First, welcome to all my new followers! Thanks for following!!!
In case you haven’t noticed, the Crazy Train hasn’t taken many road trips lately. Well, there’s a simple explanation for that.
Not swim season, like, the kids are in the pool and playing and having fun, but Swim Season like SWIM TEAM and I am carting them to and from practice every day, sitting poolside, sweating my bohonkus off, watching them swim laps and then getting up at 5am every Saturday to go to swim meets. THAT kind of Swim Season.
But, I am hoping that we can start back to our adventures SOON.
In the meantime, I am writing A LOT over at It’s a Beautiful Tree. I’ve got a series right now on Caroline Ingalls and Helen Ekin Starrett that I am loving. So, if you’re into a whole other type of Crazy Train– like those women who took their families all over the place in covered wagons, then check out my work over there!
Hope to see you there!
For those Crazy Train loyal followers, I heartily apologize for our absence of late. We’ve been doing the responsible thing over the last few months—homework, scouts, student council, soccer… laundry…. And I have been working on my research for my book (and you can see my progress at itsabeautifultree.com).
But now that the weather is looking brighter, the bluebonnets are popping up on the roadsides, and summer vacation is within our reach, we have started thinking about road trip possibilities. Mostly, we are thinking about all those fantastic little dots on the map we’ve blown through on the way TO somewhere else. We’re going to start working on making those THE destinations!
And, in my family chaos, I neglected to report on our latest road trip! As our most ardent friends and followers know, it’s not the destination that holds all the fun, it’s the journey. It’s taken me awhile to get it posted. I promise to do better!
This year, we decided that since the Hub had St Patrick’s Day off, why not spend the Irish holiday in DUBLIN? Um, DUH. What red-blooded American of Irish descent wouldn’t want to spend the feast day of St Patrick—the High Holiday of all things green—in DUBLIN? Having received my early education from Irish Catholic nuns FROM Ireland, I spent every single St Patrick’s Day—from kindergarten in the St Bridgid’s Convent semi-basement classroom to the gym or cafeteria stage at St Luke’s Catholic School singing songs about corned beef and cabbage and smiling Irish eyes. It seemed almost a sin to forego to opportunity to celebrate the holiday anyplace else. So, we decided that on the dull and rainy day of March 17th, we would pile into the land yacht and head on over to Dublin.
Did I mention we were going to Dublin, TEXAS?
Um, yeah. Not the same.
Dublin, Texas, has always had a little bit of fame here in the Lone Star State as the home of Dublin Bottling Works—the place where the amazing Dublin Dr Pepper was bottled until the heartless giants of corporate conformity decided that the little guys in Texas who still had their original contract with Dr Pepper couldn’t keep doing their thing. If you don’t know the Dublin Dr Pepper story, here’s the skinny:
Once upon a time, a tasty carbonated beverage called Dr Pepper appeared on the soda market. It debuted in Waco, and was originally only available there. But in 1925, an independent bottler in the little town of Dublin obtained the first bottling franchise with Dr Pepper to bottle the goodness outside of Waco. Dublin’s distribution territory was limited to a 44-mile radius of the town, which was just peachy until Dr Pepper was eventually sold to Snapple. Weeeelllll…. Snapple quickly learned that people from everywhere were flocking to this little town in Texas for “Dublin Dr Pepper” because they had never changed their formula to include high fructose corn syrup. Dublin Dr Pepper always stayed true to the awesomeness of pure cane sugar, and their loyal followers showed their devotion with their wallets.
So when big ol’ Snapple came along, they saw that this little independent distributor in Texas was making money hand over fist on Dublin Dr Pepper. People were selling it online (not necessarily the bottler) and it was being sold outside the 44-mile radius stipulated in their contract (again, not necessarily by the bottler). Well, big ol’ Snapple didn’t like this one bit, so, although Dublin had less than 1% of the entire US Dr Pepper sales, it was time for them to stop. In 2011, the Dr Pepper Snapple Group sued Dublin Dr Pepper for trademark dilution and stealing sales from other Dr Pepper distributors by selling outside their territory. In 2012, Dublin Dr Pepper ceased to exist.
Thanks, Snapple. Thanks for ruining it for all of us. I hope the $7 million in annual sales you recouped from Dublin helps y’all sleep better at night.
