved. The exhibit begins on the 3rd level of the Museum (housed in the former Journal Record Building), establishing a brief background on terrorism. It's not meant to be the final word on the subject, but it's a necessary foundation for what's to come. In addition, visitors can inspect numerous panels and displays about the history of the Murrah Building, if only to see how vulnerable it was to just this sort of attack. But it's the next room where the sadness begins, where we sit in the darkness listening to the official recording of an Oklahoma Water Resources Board meeting that started at 9am just across the street from the Murrah Building. As it plays - and knowing it only lasts two excruciating minutes - we wait in dread for the hammer to fall. As it does, and the revolting noise that represents the loss of so many innocent lives ends tedium with tragedy, the faces of all 168 victims appear before us. It's indescribably powerful, and just the thing we need before heading into the rest of the site. We're shocked, disoriented, and a little numb, and it's only just begun.

The doors open, appropriately enough, on chapters labeled "Confusion" and "Chaos." The images and sounds of the first few minutes surround us, and above all, we are immersed in utter crisis. Was this a gas leak? A deliberate attack? News reports pull us in one direction, while blasted debris and the overall human toll pull us in another. We see the smoke, fire, and blood of that morning, and are quickly thrust into the stories of those lucky enough to make it out alive. Video documents, display cases, and touch-screen computers all compete for our attention, and it's impossible to sort through it all in a single visit. Which is as it should be. A disaster - any disaster, but certainly one caused by human hands - is never a simple story from A to Z. There are starts and finishes, detours and defeats, and the Museum's opening barrage never lets up or allows us to detach. This is the very stench of death before us, and the sheer magnitude of it all leaves of reeling, as if begging for air.

The next "chapters" involve World Reaction (more media footage and breaking news items), Rescue and Recovery, and Watching and Waiting. For anyone who experienced the event as it happened, there will be a sense of the familiar, from the retrieval of victims to the grim faces of rescue teams, but it's further part of the Museum's journey to leave no stone unturned. This is not the future's dry objectivity, but an event as it unfolds, allowing visitors to live the crisis as they did so many years ago. As it continues, the evidence starts to filter in, and we see a larger case take hold - that of a criminal conspiracy. The 2nd level fleshes out the case - arrests, evidence, and investigation - but first, there's the Gallery of Honor, where the families of the dead have chosen photographs and mementos to stand evermore as reminders of the human cost. More interactive computers provide nuance and fullness, though it's the presence of so many toys and stuffed animals (19 children were killed) that hits so hard. Pause and consider the dead, yes, but also weigh the inescapable fact: McVeigh, having visited the building before during the planning stage, knew he'd be parking his bomb right next to a daycare center. Hopefully, the sadness will then yield to anger and depression, as we must live with the knowledge that such men walk among us, completely devoid of conscience or empathy.

The 2nd level ends at "Hope," though it's all but impossible to feel any whatsoever after the overall experience. This is mankind at its worst and most destructive, and all I could feel at visit's end was a sense of waste. An angry man, bereft of joy and a future, murdered 168 strangers out of the demented belief that someone had to pay for, well, something. The frustrated loser, the loner without attachment, inflicted pain in order to escape his own. It's the story of untold savagery throughout our history, and too often we yield to its desires. The most telling detail, at least for me, remained the report that as survivors were being pulled from the rubble that afternoon, major thunderstorms blew through the area, bringing a torrent of further pain onto an already devastated community. Salt on a wound. Insult to injury. And that's what I'm left with, an indifferent universe carrying on despite our all-too-human woes, usually self-inflicted. No god to comfort us, no order to make sense of our plight. Just a hard rain to kick us while we're down. It's the only reasonable way to leave the OKC Memorial & Museum, after all. And kudos to all involved for understanding that. There are the dead, what they've left us, and above all, their permanent absence from our lives.

Border Wars: Fort Scott Nat'l Historic Site 4/29/13

There's always a certain level of sadness whenever one clears a state of its NPS passport stamps. For some, like South Dakota or Arizona, it means having no compelling reason to go back, unless of course the Cales can figure out how to have fun without feeding our unhinged obsession. But with hundreds of sites left to visit, it's hard to defend retracing our steps when so many new lands beckon our weary bodies. When it comes to Kansas, however, there are few regrets. Sure, we've come to understand that the eastern region of the state is infinitely more appealing than the western half, but not even Topeka or Manhattan are enough to foster genuine fondness. The Sunflower State, it pains us to admit, is the kind if place one drives through to get somewhere else, and while it might again feel our footsteps, we don't have to actually stop. It's over, baby, and we can at last put its mediocrity to bed. Predictably, the whole thing meets its expected end at a fort, the sort of place that has the capacity to educate and entertain, but has its work cut out for it once a person has already seen a good dozen of them. Not that all forts are built the same, mind you, but on the plains, one is as good (or bad) as any other. Men stayed, men marched, and horses shat. About the only difference remains whether the soldiers killed Indians or protected supplies. Often they did both.

