Here is the Nice Indian Woman I was Talking About

What I thought to be as a short leg of three plus hours turned into a nine hour jaunt peppered with a couple of dandies. The final two stops made for a spiritual experience balanced by an ultra jumbo gal in moccasins.

West Bend, IA is nothing more than a gas station mashed into a smattering of ticky-tacky little boxes wrapped around the opus of an inspired manic priest.

Like many of the locations captured by my handy fish-eye lens,
the Grotto of the Redemption has the distinguished honor of being the "World's Largest" grotto.
Father Dobberstein activated the Catholic Phone Tree (yes, they have such a thing)
and requested that all parishioners load railcars headed for West Bend with
precious stones; geodes, coral, petrified wood, calcite and a whole sack of other geological oddities.

Fr. Dobberstein spent forty-two years constructing this wonder beginning in 1912.
He had only two assistants toward the end of his life, Matt Szerensce and Father Greving,
who eventually completed the project after Dobberstein's death.

Even the stations of the cross are constructed entirely of only the grandest stones that
a Catholic could find. No matter where you stand in the Grotto a sense of calm surrounds you. 

Exquisite Italian marble sculptures of Christ, his Disciples, angels, Mary and Joseph
are placed chronologically throughout the Grotto. Here is Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane.
A creepy looking Judas was hidden around the corner with his sack of gold
coins for pointing Christ out in the Roman lineup.

I could have spent hours pining over the placement and beauty of each gem.
Even with the intensity of subject matter there was an ever present sense of whimsical folk art.

I know that you will never be "just in the neighborhood" of the Grotto of the Redemption,
but make the trip whether you are religious or not. Father Dobberstein's creation that was built
to fulfill the promise made to the Blessed Mary for curing him of pneumonia.

Walking out of the Grotto renewed the purpose behind Operation Decompression and pumped me full of curiosity for the remainder of my adventure. With just enough time for one more stop before bunking at Little Leo's Griswold manse, I again hit the two-lanes.

One of the best parts of foregoing any tollways or freeways is the lackadaisical feel of meandering among the crops ready for harvest. My colorblind eyes work best when the surrounding colors are earth tones, making for a gem of a view.

Twenty-seven miles southwest of the Grotto in the small town of Pocahontas, IA stands a lady who was forced to accompany a Brit named John Smith and his singing dog in their canoe out west.

If it were not for this brave twenty-five foot maiden Mr. Smith would
have been executed by her tribe for duping them into selling
Manhattan for a bucket of Mardis Gras beads.  

Pocahontas, IA is named "The Princess City", yet Pocahontas was never a princess.
It was only after her death that a fictitious title was bestowed upon her.
P.S. She married a fella who invented a better strain of tobacco, became wealthy, had a son, moved to England, was the toast of the Court and ended up dying of an unknown illness at the age of twenty-two on a river bank in Virginia.

I will make the rest of this lengthy novella quick and to the point through the magic of bullet points:

• I had to pass through Atlantic, IA on my way to Leo's.
• Atlantic is sixteen miles north of Griswold.
• Julie and I have a friend named Patrick Kolts who lives in Brooklyn, NY.
• Patrick's Parents live near Atlantic.
• On my way through I voice texted Patrick, "Chad Allen reporting from Atlantic, IA, all is well"
• The next day he texted, "What?! I'm in Atlantic, IA"

More on Brooklyn via Atlantic tomorrow along with an Underground Railroad House, an axe murder house and my becoming a local celebrity in Atlantic.

A Giant Cock, Cone and a Dash of Pocahontas

After a dandy of an day and evening at my mother-in-law's bungalow it was time to pack the hounds and head south to my dad's miniature bachelor pad (it's small because he is really little) in Griswold, IA. As the wind whipped the hell out the hounds with their heads popping out both passenger side windows, I kept my eyes open for the next two-lane attraction. Our first photo-op came in the form of a large cock and cone on the outskirts of Clear Lake, on the north of US HWY18. Both fiberglass megaliths were exactly what I needed to get the handy Canon primed for the next few weeks.

