Fort Leonard Wood Patriot
September 4, 2003

Discovering a Lesser Eden
by Debby Dunstedter

The place so many of us wish we could go back to is the past, because it was a kinder, simpler place, a more relaxed place, than where we are now. We certainly can't get there in any other vehicle except our minds, so we daydream about those days when an afternoon of play lasted an eternity, and when ^.new discoveries waited around every corner to delight and surprise us. That's what I thought, too, until I found 1957 where I least expected it. And I found it with someone I spent all of 1957 with, and every other year of my childhood. He is my one and only sibling and one of my closest friends, namely my brother Dave.

Every summer, my brother travels to his appointed destination, dictated by of all things, the Cubs scores. He follows a mathematical and strict formula for this selection, and he doesn't find out about which of the lower 48 states he'll be vacationing in all summer until the last game of the world series. Of course, I await the outcome with bated breath, because I like to join him for a week or two, and I sure don't want to go to the Bayou of Louisiana, or to southeast Texas, where he did indeed spend two successive summers.

He hikes almost every day, all summer long. When I said, "gosh, how do you stand all that hot weather?"—his answer was, " I like weather." You're catching my drift here, I trust. In Texas he started his hikes at 5:00am, and returned to the sanctuary of air conditioning by 10:30 am, to keep his poor dog from dying of heat stroke.

Last October I found out the hiking place for the summer of 2003 would be Iowa, and later I was told that specifically it would be Keosauqua, which is in the southeast corner of the state. It didn't sound too exciting to me, but at least it didn't conjure up visions of alligators or parched plains, either. I told him I would join him for a week in early June. I packed my ancient van with my coffee maker, my book tapes, and my dog Silkie, who is 106 in people years. We drove up Highway 63, and in no time at all, we crossed the border into Iowa. We came across Amish buggies with big orange triangles on their bumpers, trotting bravely along the shoulders of Highway 63. We saw huge farms spread across massive, gently rolling hills, punctuated by white farmhouses and barns with silos. And we saw corn, acres upon acres of green corn, the crop that yells "America!" at the top of its lungs. But we didn't see movie theatres or quick shops or strip malls or fast food restaurants, or gas stations, or any-thing that would indicate we still occupied the current year of 2003.

Soon we pulled into Lacey Keosauqua State Park, one of the largest and oldest in the state of Iowa. Everywhere, the canopy of stately trees created a hushed, dark coziness, a place where bobcats perhaps lurked, and where deer undoubtedly secretly trod. A brief drive through the park on the main road took us directly to Pine Ridge Retreat, where cabin number 4 awaited us, as well as Dave, who occupied cabin 2. The succulent aroma of his spaghetti wafted out to greet us as we pulled in. The cabins were new, well-built, and quaint, surrounded by pine trees, and fronted by a little fishing lake. After a nice glass of merlot and dinner; Silkie and I got settled in our cabin.

Outside, night descended quietly and profoundly. broken only by the porch lights of the four little shelters. I heard owl calls, insect hummings, and the occasional bass "blat" from hull frogs in the pond. Silkie didn't hear anything—she's as deaf as a stone. In cabin 4 on that first night I slept the sleep of a small and tired child and woke to early morning light and the honk of geese as they landed on the pond.

That morning Silkie and I headed for the "Lake Trail:" a two mile loop that took us through glades and hill-tops, never far from the five acre man-made lake. It felt as though we were the only folks about on this early Sunday morning; the birds, rocks, and streams seemed to belong only to us. I felt as if I had been transported to the Garden of Eden, everything was so clean and untouched by the hand of man. Those two miles were an enchantment and pure joy. Even Siikie bounded along the trail on new legs.

Every day we hiked with Dave and his dog Roma. We had the park to ourselves and rarely came across other hikers. One trail started at a place called "Ely Ford," where the Mormons crossed the Des Moines River back in the late 1800's. I felt transported to that time, for nowhere could you see anything indicating the presence of civilization. There was only rolling green river, trees, and sky. " I feel just like Lewis and Clark!" I exclaimed. Dave only smiled as we climbed up the trail, leaving the river behind.

The Des Moines is like an emerald necklace, carelessly tossed on the earth, and every so often a sparkling gem adorns its length. villages of Van Buren County. All told, they have a population of no more than a thousand souls. They have names like Bentonsport, Cantril, Bonaparte, Keosauqua, and Stockport. They have no traffic lights, and they have no fast food restaurants. No wonder I felt transported to the year 1957. Life has a slower pace here, a concern for the quality, not the quantity, of everyday experiences. People tend to greet you, look you in the eye, and ask where you're from. "Are you having a nice vacation?" they ask. At the Flea Market in Keosauqua, I went in search of a sweatshirt to buy, because the nights and mornings were unseasonably cold. The lady who owned it couldn't find anything to sell me, so she gave me one of hers, apologizing for the paint marks on it. On the front are these words: "Love is a flower in Life's garden." The meaning wasn't lost on me as I walked back to my car. At Archie's they insist on taking your groceries out to your car, and give you all kinds of helpful information on the way. I met up with the town jokester, an old guy everyone calls "the Candyman." I had asked him where the cookies could be found while in Archie's, and he showed me. Then later I saw him on the street, and he told me the dentist's office was giving away homemade cookies. Yes, I bit, went in and asked the receptionist about those cookies. "Who told you to come here for cookies?" she asked, her lips curving into an impish smile. "Why, an elderly man who said to tell you the "Candy Man" sent me. "He get's `em every time!" she crowed.

"He plays tricks on everyone, especially visitors who have no idea who he is." With a red face and a sheepish_. smile, I left the dental office, somewhat the wiser.

In Bentonsport I crossed an old iron bridge spanning the Des Moines and in five minutes I was in the "town" of Vernon. There I visited the artist Wendell Mohr, known for his watercolors of Van Buren County. He lives in an old schoolhouse built in the early 1800's. In Bentonsport I perused the general store, a charming place with antiques, homemade fudge, and beautifully handcrafted items. I bought literally the best fudge I have ever tasted, a rug that'll outlast me, and an award-winning video on Iowa. The ladies who worked there obviously liked what they did, and I was treated to some true down-home hospitality, the kind everyone talks about but rarely experiences. Across the street from the general store is the historic Mason House Inn Bed and Breakfast, run by Chuck Hanson and his wife. Each room is gorgeous in its authenticity, and the furnishings are old, ornate, and lovely. Chuck has embraced the area with much enthusiasm, and part of his. mission, he says, is to preserve its rich history. The locals have welcomed him and his family with open arms, and everyone is happy about the restoration of the Mason House Inn. "There are ghosts here," he told me matter-of-factly. About every three weeks, the alarm clocks in every single room go off at the same time, usually around 3:00 in the morning. Human hands don^'t set those alarms, according to the Hansons. And often they'll find the front door unlocked, though everyone distinctly remembers having locked the door the night before.

The best thing in Cantril is The Dutchman's Store, where you can buy everything from yard goods to flower bulbs. They sell regular grocery store items, plus homemade jam, cheeses, fresh herbs and spices, and flowering plants. On the wall is a sign that reads: "Don't Steal. God will see you and the Dutchman might."

I might have wanted a Big Mac or a production line pizza, but nowhere in the whole county could I find them. Instead I found little restaurants and family-owned diners, and these were few and far between. I cooked most meals in my little cabin, and packed my lunches for our hikes.

The tension just sort of drained out of me while I was in this enchanted place. I found myself dreading the day I'd have to leave, and I vowed to come back--and soon.

The day before I left, while driving into Keosauqua for groceries, I saw a young man and his girlfriend walking on the old bridge that spans the Des Moines. They were obviously Amish, for she had a little white cap on her head, wore a dress and had sensible shoes on her feet. He sported a large straw hat, black pants, flannel shirt and suspenders.

They were in their own little world, a world without navel rings and blue spiked hair and cell phones. Without sports cars and blasting music and aimless talk. They walked slowly, enthralled to simply be in each other's company.

For me it was a holy moment. It was 1957 alright, maybe even 1857. The tears came to my eyes, and I wiped them away, feeling both happiness and regret.

I knew one thing: this place holds a certain magic for those who dearly wish to escape the frenetic pace of the present, and go back to a time when you could play all afternoon, and discover little miracles around every corner.