If You Build It...

"This must be it," I said to my wife as I slipped the car into park.

We were somewhere near the hamlet of Dyersville, an unremarkable town of about 4,000. Among its claims to fame are the Ertl Toy Company and the National Farm Toy Museum.

But there was also this place, a picture-perfect baseball diamond absurdly situated out in the middle of nowhere. Flattened brown corn stalks from last year's crop were all that lay beyond the outfield.

Stepping out of the car, I was greeted by the cutting wind of a gray spring day. Everything looked exactly as I had pictured: the tidy white farmhouse with its inviting porch, the imposing red granary squatting on a hand-hewn limestone foundation, the rough wooden bleachers alongside the first baseline.

I had found it: the farm where the movie Field Of Dreams had been filmed.

I asked my wife if she would like to get out and see the spot where Kevin Costner's heinie had once rested. She said that the only way she would brave that nasty wind would be if
Costner's heinie were still there.

Alone, I strolled the famous field, pausing at home plate to stare down an imaginary pitcher on the mound. There was no sign of life from the house; either nobody was home or they were accustomed to people randomly dropping by. After a few minutes the cold began to seep through my coat, so I clambered back into the car and we drove off.

Why does Field Of Dreams continue to affect us nearly two decades after it was shot? Maybe it's because it's more than just a metaphysical, metaphorical baseball flick; there are also the underlying themes of redemption and second chances, of forgiveness between a father and son.

This is why it's also known as The Movie That Makes Grown Men Cry.

After we got home I did some calling and eventually got in touch with Betty Lansing. Betty, like her brother, Don, was born in the house that was featured in the movie.

When I asked Betty, a chipper-sounding middle-age woman, about the farm's ownership she replied, "This farm has now been in our family for over 100 years."

How did their farm come to star in a Hollywood movie?

"It was pure luck," she replied. "Someone from our local Chamber of Commerce talked to someone on the Iowa Film Board who had heard that Universal Studios was looking for a farm
that grew corn. Universal was informed that the state has a lot of corn, so they came to Iowa. They looked at more than 200 farms before choosing ours."

I take it you still get visitors.

"We certainly do. We average between 50,000 and 60,000 visitors annually. Last year we had folks from all 50 states plus 50 foreign countries."

Were those overhead power lines that run from third to second always there?

"Yes, but they were relocated during shooting."

I saw two souvenir shacks, one on your farmyard and one out by third base. What's up with that?

"The outfield is owned by our neighbors, who have leased it to an out of state interest."

Has there been any conflicts between you and them?

"Well, yes. The outfield owners tried to get it re-zoned so they could put up batting cages and a baseball museum. We opposed that because we want the field to remain exactly as it appeared in the movie."

What was it like to have a film shot at your farm?

"It was extremely hectic. But everyone on the film crew was very nice. It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience!"

Did you get to hang with any of the actors?

"Oh, yes! Kevin Costner, Ray Liotta, Amy Madigan. It was a thrill just to sit and listen to James Earl Jones speak!"

My wife will kill me if I don't ask this: what is Kevin Costner really like?

"He was very nice, very polite. We liked Kevin and his wife and kids very much. But of course that was before..."

Before what? Before he made that stinkeroo, Waterworld? Before his hairline receded?

"No, before he and his wife Cindy... you know."

I did know. Change is one constant in everyone's life, it seems.

Change reminds me of a speech that Jones gives toward the end of the movie. America, he said, is a steamroller that wipes the blackboard clean then rebuilds only to wipe it clean yet again. The one constant in the midst of all this tumult has been baseball.

It's good to know that there's still a place where folks can stroll out onto an immaculate, emerald-green baseball diamond, have a catch and marvel, "Is this heaven?"

To which someone will inevitably reply, "No. It's Iowa."

Shopping Galena

galena (ga leen a) n. primary ore of lead: a lustrous
blue-gray crystalline mineral that consists mainly of lead
sulfide and is the main source of lead.

Another definition of Galena is "a history-drenched town
located in the northwestern corner of Illinois." My wife and
I visited Galena and discovered that it is a place where,
historically speaking, many historical people once lived.

Named for the ore that brought much wealth to the town,
Galena today seems frozen in time. It simply oozes history,
mostly from its numerous Victorian buildings. The lead mines
have long since played out; Galena now mines a bountiful vein
of tourists.

Perhaps Galena's most famous citizen was Ulysses S.
Grant. A former soldier who had gone from job to job and had
embarked upon a series of failed businesses, Grant landed in
Galena in 1860 and became a clerk in his father's leather
shop. When the Civil War erupted Grant volunteered his
services and the rest, as they say, is history.

Galena produced a total of nine Civil War generals. One
wonders if close proximity to the stuff bullets are made from
exerted some sort of metaphysical force.

There's no escaping Grant in Galena. His image seems to
be everywhere, prompting one to impulsively think "fifty-
dollar bill" many times each day.

This is all part of a sneaky plot to subliminally inure
tourists to the exorbitant costs associated with being
tourists. It seemed as if we couldn't leave any of the quaint
Victorian shops lining Galena's Main Street without leaving a
fifty-dollar bill behind.

This was best illustrated by a couple my wife and I
passed as we strolled Main Street. The other husband, in a
voice choked with exasperation, said to his wife, "Did you
see anything in there that you DIDN'T like?!"

From a guy's point of view, many of Galena's shops
featured stuff that was totally useless. Can we live without
these ceramic figurines? I bet so. Are we the sort of people
who buy a lot of paintings? Not really. There was even a
place called The Bead Shop! Need I say more?

