Two by Two in a Big Skidoo

The sign above the door says "Noah's Ark."

"Do you want me to turn those on for you?" asks another Allen County Museum docent, sneaking up behind me.  I try to politely decline, but she's not having any of that.  "It doesn't take hardly anything," she says, barreling past me into the small room. 

Four big wooden cabinets, one pressed against each wall, each with a brass plate carved with the name "J. E. Grosjean" screwed to the top.  No one seems to know much about Mr. Grosjean, or why he devoted so much time to collecting and stuffing the animals crammed into these display cases.  He was an undertaker, once, according to the newspaper clipping hanging next to the door.  An embalmer.  Perhaps he just loved dead things.

"We don't turn that one on anymore," says the docent, pointing to the display closest to the door.  It's full of stuffed birds, all with the same fixed glassy expression, tied to a ferris wheel.  "The feathers are too dry," she explains, "so the movement does too much damage.  But this one works just fine!"  And she pushes a button on the back side of the case marked "Special Albino Collection."

The old cabinet rumbles to life, and so do the animals inside.  Sort of.  A handful of birds spin on a turn-table, and the pink eyes of a white badger moves closer to the glass as the animal darts in and out of its burrow.  The docent makes sure I notice the little bird's nest at the bottom of the display.  "See how it opens?" I do.  "There are little baby birdies inside."  There are.  

(She calls it a nest.  It's actually a human skull, allegedly from Cuba.  I wonder if she knew that.)

After a minute of watching the animals jerk about inside their case, the docent cuts the power, and bustles over to the display titled "Noah's Ark."  "This one lasts about seven minutes," she says, hand disappearing behind the cabinet.  "I'll just turn it on, and you can watch," and she disappears as the motor gurgles to life.  

What happens is a display of first-rate 1901 electric technology, supplemented by a static-filled soundtrack added during a 1966 restoration.  The ark rests on a pile of dirt, twisted vermin carcasses, and snake skins, helpfully identified as "Showing Everything Dead and Destroyed After Deluge."  Little light bulbs flash, and the Voice in the Box pops and hisses the story of Noah and the Ark.  A little set of doors opens on the ark, and out flies a raven, up and up, disappearing behind hand-painted rain clouds.  More lights, more reedy thunder.  A second set of doors opens, and here comes the dove, twig already in beak.  It flies out to the far side of the display, then turns around and flies back into the ark, doors closing behind it.  The big doors of the ark open, and out come the survivors.  In the first row, pairs of carved human figures and stuffed toy animals, like elephants, horses, and lions.  The second row is real stuffed birds, walking two by two.  Together, they all march behind Mount Ararat, where a stone tablet carved with Bible verses swings away to reveal Noah and his family burning a sacrificial lamb.  One last round of flashing lights, and the crackling music tries desperately to sound inspirational, and the whole things hiccups to a stop.  That was weird.  That was wonderful. 

The last case isn't wired.  The card at the bottom of the display reads "This Case Contains Specimens Soon To Be Extinct."  The display was created little over a century ago, but the contents may surprise you.  A number of animals have gone extinct in that time, but more than half of the animals in this case are still around.  Certainly the Duck-Billed Platypus, of which there are two, mounted near the bottom and almost looking over their shoulders at visitors.  Neither is the African Hornbill, nor the Andean Condor, though the latter is still considered 'near threatened.'  Only the lone Ivory-Billed Woodpecker is critically threatened, though not officially extinct, so at least Mr. Grosjean got one right.  

A group of teenagers come in (with the docent, naturally), and since the room is barely big enough to hold just me, I make a hasty exit.  Though I can't help the feeling I'm being watched while I leave.

I got this tip from Roadside America.  Things Swallowed! it said.  Death Masks! it said.  Taxidermy! it said.  It didn't come right out and say it, but it heavily implied that the Allen County Museum might be a Things in Jars museum, which, of all the museums, might be my favorite kind.  All of that weird stuff right at my fingertips, and all it takes is the short drive up to Lima, Ohio (yes, Glee fans, it does exist!).

The Allen County Museum is a museum of gifts.  Every artifact comes with it's own little placard, finished with the words 'Donated By,' or 'Gift From.'  I wonder how long some of these pieces were left in Lima attics, gathering dust while the family puttered around below thinking, "Oh, we can't just throw Grandpa's gramophone away.  It's practically historic!"  Did the artifacts demand a museum of their own?  Or did the museum send out the call for Lima's near forgotten relics?  

19th Century Homestead says the sign on the wall in the first big room.  The big display of an 1800's kitchen dominates the room, and really makes a show of how much the kitchen was the woman's space.  There's a spinning wheel next to the fireplace, far enough away that the wool won't catch the embers, but close enough that the prairie mother can still be productive when she's doing something as trivial as making dinner. 

