5/5 Will J. 3 years ago on Google
Sunday,
March
21st,
2021
at
3:29
PM
Muscatine
Art
Center
Muscatine,
Iowa
I
drove
northerly
out
of
Davenport
Saturday,
enjoying
the
sun
as
I
made
my
way
to
LeClaire.
Driving
in
Iowa
scares
me.
Every
town
deploys
speed
measuring
technology
to
issue
tickets
for
driving
too
fast.
I
hope
no
tickets
show
up
at
the
registration
address
for
the
car.
The
tickets
can
be
rather
severe.
Speeding
on
the
freeway
costs
a
draconian
fine
of
one
thousand
dollars.
Maybe
Iowa
can't
enforce
the
tickets
on
an
Illinois
license?
I
don't
think
there's
a
problem.
I
used
cruise
control
every
time
I
noticed
a
speed
limit.
I'm
in
deep
Iowa
now.
The
town
bears
the
name
of
a
wine
grape,
the
Muscatine.
The
town
factories
once
stamped
pearl
buttons
from
shells.
Oyster
shells
I
think.
This
house
museum
shows
quilts
made
in
Muscatine
over
one
hundred
years
ago.
The
quilts
hang
with
pictures,
daguerreotypes
even,
of
the
families
who
enjoyed
the
comfort
of
the
quilts.
This
is
what
people
did
together,
sewing
quilts,
this
far
from
New
York
City
and
Los
Angeles.
One
of
the
docents
visited
with
me
a
moment
ago.
She
kindly
reminded
me
that
the
museum
closes
in
fifteen
minutes.
I
promised
to
be
out
the
door
in
ten
so
they
could
close
the
doors
on
time.
Her
family
came
to
Muscatine
as
an
original
settler.
She
might
have
sewn
a
quilt
with
her
mother.
She
has
served
the
museum
as
a
front
desk
representative
for
three
years.
She
works
at
a
museum
that
celebrates
her
roots.
Now,
I
have
to
contemplate
to
understand
that
kind
of
connectedness.
A
Zen
Garden
awaits
outside.
Sculpture
around
the
grounds
invites
me
to
wander.
I
regret
not
seeing
a
single
piece
of
summer
furniture
on
the
veranda
of
the
Musser
Mansion.
I
could
sit
on
the
veranda
and
write
otherwise
until
kingdom
come
or
the
cows
come
home.
I
doubt
I
would
see
cows.
Muscatine
is
a
proper
town
of
parlor
homes
on
the
Mississippi
River.
This
might
be
the
perfect
place
to
see
dusk
falling
in
three
short
hours
from
now.
I'm
on
the
porch
of
what
was
the
Musser
Mansion.
I
am
contemplating
the
Japanese
Garden
designed
by
Laura
Musser
McColm.
I
guess
her
indulgent
parents
encouraged
her
in
this
effort
at
landscape
architecture.
She
even
imported
Yews
from
Japan,
yews
that
still
stand
among
the
channels
and
pools
of
the
garden.
I'm
guessing
Mrs
McColm
left
the
house
to
the
city
parents,
so
to
speak,
so
the
Van
Gogh
and
the
Georgia
O'Keefe
could
be
properly
exhibited
for
time
to
come.
At
the
top
of
this
Mississippi
River
bluff,
the
spring
wind
roars,
the
yew
trees
shake.
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