And a calm settled on the land, sort of. After three days of apocalyptic gale-force winds, a wind in just single digits seems like a trifle of a breeze. Though it be comparatively slight, it still makes a difference whether it’s in my face or on my back. But at least when it is more of a pest than a pestilence, I can pay it no mind, freeing my thought to roam where it may into the realm of the good and well.
Some speak of going off on a long tour to “find” themself. I well know who I am and what makes me tick. I don’t need to find myself. Rather I go off to “lose” myself, to let my thought drift from the present and forget about all the front page news and chew on the cud of past tours and glorying in all that the traveling life has to offer. As I heard one old-timer say to another the other day in a library, “The newspaper is full of stories of the horrible things that just happened to other people that I don’t want to know about.”
All day long my circling legs perform an act of unwinding, releasing whatever tension the trumped-up, media-inflamed travesties of current events may have wrought. Off on the bike I need not be preoccupied by worldly concerns and can take pleasure in the many amenities along the road, such as a gallery of vintage wind mills, “Sentinels of the Prairie,” that I came upon just past the small town of Jackson shortly after I’d crossed the Missouri River into Nebraska.
Each was accompanied by a plaque giving its fascinating history.
HIstorical plaques have been in abundance on this side of the Missouri as well. I’ve come upon more already in a day than I saw in a week in Iowa. Many relate to native Americans, but there are almost as many relating to the early settlers. I’ve encountered just one “Lewis and Clark camped here” plaque so far, but will doubtlessly come upon more. One on the Omaha Indians explained Omaha meant “those going against the wind or current.”
Wind has been the topic of the day for several days now. The day after the ferocious winds ended everyone I encountered asked how I’d handled the winds. A farmer who noticed me taking a break sitting and eating along the fence of one of his fields zipped over on his ATV to ask if I needed help. He said he could only work in his barn during the winds and wondered if I’d been waylaid as well.
He’d planted one of his fields in corn already and had his planting in his others delayed by the wind. He would have been doing it now, but he shares a tractor with a neighbor who had it this day. He said government officials come around and advise him on what to plant where, but he doesn’t much abide by their wishes, as they are all young and going by classroom, rather than hands-on, knowledge.
My final day in Iowa was packed with four Carnegies. Only the first in Odelt still served as a library. It had a large addition to its back. With the original entrance no longer in use the distinctive small wooden sign with “Free” on it over the door, that was once a calling-card, now goes largely unnoticed. The Carnegie portion of the library had become the children’s section and was thoroughly modernized denying me the pleasure of its original ambiance.
The Carnegie in Le Mars has been an art gallery for nearly fifty years. It retained the original arched wooden circulation desk and wooden floors. It was most spacious with just two walls inserted in the floor space for hanging art accompanying the actual walls where the shelves had been. Nothing on the building identified it as a library, other than its architecture and Carnegie’s initials “AC” at the peak of the building over the entrance.
Sioux City on the Missouri River was large enough for Carnegie to fund a main libary and a branch. The branch was quite small, but not without charm. It had been the quarters for the American Legion after its days as a library, but now is a residence.
The former huge main library also provided an opportunity for people to live in a historic Carnegie Library. It had been converted into twenty apartments in 1996. A librarian I spoke to at the new library just down the street didn’t know if any of its librarians resided there. I know where I’d be living if Sioux City were my home.
My first Carnegie in Nebraska on this trip was twenty-two miles up river in the small town of Ponca. When one turned off the main highway to enter the town, two blocks away on a slight rise sat its regal Carnegie where the street ended. It remained alive as a library and without an addition. It didn’t open until 12:30, and it was just 9:30. I was in need of groceries but the town had no grocery store or even a Dollar Store. It was forty miles before I came upon one.
I had to backtrack fifteen miles and then continue south for fifty-five miles to Tekamah passing through a Winnebago and an Omaha Indian reservation for the next Carnegie. It sat at the main intersection in the center of town and had an addition to its side more than doubling its size. A plaque beside the door to its now closed entry below “Carnegie Public Library” stated it had been placed on the Registery of National Historical Places.
All day long my circling legs perform an act of unwinding, releasing whatever tension the trumped-up, media-inflamed travesties of current events may have wrought. Off on the bike I need not be preoccupied by worldly concerns and can take pleasure in the many amenities along the road, such as a gallery of vintage wind mills, “Sentinels of the Prairie,” that I came upon just past the small town of Jackson shortly after I’d crossed the Missouri River into Nebraska.
He’d planted one of his fields in corn already and had his planting in his others delayed by the wind. He would have been doing it now, but he shares a tractor with a neighbor who had it this day. He said government officials come around and advise him on what to plant where, but he doesn’t much abide by their wishes, as they are all young and going by classroom, rather than hands-on, knowledge.
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