I get a bit waylaid by a display case full of 19th century cutlery.  Some of the pieces look very familiar (you'll be happy to know that forks, knives, and pie crimpers have remained unchanged by time) while others sound familiar, but look much different than expected (the nut cracker looks...problematic, while the baby bottle looks a bit like a dalek).  Still more look charmingly archaic.  Who uses a butter mold, anyway? 

At the end of the case is a collection of tiny little irons, matching with tiny little dresses, and a tiny little washboard propped up in the corner, all perfect for tiny little girls who need to learn how to be tiny little homebodies.  

A docent corners me next to the covered wagon.  He's just itching to tell me all about it, and that pack of children that just went racing through the exhibit aren't likely to listen, so I let him.  He rests an elbow on one of the wagon's big wheels and describes a family pushing everything they owned into the wagon, then walking along beside it.  "No riders on the covered wagons," he says with a grin, then wanders away.  I never quite know what to think about docents.  Do they just have incredible amounts of knowledge tucked away in the corners of their brains, or do they collect informational odds and ends and then wait to spring it on unsuspecting visitors, whether they want to hear it or not?  Watching the docent hover by the covered wagon with an eye trained a young couple that's just wandered into the room, I suspect it might be the latter.

A line of Burma Shave signs hung from the ceiling draws me in to the next room.  

Dear Lover Boy

Your Picture Came

But Your Doggone Beard

Won't Fit the Frame!

Burma Shave

There's a big, horse-drawn hearse in the next room, and I can just see the glass eyes of stuffed birds peeking around the corner.  This might just get interesting.

No pictures in the museum, I'm afraid, but come back all this week to learn about Noah's Ark, John Dillinger, Mt. Vernon, and the rest of the Allen County Museum.   

Tongolo 3/Galema

Tongolo, Uganda.  Fall 2009.

Elizabeth says we need to go up the mountain to Galema before we go back home.  The wife of the village's LC has a lump on her leg that he wants Elizabeth to look at.  There's really nothing she can do if it's anything more than a bruised bump, but the people here trust her.  If she tells them to go down to the doctors at the aid station, they will.  

She says it's an hour walk from Tongolo to Galema, and Elizabeth is fully prepared to hike up the mountain.  The rest of us, less so.  Malia is sound asleep in her baby sling across Judy's back - I wish I were that small.  It's late in the afternoon, but the sun is still high enough to burn mercilessly.  It sounds silly to say so; It's Africa, I knew it would be hot, but I never thought it would be so relentless.  I've got a hat and plenty of sunscreen, and I can still feel the skin on my nose burning pink.

Lillian reminds Elizabeth that we have to walk past the car to get to the path to Galema, and we do have a baby with us, after all.  Elizabeth wants to resist, I can see in her eyes she doesn't want to drive up the mountain.  I don't say anything.  None of us do - we are very obviously not complaining in this battle of the wills, and if Judy points the baby in Elizabeth's direction, it's totally coincidental.  

Five minutes into the drive up the mountain, I can see why Elizabeth wanted to walk.  I can't say definitively that this is the worst road in Uganda, but it is without a doubt the worst road I've ever been on.  The dirt has almost completely eroded away, leaving deep crevasses on either side.  The bit of drivable road left is only just barely wide enough for the car - in most places we're driving half on the road, half in the crevasse, with both hands pressed against the ceiling, trying to keep our balance, wincing when a big bump knocks our elbows together. 

At the top of the hill, Elizabeth and Lillian cheerfully greet the LC, then disappear into his home to examine his wife, leaving Judy and I to stand by the car and admire the view.  Lake Victoria rests at the bottom of the mountain, the Victoria Nile stretching out like an arm into the horizon.  Children from around the village who came running at the sound of the car stop short when they see us - we are clearly not who they expected.  Some of them run away when I wave, the others just stare.  Not in a hostile way, but not in a purely curious way, either.  I try not to stare back, but I know that I am.

When Elizabeth emerges from the hut with Lillian and the LC she is smiling, but it's tight across her face, and I can tell she doesn't mean it.  The lump must be more than your average bruise.  The children flock to her with their hands outstretched, crying "Sweetie!  Sweetie!"  Elizabeth shoos them away, finally turning out her empty pockets to prove she hasn't brought any candy, and she becomes infinitely less interesting in their eyes.  Though they do still crowd around the car to hang off the doors when we're all ready to leave, and won't let go until she leans on the horn.  They run off, delighted.    

