The Berry Tavern

 In June of 1827, Fortunatus Berry and his family moved from Springfield, Illinois to Galena, and then shortly afterward a short distance away to a small settlement then known as Gratiot’s Grove (then in Illinois but today in Wisconsin).  During this time, the region was experiencing a “lead rush”, and miners flocked to the area.  Berry built a log roadhouse in 1829, and when the Galena-to-Chicago stage line extended its service to Gratiot’s Grove in 1840, he constructed a larger tavern to attract travelers.  This tavern boasted seven guest rooms, bar and dining rooms, dance hall, and livery stable. The tavern would remain a focal point for many years, serving as not only a rest stop but at times a school, a doctor’s office, a post office, a polling place, and a church.  Locals met here to plan their defensive strategies during the Black Hawk War. The tavern eventually changed hands, and by 1883 the structure was converted into a farmhouse.  It remained a farmhouse for over 130 years.

The tavern is infamous for being the site of several historic occurrences.  In 1842, a murder took place here, the result of jealousy combined with alcohol.  In July of 1854, cholera claimed the lives of nine family members and guests at the tavern as well as eight others who had very recently stayed there, including four stage drivers.  Not even the local casket maker survived; with his death, the bodies were taken to the root cellar and stacked until they could be prepared for a proper burial, which was done on-site.

Through the years, all of the associated barns and outbuildings have been demolished.  A historic homestead directly across the street was completely leveled just a few years ago.  The one factor that probably led to the preservation of the old tavern is a stone marker placed at the site in 1914 by the Daughters of the American Revolution of Shullsburg, which states, “The stone marks the old Chicago stageroad, and the tavern built by Fortunatus Berry in 1829”.  

In 2013, three impassioned individuals acquired the property and set up a non-profit called Friends of Berry Tavern.  Their goal is to restore the old tavern and the root cellar back to their original conditions and promote the site as a public space.  One of those individuals is Cory Ritterbusch, an acquaintance of mine for some years.  Cory plans yearly events at the old tavern that include personal tours, folk music, food, drinks, and old-fashioned outdoor games.  This year, I finally managed to attend the festivities with Aimee and Lumen and it was fantastic.

Folk band playing at the old tavern.

This is where the kitchen led to the bar area.

A bedroom upstairs.

Original hand-hewn oak beams in the basement - with the bark still attached!

The infamous root cellar (with new roof).

Deep in the rear lower level of the root cellar.  

A wayward gravestone in the tavern basement.

                                                       

The gravesite of Elizabeth the wife and Elizabeth the daughter, victims of the cholera outbreak of 1854.

On the road, we helped this painted turtle off of the road.

We stopped at a beautiful state park on the way home and I was pleased to find several pickerel frogs along a cold, clean, fast-flowing stream.

Slightly Off-Topic: Roger & the Burmese Eggs

 Among the multitude of memories that have carved out an existence in the back folds of my brain is that of my experience with Burmese python eggs.  But in order for the reader to understand that part of the story, first I have to go back and explain how it all began.

During my years as a reptile department manager at a local pet store, I met countless people that I might refer to simply as “characters”.  I think pet stores have (or had) a special way of attracting society’s idiosyncrasies.  I’d seen them all.  Leather-clad motorcyclists, metalheads, and adults that cosplayed as Japanese cartoon characters.  But some of these customers would never stand out in a crowd.  Among these, was a man named Roger.

I met Roger rather unceremoniously sometime around 2004.  He was an imposing man, in his mid fifties and standing at least a full six inches taller than me.  I could tell that he visited the store after he got off of work because he was always well-dressed - button-down shirt tucked into his slacks, and with a slight Santa belly.  He would later tell me that he was a Marine Corps veteran and had spent time serving in Vietnam.  His neat composure, therefore, was no surprise.

Like many customers, he started out as a loiterer.  He would frequently stop in and just look at all of our reptiles and amphibians.  It didn’t take long before Roger went from being a loiterer to a talker.  And talk he did.  Roger became friendly with all of the employees at the store with the exception of Tony, the owner, and that’s just because Tony was all business and wasn’t ever a chatter during business hours unless you had money to spend (and even then, not always).  In fact, Roger spent so much time hanging around and talking that Tony would begin to work at his nervous pace, indicating to the others that maybe we should get to work and stop amusing this guy.  

