Remember the good old days of the 1960s when we didn’t have to worry about terrorism, because we were all too busy worrying about global thermonuclear war? Remember the missile silos that our government constructed to keep us safe by guaranteeing that even if we did all get incinerated, the other guy would, too?
What happened to those silos, you may wonder. Well, wonder no more. If you call up Bruce Townsley of Abilene, Texas, he’ll be glad to arrange a tour of his home, which he’s built in an abandoned Atlas-F silo. Bruce is particularly proud of his latest accomplishment: getting the door open. This may not seem like such a big deal until you realize that the silo door weighs a couple of tons.
Bruce’s actual home is in the old Command and Control Center. Judging from the photos on his Web site, it’s rather nice, if you like metal floors, metal stairs, metal … you get the idea. Folks hoping to get a glimpse of a real missile will be disappointed, however. “The Feds took it,” Bruce says regretfully.
You can contact him at his web site, www.atlasmissiletours.com, or e-mail Bruce at brucetownsley@peoplepc.com.
Some folks may tell you size doesn’t matter. But I say, “It does to Americans!” If you have a yen to see really big stuff, the place to look is in the American Heartland. Like, for instance, the World’s Largest Muskie in Hayward, Wisc. Four and one-half stories tall and half a city block long, the giant Muskie contains a Shrine to Anglers, which is part of the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame. (Oh, a muskie is a fish. Did I mention that? And a hideous mother it is, I might add.)
After touring the museum in the giant fish’s belly (and maybe imagining that they’re Jonah), visitors can enjoy the view from the observation deck in the critter’s gaping mouth.
Always wanted to visit Stonehenge but didn’t want to go to England to do it? Well, the good old U.S. of A. boasts not one but multiple replicas of the ancient Druid temple/observatory/celestial clock/whatever, ranging from a full sized replica in Maryville, Wash., to the half-sized “stubby Stonehenge” of the University of Missouri at Rolla, to the world famous “Carhenge” of Alliance, Neb. (made entirely out of junked cars and erected not by Druids but by six local families during a reunion in 1987, according to my source. And you thought your family was weird.
Perhaps the strangest Stoneheange-wannabe of all are the so-called Georgia Guidestones of Nuberg, Ga. Built in 1980 by a mysterious character named R.C. Christian, the Guidestones are six 19-foot-tall granite slabs standing on a hill.
Carved on the slabs in 12 different languages are “ten laws,” including “guide reproduction wisely” and “be not a cancer on this earth.” Christian and his small group of followers claimed to be seeking an “age of Reason.” What this had to do with piling rocks on a hillside with Sierra-Club greeting card slogans on them is unclear.
I’m glad to report that it’s not just the United States that boasts bizarre roadside attractions. North of the Border, up Canada way, is the little town of Vulcan, Alberta, which is near … well, it’s not near much as far as I can tell from my trusty atlas. But it does have a giant model of the Starship Enterprise, as well as a “Tourism and Trek station” with, of course, a Star Trek theme.
It’s unlikely that the town itself was named for the homeworld of the TV series’ benevolent but highly annoying aliens. The good people of Vulcan County (pop. 6,300), however, are milking the connection for all it’s worth. “As you enter [the station] you will be greeted by the captain and the friendly crew,” promises the web site for the Town of Vulcan. “The crew members will be on hand to answer any questions about the station as well as the town of Vulcan and Vulcan County … and the cast of Star Trek will be waiting for you on the main bridge of the Star Ship Enterprise, a perfect photo opportunity.”
Man, I knew Shatner was hard up for work, but this is just sad.
It’s a great big really weird world out there. Don’t let current events keep you from getting out and seeing just how bizarre it can be.
Dusty Rhoades lives in Carthage, practices law in Aberdeen, and decided he wasn’t going to write about the war again this week after that SOB Saddam Hussein made a fool out of him last week by turning up alive. Contact him — Dusty, not Saddam –– at dustyr@nc.rr.com.