Clear Lake Cock

Two of my favorite things as a kid:
Wonder Bread and a TWIST cone

I can honestly say that I have never seen
the underside of a cone's lip before.

As a young chub my Grandpa Jack used to take us fishing and actually let us talk, unlike Leo who demanded silence while trying not to stick his whole finger into the stink bait jar. If old Grandpa wanted us to really feel like we were hot shit he would take us out to snag a couple buckets full of bullheads (a nasty little fish that lives in and eats the crap at the bottom of the lake). Those slimy guys never grew much larger than a hoagie bun, unless you were to find yourself in Crystal Lake, IA where the World's Largest Bullhead resides.

Swell Fella on the Jetty: You want me to move my truck from in front of that?
Sweaty Fat Man from Chicago: It's not in the way, thanks though.
SFotJ: Isn't that thing goofy looking?
SFMfC: Yes it is. I;m traveling throughout Iowa snapping photos of big weird stuff.
SFotJ: That's not the biggest weirdest thing in Iowa, this guy is (gesturing to the old man in the boat).

We used to catch enough bullheads to fill the cleaning table in Grandpa Jack's yard.
They would be piled so high that it was nothing more than a floppy, sloppy table top.

In a yard across from the Bullhead was an old Rock Island Railroad dining car. I bet that poor car never in a million years would have thought that it was going to end up as the centerpiece to a half ass hosta garden in small town Iowa.

This was more than a big day, it was the plunge that I needed to clear the steel wool from between my ears and realize that fresh air was supposed to make my nipples hard - not my eyes run and nose itchy. The only thing that could have followed such an amazing stop was the World's Largest Cheeto in Algona, IA. As I closed in on this the most illusive of the World's Largest snacks I spotted a billboard for a Louis Sullivan Jewel Box Bank only a mile from the Cheeto.

A few year back the city of Algona raised $180 to purchase the World's Largest Cheeto as a tourist draw. Once the seller found out about how his Cheeto brought an entire dozen of people together he donated it to the city. Rather than display their haul in a public place for all to see, it is kept behind locked doors at Emerald's Restaurant. Sadly they are closed between lunch and dinner leaving my memory card short an image of that sweet little nugget of orange goodness.

If it were not for that Jewel Box Bank billboard this stop would have been a wash. Louis Sullivan was the mentor and teacher to a pampas ass named Frank Lloyd Wright. Without Sullivan, there would not have been a Wright. Later in life Sullivan became a dead broke drunk. Much of the world had written him off, thankfully a bank director wasn't one of them. He designed and completed nine banks in total, all of which are still standing.

You can definitely see where Wright pulled some design elements.
Henry Adams Building
123 Main Street - Algona, IA

He loved placing intricate patterns on mundane surfaces. What a grand sill.

Only two more stops to go and at this point the hounds were a bit peckish and in need of some major leg stretched. It just so happened to be their luck that a swanky dog bakery occupied a storefront two doors down from the bank. Pet Kingdom's proprietors were two swell gals that absolutely loved the hounds and insisted that they taste the pastries before I even considered buying. We left with $4 of pastries in the sack, $10 in their bellies and an ear full of great places in which to photograph.

Buddy, the Bopper and Ritchie's Wild Ride

After roughing it at the five acre Parecki Estate I decided to take my mother-in-law up on her offer of staying in her swell Mason City bungalow. It just so happens that music died no more than thirteen miles from the coazy guest room in which I slept.

Before I made the trek into a cornfield to pay my respects, a visit to Buddy, the Bopper and Ritchie's last venue was in order.

460 North Shore Drive Avenue - Clear Lake, IA
Winter Dance Party Tour - 2 FEB 1959

All three fellas and their pilot boarded a puddle jumper at 0255 on 3 FEB 1959. A novice pilot disoriented by weather flew the plane into a farm field killing everyone on board as well as the music. Before you head north to the crash site be sure to bring a little tchotchke to add to the already overwhelming pile of junk.

