My way, take the highway that's the best.

Old US 66, westbound at Hooker's Cut, Missouri, Sept. 2007

I don't have a car. I have a truck, a 2002 Ford F-150. Before this one I had two other trucks, both Ford Rangers; a '98 with air conditioning and my first truck, a '94 without. They both were 4-cylinder powered and got very good gas mileage. The F-150 has a bigger engine, a big V-6, which probably gets about the same mileage a small V-8 would. So the gas consumption is a little disappointing but I have had 7 years to get used to it.

So in spite of the mileage, a couple of times a year I get in the truck and head off down a highway in search of old railway depots to photograph, or to revisit places I have not seen since childhood. It is just therapeutic to get out and see some of the country from time to time. One thing I would love to do has little in common with the other topics I have discussed in this blog--I'd love to take the old truck up to Chicago and drive out to California as much as possible on old original Route 66.

It is still out there, a lot of it. It exists as state highways, city streets, county roads and farm-to-market routes. I know this, I have been on a lot of it in Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Sadly in some places it exists only as grass-covered rights of way, or just faint memories. Still, most of it is there in fact if not in name. Route 66, the fabled highway from Chicago's lake front to the Santa Monica Pier, was truncated some on both ends in the '70's and finally decommissioned altogether in 1984. Much of the original road was bypassed by the Interstates. The businesses along the route suffered greatly as each new segment of 4-lane opened, withering and dying, sadly, because they were family-owned restaurants, service stations and motels. Each had it's own local flair and personality, keeping individuals employed and involved in the community. Travellers began to value conformity, or at least they sure settled for it. Identical fast-food outlets and boxy little motels with inside hallways popped up everywhere having little to distinguish them from each other.

What I like to see is what remains. So sometime I think it would be a kick to drive as much of the old road as possible, beginning to end. It is fun to look at an old restaurant or abandoned gas station on a run-down street, identify how they fit in with adjacent establishments and picture in your mind's eye how busy it all must have been in 1956. Sometimes you look at a strip mall and it hits you, "Hey, that is an old motel," and you realize you're driving what once was the life line of a community. Just a little detective work reveals the vitality that 66 meant in a burg. Before the Interstates, highways took you through the heart of a city or town. You saw the city hall, the county courthouse, the best cafe they had, their banks and homes, and stopped at their stop lights (an irritant which probably popularized the interstates). Then, back at home, you could really say, "Amarillo is actually a nice town," or "Gallup has a beautiful city park," because you had if fact been there and seen for yourself. Now you only see the exit signs and the McDonald's and the Holiday Inn Express unless you make it a point to go a little deeper and visit what's left.

Old 66 follows railway lines across the country: the Illinois Central between Chicago and St. Louis, the Frisco on west to Oklahoma City, the Rock Island from Oklahoma City to Santa Rosa, then after a short gap to Albuquerque, the Santa Fe all the way to Los Angeles. That last part was a fun part. I have been on a lot of it in New Mexico and Arizona; we passed through when I was 13 and probably drove my Dad nuts wanting to stop in every town to watch a train go by at the local depot.

And there were signs out there--posted mile after mile in advance--that proclaimed the "last gas before the desert" at Whiting Brothers stations. After passing one, the next "last gas" outlet would be instantly touted by the next chain of signs, this in force all the way across the desert. There never really was any "last gas," just last gas signs and a wealth of gas stations.

A small economy based on "Trading Posts" also existed on US66 in those same two states. They advertised hundreds of miles in advance, touting buck knives, moccasins, curios, postcards, cold drinks and Indian souvenirs. They were interesting places crowded with Virginians and Ohioans who found themselves face-to-face with the Old West, marveling at caged rattlesnakes and rubber daggers. I can remember kids occasionally browsing in their pajamas, attesting to the high-speed, long-riding "gotta make time" attitude of their parents. They'd cast quick glances at the cash register to see if Dad was ready reload the car lest they get left behind. I wonder how many of them wet their pants or had to pee out the window because the old man wanted to make 600 miles that day. Pure Route 66.

Good restaurants, all one-of-a-kind owner-operated, were in every town. They were usually open for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but not often 24 hour places unless signed as truck stops. Most had a counter with stools backed by an endless row of stainless-steel milk dispensers, refrigerators full of cream pies viewed by me through their sliding glass doors, giant coffee makers, Hamilton-Beach malt mixers, racks of individual cereal boxes, and sometimes a grill with a big exhaust hood. There would be booths and tables for four, often as not with linen tablecloths. Many places had all of this in the front and a second dining room in the rear, or next door. The extra room was usually just open in the evenings. Some owners hired an organist or piano player, even in small towns. And the food was always good. Not as many choices as you might have today, but always first rate. Fried chicken, steaks, fried shrimp, halibut, chef salads and roast beef were standard fare. Motel owners and filling station attendants would never steer you to a hash house. They wanted your business when you came through the next time. Nothing--except maybe an orange grove--ever smelled better than the aroma of breakfast in those eateries as you entered from the dim coolness of an early morning. Bacon, toast, coffee, maple syrup--that all gives off a comforting smell. When you went back out to the car after a nice breakfast, the sun was up, warm on your face and you were ready to travel.

Route 66 had good owner-managed motels for travelling families, and did land-office business during the summer months. I liked to walk through the parking lot and see where the license plates - and the cars attached to them - were from. Usually you would get a very diverse sampling of America. Usually the pool was busy on a hot afternoon. Usually the grass on the lawns was cool on bare feet and very green, even in Winslow, Arizona or Tucumcari, New Mexico. Usually we found clean rooms with crisp clean sheets on the beds. Usually you could park right in front of the door to your room. Usually strangers easily struck up conversations as they loaded their cars in the mornings, willing to inform each other how far they might get that day or what they hoped to see. Times were a little different then.

None of this was exclusive to 66; just typical of it.

I know you can't go home again. I would still like to go find the old route through the small towns and cities that so many of us used in the years when 66 was Main Street for the Southwest. I'd like to see what became of the attractions along the road: Yellowhorse Trading Post, Twin Arrows, the Cozy Dog, the Blue Swallow Motel and others. I know some are gone outright. But Route 66 has tried to mount a comeback in recent years, trading on its history and nostalgia. Many come from Europe to explore the old road, and there are books galore and a magazine all about it. It has experienced a rebirth and there is a even a grass-roots movement to recertify old 66. She will never again be the romantic "Mother Road" which carried so many Dust Bowl-ers from Oklahoma and Kansas to work in California, and eventually back to the Midwest. It's no longer a through highway built for speed. Still, it retains its heritage, song, architecture and some day I hope to go check it out. And get a piece of that pie.