stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2019-11-04 06:40 pm
stevenpiziks) wrote2019-11-04 06:40 pm
Entry tags:
Albion and Sue
Darwin and I also visited the town. Albion is about 80 minutes from Wherever, which meant if he got the job, we'd have to activate the retirement plan, so I was looking around with an to what it might be like to live there. I grew up near the small village of Breckenridge, Michigan, and Albion reminded me a little of that place, if Breckenridge had also had a small college attached to it. The town is surrounded by fields of corn and soy, and the closest city of any size is Battle Creek, a 20 minute drive away.
We arrived in town, dropped our bags at our room, and set out to explore. The very wide main street, lined by many empty storefronts, is paved with bricks--an Albion tradition. It was a blazing hot summer day, and the main street runs east-west, meaning it was unshaded, and we worked up a sweat checking out the buildings, the businesses, and the river.
The Kalamazoo River creates three forks in Albion, which as I said, made the city attractive to mills and factories. Now, the rivers have decreased in importance, though the biggest event of the year is the Festival of the Forks, a street fair that several people we met mentioned to us. "You have to come to the Festival of the Forks," everyone said. We explored multiple parks along the river and found several sites where mills once sat, but now have nothing but foundation stones and a dam. The combination of river and parks are actually very pretty and pleasant, especially on a summer day in July.
We visited the downtown library, poked our heads into a few businesses, and explored the residential areas. Housing in Albion makes a strange patchwork. There's no "poor" and "rich" section of town. Instead, everything is all mixed up. Lovely, well-maintained Victorian mansions sit next to decaying homes. Several areas have vacant lots which are generally well-mowed, but which clearly used to have houses on them. A common practice is for a city to tear down a condemned house and offer the plot to a neighbor for a dollar so the city doesn't have to maintain the spot. This drives Darwin crazy because it makes for bad fiscal policy--the vacant plot doesn't add to tax revenue, and no new houses go up to replace the condemned ones. He said he'd definitely put a stop to that if he got hired.
Lunchtime arrived, and we hunted for food. We passed a garage-sized place called The Little Red Lunchbox. Darwin was leery, even though he generally likes little diners, but I said I didn't want to drive forever to find somewhere else, so we went in.
The Lunchbox is a tiny place with no tables or booths. Instead, there's a U-shaped counter with stools. Deliberately silly decor signs and bric-a-brac dot the walls, along with family photos. A 1950s fridge sits in the corner. The top of the U points toward the kitchen, which is ruled by the owner Sue. When you come in, Sue is usually at the grill in back, and she shouts at you to grab a drink from the fridge and take your damn seat. The fridge is filled with cans of pop. Eventually she bustles out and demands to know what you want. If you aren't sure, she'll tell you what you want and make it for you. When Darwin ordered an omelette (his favorite lunch) but refused the accompanying potatoes, Sue bullied him mercilessly. "You don't like what I make?" she griped. "I only use the best ingredients. Those eggs came from a farm up the road, and that ham is from his neighbor who raises pigs. No better ham in the country!"
Sue never writes down an order. She listens to your choices or makes them for you, trots back to the tiny kitchen, and brings it out when it's done. When it's time to pay, she just tells you your total. I got the impression that if she doesn't like you, she adds a surcharge.
The counter precludes a quiet or private meal. You end up facing other people, which pulls you into talking. It's more like eating in someone's home dining room than a restaurant. If conversation falters, Sue pops out of the kitchen, leans a hip on the counter, and moves things along. She hands out puzzles and little games and challenges people to finish them before their meal comes out. She introduces people. "That's Herbert. He runs the garage downtown. His dog died last week, so be nice to him. That's Tony. Don't bring up politics with him because he'll never shut up if you do. Eat those eggs before they're cold, hon."
The place was fairly busy when we were there. At one point, a teenage boy came in and gave Sue a hug. "Can I have a hamburger, Grandma?" he said. Sue said that of course he could, and she plopped one on the grill.
Darwin instantly fell in love with the place. This became important later.
One morning at the downtown bakery, I noticed a burly man wearing an Albion Malleable T-shirt. I pointed it out to Darwin, and the man noticed. He was a gregarious person, and he introduced himself as "Junior." Turned out he had recently opened a restaurant/brewery and named it Albion Malleable after the old foundry. He gave Darwin a crash course in local businesses and we promised to come check the place out. I think he figured we were just being polite, but a couple hours later, we went down there to eat. It's the kind of place =I= like, with a stark wood interior and funky sandwich choices. Junior is a force of nature, rushing around and putting his hand into a dozen civic projects. He's third-generation Albionite, and you can tell he loves the town.
