Visiting Frank Lloyd Wright

Some years ago, my wife and I were driving toward Illinois, which is how we ended up in Quasqueton.

Quasqueton, located in eastern Iowa, is a small town that sits astride the Wapsipinicon River. These names were obviously bestowed early in Iowa’s history, a time when people believed that the supply of vowels and consonants was infinite. This proved to be untrue, which is why some Iowa towns received such names as Burt and Milo.

A roadside sign prompted my wife to pull over at Quasqueton. The placard mentioned Cedar Rock, a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

My wife said that it might be fun to tour the house and I agreed. That’s the sort of wild and crazy people we are.

We went to the visitor center and learned that they would be conducting the next tour within minutes. There’s no luck like dumb luck.

A nice young man named Joey seated us on an open flatbed and pulled us out to the Cedar Rock house with a John Deere tractor. Arriving at the house, he shut off the tractor and donned a pair of white cotton gloves such as those worn by museum docents when handling delicate artifacts. I saw nothing particularly delicate about the sprawling single-story brick structure.

Joey gave a short talk before we entered the house.

He explained that its original owners, Lowell and Agnes Walter, commissioned Wright to design their home in 1945. Wright drew up plans for a 1,800-square-foot abode in a style he had dubbed Usonian. The Usonian moniker supposedly implied that anyone in the U.S. could own one. Some were built for as little as $5,000.

The Walters were told that their Usonian home would cost between $20,000-$50,000. When finally completed in 1950, its price tag had ballooned to $150,000, which proves that the government doesn’t have a monopoly on the phrase, “behind schedule and over budget.”

The Walters were able to easily absorb the cost overruns. Lowell had made millions in the road construction business by inventing a bituminous oil process for paving roads. Strange that such an icky base product would lead to a structure of such grace and beauty.

Some of the soaring costs were due to the fact that the house is situated on a limestone bluff. Site preparation was so problematic that dynamite had to be used to excavate holes for planted trees.        

But what a site. On one side the house has a commanding view of the Wapsipinicon; on the other is a whispering forest, which, like every detail of the home, was planned by Wright.

Agnes Walter stood 5 feet, 3 inches tall, and Wright used this as a scale for their home. The cement floor tiles (which hide the radiant heating system) are 5 feet, 3 inches wide, as are the windows. Everything was built so that it would be an easy reach for Agnes.

Lowell was by no means left out. A few rods downhill from the house, perched on the limestone bank of the Wapsipinicon, is a boathouse that became Lowell’s domain.

These days, such a thing would be called a smokehouse: a place where a guy can fire up a stinky stogy, scratch himself and emit manly bodily noises without having to say, “Excuse me”.

But what a smokehouse. It’s essentially a miniature version of the main house with a boat ramp underneath. The river rolls lazily past the veranda; it would be impossible to resist the temptation to stretch out on a chaise with a fishing rod in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

Yep, the Walters had a pretty swell little shack. But it came with a price in the form of Frank Lloyd Wright.

As Joey explained, the Walters moved in with only their clothes; Wright insisted that he design all the furniture that went into “his” house. Wright even demanded veto authority over housewarming gifts.

And it didn’t end after construction ended. Wright often kept a set of keys to “his” houses and might drop in for an unannounced inspection. He would throw a fit if the homeowner had done something that didn’t match the scheme of “his” house. Wright was both a genius and The Architect from Hell.

One day, Agnes was watering her houseplants when Wright suddenly strode into Cedar Rock. He glanced around the room and said, “When you’re finished, Agnes, this vase belongs here.” Wright then moved said vase six inches from the spot where she had left it.

Cedar Rock is an awfully nice home, but I don’t think I would want to live there, because I’m a slob and it could be that Wright is like a weed: you never know when he might pop up again.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at [email protected].