Sparta, Michigan

 

Halfway between the Carnegies in Cadillac and Sparta I took a small detour to pass through the long-forgotten town of Idlewild, the largest resort town in the US for African-Americans for fifty years until the Civil Rights Act of 1964 ended segregation and freed blacks from around  the country from having to make the effort to get to this out-of-the-way cluster of small lakes in the northern forests of Michigan.  

This once thriving town, founded in 1912 and comprised solely of black-owned businesses, has become a virtual ghost town.  I had this once “Black Eden” virtually to myself as I biked it’s network of residential streets, many unpaved.  There was no one to be seen other than an occasional Black out on foot.  There wasn’t an open store.  The relatively new museum (Historical and Cultural Center) on the outskirts of the town had a sign saying “Closed for the Summer.”  It at least provided a detailed map of the town.

One could tell what homes were presently inhabited by the Biden signs out front.  No Trump signs here. I could thank Jeff H. of Chicago’s “Reader” for suggesting a visit if I was nearby, as I had never heard of it.  Nor had Janina or even Rick, who knows Michigan like the back of his hand.  

It was an otherworldly experience cycling around this largely abandoned town reflecting on its past, that such a place was necessary, but also that it was a place of pride for those who built it and the thousands who had a joyous time there romping in the cool waters of the lakes and horseback riding in the woods and letting it all hang out in the clubs at night and glorying in the floor shows that rivaled anything Las Vegas could offer. 

Plaques scattered about town in front of various buildings and on a walking tour around the largest of the lakes expanded upon its past and what a draw it was for black entertainers including Aretha Franklin, The Four Tops, Sammy Davis Jr.and Louis Armstrong.  Their performances attracted large crowds of blacks and whites, who sat side-by-side.  An Idlewild Review toured the country during the off-season, spreading the word of the resort.

It is still Edenesque, more forest than town with lovely lakes and beaches and dozens of cabins waiting to be renovated.  The most modern complex of buildings is a retirement home, presumably the largest employer in the town.

Jeff also recommended the Hartwick Pines State Park twenty-five miles south of Gaylord, noted for patches of old growth trees.  It was another exemplary experience cycling through its majestic forest of trees.  If a hurricane force wind happened to come through, there might be a neckerchief to be found around it’s entry.

It was a good day’s ride through mostly forested terrain to Cadillac, another town nestled around a cluster of lakes. It’d been three days since I’d coseyed up to a Carnegie.  It was nice to once again feel that surge of pleasure at its first sight, even though this one had let itself go.  It was in desperate need of a make-over.  It had been replaced in 1969 and its next tenant, the police department, had done little to maintain it during its eight years residence.  The biggest travesty was letting the steps to the entry deteriorate and rather than fixing them wiping them out so one wouldn’t have to walk up steps to get into the building.  The entry had been replaced by a window, greatly undermining the beauty and integrity of the building.

It’s been a historical museum since the police left, without the funds to return it to its former glory.  It’s dome is its most notable feature, so much so that the museum’s slogan is “Your history under the dome.”  It had recently been repaired and repainted, unlike the pair of columns flanking the original entrance.  They are badly in need of being painted, as rust is showing through.  

The standard Carnegie portrait greets those mounting the steps to the museum entrance.  It had been amended by a feminist faction with a tiny clipping of a photo of his wife, who he married later in life at the age of fifty-one in 1887 four years after his library-giving began.  She was twenty-one years younger and outlived him by twenty-seven years, dying in 1946.

The following day a couple hours after my time in Idlewild I stopped at a Dollar Store to restock my ramen and take advantage of its electric outlet and WiFi.  With a temperature of 60 I had the rare opportunity to sit outside and eat a peanut butter sandwich while checking my email and the football scores.  And it gave someone an opportunity to make me a charity case, even though the discerning eye would have realized my attire of tights and long-sleeved Garmin winter-jersey, a hand-me-down from Christian Vande Velde, defined me as something other than an indigent with no place to live. 

It wasn’t long before an SUV pulled up in front of me and a kindly lady, after rummaging around in her glove compartment, got out and  approached me with a small cloth pouch.  At first I thought she was offering me a handmade mask, as it had a couple of strings to draw it closed.  But no, it was a bag with about a pound of coins in it—11 quarters, 42 dimes, 19 nickels and 86 pennies, many corroded as if they’d been confined to the bag for quite some time. It wasn’t as much as a similar stash a guy gave me in Ohio earlier this summer, but still a tidy sum, well more than a day’s expenses. Five minutes later she reappeared with two bags of groceries saying “God bless you.”  

They contained two bags of trail mix, beef jerky, cheese sticks, two mini-apple pies and two bottles of water.  I had to struggle to make room for it, as the day before in Cadillac I scored big at an Aldis, just the third I had come upon in this trip.  I harvested four one-pound containers of soup (three chicken-noodle and one tomato), a bag of Halloween candy and a dozen packages of fudge peanut butter clusters.  I could have gotten a year’s worth of the clusters, but that’s all I had space for. The clusters were premium fuel, each in the packs of six provided one hundred calories, just fifty calories less than the chicken noodle soup.  I was sorry there was only one tomato soup, as it contained four hundred calories. The bag of Halloween candy contained an assortment of mini-Snickers  and Milky Ways and bags of M&Ms.

I had a similar bonanza  at the first Aldis I came upon in Owosso.  It offered up several dozen one-pound bags of a deluxe chocolate-coconut granola.  I only took five,  some of which I still have, along with a pound of Colby cheese, four bananas and two quarts of pineapple juice.  The one time I had loads of capacity was at the Gaylord Aldis when I was visiting Rick, but the dumpster had just been emptied.  I had been hoping to come back to Rick’s place with a week’s worth of food for him and Jeanie, as I regularly do for Janina and I.

Twenty miles before Sparta I said hello once again to the Carnegie in Newaygo, which I had visited two years ago when Janina and I were driving up to Traverse City for Michael Moore’s film festival. It had had no more additions than the several it had already had to its back and sides.

The Carnegie in Sparta also had had a significant addition to its side and rear, but its original building retained its regal splendor.  The building didn’t have Carnegie on it, but a sign out front identified it as a Carnegie.

It had greatly reduced hours, not opening up until one on Mondays and Wednesdays and open only four days of the week, so I had to sit outside to use its WiFi and drain my battery.  Hopefully I’ll be able to gain entry to the next Carnegie in Portland, north of Battle Creek, and good ‘ol Kirk from Facets.