When We Visited Missourah

Last weekend, the city's biggest musical festival rolled into town. Booze, rock and roll, and frenzied partying engulfed the city. And were where we? Why, in the the most rootin', tootin' place known to man: Mansfield, Missouri.

If regular updates on cat vomit and chicken poop haven't reeled you in yet, I'm positive an entire post about Mansfield, Missouri (population 1,296) will leave you on the edge of your seat, frothing for more Winiferd in the Burbs.

As a child, I adored the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I still do, in fact.

I pick them up every few years or so and delve into sensual descriptions of Almanzo Wilder's family dinners. It's complete food porn. You haven't fully considered the beauty of buttered toast until you hear Laura Ingalls Wilder describe it in intricate detail.

Then there's the fact that the Ingalls family is always inches away from blizzards, wolf attacks, panther attacks, Scarlett Fever, and starvation.

Don't look away; the entire family might die at any moment. The books are often desolate and depressing. So you can imagine how much I love them.

Ian and I headed up to Mansfield to see the Laura Ingalls Wilder farm house and the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.

I saw it once before as a teenager, but you can never see enough of the Wilder museum. (I was a very cool teenager).

At Rocky Ridge farm, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder

Yep. Still got it.

More excited about the foliage

Whatever. Let's continue freaking out over the house. I want to live in the house.

I thought Ian was mildly bored by the Wilder museum which was full of patch-work quilts and rag dolls, so I tried to point out things of interest.

Laura: "That's Carrie Ingalls. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West."

Ian: "Wow. She did."

Laura: "Poor thing. She was sickly in the books. And she kinda got hit with the ugly stick."

Ian: "Who's that?!"

Laura: "That's Pa Ingalls. Isn't he terrifying? He had light blue eyes, so that's probably why he looks like he has no eyeballs."

Ian: "The camera stole Pa's soul."

Then we watched a short video and learned Laura's daughter, Rose, had a donkey named Spookendyke.

Which led to hours of hysterical giggling in the car, as we yelled out "Spookendyke" in horrible Dutch accents.

And, err, yelling about the little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in the dyke... STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Laura: "We should get one of those miniature, fuzzy donkeys and name it Spookendyke."

Ian: "No, I'd rather get a goat and name it Spookendyke. I want Spookendyke to make cheese."

Ian and Laura: <Stare at each other>

And then we died. The End.

After geeking out on all things Wilder, Ian and I drove to Baker Creek for the annual spring planting festival. Baker Creek is awesome because it sells heirloom seeds. (Ian wanted me to say that).

Actually, Baker Creek is awesome because it has a pioneer village named Bakersville.

Laura: "It's like an episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!"

Ian: "Is it? I never watched that show."

Laura: "Oh yes. It came on Saturday nights at 7. I watched it compulsively as a child because it was so dumb. I couldn't turn away. It was like Seventh Heaven in that regard."

Ian: "I see."

Laura: "I mean, Dr. Quinn was curing cancer before cancer existed."

I discreetly tried to snap photos of everyone's pets. There were lots of Winnie look-alikes:

A freaked-out cat on a leash:

Laura: "Look, Ian! Those sheep are playing together! They're playing chase."

Ian: "Umm, I don't think they're playing..."

Laura: "Oh. Oh my. This is just how children learned the facts of life in the 1800s. How authentic."

We saw tons of roosters, hens, and baby chicks. The baby chicks were for sale, and Ian had a brief bout of chicken baby fever.

What? Doesn't the pungent odor of chicken feces give you baby fever?

He pondered the possibility of buying a few more chicks, but I squashed that because I'm mean and we have enough pets.

Ye olde porta johns, out on the range

Sun-baked cookies

Our Music Fest

Little Hippie on the Prairie, listening to olde timey music

Finally, did you know there's a skating rink in Mansfield? It was across the street from out hotel.

It was the most red-neck place we'd ever seen, which is saying something. This was the entrance:

We were convinced we had walked into a prostitution sting until we saw three little girls wearing roller blades.

So we skated and it was fun. And it was the best trip ever.

I leave with a picture of the last of the Ingalls blood-line, Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, with her beloved Maltese dogs. Ian surreptitiously snapped the photo when no one was looking.

I think this proves I'm the heiress of the Wilder legacy. Please send me my royalties. And let me live in the house.

Boy Meets Girl; Girl Meets Plants

Ian loves plants the way middle-aged white women love Oprah. He loves plants. He currently works in a garden, and he'll finish his horticulture degree this year.

Ian makes a beeline for the plant section the minute we set foot in a Home Depot or a Lowe's. He points out every tree, flower, bush, and weed we pass while walking or driving. He can talk plants for hours, using their ancient Latin names.

Ian: "Look! It's Acacia berlandieri."

Laura: "That's the summoning spell from Harry Potter!"

Ian: "I don't...think so."

Laura: "I guess it was 'Accio', not 'Acacia'."

Ian: "Hmm."

Laura: "Accio broomstick!"

Ian: <Looks uncomfortable>

Truthfully, I know embarrassingly little about plants.

According to rigorous scientific research undertaken at the J.K. Tolkien Institute of Botany and Botany Related Stuff, even my dog knows more about plants than I do.

Talking about plants bores me. (Only a little, Ian! Only a little).

When Ian and I first began dating, it wasn't a problem, because I'd read enough pioneer stories during my youth to carry a conversation about poisonous plants and the poor pioneering saps who ate them. 

(The same saps who, according to Oregon Trail, didn't know how to ford a river or avoid snake bites. Puh-lease. Ezekiel, if you had stayed in the wagon, we wouldn't have had to wait two weeks for the ground to thaw so we could bury you).

After we had discussed poisonous plants consumed by pioneers, Ian had to deal with the fact that his girlfriend knew nothing about his dearly beloved plant world.

Meanwhile, I tried to maintain my dignity whenever Ian talked about horticulture. Mostly, that meant watching for my cues during plant conversations:

1. Nod 
2. Nod
3. Smile 
4. Execute the "tell me more" face 
5. Look mildly confused 
6. Look concerned 
7. Have a 'light bulb' moment 
8. Smile
9. Smile bigger
10. Nod 
11. Nod vigorously

And we're done.

When Ian first introduced me to his cat, Spottswood, I felt positive that "Spottswood" was a plant or a tree or something from nature.

How cute! Ian loves plants! And he loves cats! So he named his cat after a plant! AWWW!

I operated under this delusion for a good six months, until Ian explained the cat had been named after a street.

Laura: "You mean there's no plant called Spottswood?"

Ian: "No. Just a street. And a cat."

Laura: <Feels disappointed>

One day, while in the car, Ian was doing his normal thing of pointing out plants, and I was doing my normal thing of composing limericks in my head:

Laura: <Deep in thought>
"There once was a little white dog,
Who drank some tainted egg nog,
She got really whack,
She fell on her back,
And she entered a hazy, drunk fog."

Ian: <Becomes aware I'm completely checked out> "Have you learned anything about plants since you've been with me? Anything at all?"

Laura: "Of course I've learned things. I listen to you all the time."

Ian: "When do the hibiscus bloom?"

Laura: "When the biscuits bloom."

Ian: "When do Crepe Myrtles bloom?"

Laura: "Whenever Myrtle comes to town."

Ian: "When do sunflowers bloom?"

Laura: "When the sun comes out."

Laura: "Look at the roses!"

Ian: "Those are azaleas."