If you build it, they will come...

There aren't many baseball fans or movie buffs who wouldn't instantly recognize this quote. It is, of course, from Field of Dreams, a sentimental film about baseball, families, and second chances that was a sleeper hit some years back.

Field of Dreams clearly touched a nerve with the moviegoing public because on this warm Sunday afternoon, we did indeed come, some two or three hundred of us, to the corn field just outside of Dyersville, Iowa where the movie was filmed.

The site looks much as you'd remember it: The field, the backstop and small set of bleachers remain undisturbed, the outfield is still bordered all around by fields of corn (standing tall and ready to harvest, just like in the film) and the neat white farmhouse that served as the home for Kevin Costner and his cinematic family still greets baseball pilgrims (albeit from a distance; the house is still a home and therefore is off-limits). Folks of all ages were strolling the grounds. Many had brought their mitts and bats along; those who hadn't could rent them for a nominal fee. A sort-of pickup batting practice was ongoing; if one was willing to wait, one could take a few swings where the filmic Shoeless Joe and other early greats of the game had stood in. You could be damn sure I was going to take whacks at the ol' horsehide, I didn't care how long it took.

It took something over an hour for my chance at the plate to arrive. In the meantime, I watched three-year-olds taking what looked to be their first swings, ten-year-olds showing the intensity and concentration of a Little League playoff game as they swung for the cornfields, moms in pantsuits or ugly shorts taking their turn at the plate and the odd dad who couldn't pass up the chance at baseball immortality.

The mood was as joyous as any I've encountered on my journey. Even as it took a clumsy four-year-old 20 pitches to make his first contact with the ball, patience and supportiveness were the order of the day. This was a celebration of our national pastime and there was plenty of room and time for everyone. People played catch in the outfield, wandering in and out of the cornfield, chasing errant tosses or just retracing the steps of spectral giants of the game.

The ballfield overlaps two pieces of property and both families have souvenir stands running but it's remarkably non-exploitative. I encountered no billboards, no roadsigns that alerted me to the fact that I was nearing this landmark; no See Rock City approach used here. I knew of the field's location from a book; I'm not certain how the average person finds out about it. There's no admission fee, no charge for batting practice. Money is made, I suppose, from the sale of memorabilia and there are a couple of donation boxes for those willing to help out with a couple of bucks but, all in all, this is as pure a tourist attraction as one is likely to encounter. People come here because they love baseball, the movie or both.

My turn at the plate? Well, I suspect some background is necessary here. As a boy, I was as bad a baseball player as any that ever misjudged a pop fly or went down swinging with the bases loaded, and that's no exaggeration. I was a miserable failure - in the field, at the plate, on the bench. Even my very own father, as positive and supportive a parent as one could possibly hope for, says to this day that I threw like a girl and even at that, I suspect he's being kind. What I fear he really means (but can't bring himself to say) is that I threw like a clumsy, gawky, uncoordinated, inept, ungraceful bookworm of a girl who wore really thick glasses.

No bother. One can't be adept at everything, now, can one? I knew full well that I bit the big one, baseball-wise. In fifth grade, when I got hit in the hand by a ball thrown by a pitching machine at the batting cages, I suffered a hairline fracture in my little finger. While at the doctor's office getting it tended to (a half-cast wrapped in an Ace bandage, not even a cool, signable full plaster cast), I was asked by the nurse how I'd come by this injury. "Playing baseball," I responded. "Oh," she asked cheerily, "are you a good baseball player?" "No. I'm pretty bad," I answered, truthful if not talented. She was a bit thrown by this. "Oh, I 've never met a little boy didn't think he was a good ballplayer!" I could have, of course, offered to bring in a whole team of little boys who didn't think I was a good player but I let it drop. I knew she meant well.

The point of this mournful tale is that, even then, I suspected that my talents lay somewhere outside the foul lines. After seventh grade gym class, in which we spent some three or four weeks of the spring semester out on the softball diamond, I lay down ball, bat, and glove and didn't touch them again, even for a friendly game of catch, until some 17 years later. At the ripe old age of 30, I became a regular participant in a weekly softball game of the friendly, non-league, relatively uncompetitive variety.

I found that I was a little better than in my youth (I'd almost have to be; I couldn't have been worse). I managed to snag most of the fly balls hit my way out there in right field and even get my share of bloop singles at the plate. I still suffered from rag arm, however, now throwing like a clumsy, gawky, uncoordinated, inept, ungraceful bookworm of a girl with really thick glasses, lovehandles, and touches of grey in her hair.