Fort Scott National Historic Site, conveniently located in the quaint border town of Fort Scott, KS, was established in 1842 as "one of a line of forts from Minnesota to Louisiana that helped to enforce the promise of a permanent Indian frontier." Long story short, the U.S. government needed outposts west of the Mississippi to ensure that Ma and Pa Kettle could reasonably expect to live, scalps intact. Named for General Winfield Scott (who had not yet run for president), the fort was designed by Captain Thomas Swords to serve as a "crack post of the frontier," which was his way of saying that eastern values were expected to reign, even in the lonely west. As such, an emphasis was placed on architecture and quality, as both were often neglected on the "impermanent" prairie. And while most of the buildings on display are reconstructions, historical photos demonstrate a sound fidelity to the original design. Few forts were luxurious, of course, but for the time, this might not have been a bad place to bed down for the night.

After getting the stamp at the visitor center (which was the fort's hospital), one walks next door to the true centerpiece of the site, the Infantry Barracks. Originally built in 1844, it later served as the Western Hotel once the site was closed and its contents auctioned to the public in 1855. But lest one think the hotel was some 19th century Holiday Inn, the building was itself a line in the sand, a way to distinguish itself as a pro-slavery haven in a town increasingly on the side of savagery. With free-staters roaming the countryside around the town of Fort Scott, the hotel witnessed numerous clashes, including the 1858 attack by abolitionist James Montgomery, who tried to burn the hotel to the ground. While Fort Scott was hardly the focus of the border battles involving ruffians and the like, it did serve to enhance the site's historical importance for later generations. In that sense, it's a lasting symbol of the pre-war period, proving that frontier violence was often more than bank robbers and notorious outlaws. Kansas bled, and often for the most insidious of causes.

The current building now houses a reasonably insightful museum, as well as one of the better films we've encountered. Through reenactments and sharp narration, the film deals head-on with the slavery crisis of the fort's later years, emphasizing difficult issues in their proper context. Too many forts simply want to recreate "the life" (more hardtack than hard truth), but Fort Scott NHS understands the obligation to actual history. As the walk continues, one encounters the Dragoon Stables (later serving as a Civil War storehouse), Dragoon Barracks, Post Headquarters, and Officers' Quarters (later the Fort Scott Hotel). These buildings served their expected purpose from 1842-1853, though the Dragoon Barracks became a land office and courtroom during the Bleeding Kansas years. It's an easy, relaxed journey, especially given our perfect weather day.

Behind the buildings is a restored Tallgrass Prairie loop trail, which remained unexplored by us due to last year's bitter experience with the actual Tallgrass Prairie NPS site. We still grind our teeth over the lazy ass rangers who denied us a bus tour. From there, one can see a Quartermaster Storehouse, Bake House, and Powder Magazine. Sure, most of the site is less the original source of history than a "feeder" for other, greater events and conflicts (infantry and dragoons left Fort Scott to fight in the war with Mexico), but not all worthy designations need have felt the sting of actual battle. There's a strong sense of place at Fort Scott, and despite being set in the center of a living town, it does a reasonable job of blocking out modern intrusions. As history's "witness," the site - through the usual combination of local pride, boosterism, and federal dollars - became part of the NPS family in 1978. And while it isn't necessarily worth a long drive all on its own, it's a vital part of any reflection on the region's often controversial past.

FINAL RATING

6/10

Mr. Peanut: George Washington Carver Nat'l Monument 4/29/13

When I was growing up, what I knew about George Washington Carver began and ended with Saturday Night Live. The information, such as it was, came via Eddie Murphy and the "Black History Minute," which was hosted by his Shabazz K. Morton character, an exaggerated "angry black man" with sunglasses and faux African trappings to match. Beginning his mini-lecture with the aside that Mr. Carver, while conducting research at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama, came up with "hundreds of industrial uses for the peanut," Morton soon turned sullen and angry, blasting the white man - a pair predictably named Edward "Skippy" Williamson and Frederick "Jif" Armstrong - for stealing Carver's peanut butter recipes. While whitey was making the expected millions from the theft, Shabazz notes, "Dr. Carver died penniless and insane, still trying to play a phonograph record with a peanut." And that was it. I never thought of Carver again, forever associating him with peanuts and little else. I knew he was a well-respected scientist at a time when segregation and discrimination were at their peak, but beyond the peanut image, little remained to define the man or the myth.

Swing forward thirty years and not only have I come to pay my respects at the George Washington Carver National Monument, I've driven a great distance to do so. Tucked away in the southwestern corner of Missouri near the tornado-ravaged town of Joplin, the Carver site is truly a relic from another time, greeting adults and school children alike with images and words that likely mean little at this late date. Carver, once revered and idolized as a man ahead of his time, is now largely forgotten, and few today could muster the energy to defend a National Monument in his honor. In July 1943, mere months after his death, Congress designated the spot including his Missouri birthplace, the first NPS unit to honor an African American scientist, educator, and humanitarian. No one could argue Carver's credentials as a thinker, but as the site tells us, it was also very desirable for the country to memorialize a man dedicated to peace and progress at a time of global war. Then and now, Carver was a blissful contrast to the hate and bloodshed dominating the globe. Humble and respectful, decent and true, Carver believed a day without learning was a day wasted, a much-needed lesson for today's largely bankrupt and illiterate youth.