Take Buddy Holly Place out of town and shag right on 310, weave left on Gull Avenue.
Keep your eye out for the biggest pair of horn rimmed beauties, they
mark the field. Hike your chub a little over a half mile while
following the fence line and you can't miss the shrine.

Weird doesn't even begin to explain the crap that people have left for the fellas.

This guy pasted Buddy's face over his father's, left a library card,
a blank check and a photo of Buddy Holly just in case
is ghost who haunts the site every February forgot what he looked like.

Hundreds of guitar picks litter the area, but my favorite piece left for the spirits
is a federal penitentiary identification card - CLASSY.

This broad attached her nearly thirty year old drivers license attached to the stems of fake roses.
She wrote the name of a Buddy Holly song on each petal.

I was winded after my walk to the site,
I'm not sure how these two handicapable folks made it.

Even soccer hooligans pay their respect.

Enough of the Fuzzies

I started this adventure with a need to experience an introspective awakening and found that my spiritual identity is tied to a cheeky sense of potty humor. To hell with the Kuraltian journey and a giant HELLO NURSE to a quintessential Chad Allen tour that is Operation Decompression.

Castle Parecki, Iowa's finest pueblo style Argentine villa.

The Red Head and I were both born and raised in the Hawkeye State, a dandy Midwestern dream. A professor introduced us to each other; we became the best of friends, lovers and then a happily married cornfed couple. Every time that the tires of the ATM cross that magical line cutting through the Mississippi, a warm fuzzy fills my belly. My recent forging of the muddy river was not much different from those of the past, other than the empty passenger seat. Having added over 110,000 miles to the ATM's 240,112, patterns of toilet breaks have emerged. Please keep all judgement in your wallet with that condom you have been saving for the "right" time since your sophomore year of high school - without my Red Head copilot I was able to implement a handy pee cup, saving 15 minutes per piss. This valuable savings afforded a streamline shot from Allen House Chicago to Castle Parecki.

Each of the five acres that form Castle Parecki's immaculate grounds and gardens is an adventure for the hounds, Lucile Vanderbilt and Sir Winston Woo. The instant I open the ATM's door they are on the hunt for smells that could never be found on Chicago's north side; fresh air, cow shit, sweet smoke billowing from combines, industrial hog confinements and a doe eyed optimism for the brighter side. 

Fine food from mom's catering repertoire is forced upon arrival, departure and even more for the road. A perpetually full coffee carafe resides on the counter next to the half dozen plastic cups branded with each of the daycare kids' names. Two nights and three days where food became a culinary blur and the hounds slept out of necessity rather than boredom made for a swell jump into the adventure canoe.          

It all started on the 4th day.

39 days sober and into my fourth week of rehab with a five day stint in Chicago's finest psychiatric ward, I decided to take a break from the stress of a fruitless job hunt. I hopped into my ATM, a 2001 Honda Accord that I paid $3000 for and have received over $6000 in insurance checks for other people's mistakes, and hit the ground running with two trusty hounds by my side.

At first the adventure was no more than a weekend with family in north central Iowa. Somewhere on a two-lane highway near the Field of Dreams it hit me, the Grand Plan. Why restrict Operation Decompression to a three day stretch? What about a three week - four state tour of photographic exploration and development of a long overdue children's book?

Upon my arrival at Castle Parecki, the stately home of Mario and Roxanna Radina Parecki (my parents), the kaiser roll to the ham salad that was to be Operation Decompression began to rise. I logged onto roadsideamerica.com to become familiar with as many of Iowa's oddities that a trip funded by donations could handle. After scratching a list that filled two pages in my 24th sketchbook I realized that this was more than a leisurely Sunday stroll through the countryside, this was a true American adventure.