persimmons, piano hinges & parallelograms

Decided to go ahead and reactivate a post that I created back in July (as part of the Mighty Mo Road Show) and then quickly relegated to draft form. At the time I thought it was a cop out, and too shallow a treatment of the Frank Lloyd Wright house that we visited outside of St. Louis. Maybe it is. It's simply a letter that I wrote to my grandmother around that time, knowing how much she loves Wright's lines, and knowing how much it reminds her of my Bompa and his love of Wright's architecture.

I never did get around to doing it right, but something about persimmon season made me think about that place again and regret that I didn't at least mention it here. The Kraus House is available by appointment only and I suspect it deserves more attention than it gets. It's a gem, nestled in a persimmon grove, strung together with piano hinges and framed out in a series parallelograms.

The true marvels reside inside. The interior retains all of Wright's original furnishings -- down even to the bedspreads -- much like the Dana Thomas house but on a smaller scale. (And DON'T get me started about the gal from Southern California who compulsively flipped over and started fingering the bedspread, to our collective horror, as if she were in a J.C. Penney's showroom and deliberating whether she might buy it. The docent showed remarkable restraint in telling her "PLEASE. you mustn't. do. that.")

But of course they won't allow photographs of the interior. So here's a brief Flickr slideshow of the exterior of the home »

And here's a link to the original post: Kraus Haus »

The Frank Lloyd Wright House in Ebsworth Park
120 North Ballas Road
Kirkwood, Missouri 63122
To schedule a tour call 314-822-8359

kraus haus

17 July 2007

Dear Grama,
Had a lovely weekend and I thought of you all the while – I so wish you could have been there. Even more: I wish you and Bompa could have both been with us. We made the drive down to St. Louis, Missouri – which is about four and a half hours from Chicago – to see the home of Mr. and Mrs. Russell Kraus.

The Krauses commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to design their home in the 1950s, and he delivered blueprints for a lovely little house, perfectly appointed, designed down to the light fixtures and furnishings. All for $3,500. (Quite a bit back then, I suppose.)

The dominant wood that runs through the home is Redwater Tide Cypress (very hard to get after the second World War, apparently), the prevailing motif is the parallelogram (Wright was fond, as you know, of incorporating a theme into his homes – even the bed in the Master Bedroom of the Kraus home is in the shape of a parallelogram) and the home is set in a grove of lovely, slim persimmon trees.



The touch that I think Bompa would have especially enjoyed was the way the cabinet doors – all of them – were hinged with piano hinges that ran all the way from the top to the bottom of the doors. A good thing, too, because as it turns out the radiant heat, installed under the floors in the home, would have warped the heavy-duty plywood cabinet doors if they hadn’t been fully supported in the way that the piano hinges made possible.



The home is owned by the county who received it as a gift from the private organization that purchased it from Mr. Kraus about half a dozen years ago. (Mrs. Kraus died some time ago, but Mr. Kraus is still alive and well.) The non-profit looks after the house now and opens it only for privately arranged appointments – they were kind enough to accommodate us when we called.

Wish you could have been there. I’ve enclosed some picture postcards – I hope you enjoy them.

I love you, Grama. Thinking of you and holding you close in my heart.

Your granddaughter.

The Frank Lloyd Wright House in Ebsworth Park
120 North Ballas Road
Kirkwood, Missouri 63122
To schedule a tour call 314-822-8359

cahokia

Cahokia was one of the target destinations for our trip down south this last weekend – it may be the largest North American UNESCO World Heritage site you’ve never heard of.

Once the largest pre-conquest settlement north of Mexico City, covering 2,200 acres today and sheltering anywhere from 20,000 to 40,000 people, the remains of Cahokia are today surrounded by Collinsville, a sleepy little town just east of St. Louis, whose scraggly little highway bisects the site.





Main attractions? Mounds. And plazas. And a well-intentioned interpretive center that went to town on their wide entry doors, devising a impenetrable bas-relief tableau in some kind of heavy metal that’s difficult to move, intended I’m sure, to rival Rodin’s Gates of Hell (doesn’t, but you’ve gotta appreciate the intent), and must be hell on the wheelchair bound (I had trouble moving them, and didn’t see an easy open switch, although there must have been one in the vicinity. There was a ramp out the back way – let’s hope that’s not the only accessible entrance.)



And let’s not forget the Woodhenge: “You know: like Stonehenge” said the sweet matron who oriented us to the site. Circular, yes; oriented to sun’s path through the sky, yes; massive and monumental like Stonehenge? Well, no. Lovely slim posts where the stones might otherwise be. But sweet. And close to home. 10 points.

And evidence of human sacrifice in some of the excavated mounds: that’s worth about 25 points. (Here’s a tip for you when you go: the round mounds? Contain bodies and stuff. The squared off mounds? Platforms mostly, for strutting and alpha-dog purposes.)



Monk’s Mound is the star attraction and it’s immense – a thigh aching climb, it exceeds El Castillo of Chichen Itza in Mexico at 100 feet high. But unlike the Mayan pyramids, which are built of stone and plastered over, this is a dirt mound, which requires a big broad base and makes the whole thing seem squatter than the pyramids down south.

Until you start climbing, of course. Ouch.



Also of interest: the wooden palisade that once skirted the perimeter of the site, and has been reconstructed in bits and pieces to demonstrate its girth and construction. While we were there some folks were excavating what they believed was one of the far corners, just turning the bend. The students were friendly and informative and pulled back plastic tarps to show us the soil stains (those dark impressions left behind by what once was) where the palisade once stood.

