tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9174043205463045222024-02-19T22:45:15.408-08:00Kicks on Route 66Five little classic T-Birds (four '57s and one '56) are driving the Mother Road, Route 66, from Chicago to Santa Monica. Tune in for the sights and sounds of a bygone era.Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-38540009121816615482010-10-30T18:23:00.000-07:002010-10-30T18:23:17.913-07:00The parade to Santa Monica and the End of the Road.<b>Friday, Oct. 8 -- Rialto, Calif.</b><br />
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This day, our last, dawned clear and crisp. That was the good news. The bad news was that my e-mail had been hacked. It seems I was now selling Korean computers, which certainly is better than selling blue pills for men! I quickly changed my password and hoped that all was OK.<br />
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For at least half an hour, we'd heard the throaty rumble of 1950s-era engines as other T-Birds rolled into the Wigwam Motel. Here were our fellow T-Birders from several local clubs -- Inland Empire, Palm Springs and Southern California -- ready to accompany us in our triumphal drive to the End of the Trail in Santa Monica. In all, 12 Birds made the trip to Santa Monica, but not without incident.<br />
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Before we left the Wigwam, we lined up the four PSEB Baby Birds by one of the teepees with Les and Jo's "California or Bust" Bird in front. Perhaps one of the photos will see the light of day in a magazine?<br />
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We began as a grand parade on the freeway, attracting an unbelievable amount of attention. It was beautifully planned: Lucy was in the lead, followed by our little group, and Doc was the last car; they were able to communicate using hand-held radios.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOZJqYTwgcZOdSjiquKEBJ86U7Apors8wAz47xnsD9S9O7x5IzgL5r_CULhwsks76uiCxLm1OZDtlG2q8Qn53PlYBq3SQxZakqWdNWk7H1Bp8AsOfTcccZZFqHivPXoyhnIUxSBqRKDVS/s1600/cars+on+pier+2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOZJqYTwgcZOdSjiquKEBJ86U7Apors8wAz47xnsD9S9O7x5IzgL5r_CULhwsks76uiCxLm1OZDtlG2q8Qn53PlYBq3SQxZakqWdNWk7H1Bp8AsOfTcccZZFqHivPXoyhnIUxSBqRKDVS/s320/cars+on+pier+2:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unfortunately in short order we lost half the group; someone had a fan belt failure that caused overheating. The Birders behind the disabled car stopped to help, and soon our small PSEB group at the front of the caravan was running solo. Lucy doubled back to find the breakdown with us in tow. By the time we got there, repairs were underway, and believe it or not, we all arrived at the Santa Monica Pier in tact and pretty much at the same time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9OKOl9ERXiGhpwLxC891pPybVhP2LLvniDR9go2FsrITStDH-dlGkOWW-SRMAZLiw8aeF7Jfx_58axoA8Jx0T6_x16JqzrIjUq5OAIlKfWAo6fr9xQ29EMciNvklHscCfVwDcmPAoBMc/s1600/cars+on+the+pier:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9OKOl9ERXiGhpwLxC891pPybVhP2LLvniDR9go2FsrITStDH-dlGkOWW-SRMAZLiw8aeF7Jfx_58axoA8Jx0T6_x16JqzrIjUq5OAIlKfWAo6fr9xQ29EMciNvklHscCfVwDcmPAoBMc/s200/cars+on+the+pier:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Once in Santa Monica, Lucy led us onto the iconic wooden Santa Monica pier where parking had been set aside so we could all be in a group. We were quite the attraction as we rolled onto the pier and also after we were parked. A lot of cell phones recorded our beauties --we'll never tire of this kind of attention!!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6duQgIdQinSoV5gj1nXQQy3TOMk2X2Kuih0wRfmetA_a7KtuSMpQIK1pNgHVOhLtenDSQ7fzVxSbcyDYUGL0aphpuiE6Pz25YUl0hfEkfICwBwmJpHxyDBQLhFuj3T8rhroU8DtsUoiw/s1600/Rt+66+license+plate:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6duQgIdQinSoV5gj1nXQQy3TOMk2X2Kuih0wRfmetA_a7KtuSMpQIK1pNgHVOhLtenDSQ7fzVxSbcyDYUGL0aphpuiE6Pz25YUl0hfEkfICwBwmJpHxyDBQLhFuj3T8rhroU8DtsUoiw/s320/Rt+66+license+plate:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Before we went to lunch, Gordon ceremoniously attached our new Route 66 front license plate to the grill. "This is never coming off," he says.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTDnBtgVi6kRPsekliE2XHC3f7GKNwRyeU4GDPhhQ92adkpiYCtsQ8FbyzgM0Bmvjk-BTDOO0LH6itcxt6cB4OdYY5QK4aLAk4uhyIVR_02KrEVCA4f-IBpJJtnizNnZ6p50aMa8M0CqH/s1600/khaki+haat+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTDnBtgVi6kRPsekliE2XHC3f7GKNwRyeU4GDPhhQ92adkpiYCtsQ8FbyzgM0Bmvjk-BTDOO0LH6itcxt6cB4OdYY5QK4aLAk4uhyIVR_02KrEVCA4f-IBpJJtnizNnZ6p50aMa8M0CqH/s320/khaki+haat+2.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>And Lin Somsak, a member of the Southern California club and editor of the international T-Bird magazine, Early Bird, presented each couple with a customized khaki baseball cap, "We Did It!" We can't thank Lin enough for her generous and thoughtful gift commemorating our arrival in Santa Monica. It has become a treasured memento of the entire trip.<br />