Before long, Roger began to seriously consider having a snake as a pet.  He saw me as an expert on the topic (he referred to me as the "guru") and picked my brain quite a bit. He was an active listener and an engaged speaker.  However, much to Tony’s dismay, Roger never purchased a snake from the store, but that was only because he wanted to skip the entry-level species and jump into the giant pythons.  And we rarely carried those.  Against my recommendations, Roger obtained a young Burmese python as his first snake.  He bought it from the Chicago Reptile House down in Orland Park, in part because he liked and respected the owner, who also was a Marine veteran.  I congratulated him, but it was clear to me that he may have been over his head.

Roger loved that snake, and soon afterward he purchased another. And another.  And soon he had acquired a large collection of Burmese pythons and other large snakes.  By this time, he knew that he had to pay his dues for visiting so often so he began to buy things like heat lamps and food for his snakes.  He really loved to talk snakes with me, and oftentimes snake talk would segue into other topics.  At one point he suggested that I date his daughter who he said was “about (my) age”.  It took me telling him that I was already spoken for two or three times before he could be convinced that his idea wasn’t going to work.  Well then!

Just as I predicted, Roger soon realized that his eyes were bigger than his bank account, and he needed to unload some snakes.  He first offered me a coastal carpet python.  I have no idea when or where he acquired this snake, but I did know that this was THE longest carpet python I had ever laid my eyes upon.  Long, but thin.  I kept the snake for a short time and couldn’t get it to accept food, so I gave it to a friend who specialized in Australian pythons.  Next up, an adult yellow anaconda with a typical yellow anaconda attitude.  Each time I saw Roger walking across the parking lot toward the store I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath.  What else was it going to be?

Then one evening, Roger popped into the store, sweating, rambling on about how one of his big Burmese pythons had wrapped around a towel in its cage and wasn’t letting go.  I asked why there was a towel in the cage.  Roger flashed an unconvincing shrug of his shoulders and asked, “Do you think you could come over and get the towel out of the cage?”

“Tonight?”

“If you can, I’d really appreciate it, Joe.”

So there I was, at 10:00 at night, entering Roger’s apartment on the northwest side of Chicago.  It was a small, dark, bachelor-style apartment, surprisingly unkempt.  Roger led me to the snake room.  There, he kept large pythons in six-foot long Vision cages.  The cages were filthy and the water bowls were parched.  Clearly, he was struggling to properly maintain these animals (which is exactly why I was trying to sell him the idea of owning a corn snake or sand boa in the first place).  Roger pointed out a large green Burmese python in the lowest cage in the stack.  “See?  It’s wrapped up in the towel and I can’t get it out”.

I cringed.  It wasn’t a towel, it was a large clutch of eggs.  What was Roger trying to pull?

“Roger, those are eggs.”

Roger once again improvised a look of surprise.  “Ohh, well, what am I supposed to do with those?  Will you take them?”

Maybe it was the pungent aroma of urates wafting out of the cage getting to me, but I did agree to take the eggs.  Removing a clutch of eggs from a large, protective mother python in a very tight space is not for the faint of heart, but I got them all out in short order and put them in the only thing we could find - a garbage bag.  I drove home that night all the while attempting to process what the hell just happened.

When I got home, all of the eggs were placed into a big Rubbermaid container in a warm area, and that’s where they stayed.  Over the next few visits to the store, Roger seemed to have a change of heart.  “If those eggs hatch, I’ll let you pick a couple if you want.”  Ha!  Roger would never know what really happened to those eggs.

One day I looked inside the bin, and saw that some of the eggs were pipping (beginning to hatch).  Frankly, I was surprised, after everything they had been through.  About two days later, every single egg in that clutch - all 57 of them - hatched.  And now I was faced with the big question - what am I going to do with these?  Fortunately, I had an acquaintance at the time willing to take the whole litter.  I didn’t think about it at the time, but, looking back, I hope they all found good homes.