All good. Although my evaluation may be biased by my fondness for things pyramidal and plaza-like. There’s a sense of space and proportionality at Cahokia that is not unlike Maya site configurations and seems to suggest a kinship with the Central American sites. All in all a fine place for a picnic.

And all those mounds – an artificial mountain each, built up by the careful attentions of so many hands – made me feel a little less lonely, as a transplanted Rocky Mountain girl, to know that I’m not only one on these wide open flatlands who aches for the embrace that only altitude can give.

St. Louis in St. Louis

Wainwright detail
Originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

Stopped by (too briefly) to pay respect to Louis Sullivan's lovely Wainwright Building while in St. Louis over the weekend.

And because I lost all language somewhere around 5PM Eastern today after rising too early (3.30AM) to catch an early flight out (and back, later today), I'll leave you with a few brief shots and two words about Louis's early skyscraper that make it all good: Terra Cotta »

And if you're hungry for more on Louis go 'head and click here »

gateway to the west

Come to find out there's a reason the St. Louis Arch is so famous -- and here all along I just figured it had a good publicist.

No: it's more than that. It's freakin' cool. Proto-Gehryesque, soaring stainless and pitch perfect into the sky.



Many thanks to B1-67er who suggested (in true b1- style -- which is to say, more firm direction than suggestion) that I NOT miss it while I was town.

And so I didn't.

Pics provided for your amusement in two flavors: slide show or thumbnails.

truly madly

St. Charles, MO

so long, and thanks for all the fish

so long, and thanks
for all the fish
Originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

Hannibal has had a hard time of it since I can recollect. First, it had me for a citizen, but I was too young then to really hurt the place.

— Mark Twain

The box of rocks for sale ($6) at the Farmer's Market was the first hint, earlier this morning, of the quality of attractions that Hannibal, Missouri -- Mark Twain's boyhood hometown -- had to offer.

They were limestone, porous, and billed as "holey" by the Mennonites who were shilling them with a smile.

The sweet little shuttered up moviehouse was the next; followed in rapid succession by chained door after boarded window after "for lease" sign.

Hannibal bills itself as "America's Hometown" which is remarkably perspicacious in light of America's dying small towns: there's no industry here, unless you count the General Mills plant down the road, and the lumber that used to steam down this waterway is long gone. The mighty Mississippi of Twain's day has entered peri-menopause and the main street is lined with ice cream parlors, candle shops, and tintype "old west" photo outfits -- all hallmarks of a town that survives on the kindness of strangers.

Hannibal is done. Dilapidation reins. Even Twain didn't return here more much after he got out and got *on* with it, and the unsinkable Molly Brown -- also a Hannibal early resident -- made her best move the day she moved out.

We planned to stay two nights, but some time around 5 on our first day, after exhausting the interpretive center, conversations with half a dozen colorful locals, a very cool cave, all available museums and a handful of house tours we decided to pack it up early and hit the road for home.

It wasn't all a wash -- saw some great things, had a wonderful weekend -- but there was something very, very sad about that little town on the river.


Posting by cameraphone.

p.s. Photo is of a young Mark Twain -- Sam Clemens -- shot while he was a printer's apprentice in Hannibal. Look closely and you can see that he holds a block of type in his hand that spells out "SAM". Swiped by cameraphone in the Mark Twain Museum, Hannibal, MO.

stage entrance

stage entrance
Originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

Last night I stopped to snap a shot near the stage entrance of the Orpheum Theatre in downtown St. Louis, Missouri. A guy stepped out, waited until I was done and asked, "are you performing?" with a big broad smile, gesturing me through the open door.

At first I was flattered, shaking my head shyly "no" -- then it occurred to me it could have been *any* kind of show.


Posting by cameraphone from the road.

the thin edge of the Arch

the thin edge of the Arch
Originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

Posting by cameraphone from St. Louis, Missoura

the flat earth society

the flat earth society
Originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

Oh sweet lord this land is flat.

But every once in a while it busts out something beautiful.


Somewhere near Bloomington, IL
Posting by cameraphone enroute to St Louis, MO

the mighty mo road show begins

There are certain things you ask a man before you marry him. Questions like: "Have you done this before?" and "are you on any anti-psychotic meds?"

And then there are the ones that slip through the cracks, like: "What do you mean you don't eat arugula?" or "you've never imagined living anywhere outside the Midwest?"

But there are others that, once the baseline of "born and raised in America" is established, are just assumed to be true.

Like Mark Twain.

Every American who reads has read Mark Twain.

Or so I presumed.

I wasn't cheeky enough to assume that every American has inhaled Mark Twain the way I did when my dad brought home volumes one and two of Twain Unabridged when I was in Junior High School.

But Tom Sawyer? Huck Finn? Given.

No. Not true. My darlin' companion -- who consumes books daily, outnumbering my weekly intake by at least three-to-one -- has never read Mark Twain. Any of it.

Which explains why his eyes didn't spark like firecrackers when I suggested -- many moons ago -- a road trip to Hannibal, Missouri, boyhood home of Mr. Twain, née Samuel Clemens. And then suggested it again. And again.

No sparks. Not a one.

Finally, I insisted.

This weekend we right that wrong: the car is packed. The Twain on tapes are at the ready. And Hannibal awaits.

With interim stops along the way.

Posting from the road.