Houston, we have a problem...Life on Mars looks eerily familiar.

(In "Huck Finn House" in Hannibal, Missouri.  It was about the only thing in there, to be honest.)

Well, the festivities have come to an abrupt halt, reality has reasserted its icy grip. Yet, it is with some relief I write that sentence-it means I survived.  I have gazed into the gaping jaws of hell and not succumbed to all-consuming fear. If you've read my mother's blog, you are now familiar with the events to which I allude.  If you have not, let me relate, in condensed form, the terrifying experience of flying in a model airplane.  My mother and I decided some little while back that we wanted to visit Nauvoo.  This eventually became an 850+ mile car-trip around most of the state of Illinois.  We made it from the east coast to Illinois without much to disturb the delicate balance of brain functioning on three or so hours of sleep.  However, air travel within the state of Illinois is a horse of a different color entirely.  During the near-fatal 45 minute flight I myself ranged the color spectrum from hunter, forest, to pea-green.  Landing in St. Louis we were directed upstairs where we were to pick up our 'boarding passes.'  As we began the trek to the extreme ends of the earth, things began to eerily resemble the opening sequence of some cheap 1930's horror movie. The place was deserted.  Imposing metal grilles protected the entrances of long-abandoned stores.  The 'conveyor belt' for people ran headlong into a wall, which still bore the sign "Walkers to left.  Strollers not encouraged." hanging above the abruptly severed belt.  We descended into the portals of the mysterious and discovered the 'waiting area' for our airline.  Hello, Mr. Hitchcock.  How are you? Fancy meeting you here.  At the counter, Helen checked our baggage and handed us over to Lowell who informed us of the time we would be boarding, but not before we were asked to reveal our most well-guarded secret-our weight.  "Say what?" I asked a bit dumbfounded.  Apparently to even out the weight on the plane.  Presently, the time arrived and we boarded.  Joe, or maybe it was Brian, I couldn't keep them straight, turned around and informed us that the fire extinguisher was under Brian's seat.  Well lovely.  He also informed us that we might experience some turbulence, courtesy of the weather system which was on its way out.  "Fine," I thought, "I've been flying through the tail-end of this system since we left home; I've handled it alright so far."  Oh, the comfort of ignorance.  We began to taxi down the airstrip.  Joe flipped open his window.  Seriously.  I looked out and saw a gremlin on the airplane wing.  (Okay, maybe that last bit isn't true, but under the circumstances I wouldn't consider it entirely impossible.)  We hit a crack in the pavement.  I felt us hit a crack in the pavement.  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."  We're. All.  Going.  To die.  I promptly pulled out my copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray and buried my nose in it, alternating reading with experimenting with Lamaze breathing.  You know how you hear the stories of those who have survived being shot keep the bullet(s) as souveniers?  I'm keeping that copy of Dorian Gray.  It still has fingernail punctures in the cover.  Joe was entirely too chipper to suit my mood; the one time I mustered the courage to glance up, the pilot was looking back, giving me a thumbs up.  I wanted to respond in kind with an alternate digit, but my fingernails were still imbedded in my book's cover.  I know there are no double yellow lines to drift over up there, but for pity's sake, look where you're going please.  There ain't no Hudson to ditch in around here, darling, just freshly ploughed furrows. I have to admit, though, when I finally did calm myself enough to look out the window, it was breath-takingly beautiful.  We were flying low enough (I was hoping dearly that we were supposed to be that low) to see the patchwork fields and miniature farmhouses and barns.  It was like looking at Mr. Roger's neighborhood.  We finally landed in Quincy and from there my  mom and I drove to Hannibal, Missouri, origins of probably America's most widely-known author, Mark Twain.  You know, it was funny to find out when I got a little older that he and another of my favorite childhood authors, Louisa May Alcott, despised each other with a passion.  She, for some reason, thought him loud and 'vulgar.' 

A display in his childhood home.  The child waving at the window is actually in the room behind me.  The rooms were all glassed off at the door, so the reflection of the representation of his most famous character appeared to be present in some phantom form in the room in which Mark Twain's statue stood.

I just thougth the sign was cool; it's kind of 1930's Depression-ear looking to me.

Looking through the open doorways of the "Huck Finn" house.

Not from Mark Twain's era, apparently, but close by.  We stopped at a small eatery on the famous Route 66.  I got a postcard and admired the history embodied in the idea, but I just can't eat a glorified corn-dog at 10 a.m., so I missed out on the gastronomical experience of Route 66.  I was still recovering from the death-flight anyway.  Next post will be about Springfield.  Be prepared.  I have a lot to say about Springfield, and its all "over-enthusiastic, history-dork, confessed hero-worshipper of Lincoln style" praise.