That said, Carver was, at bottom, a religious man. No, seriously. A deeply religious man. Perhaps the most religious man we've ever encountered. I mean, this guy really, really, really loves God. And it's everywhere, from posted scripture to the site's film, which, while educational, is akin to eating your spinach from a church pew. Carver, according to the film, was a man of strong values, a deep commitment to hard work, and, lest we forget, the power of the Almighty. If he did it, it was to honor God. In fact, as the unigrid tells us, "Carver was motivated by his love for all creation...For him, every life was a window on God and a mouthpiece through which the Great Creator spoke." As such, a man is to help others, pray, help some more, and round things out with more prayer. As atheists, my wife and I were horrified at every turn, but we also understood that to fail to mention his devotion would have been false to the Carver legacy. It's like having an Eisenhower museum without mentioning World War II. And hey, we may find the idea of a creator speaking to some wee ex-slave from the Show Me State a bit creepy and presumptuous, but we're here to assess the presentation, not judge the man for failing to be an unfeeling heathen like ourselves. Perhaps we're just a little stunned that anyone made of flesh and blood could be so compassionate and ego-free. Still, I'll bet a quarter even sweet little GW railed from time to time, regretting every last minute that damned peanut first crossed his path.

The monument's visitor center is a triumph of education and fun, establishing context and a reasonable justification for the man's celebration. We learn of Carver's birth, troubled youth (his mother was kidnapped and never found), and frail health. We are also given an insight into his early inspirations in the surrounding woods, where George came to love flowers and assorted creatures. Quickly, Carver earned the nickname "The Plant Doctor," and eventually left the area for good in 1875. It seems odd, then, to have as the monument site a place where he spent, compartively speaking, very little time (and he's buried in Alabama, not here), but the man he became is based so much on these formative years, even if he spoke little of the pain and adversity he faced as a child of slavery. Carver's journey beyond Missouri included college life in Iowa, where he earned a Master's Degree in Agriculture in 1896. From there, after an invite from Booker T. Washington himself, he was off to Tuskegee, where he firmly established his legacy as an inventor and scientific pioneer. Among other things, he revolutionized farming methods, fashioned unique therapies, and created dyes that impacted numerous fields. He was a true man for all seasons at a time when few black men even dared apply for higher education.

After reading the VC's panels and interactive exhibits (and seeing George's violin and bed), it's important to check out the laboratory and classroom, both of which appeal directly to inquisitive young people - at least the few not lost to cell phones and mental inertia. For once, kids can touch, poke, and investigate, and no one cares that you make a mess. All told, Carver would be happy at the result. Most curious, though, is the exhibit featuring snippets from a Carver lecture given late in his life. Putting on the headphones, I was soon shocked to my core by the voice I heard. To say Carver sounded like a woman is to minimize things by a great degree, and I still can't believe someone wasn't putting me on. Sure, Carver was slight and grandfatherly, even as a middle-age man, but who knew he was grandmotherly as well? Peppered throughout the rooms are more quotes, great images, and even Carver's artwork. It's a thorough presentation, and given the subject, they should be applauded for getting it right.

From the VC, head to the Carver Trail, which is a well-paved, fairly easy mile-long stroll through some peaceful, genuinely beautiful woodlands. You encounter the birthplace site, a Boy Carver statue, the Williams Pond, and a reconstructed 1881 Moses Carver house. Fortunately for us, the weather was perfect, with a cool breeze to temper the heat. It was a perfect way to spend the afternoon, and it's easy to see why Carver was so at home here. Not that we'd live here among the bugs and snakes, mind you. After passing by the house, there's a final stretch towards the family cemetery, which features the graves of Moses and Susan Carver. It might strike you as odd that you are being asked to oberve silence at the feet of those who owned Carver's mother, but that's another debate altogether. Slavery's injustices and inhumanities are present at the monument - how could they not be, given the area is so near to Bleeding Kansas - but they are not the central tale, largely because of what George later achieved. He'd be the first to avoid any hint of victimhood, and in so many ways, the Carver NM should be a must-see destination for conservatives and right-wing Christians alike. Not surprisingly, the infamous Duggar brood - all 35 of them, or however many there are now - centered a recent show on a family visit. Jim Bob, dolt that he is, ignored all of the scientific endeavor of course, all but having an orgasm in the face of so much God talk.

So while we often felt like whores in church during our visit, and weren't immune from mocking the man's peanut oil massages as "cures" for polio, we both thoroughly enjoyed the Carver site from top to bottom. Sure, the film is badly in need of an update (it's at least 35-40 years old) and things err on the side of sainthood now and again, but one can't say we didn't learn something about this most unique American man. Even if he did sound like a eunuch.

FINAL RATING

7/10