Episode 18, Part 2: Visiting Mother Jones (2012): Solidarity in strange places

Welcome to Part 2 of Episode 18! Before I dive in I wanted to be sure and share the great news that Record of a Well Worn Pair of Travel Boots is now a part of The Cross Pods Tribe! I'm more excited about this collaboration than I can express. Be sure to check out The Cross Pods network for more of the same kind of podcasting you enjoy here. Thanks! And now...

This trip taught me to not rate my Google Fu as highly as I previously had. But my faith... one I hold now, even though I don't drink anymore... in dive bars was vindicated.

Walking into Mt. Olive Illinois, I got the distinct impression that my plan to sleep there was probably not going to work out. Mt. Olive is a small town holding onto itself; or it was in 2012. There was still some light industry there, and a whole lot of south Illinois farm land covered in soy. In some ways, it reminded me of the place I grew up... a place fighting itself, jumping the broom and back between forging a new identity in post-industrial America and stubbornly waiting for time to simply erase it off the map. This was different than my initial research of the place, which indicated that there were at least three industrial sites there. That made sense to me, given it's history.

I followed Route 66 into town. There was a lot of traffic, which, I took for a good sign. Small towns where no one needs to get around and there's very little traffic on a decent midweek day around noon already have one lane heading into the dust. I've seen towns like that, and it's really, really sad. Sadder even than the odd ghost town that is most of Route 66. The abandoned skeletons along Route 66 still serve a purpose, and are, even in their disrepair, respected. When a small town is in the process of dying... and when it KNOWS it's dying... you can taste the rot on the air.

Getting there had taken me longer than even my overage of Google's estimate, and I was sort of counting on being able to spend the night there to recharge my batteries and plan the next leg... which was to walk to Carlinville and catch the train north.

To orient myself and to maybe have a wee bit of beer, I stopped in at the 2^nd bar I found. I stopped mainly because of the name: Crawdaddies. It looked small, local, and I liked the resonance of a New Orleans reference. The bar was sparsely populated: a handful of old men, probably retired and holding up bar stools they had earned with many afternoons after the time clock, and one woman, probably about the same age as me. The bartender looked like he'd been the bartender for as long as he'd been drinking himself. He was sipping on short glass of beer. The place was wonderfully devoid of cameras used by most owners to spy on their employees.

All conversation stopped when I walked in. I chose a stool close to the door, mainly because it was close but also in case I needed to leave. After a few really long ticks of the clock, the bartender came over and asked what I wanted. I told him I wanted whatever light beer they had on tap. He pointed behind him and said there weren't any taps. I asked for a Miller Lite. He asked to see my ID and was visually pleased when I paid in cash.

When he brought me a deliciously ice cold can of beer, he asked what I was in town for. I told him I was going to visit the Union Miner's Cemetery, where Mother Jones was buried. He nodded as if what I said read to what his initial impression of me was. I told him I'd walked in on Route 66. He told me the cemetery was on the north side of town. I thanked him, then ordered another beer and a hamburger. He nodded. I seemed right enough... if, for no other reason, than my choice in domestic beer over something overpriced he probably kept back for hipsters and trust fund “radicals.”

The beer was refreshing and the burger was filling. As I was getting ready to leave the woman approached me. She was attractive, full-hipped, with dark hair. She told me she was heading back to work and could give me a ride to the cemetery. I graciously accepted her offer, drained the last of my beer, and left a tip on the bar. I'd wanted a third, but I knew where that would end. It was time to go.

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