We drove home. The interviews were the following weekend. It was a two-day affair, with a public meet-and-greet Friday evening, when any citizen who cared to could show up to shake hands with the various city manager candidates. The formal interviews were set for Saturday morning.
More . . .
We arrived in town, dropped our bags at our room, and set out to explore. The very wide main street, lined by many empty storefronts, is paved with bricks--an Albion tradition. It was a blazing hot summer day, and the main street runs east-west, meaning it was unshaded, and we worked up a sweat checking out the buildings, the businesses, and the river.
The Kalamazoo River creates three forks in Albion, which as I said, made the city attractive to mills and factories. Now, the rivers have decreased in importance, though the biggest event of the year is the Festival of the Forks, a street fair that several people we met mentioned to us. "You have to come to the Festival of the Forks," everyone said. We explored multiple parks along the river and found several sites where mills once sat, but now have nothing but foundation stones and a dam. The combination of river and parks are actually very pretty and pleasant, especially on a summer day in July.
We visited the downtown library, poked our heads into a few businesses, and explored the residential areas. Housing in Albion makes a strange patchwork. There's no "poor" and "rich" section of town. Instead, everything is all mixed up. Lovely, well-maintained Victorian mansions sit next to decaying homes. Several areas have vacant lots which are generally well-mowed, but which clearly used to have houses on them. A common practice is for a city to tear down a condemned house and offer the plot to a neighbor for a dollar so the city doesn't have to maintain the spot. This drives Darwin crazy because it makes for bad fiscal policy--the vacant plot doesn't add to tax revenue, and no new houses go up to replace the condemned ones. He said he'd definitely put a stop to that if he got hired.
Lunchtime arrived, and we hunted for food. We passed a garage-sized place called The Little Red Lunchbox. Darwin was leery, even though he generally likes little diners, but I said I didn't want to drive forever to find somewhere else, so we went in.
The Lunchbox is a tiny place with no tables or booths. Instead, there's a U-shaped counter with stools. Deliberately silly decor signs and bric-a-brac dot the walls, along with family photos. A 1950s fridge sits in the corner. The top of the U points toward the kitchen, which is ruled by the owner Sue. When you come in, Sue is usually at the grill in back, and she shouts at you to grab a drink from the fridge and take your damn seat. The fridge is filled with cans of pop. Eventually she bustles out and demands to know what you want. If you aren't sure, she'll tell you what you want and make it for you. When Darwin ordered an omelette (his favorite lunch) but refused the accompanying potatoes, Sue bullied him mercilessly. "You don't like what I make?" she griped. "I only use the best ingredients. Those eggs came from a farm up the road, and that ham is from his neighbor who raises pigs. No better ham in the country!"
Sue never writes down an order. She listens to your choices or makes them for you, trots back to the tiny kitchen, and brings it out when it's done. When it's time to pay, she just tells you your total. I got the impression that if she doesn't like you, she adds a surcharge.
The counter precludes a quiet or private meal. You end up facing other people, which pulls you into talking. It's more like eating in someone's home dining room than a restaurant. If conversation falters, Sue pops out of the kitchen, leans a hip on the counter, and moves things along. She hands out puzzles and little games and challenges people to finish them before their meal comes out. She introduces people. "That's Herbert. He runs the garage downtown. His dog died last week, so be nice to him. That's Tony. Don't bring up politics with him because he'll never shut up if you do. Eat those eggs before they're cold, hon."
The place was fairly busy when we were there. At one point, a teenage boy came in and gave Sue a hug. "Can I have a hamburger, Grandma?" he said. Sue said that of course he could, and she plopped one on the grill.
Darwin instantly fell in love with the place. This became important later.
One morning at the downtown bakery, I noticed a burly man wearing an Albion Malleable T-shirt. I pointed it out to Darwin, and the man noticed. He was a gregarious person, and he introduced himself as "Junior." Turned out he had recently opened a restaurant/brewery and named it Albion Malleable after the old foundry. He gave Darwin a crash course in local businesses and we promised to come check the place out. I think he figured we were just being polite, but a couple hours later, we went down there to eat. It's the kind of place =I= like, with a stark wood interior and funky sandwich choices. Junior is a force of nature, rushing around and putting his hand into a dozen civic projects. He's third-generation Albionite, and you can tell he loves the town.
We drove home. The interviews were the following weekend. It was a two-day affair, with a public meet-and-greet Friday evening, when any citizen who cared to could show up to shake hands with the various city manager candidates. The formal interviews were set for Saturday morning.
More . . .