Redemption and second chances are what the Field of Dreams is all about, though, and besides, I had no intention of taking the field. I was just going to bat. The best bat available was a Little League model but everyone was using it so I did, too. The first couple of pitches were high and way inside and eventually, I got impatient and swung at a couple of really bad balls, whiffing at one and barely making contact with the other, tipping it foul. I was growing a bit anxious; there were, after all, a lot of people watching and awaiting their turn. I don't mean to overdramatize the moment, but I did experience, just for a brief, passing moment, the sort of discomfort I remember from my youth, that feeling that all eyes were on me and what the hell was I doing here? I can't play this game!

Finally the pitcher delivered one I could use and I turned on it, giving it a nice ride into fairly deep (for me, anyway) left field. I'm almost embarrassed to admit how proud (and relieved) I felt. The next pitch I sent just about as deep into right field. Of the next five or six pitches, I made good contact with three or four but that first time I connected was the best of the bunch. I felt a sort of elation, as I invariably do on those rare occasions when I've done something right on a ball field. In a sense, it feels as if I'd reclaimed a little bit of my childhood. In a perfect world, of course, all those guys from my youth - friends and foes - who used to suffer my athletic ineptitude with varying degrees of patience and grace would have been here to witness my rather pedestrian exploits but one can't have everything. Just knowing that I stepped up to the plate at the Field of Dreams and sent a couple of well-hit balls to the outfield will serve as its own reward.

Flies of the pop variety weren't the only ones on my mind today; the highway was filled with butterflies. They were as thick as thieves. I don't overstate when I say that I saw more of these fluttery little creatures today than I've seen in all my years, combined. The last couple of days, driving the backroads of Iowa, I've seen plenty but today they were everywhere. They're not, I suppose, too great for the local crops but I quite enjoyed them (although, regrettably, quite a few met their demise on my windshield).

The day's last attraction was the most enigmatic; I don't fully expect to successfully describe it to you here but perhaps I can pique your interest enough that you'll seek it out when you're nearby.

It's called House on the Rock. It's just outside the town of Spring Green, Wisconsin. The titular house itself is an unusual collection of odd angles and low ceilings build into a 60 ft. cliff. It was designed by Alex Jordan of Madison, Wisconsin. The story goes that some of Jordan's designs were once rudely ridiculed by Frank Lloyd Wright and he vengefully vowed to outdo the master. I can't verify that tale but his creation is quite a place indeed. It was built in the '40s but seemingly carpeted in the '70s; that cheezy plush stuff covers everything, including many walls and ceilings.

The house has some flavor of the Orient; many of the rooms contain Japanese statuary. It overlooks the Wyoming Valley, some 450 ft. below; this becomes frighteningly apparent when one enters the Infinity Room, a 1985 addition to the structure. It's a 218 ft. needle-shaped room that extends out from the cliff and over the valley. It contains 3,264 small windows and grows ever smaller the farther into the room one walks. One of the windows is imbedded into the floor, providing a frightening view of just where one's broken and bloodied remains would be recovered if the room were to go crashing down.

The multi-leveled, 14-room house is worthy of visit on its own merits but the folks behind the House on the Rock weren't satisfied. They have gathered together a collection of varied and sundry artifacts and housed them in a series of buildings that adjoin the House. In the Mill House, we wander among antique guns, mechanical banks, musical machines and paperweights. In the Streets of Yesterday building, we stroll recreated 19th century lanes past the clockmaker's shoppe, the sheriff's office, and assorted other shops and offices.

In the Heritage of the Sea building is an incredible sculpture depicting an enormous octopus (with glittery eyes) engaged in a ferocious battle with an even more enormous whale (like the one in Pinocchio). It's an amazing structure. The whale is longer than the Statue of Liberty is tall, for Pete's sake. I mean, this thing is huge!

Music of Yesterday contains numerous immense animated, automated music machines from the 18th and 19th centuries. Some of them are so big, they wouldn't fit in my Manhattan apartment. Next is the World's Largest Carousel. It holds 269 handcrafted animals (not a horse among them!) and glitters with over 20,000 lights. It stands 35 feet tall, is 80 ft. wide, weighs 35 tons and is valued at over four-and-a-half million dollars.

Further along, one encounters an amazing collection of organs, over 250 masterfully-crafted doll houses, a huge collection of animated window displays from Baranger Motions advertising jewelry that date from the 1920s, '30s, '40s, and '50s.

That's just the tip of the iceberg. Not only is the collection of antiques and artifacts astounding but the presentation is indescribable. I never felt more like I was in a Tim Burton movie than while walking through this amazing attraction. A don't-miss, if ever there was one. In fact, today is a double feature. Both the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa and the House on the Rock in Spring Green, Wisconsin are deserving recipients of the BRETTnews Highlight Attraction Award.

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