"River City, next stationstop, River City next . . ."

    We didn't want to take the same route east as we had taken to Stoughton, even though I wanted to see John Wayne's birthplace.  We took route 35 north.  Had we gone south, we could have seen both the John Wayne birthplace and the bridges of Madison County, but it was too late in the day for sightseeing.
    Traveling north in a really bad wind, pelted by rain, I thought we had made a mistake.  Our Internet book listed no WalMarts for the next 150 miles, not until we reached Minnesota.  We would never make it that far in the rain and wind.  An idea struck me.  "Diane, look in the other map.  Does that list a Supercenter in Mason City?"
    Mason City is in northern Iowa, halfway to Minnesota.
    "Yes," said Diane, finally.  "There is one on Southwest 4th Street."
    "Great.  We'll stop there."
    Mason City is the hometown of Meredith Wilson, author of "The Music Man."  In fact, he used his hometown as the model for River City in the show.  The next morning, we visited Wilson Square, where a statue of Meredith stood next to his home, circa 1825, in front of a large music center where classes were held, a museum stood, even a Mrs. Paroo gift shop.  Being a longtime lover of Meredith Wilson's shows, this was a real treat for me.  Diane sat in the camper and yawned.

    As we pulled out of town, Diane suggested we stop at a big discount store called Farmer's Supplies, or something like that, to look at a backup generator.  Despite Kevin's efforts, ours had crapped out again.  The man at the store suggested that a Coleman 1850 would probably do the job.  It cost $399.  We took the paperwork to the register where we were told they accepted every credit card made except American Express, so we had to leave Mason City generatorless.  The generator itself was pretty cool, a nice compact little red thing, but I had some doubts as to its power: 1850 watts might drive that air conditioner, but hardly anything else.
    We drove up to Minnesota, then headed east.  "Hey, where is the Twine Ball?" asked Diane.
    As we researched the location of the famous twine ball, which we have yet to see, Freddy cried, "Daddy!  Take this exit now!"
    "Why?" I yelled, as I pulled off to the right, slowly realizing I had exited the highway at the Hormel Food Processing Plant.
    "Because," said Freddy, excitedly, "this is the home of the Spam Museum!"
    Diane said, "We're going to the Spam Museum?  What a Cousin Eddie thing that must be.  I'd rather find the twine ball."
    Freddy was right.  Just ahead stood a little green sign that said, Spam Museum, turn left.  Now caught up in  the excitement, I followed the signs, right, then left, then right again on Spam Avenue, and there it was, a huge brick building with blue and yellow trim behind three flags waving on a flagpole:  The United States, Minnesota, and Spam.  That's right, a blue and yellow flag waved there, with the spam insignia on it.
    As I started to turn left into the parking lot, a uniformed attendant ran out on the road, waving me to stop.  "The parking lot is full," he said, "and there's a big busload of children on their way."
    "What should I do?"
    "If you can just make a u-turn, you can park right on the street here, just in front of that white car," he said, indicating the open parking space.
    Making a u-turn in that camper is no easy task, but the traffic waited courteously for me, knowing, I guess, what a great tourist attraction awaited us on Spam Avenue.  After I parked the car, I turned to Diane, my voice trembling a bit with the excitement of it all, and said, "Did you ever, in your whole life, ever dream that some day you'd go to the Museum of Spam?"
    Diane looked at me, with her dry, humorless look, and said, "I never, in my whole life, ever dreamed there was such a stupid thing as the Museum of Spam."
    You can see her excitement in the picture below:

    Later on, we learned about the role played by Spam in World War II, and how it was a special favorite of Dwight David Eisnehower's.  We learned about the Hormel Girls, who toured the nation selling Spam, something like the Harvey Girls of the old west.  We saw how Burns and Allen had been sponsored by Hormel on radio and in magazine ads, and how Spam took the lead from its brother and sister products, Dinty Moore and Hormel Chili.  Here, Diane and Freddy watch a video showing them how Spam is used in gourmet cooking in Hawaii:

    Several times during the tour, women came around with free samples: chunks of warmed turkey or ham Spam with pretzel sticks sticking from the middle of each piece.  I guess toothpicks were too messy.  I had read somewhere that the tour included free Spamburgers, but these were nowhere to be found.  Anyway, I bravely took a bite of the ham Spam.
    I expected the Spam to taste as bad as it looked, but I was wrong--it was delicious.  All these years, I thought Spam was some kind of joke--just one step closer to canned cat food for old people--but I am here to tell you that this 57 year-old geezer has discovered that he's been wrong all his life.  Spam is good.  I never really cared much for ham and eggs in the morning--but Spam and eggs--well, it's better than bacon--and we're talking NO SUGARS, and NO CARBOHYDRATES at all!
    After we left the Spam museum, Freddy made me a couple of delicious Spamburgers for lunch.  From now on, we're Spam fans.

    Except Freddy, who thinks Spam is kind of gross.