As for Roger?  Well, he continued to stop in the store, but instead of clearing out all of our basking bulbs, he’d buy a few.  Then it became clear that he was burning out, and some developing health issues forced him to rehome all of his snakes.  He seemed unhappy about it.  His mental health appeared to decline, and one day he walked out, never to be seen again.  I felt bad, because he always meant well. 

While preparing to write this, I discovered that Roger passed away in 2022.  Later photos indicated that he was in good spirits, which made me happy.  He was referred to as an animal lover in his obituary, and I for one cannot deny that.

Kirtland's Quest: Helene & Deep Lonliness

 I travel quite frequently.  Sometimes I travel with my wife and daughter, sometimes I travel with friends, and sometimes I travel alone.  There are reasons why I do this that probably don’t need explanation, yet some people question my motive when traveling alone.  Don’t I get bored?  Lonely?  Isn’t that weird?

My short answer is almost always “no”.  I love the comfort of solitude.  Sometimes, I need it.  There are times when I don’t really want to talk, or be talked to.  I don’t want anyone to try to sell me anything.  I don’t want to get caught up in an algorithm.  I need to shake the heavy burden of a society obsessed with smarmy political discourse, manufactured fear and divisiveness, and breaking updates.  In these situations, nature is almost invariably my sanctuary.  Nature doesn’t care about society’s problems, it carries on more or less the way it has for millions of years. 

So I was slightly taken aback when, on a recent trip to Indianapolis, I felt lonely.  I felt like I was missing out on something greater than what I was experiencing.  I was living through Hurricane Helene at her northernmost reach, and then the dreary, misty day that followed.  Oddly, I did not attend the first full day of ColubridFest - the reason for my travels - because I didn’t feel like sitting through a symposium.  This event would have put me in contact with other like-minded folks, but I knew almost no one there and wasn’t feeling particularly gregarious.  

Instead, I hiked a lot, begging for nature’s acceptance.  It was hard to tell if she was willing to do that.  I spent a lot of time looking for the always elusive Kirtland’s snake.  A patch of habitat supporting this species remains near the city.  But the cool conditions, and a lack of suitable cover, prevented me from finding any of the precious natricines.  I did find a couple of Jefferson’s salamanders as well as a smattering of young-of-year green and cricket frogs.

I decided early on that I was going to just hike all day.  So after finding a few amphibians, I just pushed forward, the looming forest my only company.    

Several hours in, I sat and rested at the base of a large bur oak tree overlooking a tall and steep riverbank.  The ground was covered with recently-fallen acorns.  There wasn’t a soul around.  I sat quietly, imagining a lone indigenous castaway in the same setting, in a time forgotten.

Back on my feet, I suppressed the pain in my lower back (a nagging fractured vertebrae from a year ago) as I climbed over fresh, leafy downed trees.  The hurricane didn’t lift without leaving a few parting gifts.  At my age and in my condition, navigating the crown of a large, wet tree on its side presents quite a challenge.  I put a lot of faith into some skinny branches and thankfully I made it through without further complications (read: I still got it).

For miles I hiked, unsure exactly what it was I sought.  Exercise, at the very least.  Hours passed, but the sky remained unchanged.  A fine mist would occasionally blow through, which pleased the slugs but complicated my trek as it would for anyone that wears glasses.  At one point, the forest gave way to a large reservoir, and the path traced the edge for a distance.  This is where I saw a few other hikers.  Pairs or small groups of people, chatting on about the everyday trivial stuff.  And wishing “that sun would just come out!”.

At the end of the day, I returned to my car, drove back to the hotel, and crashed.  The following morning, I drove to ColubridFest for its final day.  It was fun, but my heart was elsewhere.  

I look back fondly on my past years, and I look forward to what the future brings.  But right now, I’m living the best years of my life.  I am privileged to say this, and I’m keenly aware that the reason for this is my family.  Without them, life would be one long, gray existence.  

At home, when I opened my front door, my eight year old daughter ran and threw her little arms around my neck.  And just then, the sun came out.