{"id":1565,"date":"2026-05-25T22:11:58","date_gmt":"2026-05-26T03:11:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.ken-beck.com\/words\/?p=1565"},"modified":"2026-05-26T10:48:50","modified_gmt":"2026-05-26T15:48:50","slug":"travelogue-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ken-beck.com\/words\/2026\/05\/travelogue-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Travelogue 1"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Destination: Watkins Woolen Mill<\/a>, and campground at that State Park.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The rig, at about 11:30 CDT on the day before departure. Ford Ranger, 2003. Jayco 195RB.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

On the 24th of April, 2026, I was up at 5:00 AM CDT. I was on the road by 7 AM. I had a full tank of gas, pumped at about $3.39\/gallon a week or so before. I had planned this trip about a year before, before the ‘war with Iran,’ when gas was $2.69\/gallon. The internet doomsayers were predicting a sharp escalation in that price. I wanted to get this trip in, hopefully before the expected ‘societal collapse.’ Just for the record, society has not collapsed yet as I write up these notes, having survived the trip more or less as planned, on May 17th, 2026. It will take me a few days to collect these photos and my thoughts. One day at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The goal of the first days drive was a Missouri State Park called Watkins Mill. I saw it on the map, had picked out and reserved a site, but knew nothing about it. It was about 45 minutes north of the goal of this phase of the Kansas City leg of the adventure, which was a Black Crack Review gig at a venue called The Ship. The gig was going to kick off at 6:30 on the 25th. More on that in a subsequent post in this series.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At Watkins Mill, however, I took a bunch of pics. After an uneventful drive, I arrived on time, at about 2:45 PM or so. Still in Central Daylight Time. The problem with picking sites online:<\/p>\n\n\n

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No matter what, the trailer can’t be leveled up on this crazy patch of campground!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

I spent the rest of the the 24th lazing around in this lopsided bivouac.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Early the next day, I decided to check out the namesake mill…<\/p>\n\n\n

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As it turned out…<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

… As I arrived at the House… a yoga class was going on out front. Reminded me for all the earth of showing up at ADF years ago. The dance cult has so many tentacles! There is really hardly a way to pretend otherwise! Ahem…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

… And further, I was the only one who showed up to take the Mill tour. I had a one on one tour of the Watkins Woolen Mill. I took plenty of photos, and asked lots of questions… Here are a few goodies…<\/p>\n\n\n

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The Mill.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n
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Steam Engine, cylinder and crank side, detail 1.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n
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Cylinder side, detail 2.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Steam engines are\/were an obsession I shared with my father. As a kid we went on plenty of excursions on rail lines, chasing the puffer bellies wherever they can be still found living and chugging. I have shared and carried on Dad’s passion in this matter. So here’s a stationary example, the motive force of 19th century industry. I learned it was the failure of this engine that finally shut down the mill in 1886. This was two years after the death of the patriarch, Waltus Watkins. Too expensive to repair, given the mills declining commercial viability, the campus served as a home to the family until 1945 when the last of the Watkins on-site heirs died. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took a blizzard of photographs with my trusty iPhone SE. (Dinosaur.) Organizing the material for a blog post requires a theme; and, as usual, every time I am face to face with the past, I find myself wondering, “how did we become so obsessed with safety?” Product safety. Occupational hazards. Things that might kill us, immediately, or eventually. And, parallel to that, there is that overwhelming fear of death. We hide it in acronyms and euphemisms. “Passed on.” “The rainbow bridge,” if pets. ‘DOA.’ Or colloquialisms: ‘bought the farm,’ ‘kicked the bucket,’ ‘cashed in the chips.’ (We do the same with other, terrifying things. ‘Bats in the belfry.’ ‘Not playing with a full deck.’) In the time of the Watkins Mill, mid to late 19th century, these concerns were ‘facts of life.’ Death is the ultimate ‘fact of life.’ So let me illustrate, through the iPhone SE lens… (and even the iPhone must die. Guranteed.) …<\/p>\n\n\n

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The wool dyeing station.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

There is ‘to die,’ and then, there is ‘to dye.’ In English, homonyms. The wool has been sheared form the sheep. It has been sorted and carded for impurities, and then spun into fabric. It was, traditionally, ‘women’s work.’ An unmarried woman became known as a ‘spinster.’ And here we run into yet another incongruity with our transitional 21st century mores. The mores are in process. When we speak of ‘making America great again,’ do we really mean returning to the 19th century industrial America of Watkins Mill? Are we going to have our spinsters ”at the mill with slaves?” (“Eyeless in Gaza…” See Milton, Samson Agonistes<\/em>.) Is that what Stephen Miller wants? Maybe not for his<\/em> wife, but for women with other aspirations, other callings? But I, somewhat irritated by all of this, digress… If the shearing, sorting, and carding didn’t injure you, you can still be killed, eventually, by the chemicals in the dye.<\/p>\n\n\n

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The bobbin winder, with bobbins in bins.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n
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The looms.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The dyed thread, having been spun and wound onto bobbins, is now brought to the looms to be made into fabric. What was once (and still might be for anyone who cares to try it) the solitary process of Gretchen am Spinnerade<\/em> (Schubert, lied, 1814), updated before even that by the ‘spinning jenny,<\/a>‘ (James Hargreaves, 1765), has by the time of the Watkins Mill, been jazzed up, sped up, and made more dangerous, by the mechanism pictured above. These advances in industrial textile manufacture did not come without pushback and struggle. One the one hand, there was the struggle of technological progress. Mankind (and in this case, certainly, men<\/em>), had to invent ways to speed all this up and make it more efficient. And, of course, dangerous. But we all wear manufactured<\/em> clothes! So. Let HE who is without sin, cast the first stone! Let it not be a millstone! Guess who gets to stand at these machines in the midst of the occasional stray flying shuttle? If you guessed Gretchen, you get the points! On the other hand, there was pushback from the adherents to tradition, fearful of being rendered redundant. Luddites<\/a>. See also: the sewing machine riots<\/a>. Walton Watkins had his workers living on his spread. By the middle of the 19th century, riots were still set off by cruel treatment of workers, and tragic events in the fabric trades, such as the triangle shirtwaist factory fire<\/a>. My guide reported no such insurrection or events at Watkins Mill during its run. We were shown, at the tour of the residence, the commodious living accommodations the mill workers enjoyed on the Watkins estate. Presumably, they were paid a wage in addition to being housed and fed. Nice work, if you can get it.<\/p>\n\n\n

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The years of collective drudgery wear a hole in the floor.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

My guide showed me the marks on the wall, divots in the brick, where the machine had forcibly and rapidly ejected a shuttle. Anyone in the path of one of these missiles would have been impaled. But for me, the most telling image was the one above, which I duly photographed. Years of Gretchens, at the mill as employees, have worn a hole in the floor with their footwear. This reminds me of the hole worn in the body of Willie Nelson’s guitar where the pick guard should properly be. All of this is the pursuit of life, with a measure of liberty, and a constant strumming and striving for happiness that we as Americans have fitfully sought to preserve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And it all ends here for this earthly plane:<\/p>\n\n\n

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Graves of Waltus Watkins and his wife, Mary. On the site of the house and mill, off in a peaceful corner.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

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