Scattered diabolically among these extremely unessential
shops were a few that actually had some very interesting
items. Look! Jamie's Wine Studio! It must be time to do more
wine tasting! And do I smell the aroma of broiled steak? Yes!
Let's duck into this restaurant for a quick bite! After all,
it's been an hour since I had my last steak, which was
approximately the size of a yearling calf!

There are many other things to do in Galena besides eat
or shop or sample wine. Most of these things involve visiting
historical museums, all of which are housed in historical
buildings.

We visited several museums, each boasting a bit of Grant
memorabilia. In one, we viewed the general's cavalry hat and
saddle; in another was a glass case that contained his left
boot. The town of Galena had Grant covered from head to toe,
although I wonder whatever happened to his right boot.

Speaking of museums, my wife and I stayed at the
historic De Soto House Hotel. The De Soto was named for the
first European to see the Mississippi, a man who seems to
have had a penchant for long, double-lettered words.

The De Soto has hosted -- surprise! -- many historical
figures. An aspiring politician named Abraham Lincoln gave a
speech from its balcony in 1856, as did Stephen Douglas in
1858. In 1868, Grant used the De Soto as his presidential
campaign headquarters. There really is no escaping that guy.

My wife and I paused from our hectic touring to enjoy a
cold beverage in the De Soto's taproom. I could easily
imagine Mark Twain -- yes, he stayed there too -- leaning
against the bar, one foot on the brass rail, a lazy cloud of
cigar smoke encircling his head.

After resting a bit, it was back to shopping. Various
items displayed in store fronts elicited such comments as
"cute" or "neat" or "ooh, how cool!"

In one particular store, as my wife and the proprietor
chatted, I opined that all this shopping was more than any
normal man could bear. My wife turned to the shopkeeper and
said, "You know what we did yesterday? We spent the whole day
touring the John Deere factory!"

The place suddenly became deathly quiet as a dozen
female eyes bored into me. Someone hissed, "You owe this lady
a whole lot of shopping, mister!"

She was right, of course. So we shopped, and shopped,
then shopped some more. I shattered my personal record for
shopping, which was definitely a historical event.

Tractor Roots

Next to my granary sits a 1947 John Deere model "A".

Dad bought the tractor when I was a little kid. I spent
the better part of my formative years on the seat of that
"A", plowing, disking, cultivating, and watching the clouds
drift by as I floated upon the dreams of youth. For me, the
sound of a "johnny popper" is as soothing as a mother's
heartbeat.

The "A" came with a tattered Owner's Manual. I pored it
over for hours on end, trying to plumb the tractor's secrets,
learning what made it "tick" -- or, more accurately, "pop".

Somewhere in its Owner's Manual was the revelation that
the "A" had been manufactured in some mysterious, mythical-
sounding realm called Waterloo, Iowa. I knew nothing about
Waterloo, but imagined it to be a place where heroic giants
grunted mightily as they hauled epic chunks of raw iron up
from the bowels of the Earth. This rusty, dusty ore was then
forged by an army of sinewy, leather-aproned blacksmiths into
epic wonders of engineering, including our "A".

My wife and I recently found ourselves with a few days
off. When she asked "Would you like to go somewhere?" I
answered, "Well... I've always wanted to see Waterloo."
And so we went to Waterloo, a city where the "east" side
is actually on the north end and the "west" side is located
more towards the south.

Despite this Oz-like stance regarding the cardinal
points, my wife and I were able to easily locate the John
Deere tractor factory, getting lost just once in the process.
At last! After all these years, I would finally get to see
the place where our "A" was born!

The John Deere tractor factory is, using today's
parlance, "gianormous". With forty-eight acres under one
roof, it is more than just a good-sized shed; it would also
qualify as a good-sized field.

My wife and I went in for our tour and were told that
the factory contains many miles of pathways. Because of this
we were given a ride aboard a string of tourist trams which
were, curiously, pulled by an International Harvester garden
tractor.

No, that's not true; it was a John Deere garden tractor.
Our tour guides were so enthusiastic about the Deere name, I
got the feeling that simply saying "International Harvester"
might have been grounds for banishment from the factory.

We were first taken past the area where the tractor
birthing process begins. It starts with a transmission
assembly. A set of axles is added, followed by a frame, then
an engine, and so on.

I noticed some civilians walking around in the assembly
area. We were told that these were Gold Key customers who had
come to witness the birth of their tractors. I could never do
that. The mere thought of looking at exposed gears makes me
squeamish, and the sight of spurting hydraulic fluid can send
me into a swoon.

There's also the money part. When our tour guide pointed
out Deere's biggest tractor -- a 500 horsepower behemoth --
some idiot asked about its price tag. "$280,000," said the
tour guide. "I have an order book right here. Would you like
one or two?"

Not a word was said while I scrunched down in my seat,
trying to make myself inconspicuous as possible.
At the end of our tour, I chatted with our guides. I
asked Dewayne -- a former factory worker, as are all the John
Deere tour guides -- if this is the place where my "A" had
been built.

"No. They were assembled downtown, in what is now our
transmission facility."

What did Dewayne do at the factory? "I started out in
the foundry," he said. "It was a grimy job, so I went to
school and trained to be a gauge auditor. My job was to make
sure that the proper thickness of metal was being used."
When did he start working for Deere?

"I came home after the war and was looking for a job
when they hired me. That was in 1947."

I was thunderstruck. Before me stood one of the very men
who had helped manufacture my "A"! He didn't seem at all
epic. He was simply an older guy who came home from a war six
decades ago and wound up building tractors.

I couldn't help myself. "Would you happen to remember an
'A' you built the year you started here? One that had a teeny
little ripple in the steering wheel pedestal?"

"I believe I do," he replied. "As I recall, that an
especially good tractor. Epic, even."