I don’t know the name of this flower. This photo is a pseudo-HDR, thus its somewhat unworldly appearance. UPDATE: It is an African daisy.
Yesterday I drove to a small village called Bishop Hill, population about 150. Long ago, think 1846, a Swedish guy and his flock started a commune there. The place is a State of Illinois historic site. Several largish buildings remain, with an unusual type of construction: stucco over brick. I took some photos but have not processed them yet.
The church is interesting, it has actual dormitory type rooms in the lower level and the ground floor, and the church sanctuary is upstairs. Whole families occupied these rooms, no indoor plumbing, of course, in that era. Eating was communal in a separate building. The building was in use for many years, and at least one current resident of the town was born there.
Anyway, the members of the flock apparently had the belief that the minister was a reincarnation of Jesus Christ (I’d make a wild guess that the preacher encouraged this belief). Already, to me, this sounds like a cult (in the pejorative sense of that word). The commune apparently farmed a lot of land, maybe 12,000 acres. The authorities stepped in (1860 or so) beause of “mismanagement.” The land was divvied up amongst the flock. The nice woman who gave me a tour of the church (I was the only tourist in the town as far as I could tell) was a native there, and her family had gotten 30 acres in the divvy-up.
As for the leader, well, a cousin of his later married some rascal and she (the cousin) had to be rescued at times in far-flung towns. The story is rather vague to me. Anyway, there was some conflict here. At one time Rev. and the Rascal were both in the local courthouse (different town) for something, and Rascal shot Rev. dead. I’m told Rascal only got 2 years in the slam, so I wonder if maybe Rev. was in bad odor after the whole commune fiasco.
So, to make a long story even longer. I went in a little craft shop in one of the old buildings just as the guy was coming out the door to close up. He was gracious, and allowed me in. We got to talking and found out we had both graduated from Chillicothe High School (14 years apart). Chillicothe is about 40 or so miles away to the east of Bishop Hill. So, we chewed the fat and I mentioned having attended Union School, a three-room schoolhouse in the countryside west of Chillicothe. He said the family homestead was right near there, and referred to an aunt whose name I recognized. That lady had married a friend of mine from high school, let’s call him Craig. This friend had been living in Australia, and I had not seen him since a along-ago visit in Napa Valley when he lived there. Well, he’s back, and in a relationship with another of my high school classmates, who is the widow of yet another of my classmates. I spoke to her, let’s call her Sharon, and perhaps a meeting can occur.
All because, on a whim, I drove up to Bishop Hill.
