24
Jun
2003
The final chapter of a Rock Island County saga wraps up on Saturday, June 28, with a public auction of the contents of Poplar Grove. The secluded riverfront tavern was operated for nearly 80 years in the same location by the Bernard family of Moline.
I had one drink there, and not until 2003, so don't ask me about the Legends of Poplar Grove. Ask any Quad Cities native 100 years old or younger, and they've at least heard of the place. A surprising number can be coaxed to share a story about the fabled supper club perched on the banks of, and more recently in, the Rock River.
One neon-powered Pabst Blue Ribbon sign hangs out over the water, and another that says Budweiser was not long ago the landward beacon, just visible at the shady end of 60th Street whenever the Grove was open for business. In fact no other sign was ever mounted, no telephone number listed during its many decades of operation. Why bother? The place was packed every night of its life with a clientele so loyal that a list of their names would be worth a million.
To the architecturally sophisticated, Poplar Grove is a pristine example of species River Shack. Defiantly rustic, low-slung, and painted WPA brown, just like the lodge at Yellowstone and other attractions of similar vintage, it shows its clapboard back to civilization. A long dining room, a summer dining room, faces the Rock River through gabled windows that reach almost to the floor. Beyond that, a weathered deck connected the enterprise to waterborne patrons via a boardwalk that finally washed out in a recent flood. The Grove's shadowy interior is dominated by a rough stone fireplace at one end and an oaken bar at the other. In between are ancient wooden tables of varying sizes and shapes, and seating enough for a society wedding.
The floors list slightly in all directions, forcing landlubbers to walk like sailors, after a cocktail or two. Dark paneled walls are hung with Civil War-era family portraits, Native American tribal objects, land-grant sheepskins, stuffed wildlife, musical instruments, oil paintings, and folk art. Four generations of curious and cordial Bernards assembled every artifact that came their way in the densest possible concentration. The entire and intact trove of curiosities, memorabilia, 1920s Americana, and objets de lodge will be out on the lawn next Saturday, hustled to the high ground one last time.
As I write, the famed copper still that drove a bootlegging ancestor to the water's edge remains enshrined in its corner, adjacent to the fireplace. The kitchen, where burnished, blackened cookware hangs on every vertical surface, is fitted out with a vast cast-iron stove designed to be fueled by wood. Pre-OSHA steel-bladed fans are mounted strategically to drive heat out the screen door, which closes with a satisfying slam. It is not difficult to imagine the cheerful clatter of vitreous china, the intoxicating aroma of Grandma Hazel's fried chicken and biscuits on a Sunday afternoon, and entire families, big-eyed kids and their sagacious elders, holding out for a table with the river view.
Maps shows the property engulfed by, but not annexed into, the City of Moline, and arriving there is like driving on the map. It is a departure, from predictability, and the awkward strip-ifying of John Deere Road. Minutes away from modernity, the Grove sits unchanged, unresponsive to the perceived demand for drive-through efficiency or even a logo, that venerated symbol of advertising wisdom without which TGI Friday's or McDonald's, for example, would fail to prosper. Poplar Grove signifies relief, and hospitality; it is a mood and a sensation, a memory. Words or glyphs were never adequate: Its walls tell their own stories in their own way.
This year, Poplar Grove finally succumbed to the new, more voracious river, so our story is a requiem, the last chapter, written by an outsider. I can see: The place needs work. Too much work, as in earthmoving, as in starting over four feet higher off the ground. But I don't remember. John Bernard, now in his 70s, remembers when the river didn't flood, not like it does now. His is a potent memory, shared by river people throughout the broadest valley on the planet. The river people haven't changed, but the rivers have, exploding with upriver runoff, their natural flow and momentum suppressed and diverted by tons of concrete, shortsighted marine engineering, and a century of disregard for crucial wetlands. Poplar Grove, and similar retreats, were designed to be harmonious in their proximity to waterways. These were give-and-take relationships, mutual understandings that have been carelessly trumped by the march of civilization.
I had one drink there, and not until 2003, so don't ask me about the Legends of Poplar Grove. Ask any Quad Cities native 100 years old or younger, and they've at least heard of the place. A surprising number can be coaxed to share a story about the fabled supper club perched on the banks of, and more recently in, the Rock River.
One neon-powered Pabst Blue Ribbon sign hangs out over the water, and another that says Budweiser was not long ago the landward beacon, just visible at the shady end of 60th Street whenever the Grove was open for business. In fact no other sign was ever mounted, no telephone number listed during its many decades of operation. Why bother? The place was packed every night of its life with a clientele so loyal that a list of their names would be worth a million.
To the architecturally sophisticated, Poplar Grove is a pristine example of species River Shack. Defiantly rustic, low-slung, and painted WPA brown, just like the lodge at Yellowstone and other attractions of similar vintage, it shows its clapboard back to civilization. A long dining room, a summer dining room, faces the Rock River through gabled windows that reach almost to the floor. Beyond that, a weathered deck connected the enterprise to waterborne patrons via a boardwalk that finally washed out in a recent flood. The Grove's shadowy interior is dominated by a rough stone fireplace at one end and an oaken bar at the other. In between are ancient wooden tables of varying sizes and shapes, and seating enough for a society wedding.
The floors list slightly in all directions, forcing landlubbers to walk like sailors, after a cocktail or two. Dark paneled walls are hung with Civil War-era family portraits, Native American tribal objects, land-grant sheepskins, stuffed wildlife, musical instruments, oil paintings, and folk art. Four generations of curious and cordial Bernards assembled every artifact that came their way in the densest possible concentration. The entire and intact trove of curiosities, memorabilia, 1920s Americana, and objets de lodge will be out on the lawn next Saturday, hustled to the high ground one last time.
As I write, the famed copper still that drove a bootlegging ancestor to the water's edge remains enshrined in its corner, adjacent to the fireplace. The kitchen, where burnished, blackened cookware hangs on every vertical surface, is fitted out with a vast cast-iron stove designed to be fueled by wood. Pre-OSHA steel-bladed fans are mounted strategically to drive heat out the screen door, which closes with a satisfying slam. It is not difficult to imagine the cheerful clatter of vitreous china, the intoxicating aroma of Grandma Hazel's fried chicken and biscuits on a Sunday afternoon, and entire families, big-eyed kids and their sagacious elders, holding out for a table with the river view.
Maps shows the property engulfed by, but not annexed into, the City of Moline, and arriving there is like driving on the map. It is a departure, from predictability, and the awkward strip-ifying of John Deere Road. Minutes away from modernity, the Grove sits unchanged, unresponsive to the perceived demand for drive-through efficiency or even a logo, that venerated symbol of advertising wisdom without which TGI Friday's or McDonald's, for example, would fail to prosper. Poplar Grove signifies relief, and hospitality; it is a mood and a sensation, a memory. Words or glyphs were never adequate: Its walls tell their own stories in their own way.
This year, Poplar Grove finally succumbed to the new, more voracious river, so our story is a requiem, the last chapter, written by an outsider. I can see: The place needs work. Too much work, as in earthmoving, as in starting over four feet higher off the ground. But I don't remember. John Bernard, now in his 70s, remembers when the river didn't flood, not like it does now. His is a potent memory, shared by river people throughout the broadest valley on the planet. The river people haven't changed, but the rivers have, exploding with upriver runoff, their natural flow and momentum suppressed and diverted by tons of concrete, shortsighted marine engineering, and a century of disregard for crucial wetlands. Poplar Grove, and similar retreats, were designed to be harmonious in their proximity to waterways. These were give-and-take relationships, mutual understandings that have been carelessly trumped by the march of civilization.