Anyhow, now the old Dublin Dr Pepper Bottling Plant bottles their own sodie-pop in their super-cool vintage machinery in the same plant where the delicious Dublin Dr Pepper used to be bottled. The new stuff is called Dublin Bottling Works, and it’s not bad. The tour is pretty cool and you can see all the vintage machinery and Dr Pepper collectibles in the Plant and in the accompanying museum. Not a bad way to spend a rainy St Patrick’s Day afternoon. It wasn’t the Guinness Brewery at St James Gate in Dublin, Ireland, but it was much cheaper and took a fraction of the time.
The Dublin Bottling Works was the highlight of our trip. NOTHING else in Dublin was open! NOTHING! There were a few shops in town who’s signage said they’d be open until 5:00 or 5:30, but most places were closed. There weren’t really even any restaurants in town, and NO PUBS! What?!?!? I messaged an Irish friend of mine and said that if the Dublin in Ireland found out that there were no pubs in Dublin, Texas, the entire population of Dublin, Ireland might charter an Aer Lingus jumbo jet and fly over here and beat up the town of Dublin, Texas.
(Let me interject about Dublin Bottling Works for a sec here. As we were finishing up—right around closing time, I noticed a family pull up in front of the Plant with out of state plates. They tried the door, but it was already locked. One of the young employees opened the door and told the mom that they had already closed. “Darn!” said the mom, “we just got to town and we are continuing on and we really wanted to take the tour!” Well, THANK YOU SMALL TOWN, TEXAS for showing them what Texas hospitality is all about! I noticed that you let the family in, and I assume you stayed late and gave them a tour anyway. I just wanted to say, even if you don’t ever read this, that your gesture did not go unnoticed, and this Texan would like to thank you for your kindness. It really made me happy to see something like that. You could’ve just ignored them, but you didn’t. KUDOS!)
Anyhow, back to me. A simple Google search would’ve told us that Dublin, Texas celebrated St Patrick’s Day over the weekend preceding the 17th. Oh well. You’d think I’d have learned by now. But it definitely didn’t stop us from our photo ops, because we ALL know that the hilariousness of trips like this lie in Facebook statuses like “Happy St Patrick’s Day—from Dublin, Texas” and then everyone replies “OMG what are you doing in Dublin?” and I respond, “um, St Patrick’s Day! DUH!” However, I was quite sad that I was unable to obtain a Guinness on the Irish High Holy Day. But I did wear green. And blue (St Stephanie—I always wear blue for you!).
Although Dublin claims to be the Irish capital of Texas, the origin of the name isn’t 100% in support of that theory. Could’ve been for the term “double-in” that the settlers used to yell as a warning cry during Indian raids. Or for the double log cabins the settlers built. Or for the capital of Ireland. Regardless, it’s been there since about 1860. It’s mostly and agricultural town, and sadly, most of the businesses and buildings in the downtown area are in need of some TLC. The Ben Hogan Museum was closed the day we were in town, as was the Dublin Historical Museum. And, like I said, most of the other shops were closed for the day too. Would’ve been nice to have seen all the sights since we LOVE to immerse ourselves in the entire culture of a town while we are there.
Perhaps next year, we will check ahead of time and go on the festival weekend. And we won’t assume that stuff will be open in Dublin just BECAUSE it’s St Patrick’s Day!
Hi everyone! With the kiddos in school and soccer and student council and all that other stuff, we haven’t been able to hit the road lately. Such sadness. But I’ve been keeping myself busy at my other blog, so feel free to hop on over there and indulge my nerdy side!
As you can probably tell, the Crazy Train has been stuck at the station for awhile. Not because we WANT to be, but because the activities and homework and schedules and lives of a trio of children have kept us homebound lately!
HOWEVER, this does NOT mean that I am not writing! While the kids are selling Girl Scout Cookies, bike riding, attending birthday parties, riding bikes, making messes, having sleepovers, going on Cub Scout outings, and other various kid things, you can find me at my other blog: itsabeautifultree.com
Once we hit the road again– or I dig up pics from an adventure we took before, I’ll post! But until then, I’ll be in my treehouse.
–Gordy, in Stand By Me, 1996
Many of the Crazy Train’s excursions lead us through tiny dots on the map, born of the railroads during westward expansion. Millions of acres lay in wait, untouched by a new breed of American explorers in search of a place to call their own. During the nineteenth century, a herd of iron horses stampeeded westward, forever changing the Western landscape. Likewise, decades later, when the US Department of Transportation paved a spiderweb of asphalt, most of the old railroad towns were bypassed, condemning them to a future of ambiguity. It was on one of these road trips that I made a connection I’d never made before. Usually, when we arrive in a town, I google its history, and we learn about any little interesting tidbits the town had—or still has—to offer. I usually read a little about how the town was founded, its subsequent growth, and its ultimate decline. Or, in some cases, what continues to keep it thriving.