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Lucy had arranged for lunch at Bubba Gump's, a popular eatery on the pier that takes its name from the movie, "Forrest Gump." Sad to say, two of our group had to leave at this point: Earl still wasn't feeling well, so he and Jane opted out of the lunch and began the trek home. Also, Les and Jo had to beat feet homeward because Jo was due back in her office on Monday.<br />
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Lucy's lunch plans went far beyond the usual. She and the others who joined us on our tour to Santa Monica paired up with a PSEB couple and treated us to lunch! It was such a surprise and so generous of our T-Bird friends.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYxigeKL3uyCiFqhlPuISTEDytK-0-x84prpmX2orDWvlxYdbUSTEXieQd7iSZV2gqxz87LbgBATShwhvCVsASxRII5vRUqSJNhn21OYa1v4vv-gsxY-WRWVJYP7ZIXNbTkUuhl6_D1k-w/s1600/lucy+presents+good:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYxigeKL3uyCiFqhlPuISTEDytK-0-x84prpmX2orDWvlxYdbUSTEXieQd7iSZV2gqxz87LbgBATShwhvCVsASxRII5vRUqSJNhn21OYa1v4vv-gsxY-WRWVJYP7ZIXNbTkUuhl6_D1k-w/s320/lucy+presents+good:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy presents a "Mother Road Musical Memories" CD to Nancy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWDI-HVQ9V9_Aq3bw6DBxOVeZK0pDcwXIHw9WZIXwir8XvHN3ioH-9rgR5n2zZAaG7WiwXcJKR78oU5DGy3xN3XTm7gMFnooMw26NSOCnqkcNqkVHle_85DmHXh1cB4Aq9kGzXb5IltBB/s1600/cd+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWDI-HVQ9V9_Aq3bw6DBxOVeZK0pDcwXIHw9WZIXwir8XvHN3ioH-9rgR5n2zZAaG7WiwXcJKR78oU5DGy3xN3XTm7gMFnooMw26NSOCnqkcNqkVHle_85DmHXh1cB4Aq9kGzXb5IltBB/s200/cd+cover.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>In addition, Lucy presented each couple with a CD she created, "Mother Road Musical Memories" "for the Thunderbird Road Warriors of Washington." This not just some CD in a plastic sleeve; this is the full-meal deal -- a CD case with photos of Route 66 on the front and back covers as well as the CD face itself, and a personal inscription, "From one Road Warrior to another! -- Lucy Clark." The 20 songs all pertain to Route 66 and include "Going to Chicago," "St. Louis Blues," "Dust Bowl Refugees," "King of the Road," Amarillo by Morning," "Fourteen Miles to Barstow," "California Sun," and my personal favorite, "It's Hard to Find the Old Road Signs of U.S. 66!" Lucy is some kind of clever sleuth to have found all these songs, and we all are delighted to have this special remembrance of our journey.<br />
Thank you, Lucy!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZqCcDo4bkLFVQhtIVwR27ZtAq7kElVp3XATGqwRB8SAc4KO_o-I_0IWwxZnK5jRJZcI9b15RMCeg_sh6VTCAkBCs0gA3w1wiTCb3Ka9Umkyr7jTuj16hSuxqZfToVBRBOSw7ap7m5Jf-/s1600/Doc+presents:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZqCcDo4bkLFVQhtIVwR27ZtAq7kElVp3XATGqwRB8SAc4KO_o-I_0IWwxZnK5jRJZcI9b15RMCeg_sh6VTCAkBCs0gA3w1wiTCb3Ka9Umkyr7jTuj16hSuxqZfToVBRBOSw7ap7m5Jf-/s320/Doc+presents:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doc presents a certificate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Not to be outdone, Doc Dockter, the other consummate T-Bird Road Warrior, also had something for us: A Route 66 Completion Certificate from the "Thunderbird Road Warriors of Southern California." Below our names, it says "for driving about 3,552 miles out of your way to cruise all 2,448 miles on Historic Route 66 (The Mother Road) from Chicago, Illinois, to the Santa Monica Pier in California in a Classic Thunderbird." It's signed by both Doc and Lucy. Ours will soon be in a frame and on the wall for all to see. Thank you, Doc!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HzG-B1rQ0tYaXYMucNQhTj2EGUQ9eOuA3wJdKn92nxmH7bWeaiO5OXsvVm2roUrifHlpVZieK1phNn1XQfCR6m4wrlCDGGG0Jfd0dUnIony6pPhmuxaxoBuJDautrsOJsF30h8GgRjRk/s1600/group+on+pier:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HzG-B1rQ0tYaXYMucNQhTj2EGUQ9eOuA3wJdKn92nxmH7bWeaiO5OXsvVm2roUrifHlpVZieK1phNn1XQfCR6m4wrlCDGGG0Jfd0dUnIony6pPhmuxaxoBuJDautrsOJsF30h8GgRjRk/s320/group+on+pier:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Once we'd finished lunch it was time for a group photo at the End of the Trail sign, and then, for the benefit of a local newspaper photographer, we paraded off the pier and then back on. From there it was hugs and goodbyes and heartfelt thanks to our T-Bird hosts. The trip that was our dream during more than 18 months of planning had come to its official end. The reception by the California T-Birders put the frosting on the cake for us -- it was a wonderful and gracious send-off as we headed north toward home.<br />
