The old home town--Mt. Morris, Illinois

J. J. Slayback posted his travels in northern Illinois on Facebook, including Mt. Morris, Oregon and Byron. Here's the piece on Mt. Morris.

"The clouds had thickened into a dull gray blanket as raindrops began to pepper my windshield. I flicked on the wipers, smearing the drops with the dozen or so bugs that had comicozied themselves against the glass during the long drive into Ogle County earlier that day. Running low on daylight, I came to a complete stop that my drivers ed techer would be proud of at the crossroads of Illinois Route 2 and 64. I nudged my friend Dave awake and fished a quarter from the cupholder, the one usually reserved for a rickety Aldi cart

“Heads, Mount Morris. Tails, Heyworth.”

The coin shot off my thumb, ricocheted off the cloth ceiling, and disappeared into no man’s land between the seat and console, where most fast food french fries go to die. After retrieving it, I made sure not to muff the next flip. With the concentration of a receiver on special teams waiving for a fair catch in the Super Bowl I caught the quarter. Flipping it over to reveal the results. Tails it was. Ignoring the Father of Our Country’s advice to head home, I cranked the steering wheel right and drove toward Mount Morris.

When I pulled into town, the aura was the complete opposite of the one I had left behind [Oregon], where the sounds of celebration of Byron still faintly echoed in my ears. Mount Morris was silent with the hush only interrupted by the late fall wind rustling leaves on the ground. I felt a bit like Burgess Meredith in that Twilight Zone episode where he's the last man on Earth, except here there was no ruin, no fallout, just a stillness that felt otherworldly.

The towns square layout was unlike anything I had seen yet, especially for a village of barely three thousand. Where you would expect a gazebo, or a rusty teeter totter, there stood a cluster of distinguished old brick and stone buildings, the remnants, as I soon learned from a plaque, of an old college. Not just any college, either, but the first institution of higher education in northern Illinois, founded in 1839.

Ivy had conquered the limestone, red and deep green leaves clinging stubbornly to the façade, holding out hope for one last day of summer, like we all do this time of year. Standing there, I felt like my lone semester at community college had not earned me the right to admire it, as if I needed a master’s degree just to qualify to look at it. Locals still call it “the campus,” and it was not what I expected from a non stoplight town, but I have learned to never underestimate a place where life doesn't hold itself in such wreckless abandoned of "maybe I should speed up on the yellow turn of the light." Each building stood as beautiful as the next, almost begging students to return for one more semester that would never come.

Walking back to Wesley Street where the businesses made their home, I found a small town history buff’s dream, plaques. One after another. I could barely take thirty steps without sliding my reading glasses down from the top of my Red Sox cap to absorb the next free history lesson.

There was a bandshell just off the road, the back of the stage reading “One Nation Under God.” A plaque on it honored Warren G. Reckmeyer, director of the Kable Concert Band from 1957 to 2015, a band that, in fact, will be celebrating its 130th year in 2026, covering everything from pop and classical to, my favorite, big band. I have been a swing nerd for over thirty years, so I pursed my lips like a trumpet out of tune and hummed a shaky version of The Band Played On. Most folks prefer the Stones or the Beatles. Me, I am a sucker for Guy Lombardo.

Mount Morris did not just host one of the oldest colleges in northern Illinois, it also printed its way into American history. The Kable brothers built a publishing powerhouse here in the early 1900s, and at its height the presses roared day and night, turning out magazines, catalogs, and books that ended up on kitchen tables across the country. So much so that during the 1930s, it was one of only two towns in the United States that did not feel the weight of the decade. Hershey, Pennsylvania, had chocolate. Mount Morris had ink, paper, and the relentless rhythm of a printing press. While the rest of the country tightened its belt, this little village kept the lights on and the presses rolling, proof that sometimes a small town with a big idea can outlast the biggest storms, even one as menacing as the Great Depression.

Where most towns I visit celebrate the trails of the 16th President, here I stumbled across the 40th. Ronald Reagan was in Mount Morris on a cold day in 1963 for the dedication of the Freedom Bell. He was closer to Bedtime for Bonzo than ending the Cold War at that point, but that doesn't hinder the town from proudly displaying a jacket in its museum that he borrowed from a local on that blustery April day. Point blank‐ all towns have history, but I’ve never been a fan of chasing it on my phone or sitting in an old dusty library. I prefer to see it celebrated openly, just as Mount Morris does. From its ivy clad halls of higher learning to the enduring power of the printed word, to a Freedom Bell rung by Ronald Reagan himself. The band still plays on in Mount Morris Illinois - And to think i almost took the advice of a shopping cart quarter.