How did we get from here to there and back again? Much of our travels were alongside Route 66, the road to adventure. It seems fitting. Accompanied by a fabulous book, "Route 66, The Mother Road" by Michael Wallis, we made our way out West and back to Illinois. As Wallis writes of Route 66 "...a thread looping together a giant patchwork of Americana, this fabled road represents much more than just another American highway. Route 66 means motion and excitement. It's the mythology of the open road." It was the perfect path for us to follow as we chased our own Western adventure.
With Michael's sights set on timely arrival in Arizona and then back home again, it was a challenge to convince him to meander off of I-40 to explore the towns that sprinkle themselves like tiny gems along the necklace of road of the old Route 66. Michael would be barreling along like a horse headed for the barn and I'd browse the book and call out, "Let's go explore Funk's Grove" or "How about a photo of me in Truth or Consequences, NM?" He would groan, but occasionally we'd pull of and poke around a bit. The gems, we found sadly, had tarnished.
While much of the mystique of 66 has fallen into decrepitude, we did find pockets that seemed timeless. Take our lunch at Del's in Tucumcari, NM. Established in 1954, Del's served up some delicious Mexican fare. We dined on super tasty fajitas and sopapillas, like Indian frybread, served with honey for gooey dipping. Tasty! We were surrounded by the local members of the Red Hat Club, ladies of a certain age who meet for lunch and conversation. They offered consolation when Michael mentioned that I had slammed the car door on my bamboo knitting needles (mid-project!) but doubted that I'd find new ones at the K-Mart, the only in-town option. Our waitress, Jackie, called us "hon" and claimed that it felt like she'd been working there since the 50's. Probably not...but close. A sign on the door recommended that diners in search of a good breakfast might try Kix, a nearby restaurant. You guessed it; their slogan is "get your Kix on Route 66."
Alongside the highway just outside of Amarillo, TX, stands a fabulous monument to the Mother Road, Cadillac Ranch. Don't blink, or you'll miss it. There is no signage. Everyone seems to just know about it. We had passed it on the trip West, but it was on the wrong side of the highway, so we made a mental note to watch for it on the return trip. We almost missed it, but pulled off of the highway and doubled back. It was worth the detour. A Texas rancher and art collector, Stanley Marsh, graduate of the Wharton School of Finance, had always found a certain romance in Route 66, particularly with Cadillac automobiles. He felt that the cars and the road were symbolic of the great American dream, the great escape. A Caddy and a blonde and a young man had it made! (Michael was all set....well, except for the Caddy.) He collaborated with some counterculture experimental architects, the Ant Farm, and came up with Cadillac Ranch, an art installation comprised of 10 Cadillacs (the great tail-fin models of 1948 - 1964) embedded nose down in concrete and placed into the ground with their tail fins pointing up...in the exact angle of the pyramids. It creates a sort of Stonehenge of Americana, abstract art of the ages. So cool. Marsh owns the property, but makes it clear that this is public art and belongs to everybody, "just like the Statue of Liberty."
We made the stop at Cadillac Ranch on a sunny afternoon. Trooping across a football field-sized tract of land, we stepped over and around dozens of empty spraypaint cans littering the ground. You see, the allure is to come and spray your own graffiti on the cars. We were hesitant. Such good law-abiders, we are. Then we met 2 fellows from Canada who were traveling Route 66 East to West. We had a chat with them and they offered us some of their spray paint. "It's a tradition." Well.....OK. Michael sprayed our initials on a car and we snapped some photos. We soon came across another visitor to "the Ranch," a young woman armed with a backpack full of spray paint cans. A local, she gave us more information and offered us her paints. She explained that she comes out to the Ranch to make birthday cards for her friends. She sprays the greeting onto a car and takes a picture and turns it into a card. We offered to take her photo with her greeting, but she demurred. The birthday greeting was all about the cars, not about her. She took our photo, though, before we left. As we trudged back to the car we passed a family of 7 armed with paint and cameras heading out to document their visit. We learned that someone (the city? Marsh?) paints over all of the graffiti a few times a year. In the fall they were painted in solid seasonal colors. How sweet. Visitors are provided a fresh canvas seasonally. It's a gesture to welcome participation.
In Pacific, MO, we had dinner at the Huddle House. Our server, Tim, took such pride in making sure that each aspect of our meal met with our satisfaction. "Would you like lemon in your water? How's everything tasting for you? Is that bacon crispy enough for you?" When we spoke to him after the meal, we asked him about his work. Turns out Tim and his dad, Tim Sr., had just bought the restaurant. Tim Jr. works daily, 7 days a week, and stays for closing 3 of those days. He proudly told us about a plan he has to set up a golf cart shuttle to bring truckers from the truck stop across the road back and forth to the restaurant. It's a big truck stop, the size of several football fields, and "those truckers are tired. If we can help get them here it will be good for business." We applauded his "can-do" attitude and wished him luck.
We enjoyed our cross-country trips; the sights, the folks, the quiet time to ourselves. My parents made that trip in the winter of 1956 when they delivered a drive-away red Thunderbird convertible from Detroit to LA (and left Aviva and me with the odd Mrs. Kinselsauer, our babysitter who gave us hot orange juice and hot liquid Jell-o to be sure we had something warm in our stomachs in the morning before school. Oy.) I tried to imagine Riva and Benesch (age 35 and 45), driving from town to town along Route 66 when the small motels and folksy restaurants flourished. I wondered if they'd ever stayed at the Blue Swallow Motel, where the owner, Lillian Redman, would leave a card for each guest. She'd conclude by writing, "When you leave, may your journey be safe. We are all travelers. From birth til death we travel between the eternities. May those days be pleasant for you, profitable for society, helpful for those you meet, and a joy to those who know you and love you best."
My parents often recalled that trip to us, one of the few experiences they enjoyed reflecting on. It seemed like one of their happiest memories, discovering their adopted country 7 years after immigrating here. They conceived my brother Lenny on that trip, a late-life "bonus baby." It was certainly a life-changing experience for them. Now, 54 years later, we blazed our own path to the West.
Here's to our memories. My blog, I trust, will help to keep them alive.