It was in one of these obscure little ghost towns that I made an offhanded remark to the tone of, “gee. All these towns are named after railroad presidents and train muckety-mucks rather than the town founders.” My words were still hanging in the air above my head in a bubble as The Hub turned and looked at me in that, “you didn’t seriously just say that, did you?” expression he gets that is at times humorous, and at other times annoying as hell. “Oops. Yeah, Right. It’s a FANTASTIC idea to name those towns after railroad presidents!” I exclaimed, with a guilty giggle.
I laughed because, in a way, the Crazy Train has VERY close link to one such town. And what is this link, you may be wondering? In the northern California county of Siskiyou, there’s a tiny dot on the map called Swobe. Depending on which map you use, Swobe, California may, or may not, actually have roads. But, one thing it does not have is a population. Or buildings. Or a sign. Or a zip code. Or a train depot. Or ANYTHING. Swobe is pretty much just a dot on the map.
So just where did the name for this tiny dot originate? Just who was this “Swobe” person, and why is there a dot bearing his name? My great-grandfather, Dwight Milton Swobe, was born in 1878 in Nebraska, the son of Civil War veteran Col. Thomas Swobe and his wife, Alzina. Col Swobe worked his way up the ranks in the Union Army, ultimately retiring as Quartermaster. It was upon his retirement that he became a partner in Shears, Markel & Swobe of the Millard Hotel, Omaha’s premier hotel at the time, and one of Nebraska’s political centers. His company also provided dining cars for many railroads. It seems that Dwight Swobe got the railroad bug from his dad, because all accounts I’ve read have him working for railroads as soon as he graduated from college. The railroads brought Dwight incrementally west, became a widely respected short line railroad man, and ultimately became president of the McCloud River Railroad in 1921. He saw the Railroad through the devastation of the 1930s, making use of the line for lumber transport. The company was beloved by its employees and became known by them as Mother McCloud for continuing to offer its employees credit in company stores throughout the Depression, and then forgiving their debt afterwards. Dwight raised a family in Berkeley, and, sadly, passed away at the age of 65 in 1943. After his death, McCloud River Railroad honored him by naming a “town” after him. It’s actually just a mile of tracks between markers 12 and 13 along a picturesque span of the Railroad, but the real honor was in the gesture. Although we rarely depend on the railroads for transportation these days, The Mc Cloud River Railroad, now the McCloud Railway operates as a passenger excursion train, and an 80 mile portion of the former line is being converted into a multi-use trail for hiking, cycling, horseback riding, and other non-motorized sports. For a glimpse of my great-grandfather’s railroad, check out the scenery in the classic movie Stand By Me. The infamous bridge the boys run across to escape the oncoming train is the McCloud River Railroad’s Lake Britton Bridge in Burney Falls Memorial State Park. ***Special THANKS to the people of the McCloud River Railroad and the McCloud Railroad for posting these pictures that I borrowed from you on your webpage. Learn and see more history at mcclourriverrailroad.com, greatshastarailtrail.org/history/railroad-history-summary/, trainweb.org/mccloudrails, ancestry.com, and to my mom, my aunt, and my awesome 2nd cousin Gordon for your assistance in the ongoing Swobe family research!***
The Adventures of the Crazy Train typically follows the adventures of all five of us, and it’s usually confined to the borders of the Lone Star State. But, as today is New Year’s Eve, I felt like shaking things up. In honor of the Ball Drop in Times Square tonight, I’m sharing a story from the annals of Crazy Train History. From before there was a Crazy Train. From when there were just two newlyweds on their first adventure.
Yep. I’m going to tell you a little ditty about our honeymoon! I know, right? Y’all are SO LUCKY!
Actually, it’s not about our ENTIRE honeymoon because, well, y’all just don’t have THAT much free time. And honestly, I don’t think we are quite that interesting. It’s about one day of our honeymoon. A beautiful spring day in May 2002 that in no way, shape, or form, resembles today at all. But, I digress.
No, it’s not a sexy story about a secluded romantic island beach with the two of us surrounded by scantily-clad natives fanning us with palm fronds and feeding us exotic fruit between trysts of naked frolicking in the frothy surf of our own private beach. No. Anyone who knows us knows that nothing about that is even remotely believable. No. This is a story about how we took a romantic two-week rainbow Trafalgar bus tour around the UK with 30 strangers, visiting a different city almost every day.
I think this was the first—and the last—time we ever took a tour where we couldn’t call the shots. We went where they told us and when they told us, BUT, we did this for three reasons: Tennents Velvet, Kilkenny, and Guinness. The good stuff from the Mother Ship. The creamy, frothy, deliciousness from the British Isles in unlimited quantities was the driving force behind our decision to hop aboard the Rainbow Bus and follow the Trafalgar itinerary. No drinking and driving on the wrong side of the road for us! We would drink and ride!
About halfway through our trip, the Rainbow Bus pulled into the Irish city of Tully in County Kildare for a visit to the Comhlacht Groi Naisiunta na hElreann Teo. Or, in English, The Irish National Stud. A horse farm. A big horse farm. If you want to get down to brass tacks, it’s kind of an equine-whorehouse where rich people with really expensive pedigreed horses take them in order to impregnate them by other really expensive pedigreed horses so they can make really expensive super-pedigreed baby uberhorses for racing or status— or just so they can have extra super mega expensive horses.
We knew “The Stud,” as it’s called, was on the itinerary for the morning, but it was the afternoon we were looking forward to. See, I like horses as much as the next girl, but touring a horse farm and hearing about horse breeding is only fun for so long. Tales of “Tommy the Teaser” were stimulating, of course, but it was the afternoon in Waterford that we were excited about.
Yep, Waterford. As in Waterford Crystal. We wanted to see the Waterford Factory and watch the artisans create the sparkly masterpieces. And to SHOP in the FACTORY STORE! Ahhhhh….. Nothing gets me all giddy like Waterford Crystal at factory prices. Especially on a weak Euro day. And with free international shipping on purchases over €200? WOO-HOO! I can spend €200 on Waterford in my sleep—especially back in the days of two incomes and no kids.
So, I’m sure you’re wondering what this has to do with New Years Eve. Well, if you’ve ever paid attention to anything besides the musical acts and mindless banter by the commentators (most of whom I have NO CLUE who they are anymore) you would know that Waterford Crystal has EVERYTHING to do with the Ball Drop. The giant ball in Times Square is covered with 2,688 hand-made lead crystal triangles, imported from Waterford, Ireland. Each year, some are changed out with ones with updated designs.
At the Factory, there’s a replica of the Ball, and it’s on display where you can see it up close. It’s amazing. After seeing it, I would LOVE to see the real thing in New York. But up close. I hate crowds, so Times Square on New Year’s Eve is probably the last place on the planet I ever want to be.
Back in 2002, they weren’t selling souvenir crystal triangles. But, over the years, I’ve seen that Waterford has started offering them. I may have to start a collection. Maybe the Crazy Train Christmas Tree could eventually look like the Times Square Ball. If The Hub started buying them on our anniversary, they’d start piling up quickly since he counts our anniversaries in dog years. (Theoretically, that’s SEVEN Waterford Crystal triangles a year!) Anniversaries in dog years? That’s another story for another day.
Yep. You read that right. We took our daughter to a bar on a school night. But we had a really, really good reason. And no, it wasn’t because we couldn’t find a babysitter.
You see, one of the best things about Texas is that we’ve got some amazing musical legends right here in our backyard. The Crazy Train is based just spitting distance from the Live Music Capital of the World, so we’ve got plenty of concert opportunities.
In 2012, The Hub and I crossed Willie Nelson off our bucket list, but our eclectic little GirlChild was furious to have been left out. You see, Mags isn’t like most girls her age. We’ve not been tortured (yet) with whatever tween chipmunk helium techno bubblegum earworm death sentence that some parents suffer through. She’s got a heterogeneous musical palette that is admirable for a 10 year old girl. Her playlist has everything from Neil Diamond to Taylor Swift.
(The afternoon before the show.)
So when Willie and Family brought the legendary bus back through our neck of the woods in 2013, we had to go. The 80 year old Redheaded Stranger might not have too many touring years left, so we decided to carpe diem and spring for tickets. Seeing Willie at Floore’s in Helotes had always been on my Bucket List, but the folks in Luckenbach say Gruene is best. Unlike Floore’s, Gruene Hall’s stage is elevated, and it’s a lot bigger, so you’re not packed in like sweaty sardines.
If you’ve never seen a show at Gruene Hall, you should. The historic dance hall was built in 1878, and is known as “the oldest continually run dance hall in Texas.” Not much has changed in the last 135+ years. It’s something like 6,000 square feet of wooden dance floor history with the kind of bar that only serves ice cold longnecks. I think if you ordered something pink with an umbrella, they’d be forced to call the Texas Rangers on you. The fact that it’s un-airconditioned is really irrelevant. The design keeps it fairly comfortable year round.
Tickets went on sale about a month out, so I made sure to be online and ready to pony up with my plastic at the instant tickets went live. In under a minute, I was $312 poorer, but I knew I’d have one excited little girl on my hands.
On the day of the show, we prepared as best as we could.
Brothers at Grandma’s: Check!
Comfy jeans and boots: Check!
Cooper’s brisket in the belly: Check!
In line at 5pm sharp: Check!
While we were in line, we schooled Mags on the concept of General Admission Seating. There’d be a lot of standing around and waiting, but if she played her cards right, it’d be worth it. We told her that once the gate opened and they took her ticket, she’d need to high-tail it to the stage—front and center—and park it there. Don’t wait for mom. Don’t wait for Dad. Park it front and center and DO NOT MOVE.
When the doors opened, she flew to the stage and anchored herself right behind a lady in a wheelchair. BRILLIANT move, Grasshopper. She watched, wide-eyed, as Willie’s road crew prepped the stage. When they set Trigger up directly in front of her, she realized that she had the best spot in Gruene Hall.
About an hour passed before Paula, Willie’s daughter, took the stage. Paula Nelson is a joy to watch. She seems to really enjoy singing both solo and with her brothers and her dad. She has a great voice, and she’s just plain fun to watch. But after a few songs, Mags was tired of waiting for the REAL reason she was there.
But when Paula finished and she saw those braids for the first time UP CLOSE and IN PERSON, she knew that the wait was worth it. She sang. She jumped up and down. She danced. She took pictures. And when Willie threw his bandanas at the end of the show, she freaking caught one. SHE CAUGHT WILLIE’S BANDANA. He threw 2 of them, and she caught one!!! (How do I NOT have a picture of this?!?!?!)
I am SO not kidding. Holy crap. My daughter, age nine, had the most amazing first concert experience ever. She got to see a living legend at an historic venue. She got to stand front and center, and she came away with the ULTIMATE souvenir.
Since the show was on a Sunday night, we chose to crash at a nearby hotel and head back on Monday morning. Knowing that I am not a good enough liar to pull the “she was sick” card, and I am trying to teach her honesty and integrity, I told her it was OK to go ahead and tell her teachers the truth as to why she had missed school on Monday. And I sent a note. With a picture.
A couple weeks later, I saw her teacher and the principal at school. When the principal saw me, she just laughed, telling me that in ALL her years in education, she had NEVER seen such an awesome absence excuse letter. We laughed about it and I shared the story. Only in Texas is taking your 9-year old to a bar on a Sunday night to see a Willie Nelson concert an acceptable excuse from 4th grade!
Unfortunately, I am afraid I have completely ruined the entire concert-going experience for her for the rest of her life, but I am so happy to have given her this awesome memory. Now she has her sights set on meeting him, but I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as she seems to think it’ll be. But then again, she’s a pretty lucky girl! She just might find a way to make it happen.
(In case you can’t read the note, it says: Dear Mrs 4th Grade Teacher: Please excuse Mags from school on Monday… She had a ticket to the sold out Willie Nelson concert in Gruene on Sunday night and she had to stand in the front row and catch one of Willie’s bandanas! I am sure you understand this once in a lifetime opportunity was too good to pass up. Thank you! Mrs CrazyTrain)
And yes. All these photos are mine. Please be cool and don’t copy ’em.
Whenever I get a superlative case of the vapors, and miasma brings along coryza, the grippe, and quinsy, or I need relief from my lumbago, lethargy, the ills of overconsumption, or female hysteria, I just need to take the waters. Since Texas is lousy with sulphuric-rich mineral waters, you’d think easing nervous tension and dyspepsia with some old-fashioned balneotherapy, promenading, and repetitive quaffing of foul-tasting water would be a piece of cake, but no dice. There ain’t a single mineral spa in the Lone Star State where a girl can relax for a few days of massages, hot mineral baths, drinking stinky water, and socializing.
Most people speeding up and down I35 pass the Marlin exit with little more than a glance. I mean, really? A landlocked town in Central Texas named for a big saltwater fish? Hmmm…. Sounds, well, fishy.