If I thought driving up the mountain was stressful, sending the car back down half-cocked with gravity pushing us faster should have killed me.  Driving out of the village is like a sigh.  We roll the windows down to let the air run through us, cooling the sweat on our skin.  The sun won't set for another three hours, but all I want to is crawl into bed and sleep for days.  Gently, though; I'm lucky to be unburned, but I'm still pretty pink around the edges enough to know that tonight will be an uncomfortable one.  

We still wave at the children who run along beside the car, but our smiles are tired and our hands are heavy.  The happy cries of "Mzungu!  Bye!" follow us all the way back to town.

Post Script:  Two days ago, after several long, uncertain months full of suddenly appearing family members, lost money, and disappearing judges, Judy contacted all of us with the news that she was officially Malia's legal guardian!  She hopes to return to America soon, where she will be able to complete the adoption process.

Tongolo, Part Two

The meeting happens without me.  I'm not bothered - it's not really my meeting, anyway.  Malia sits in my lap and eats roasted corn off the cob while Judy, Elizabeth, and Lillian present their case to the chief.  They have to prove that Malia is better in Judy's care before the chief will agree to help them, and while they've brought a "before" picture, but it's not the definitive proof they were hoping it would be.  The little girl in my lap does not look at all like the little girl in the photograph.  That girl's little shoulders are hunched from scoliosis, and her little belly is distended from hunger, and her skin is drawn tight across her bones.  The girl in my lap has a straight back, and her little belly sticks out because it's full of food, and her arms and legs are the opposite of stick-thin.  The chief points to the girl in the picture and says, "How do I know that this is not a picture of some other child?"  But when Judy points to the matching scars, he says, "I will sign your papers."

There are other signatures needed, signatures only a chief can get, so we leave the meeting with the chief's cell phone number and a promise to return next week.

Elizabeth tells us that we must go to Tongolo B - there is a woman there with a sick son, and while Elizabeth is no doctor, she knows enough about various symptoms to advise.  She says it'll be a bit of a trek.  I'm glad I wore good shoes.  I wish I had brought more sunscreen.

We have to cross a stream to get to Tongolo B.  A small group of boys are there filling up their jerrycans, and they wave at us as we go by.  They end up behind us, laughing with each other in Lugandan.  I turn to the boy behind me.

"May I take your picture?"  He sets down his jerrycan and smiles brightly.

I turn my camera around to show him, and the boys all gather to see how good he looks in pictures.  

When we reach Tongolo B, a woman comes running out of her hut, waving excitedly.  She wants to show Elizabeth the squash she's grown.  It's a large squash, and she's proud of it, but a bit confused as well - she's never seen a squash before, and doesn't know what to do with it.  She tries to gift it to Elizabeth, who refuses.  "You can sell it to me, if you want," she tells the woman, "but I'm going to give it back to you."  Both women seem satisfied with that.

"I keep telling them to not give me their food," she says when we start walking again.  "They might be ignoring me."

The boy in Tongolo B has Malaria.  Elizabeth tells his mother that it's absolutely treatable, but she must bring him down to the clinic as soon as possible, and they will give her the medicine she needs.  The woman agrees, but Elizabeth tells her again, just to be sure.

Walking back to the car I spy a little girl watching us from a hill.  I wave at her.  She runs away.

Tongolo, Part One

Today we go to Tongolo, the part of Africa you would expect to find in a National Geographic spread.  My Aunt Judy must go to this village to appeal to the chief, hoping that he will fill out the paperwork she needs to begin the process of adopting her daughter, Malia.  Normally these papers are signed by the child's parents, but Malia's mother and father are no longer around.  They aren't dead, just "away," - there's the unspoken understanding that the people of Tongolo know exactly where the child's parents are, and are keeping quiet for their protection.  Abandoning a child is illegal, and if either parent is found, they would absolutely be jailed for it.  There is a man who claims to be an uncle in the village, and we will need his signature as well.

We drive to the village on what must be the second worst road in Uganda*.  It's a holiday, a holy day, and the villagers we pass are dressed in their finest, walking to and from their worshiping places.  "Most of the children in the villages have never seen a white person," I am told before we leave, "so they will either run away from you, or they'll run at you and ask you for something."  None of the children have run away, yet.  They run alongside the road in their dresses and slacks, smiling and hollering and waving at our car.  One little girl wears a red dress two sizes too big, and she can hardly contain herself when she sees our car.  She can't be older than four or five, and she runs the way a child does; she's so excited she can only just control her limbs, and she's picking her knees up higher as if that will make her go faster.  She waves her arms as hard as she can as she cries, "Mzungu!  Jambo!"  Mzungu meaning "white person," Jambo meaning "hello."