    Only one strange thing happened at the Spam Museum--well, strange to me, anyway.  When one travels from state to state, as we've done so often, one gets to be familiar with public restrooms of all kinds, but there was something queer about this bathroom.
    I went into the handicapped commode, as I usually do, non-handicapped facilicities often having no leg room, making it nearly impossible to bend forward for cleansing, removed my shorts and sat down, casually glancing at the wall, where I was greeted by this sign:

    About a hundred miles out of Milwaukee, we stopped at a WalMart which was right next door to a Home Depot.  Diane suggested we try there for a new generator.  They were all out of the Coleman 1850's, but they did have one display model left for a Coleman 2500 that cost $299.  Maybe this was our lucky day, especially when the salesman said since it was the display, maybe he could knock off $40 from the price.
    When we got to the register, they had all kinds of trouble getting the price to go through.  Finally,  a manager was called, who explained they were punching in the wrong price. Great.  I knew our luck would never hold.  Those things only work right for Gary.  No, the correct price in the computer,  even though the label said $299, was $229.  Since we were buying the floor model, they dropped it to $199.  Thank you, God.  It's about time things went our way.
    So there we were, with a 2500 watt generator, not as neat looking as the little Coleman, but certainly powerful enough to run the air conditioner and anything else we might need.  At last, we had a break.
    We drove across the lot to WalMart.  It was the first Walmart we had ever seen with big red and white signs that proclaimed, "NO OVERNIGHT RV PARKING."  Bite me, WalMart.  Off we went to find another store.
    Diane found one, only about five miles out of our way.  When we got there, though, it had barely any parking lot.  The place was rebuilding into a Super WalMart, and they didn't have much place to park.  We drove up the road to a Mobil station to fill up the tank, and Diane went inside where she found a laundromat.
    "Good news," she said, when she returned to the camper.  We can stay here overnight and I can catch up on all our laundry."
    "Great."  I said.  "I'll park around the back."
    "The woman at the laudromat said they usually park right in front, over there."
    "Between those four dumpsters?"
    "That's what she said."
    "But won't we be in the way, if somebody wants to empty those dumpsters?"
    "She said, that's where they all park."
    "Okay, then."
    Against my better judgment, I set up between the dumpsters, then started our new generator, which I had out back, locked with Freddy's eight foot bicycle bchain.
    "And the Lord said, 'Let there be Light . . . " and instantly, Freddy pull-started the generator, " . . . and there was Light."
    Then we started the air condititioner.  For a moment, the lights dimmed while that initial surge of power strained the engine, but it started!  And I, like the great God Almighty, surveyed our work, and said, "This is Good."
    An hour later, it crashed.
    "Oh My God, don't tell me."
    "Why did it stop?"
    We ran outside and pulled the generator a few times.  It didn't start.  Was our $200 bargain a piece of crap?  No, it couldn't be.
    A thought occured to me.  "Freddy, check the gasoline."
    That was it.  We filled it up and everything worked fine.  The only trouble is, it won't run for much more than 75 minutes on one tank of gas.  Now that's not really expensive--it's just got a small gas tank.  If we have to use this in Florida, while I'm rebuilding the big generator, we may have to get a bigger gas tank.  That won't be a problem.
    The weather was still pretty rainy.  I rigged up our beach umbrella to protect the generator from the rain, and we had a good dinner and a good sleep.
    Until 5:00 am, that is, when somebody started banging on the wall of the camper.
    "What the Hell is that?"
    I got up, searching for my shorts in the dark.
    "Just a minute."
    I reached for the door.
    Freddy said, "Don't open the door, Dad.  Do you want my crossbow?"
    Still half asleep, I don't know what I said.  I realized whoever it was was banging on the wall opposite the door.  I looked out the window, and saw a large African American man standing there, looking rather unhappy.
    The time had come to control those stupid prejudices that sat around in our psyche from childhood tales told by misinformed parents.  "We can't sell our waterfront home to Negroes, dear," came my mother's voice from long ago.  "They're not like us.  Their bodies would ruin the water in the lake."  Even now, I could hear my six-year-old voice squeaking out of that fat, freckled, red headed body.  "Ohhhhhh."
    Then I heard my father's voice from the past, the day we watched "Edge of the City," on Playhouse 90, and two dock workers were fighting a realistic battle with bailing hooks.  Dad told me he had worked the docks and had seen lots of Negroes going at each other with hooks, tearing their flesh to pieces.  Of course, he didn't say, "Negroes."
    And here I was, at five in the morning, with a burly African American at the door.  Would I give into my prejudices, or would I think rationally?
    Rationally, thank goodness.  I saw a dump truck and realized the man was there to pick up the garbage.  I cursed at myself.  I should have known better.  What a stupid place to park!  Why did I listen to that woman's advice when I knew I never should have stayed there?
    While the garbageman waited, I had to disconnect the umbrella, unlock the generator and the gas can, wheel it over to the grass, then uncover the front window, start the car--it was cool; it stalled twice--and move the camper so the dump truck could get in.  Next, I had to get the generator, gas can, and umbrella, throw it inside the camper, and drive to the other side of the building because the garbageman told me another company would empty the other dumpster at 7:00 am.  What a night.  I knew it was going to happen once on this trip.

    I had parked next to an Ace Hardware store without knowing it was there at night.  In the morning, I got some supplies and bolted the generator to the rear bumper.  The camper now looks even more like a Cousin Eddiemobile than ever, but at least, I won't have to lug that thing inside wherever we go.

    I had a good feeling about the Milwaukee Show.  It looked like we were the only vendors who specialized in giftware.  Other vendors had a few items, but we had a chance to make another killing.  We had found some pretty good higher end stuff at the wholesaler in Denver that I hoped would do one.  One piece I especially liked because it spoke of the spirit of Wisconsin is this one:

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN