A Lap Around America

by Shawn Inmon

  Still. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame loomed. If you’ve made it this far in the book, or if you’ve read any of my other books, you’ll have noticed that I include musical references a lot. Specifically, musical references from the mid-fifties through the eighties. Music is my constant companion, and it leaks into pretty much everything I do.

  You would think, then, that the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame would be high up on my must-visit list. But, really, it wasn’t. To me the Hall has always been a little too corporate for my tastes. Rock ’n’ roll, from the time it first jumped off the screen in The Blackboard Jungle, has been about anarchy, and free spirits, and creativity. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame has always struck me as being as free-spirited as a box of Wheaties. Basically, I believe it is managed by the same empty suits that have run the entire recording industry into the ground over the past two decades.

  All of that is about the board that runs the place, though. I was not going to drive right by it and not go in as some form of protest. I’m not big on biting off my nose to spite my face, and I was sure there were some amazing artifacts there.

  The hall itself is pretty wonderful. First of all, it’s huge. We spent two and a half hours there and didn’t even scratch the surface, really. If you’re impressed with rock ’n’ roll memorabilia, you’re going to be in heaven there.

  Want to see Ringo Starr’s Beatles drum kit? No problem. Handwritten lyrics from the greatest songwriters of the rock era? Yep. Greg Allman’s Hammond organ? On site. There are sections of the hall devoted to different eras, styles, and performers, and it was all very cool.

  Seeing all these legitimately legendary things from so many of my favorite artists helped me arrive at a truth for myself. For me, it’s all about the music. Yes, seeing the lyrics to “In My Life” in John Lennon’s own handwriting is cool, but that doesn’t move me as much as hearing the song through nice headphones or a quality stereo.

  Scattered all over the four floors of the hall are little theaters that play various films, and that attracted us. We sat and watched a tribute to Dick Clark and American Bandstand. It made me realize that if there were a cable station that played old episodes of Bandstand or Top of the Pops in their entirety, I would definitely watch it. Maybe throw in a few broadcasts of early MTV, commercials, inane veejay chatter and all, and I would be a fan.

  We left and drove right through downtown Cleveland during what should have been rush hour, but traffic was smooth and easy. Dawn’s blood pressure stayed at normal levels. We peeked into Progressive Field as we rolled by and saw that the Indians were getting ready for their first playoff game, part of a run that would see them fall one game short of a World Series title.

  It was getting late in the day, but we had one more stop to make. Leaving the downtown area, we drove through a residential neighborhood of small, older houses. It was completely forgettable and nondescript until we turned a corner, and there it was: the house from A Christmas Story. I suppose there will be people who read this who have never seen the movie. I am sorry. You’re missing out on many different levels of awesome.

  We pulled in at the house next door, which is where the Bumpuses and their damn dogs lived in the movie. It really was like driving onto a film set. Dawn and I tried to estimate how many times we’d each seen A Christmas Story, but the math was too hard. Since TBS plays it for 24 hours straight on Christmas Day, we’ve seen parts of it hundreds of times, and the complete movie at least twenty-five times each.

  The A Christmas Story house

  We walked around the front of the main house, and sure enough, there was a major award—the infamous leg lamp, right there in the front window. The man who bought the house is very serious about collecting memorabilia from the movie, and the word he passed on through the tour guide is that none of the original leg lamps from the movie still exist.

  There is an A Christmas Story gift shop in a house across the street, and you can buy a guided tour of the house there as well, which of course we did. As often as we’ve both seen the movie, we still learned a lot on our tour.

  One of the things we learned was the reason they shot the movie in Cleveland. The 1994 film is based on a memoir Jean Shepherd wrote called In God We Trust. Shepherd was born in Indiana, making that the logical place to shoot the film. However, it was made on a small budget, and the producers needed access to a large department store after hours to shoot the Santa Claus scene. Director Bob Clark, fresh off the success of directing Porky’s (maybe I should emphasize financial success) sent scouts to department stores all over the Midwest, looking for one that would give them the access they needed. They struck out dozens of times, until Higbee’s Department Store in Cleveland agreed to participate. Just like that, Cleveland was chosen to stand in for Hammond, Indiana.

  Another interesting side note is that the film originally was a bit raunchier, with a few cuss words sprinkled through the script. The owners of Higbee’s insisted that everything be toned down several notches—they were a family department store and didn’t want to be associated with anything that wasn’t family-friendly. In the end, I think the clever way they depicted Darren McGavin’s character’s cussing worked out better than if they had gone with the original script. And if they hadn’t made those changes, it’s doubtful the movie would have become the perennial classic that it has.

  It bothered Dawn to learn that during the January they shot the on-location scenes, it didn’t snow in Cleveland at all. So, every bit of snow you see in the movie is manufactured rather than natural.

  Our guide also revealed that while parts of the movie were made in Cleveland, others were shot on a soundstage in Hollywood. Here’s how you can distinguish between them: Any of the interior house shots with the drapes closed were shot in Hollywood. Any scenes with the curtains open were shot in the house we toured in Cleveland. It made us want to watch the movie again, just so we could tell which was which.

  We were staggered a bit by how small the house was inside. In the movie, everything felt spacious, but in reality, the kitchen and eating area, all one room, are tiny. The magic of Hollywood.

  It seems the neighborhood got into the spirit of things. If you remember the scene where the deliveryman drops off the “major award,” that wasn’t an actor playing the deliveryman but a neighbor. At the end of shooting, he was given a replica of the leg lamp, which you can still see proudly displayed in his window as you drive by.

  One last story about the film: Among the most memorable scenes is the one where the family goes to a Chinese restaurant on Christmas after the Bumpus dogs steal their turkey. Highlights of the scene are the Chinese carolers serenading the family and chopping the head violently off the duck. Here’s what we learned: Bob Clark gave Melinda Dillon, who played Mother Parker, a fake script, so she didn’t know what was coming. When the carolers started singing, her laughter was authentic. Likewise, her surprised gasp when the duck gets its head lopped off. Next time you watch the movie, keep your eyes on the boys in that scene. They can’t take their eyes off Melinda Dillon, because everyone but her was in on the joke. Her reaction made the whole scene, and it’s the only one in the movie they got in one take.

  We were probably thrilled by the tour and seeing the house more than the average person because of our affinity for the movie, but if you’re in Cleveland, we both strongly recommend catching the A Christmas Story House.

  Between walking around Lake View Cemetery, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and A Christmas Story House, we were worn out. We made it a few miles outside of Cleveland before we found a motel in the immortal Maumee, Ohio. Tomorrow, Michigan!

  Day Forty-Six

  Dawn and I got to know each other when we were just kids. Days like the previous day, spent dragging ourselves from pillar to post in Cleveland, had convinced me that we are no longer those kids. We were whipped. In response, we took it pretty easy on this day.

  We woke up in the northernmost corner of Ohio, with our eyes set on Michigan. There were a couple of ways to tack
le the state—go up the eastern portion, around Detroit, or head farther west and drive north toward what is called the Upper Peninsula, or U.P. I had a strong desire to see the U.P., so we got on Highway 223 and headed west.

  I’ve heard stories about the U.P. all my life, about how it is so wild and different from the rest of Michigan that it should be its own state. When I was a radio deejay, I played songs by a band called Da Yoopers. A “Yooper” is someone who comes from the U.P., and I wanted to see what kind of an area could spawn a group as crazy as they were.

  We drove through south-central Michigan via back roads, hitting small towns like Adrian, where Dawn had to suffer through my terrible Rocky Balboa imitation—Yo, Adrian!—Cement City, Litchfield, and Homer, where she had to suffer through my Homer Simpson imitation, which is slightly better. She is a patient woman.

  We saw mile after mile of husked-out cornfields and farms by the dozens. Every time I hear Michigan mentioned in the news, it seems to be about Detroit, with houses selling for twelve dollars, or Flint, where it hasn’t been safe to drink the water. Those problems are very real, but there’s no sign of them in the central and western part of the state, which is where we drove today. This part of Michigan seems totally disconnected from those big-city problems.

  I saw that Battle Creek, Michigan, wasn’t too far ahead. I knew we had to stop there, as it represents another childhood memory. If you grew up in the sixties, it’s likely you remember a phrase like “Send three box tops and a self-addressed envelope to Battle Creek, Michigan for …” some worthless little toy. I’m surprised to note how many stops we’ve made based solely on my childhood memories.

  Before we got to Battle Creek, our trip odometer clicked back to zero, meaning we had traveled 10,000 miles in forty-six days, or an average of 217 miles per day. Not too bad, especially when you consider we’ve stayed in one place for two days on several occasions.

  We had an odd experience just before we got to Battle Creek. I was looking at the map, trying to decide what we would manage to see while we were in Michigan. I looked clear up into the U.P. and saw something called the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum. I read Dawn the description I found on Google.

  “It’s at the very top of the U.P., though, so it’s a good drive from here.”

  “So, what are we going to be doing if we’re not driving there? Driving somewhere else?”

  Another example of why I never win an argument with Dawn.

  Now, here’s the weird part: as I was reading to her what was on display at the Shipwreck Museum, I mentioned that the recovered bell of the Edmund Fitzgerald was there. Just as I did, what came on our satellite radio? Yes. Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

  We both laughed, a little nervously. Dawn looked accusingly at me, as though I had set the whole thing up, but for once, I was innocent.

  “That’s just a little weird,” Dawn said.

  “So, I guess I’ll be adding the Shipwreck Museum to our itinerary!”

  We ate lunch at a cute little place in Battle Creek called Clara’s on the River. By cute, I mean cute in a my Grandma would love this kind of way. I was surprised the menus weren’t crocheted. Still, the food was good, and that’s all we cared about.

  We headed out of Battle Creek on yet another winding little country road. We had no other stops planned for the day, just plenty of driving. We were only a few miles outside of town, though, when a twenty-foot Gandalf, from The Lord of the Rings, caught my eye.

  “That’s something you don’t see every day,” I said to Dawn. “A twenty-foot-tall Gandalf.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, but kept driving.

  “Seriously.”

  Her raised eyebrows expressed her cynicism. I may have called “Wolf!” too often since we’ve been married. Eventually, though, I managed to get her to turn the car around.

  What we found was the Leila Arboretum and the Battle Creek Fantasy Forest.

  In 2002, Michigan was invaded by the emerald ash borer, a beetle that has killed 50 million ash trees across North America. There were once forty-four ash trees in the arboretum more than a century old, and all were killed by the emerald ash borer. Trying to make the best of an awful situation, the town turned a group of chainsaw artists loose on the trees and created the Battle Creek Fantasy Forest. The trees were carved into fantasy scenes—wizards in castles, battling dragons, Bigfoot, Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, and the aforementioned Gandalf. It was sad the trees were lost, but once they were, it was a great idea to renew them as an attraction. We had no idea it was there, and if I hadn’t glanced out the window at that exact moment, we would have missed it. It pays to stay on your toes!

  We didn’t make it quite as far north as we had hoped, but we were ready to be off the road by late afternoon. We stopped in Big Rapids, which is about fifty miles north of Grand Rapids. Apparently, the rapids here are big, but not all that grand.

  Since we’d had a good lunch, we resorted to The Magical Mystery Bag for dinner, which offered up only some bread, peanut butter and jelly, and ramen noodles. Might be time to stop at a store soon.

  Day Forty-Seven

  This turned out to be one of our most memorable days on the road and ended with our worst motel experience ever.

  We started the day pointing north toward the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Before we got there, though, a name jumped off the map as I unfolded it: Cadillac, Michigan.

  To most people, Cadillac is unremarkable. If you happen to be a KISS fan, it is a legendary location, and I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to see it.

  Here’s a very short history of KISS and me. On Halloween weekend 1976, I was sitting at home, watching the small black-and-white television in my bedroom. It only got one channel, but luckily for me, that channel happened to be the one broadcasting The Paul Lynde Halloween Special. The special musical guest on the show was KISS. By 1976, KISS had started to break big, but not big enough to have made much of a dent on my consciousness in the flyspeck town of Mossyrock, Washington.

  That all changed the moment Paul Lynde introduced them and they launched into Detroit Rock City. My sixteen-year-old brain, already limited by the fact hormones were doing most of the thinking, essentially shut down. Mouth agape, I watched these four otherworldly creatures wearing spandex and kabuki makeup jumping around the stage like maniacs. As the last note of Detroit Rock City faded away, my mom stuck her head in my room and said, “Jerry’s on the phone.”

  I ran into the kitchen, and as soon as I put the phone to my ear, my best friend was shouting, “Turn on the television!”

  “I know, I know! I’m watching it.”

  We didn’t have a lot to be excited about on television those days.

  “Inmon, we’ve got to figure a way to be those guys.”

  My friend Jerry was always an out-of-the-box, big-picture guy. Long story short, we spent the next two years as KISS II, wearing spandex and kabuki makeup, and jumping around various stages like idiots. We had a great time doing it.

  Then, in 2010, a few people from our high school class asked us to bring KISS II out of mothballs for the school reunion. So, we did. Once again, we had a great time, although I am the first to admit we didn’t jump quite as high as fifty-year-olds.

  Now, here’s why Cadillac, Michigan, shines so brightly in KISS lore. In 1974, the Cadillac High football team started the season 0-2. One of the assistant coaches got an idea to loosen the players up at practice and before games by playing KISS music. The team went on to win seven games in a row and a district championship.

  Word of this reached KISS. They always had a good nose for publicity, and they volunteered to go to Cadillac for the 1975 homecoming game.

  Picture the scene: into a western Michigan town of 10,000 people drops one of the biggest rock bands in the world. KISS met the mayor, the principal, the high school students, and the cheerleaders. They gave a full-blown KISS concert in the Cadillac High School gym. Yes, I would give anything to have been th
ere to witness that. They had breakfast with everyone the next day. Then, being rock stars, they had a huge helicopter drop down in the middle of the football field and whisk them away, dropping thousands of leaflets that said, “Cadillac High – KISS Loves You!” They knew how to make both an entrance and a departure.

  Those few days have now become the stuff of legend. In 2015, on the 40th anniversary of the event, the town of Cadillac erected an eight-foot memorial of the event—at the corner of the football field. How could I not go and see it?

  On the day we arrived, the clouds were steel gray with black edges that looked threatening. The wind was howling, and rain came in at an angle. It had been 82 degrees the day before as we drove through southern Michigan. The temperature on the bank sign in Cadillac read 45 degrees. We were in weather shock. For the first time since we started the trip, we pulled our jackets out of the trunk of the Silver Bullet.

  It took some driving around, but we soon found the monument in the corner of the football field. It has the KISS logo, and an article and picture from back in the day when KISS invaded Cadillac. Driving down the main drag of Cadillac, mentally connecting the present-day town with the videos I’d watched from forty years ago, I could tell that not much had changed there.

  Shawn shivering by the Cadillac KISS Sign

  “Pretty cool that the city fathers put the monument up, don’t you think?”

  Dawn looked at me. “Think about it. How old would those high schoolers from 1975 be now?”

  Realization dawned on me. “Mid-fifties.”

  “Right. So, those pimple-faced high schoolers are the city fathers now.”

  My bride often arrives at the truth before I do.

  We left Cadillac, intent on not stopping until we had crossed over into the U.P. We were both anxious to get there. We love places that seem to have their own cultural identity, and the U.P. definitely does. It even has its own language, of a sort, called Yooper English, or Yooperese, which incorporates the German and Scandinavian roots of many of its residents.