Marlin is one of those dots on the map you’ve probably never heard of, but who’s history will surprise you. It wasn’t named for a fish, but for John Marlin, an early pioneer and Texas patriot who settled nearby in the 1830s. Marlin was incorporated in 1867 and became the Falls County Seat, guaranteeing its initial growth. Then the railroad came and people followed. By 1892, there were 2,500 residents.
But that was nothin’. It was around then that a surprising discovery put Marlin on the map, making it one of the top tourist destinations in the state.
No. I’m not kidding.
In 1892 while digging for an artesian well, a hot, sulphur rich mineral spring was discovered. Rumor has it that 174° water shot 75 feet into the air. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, mineral spas were all the rage, so a medical/resort town sprung up (pun intended). Before “germ theory,” antibiotics, and sulfa drugs, doctors thought “taking the waters” was a cure-all for whatever ailed you. All that stuff I said earlier would’ve been cured by taking the waters. Miasma (that “something funky” in the air that caused sickness) like coryza (a cold), the grippe (influenza), and quinsy (tonsillitis). The waters also cured lumbago (low back pain), lethargy (exhaustion), the ills of overconsumption (hangover), female hysteria (PMS), nervous tension (stress), and dyspepsia (tummy-ache), arthritic, and most skin diseases. Remarkably, some physicians claimed it could cure liver disease, mental disorders, and cancer via osmosis during balneotherapy (soaking in the stinky water) and by drinking it.
Hotels and sanitariums went up everywhere. A hospital, various clinics, a “crippled” children’s clinic, and a pavilion with public fountains and a foot bath were built. Tens of thousands of people flocked to Marlin to take the waters ever year. Some say as many as 100,000 visitors a year came to Marlin to take the waters. The Cincinnati Reds held their spring training in Marlin in 1907, and from 1908-1918, the New York Giants (now the San Francisco Giants) called Marlin home. Legendary Baseball Hall of Fame player and manager John McGraw batted left, threw right, and swore by the healing waters in Marlin. Did I mention that the Giants won the Pennant in 1911, 1912, and 1913? See? Magic water!
When the stock market crashed in 1929, a grand, nine story hotel on Coleman Street was only half completed. The Crash had little effect on Marlin. In May of 1930, the 110-room hotel, which featured a ballroom that could hold 300 guests and an underground tunnel to the Marlin Sanitarium Bath House, became the eighth hotel opened by Conrad Hilton. Yeah. That Hilton.
Though Marlin held on longer than most mineral spa towns, science and circumstance finally caught up with them. Fires in some of the hotels and spas forced their closure, and advancements in medicine made rebuilding them seem inappropriate. The extravagant claims made by charlatans (eg. sulphur baths as a cure for cancer) annihilated their credibility. Some clinics held on through the 1960s because they incorporated hydrotherapy into a physical therapy tool. But eventually, the stink water craze went bust.
Sadly, the town of Marlin is a ghost of what she once was. Marlin is by no means a ghost town, but time hasn’t been kind to this former resort town that once hosted hundreds of thousands of health-seekers. Various murals boast snapshots of the once-vital spa town. Virtually nothing was open on the Saturday of our visit. Keith’s Hardware is one of Marlin’s oldest continuously operating businesses– housed in an awesome 114 year old building. Keith’s employs some awesome people who graciously showed us the massive pulley and lift system that was used to hoist buggies, wagons, farm implements, stoves, and furniture up to the third floor over a century ago. The ghost sign on the building’s west side still stands testament to the history contained within.
And yes. The water is warm. And yes. The water stinks. I can’t vouch for how it tastes because the kids were too chicken to taste it, and, well… there’s three of them and only one of me. Plus, I heard that drinking the sulphur water makes you poop, and, well, we were over an hour from home…. so… better them than me.
Kinda sucks that there hasn’t been a rich entrepreneur looking to invest in an historic little town. The crunchy granola alternative health market just might line up for some 19th century nostalgia and turn of the century medical cure-alls. Too bad. I’ve got a girls weekend on my calendar in January, and a weekend of sulphur rich balneotherapy, promenading, and repetitive quaffing of foul-tasting water might be just what the doctor ordered.
****nb: the pictures that look like I took them, are mine. The ones that don’t look like I took them–the ones from a hundred years ago– I did NOT take. The Marlin pics are from the Marlin City website, and the baseball pictures are from the New York Giants websites photo archives pages (1911-1913).****