What I'm proposing here is an little road trip. Stay with me.
Father Paul Matthias Dobberstein designed his agate mountain from the story of shepherds who carved out places of worship from caves and crevices and then decked out their grottos with whatever religious iconography they could create from the caves themselves--grottos has come to mean "holy places."
The Stockman House has uniquely flat lines and an odd roof, creating a peculiar squat stance where it sits. Wright created the odd shape into something that seems to grow from the setting, like some huge, square-cut vegetable, a house so comfortable in its setting that you get the eerie feeling the the whole big house mushroomed up of the ground, that it wasn't built there, but grew there.
Mason City is doubly blessed with another Wright creation, still up and running. If we need an overnight, we'll take one therein. There's nothing but cement all around it, but when you see the place, you can't help but note that the Wright's characteristic flat-land style.
In case you're wondering, "the prairie style" may well suggest something familiar. You're right: Sioux City's own Courthouse, whose distinctive character, the city's pride-and-joy, got drawn up by the same Chicago "school" as the Stockman House and Wright's hotel. Makes them kissing cousins.
Wright's designs display something distinctive of their own region, our own landscape, in this case the long, flat lines of our own prairie homeland.
Right now you're thinking Adventureland next? Nope. Leave the kids at home. Tell you what, if we go straight east from Mason City, we can stop off that Algona and take in the museum of that huge prisoner-of-war camp AND the Algona Nativity. Amazing thing.
If you don't have the time, it'll take you a good hour-and-a-half to get to West Bend, a place that glories in its grotto the way Orange City flashes its Tulip Festival, except West Bend's goes all year long.
The Grotto is almost merciless in piety. Some call it "the Eighth Wonder of the World." The story goes that Father Dobberstein suffered a bout of pneumonia that put him at death's portal. He prayed and prayed to the Blessed Virgin, promised her that, if granted recovery, he'd put up a shrine. Did he ever.
In every last possible way, the Grotto, an immense mound of shining stones and petrifactions, annually leaves a hundred thousand visitors google-eyed and slack-jawed. It's a miniature mountain of precious stones, millions of dollars' worth, all sculpted into holy caves created from Father Dobberstein's rock-solid devotion. Took him a lifetime and more--he had help, from here and above.
It's a monstrosity of devotion, a portly hill of precious stones, any one of which emits nothing but glory--multiplied by millions. It's an amazing place that'll take your breath away, a holy, goofy creation.
Father Dobberstein' statue stands off a corner, looking more like a geologist than a priest in his baseball cap and zippered sweater, a chunk of quartzite in his proffered hand. His mammoth grotto may well be "the Eighth Wonder of the World." I'm not sure it even has a rival.
Wright's creations grow out of the very earth they inhabit, but there's nothing about Dobberstein's grotto that comes from Kossuth County. One is all about the here; the other all about the there. One is about the what Frank Lloyd Wright saw all around him; the other is built on Father Dobberstein's vision of the hereafter. They're polar opposites. Who says Iowa is monoculture?
So what do we make of all this? I don't know that the stops on this particular road trip could be more abidingly different.
Mary Oliver, the poet, pulled soul-full inspiration from a blue iris. But, she said
“It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones, just
pay attention…
There's the joy maybe, huh? We've just seen some visions. "Just pay attention," the poet says. I like that.
Tell you what, on the way home take Highway 3 and stop in LeMars for ice cream.
In every last possible way, the Grotto, an immense mound of shining stones and petrifactions, annually leaves a hundred thousand visitors google-eyed and slack-jawed. It's a miniature mountain of precious stones, millions of dollars' worth, all sculpted into holy caves created from Father Dobberstein's rock-solid devotion. Took him a lifetime and more--he had help, from here and above.
It's a monstrosity of devotion, a portly hill of precious stones, any one of which emits nothing but glory--multiplied by millions. It's an amazing place that'll take your breath away, a holy, goofy creation.
Father Dobberstein' statue stands off a corner, looking more like a geologist than a priest in his baseball cap and zippered sweater, a chunk of quartzite in his proffered hand. His mammoth grotto may well be "the Eighth Wonder of the World." I'm not sure it even has a rival.
Wright's creations grow out of the very earth they inhabit, but there's nothing about Dobberstein's grotto that comes from Kossuth County. One is all about the here; the other all about the there. One is about the what Frank Lloyd Wright saw all around him; the other is built on Father Dobberstein's vision of the hereafter. They're polar opposites. Who says Iowa is monoculture?
So what do we make of all this? I don't know that the stops on this particular road trip could be more abidingly different.
Mary Oliver, the poet, pulled soul-full inspiration from a blue iris. But, she said
“It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones, just
pay attention…
There's the joy maybe, huh? We've just seen some visions. "Just pay attention," the poet says. I like that.
Tell you what, on the way home take Highway 3 and stop in LeMars for ice cream.
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