(A note about Ugandan roads and traffic from an American perspective.  In theory, they drive on the left.  In reality, the dirt roads have been so damaged by pot holes and erosion that they drive on whatever side is going to do the least amount of damage to the undercarriage of their cars.  Sometimes that's the left side, sometimes that's the right, and sometimes that 's right down the middle, oncoming traffic be damned.  The more metropolitan areas may be in better condition, but are no safer to drive on.  Traffic laws are little more than courteous suggestions, and there's no right-of-way privilege for pedestrians or cyclists, just the assumption that they know better than to get hit by a car.  But I didn't see or hear of a single accident in the time I was there, so they must have found a method to the madness.)     

We've been led to the village by Elizabeth, the woman who found Malia and placed her into my aunt's care.  Elizabeth acts as a social worker for Tongolo and the surrounding villages, an America woman who's made it her job to help floundering villages prosper.  Her visit today has two purposes - to join our visit with the chief, and check in on the progress of her work.  She's been showing the villagers how to plant and care for personal and communal gardens, teaching them to grow vegetables that they can either eat or take down to the market to sell.

Elizabeth speaks little Lugandan, and the villagers speak little English, so her friend and co-worker Lillian has come with us, and when the villagers come to see us, she makes the introductions.  I say they came to see us, but really, they came to see Malia, and some can hardly believe their eyes.  How different she must look from the little girl with stick-thin legs and the crooked back who left them only months ago.  Now she looks healthy, and happy, and most importantly, loved.  And when I say everyone comes, I mean everyone comes.  Mothers, children, men who may or may not be uncles, and they all touch her face and hold her hands and try to make her smile, and I think, "Where was this warmth when she was thrown to the street and you heard her cry?" 

Some of the houses are square and made of brick, some of the houses are round and made of mud. Some have painted pictures on the outer walls, telling you who lives there with some decorative flair. We saw at least one herd of cattle (I still don't know if we saw more than one herd, or the same herd more than once), many people had goats (and some baby goats) tied up outside of their homes.  My aunt and I have taken Malia down the hill a ways to see where the pigs are kept, two huge, muddy beasts fighting for shade under the trees.  There is an engine roar above us, and one of the might-be-an-uncles calls us back up the hill.  The chief has just arrived on his motorcycle, and now it is time to talk.   

Here Starts the Better Roads Movement...

Bellefontaine, Ohio is a small town like most small towns.  With a population just over 13,000, weathered brick store fronts lining each side of Main Street, and the bell tower of the Logan Country Courthouse standing tall over the surrounding buildings, Bellefontaine calls itself Bell Fountain and wears its history with pride.  It seems on every corner you can find a plaque, a marker saying, "Something important happened, and it happened here."

It's easy to miss markers like that.  The font is too small and you're driving too fast, and that thing so important flies past you before you even realize there was History there.  But there's a marker in Bellefontaine you couldn't miss, even if you tried.  It's the oldest concrete street in America, and it's this small town's star attraction.

Maybe it surprises you that the oldest concrete street in the country is in Ohio.  I know it surprised me.  If you had asked me I would have said New York City, or maybe Boston - somewhere in New England where the industrial revolution was really kicking.  And maybe if George Bartholomew, inventor of cement paving, had established his paving company in a more expected area, I would have been right.  But the Buckeye Portland Cement Company could not have lived anywhere but Ohio, and in 1889 Bartholomew came to the people of Bellefontaine and promised to build them a better road.

Not that it was an easy get.  Bartholomew had to commit to donating all of the materials needed to produce the road, and had to promise to pay up to $5,000 in repairs were the road damaged in some way.  This was at least a decade before the first automobile drive, so the road would only be open to foot traffic and horse and buggy, but considering that $5,000 in 1889 is practically Oprah money, that should speak to how little faith the people of Bellefontaine had in this newfangled cement road idea.

But George knew.  And in 1891 Court Avenue became the first concrete street in the country.  With the town impressed by the quality, the surrounding roads were quickly paved with concrete, and as news of these amazing new streets spread, so did Bartholomew's reach.  Now, over a century later, most of George's first streets have been covered over, refinished with asphalt.  But Court Avenue remains.  And in the shadow of the Logan County Courthouse, a statue of George Bartholomew stands proud before his legacy.  

Looking down at the pavement beneath my feet, I can see where the years are beginning to show, where the thousands of feet and hooves and wheels have left their marks, though the paving is still holding strong.  I wonder what it felt like, what it must have meant to be a part of something that was so revolutionary in such a quietly significant way, to unknowingly give permission to the transportation industry to be something bigger, something better.  Something more.  

Concrete roads.  I wonder if he knew.

Learn more about the city of Bellefontaine at their website.