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We took Pacific Coast Highway, our old Malibu stomping grounds, out of the L.A. area with Duane and Nancy and Bill and Doris on our tail. It was a beautiful afternoon as we sped up the coast with the shimmering ocean on our left. Our goal for tonight was San Luis Obispo, which would put us in good striking distance for another T-Bird gathering tomorrow in Los Gatos.<br />
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As we went inland, the sputtering and gurgling we'd heard in the exhaust system when we were in Arizona got louder. By now we were sounding like a truck and as we came downhill into the valley, we backfired every time Gordon let up on the gas. I remember when it was cool to make your car backfire; not now however.<br />
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We plan to check it out tomorrow, but for now, it's another motel room in another town.<br />
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<b>Saturday, Oct. 9 -- San Luis Obispo, Calif. --</b><br />
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Gordon was on the phone bright and early trying to find a muffler shop that could take a look at the Bird. He located one in Arroyo Grande, about 15 minutes south of SLO and was off by 8 a.m. Once they had it on the rack, it was obvious that the exhaust system was just plain exhausted! The head pipe needed to be replaced. This was something we could not have foreseen -- there had already been a lot of wear and tear on the pipe, but the continued driving at speed and the heat over the past 21 days had accelerated its deterioration. Although it meant we'd be late to Los Gatos, it was something that had to be repaired.<br />
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We left SLO shortly after noon and put the pedal to the metal to get to Los Gatos. Our hosts, Barbara and Paul Perry, live in a beautiful canyon surrounded by redwood trees. Barbara had met the other two PSEBers to lead them to her home, but we plugged the address into Gypsy and we had no problem at all. Actually, their house would have been hard to miss -- countless Baby Birds lined the road on both sides -- quite a sight to see.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzsoyK2XHRf6HRms2Ft1JRNM7Sjv2Nxsg2GipA88_ElFm5BtS5DYdV5flEiRfhf5WYvjER01k4XfiPjaYTSCpEYmyidUcvuQYwk06GV9gZe6bzDk8iq9rzfSvWhIXL5pL3Mp7XIKjwKx1/s1600/big+group+LG:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzsoyK2XHRf6HRms2Ft1JRNM7Sjv2Nxsg2GipA88_ElFm5BtS5DYdV5flEiRfhf5WYvjER01k4XfiPjaYTSCpEYmyidUcvuQYwk06GV9gZe6bzDk8iq9rzfSvWhIXL5pL3Mp7XIKjwKx1/s400/big+group+LG:small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Birders from nearby clubs, and some not-so-near such as Region 3 Director Chuck Korenko and his wife, Lani, who came from Sacramento, had put on a potluck meal. What a joy to have real food instead of restaurant food! The burgers and dogs were delicious, the salads were plentiful, and the desserts were to die for. We enjoyed meeting so many fellow Birders and had fun sharing some of our Route 66 tales.<br />
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Although he couldn't be there because of a family wedding in Las Vegas, Doc Dockter, who lives in the Bay Area, hatched the idea of this wonderful T-Bird gathering and did a lot of the behind-the-scenes communications and coordination. We're so glad he did! Thank you, Doc.<br />
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Once again we were struck by the genuine friendliness of other T-Bird owners. Perhaps it's because we share the love of an American icon, or perhaps it's that only really cool people own these marvelous machines. Whatever the reason, we revel in the camaraderie we experience no matter where our T-Bird takes us. Our thanks to all the Northern California folks who came to the Perrys' lovely home, and we thank Barbara and Paul for their delightful hospitality. We would love to have the chance to reciprocate some day.<br />
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And so our Route 66 saga comes to a close.<br />
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<i>Would we do it again?</i> In a heartbeat -- but we probably won't because the open road is calling us to new places: Canada Highway 1 through the Rockies, and the network of back roads from British Columbia into the wilds of the Northwest Territories and Alaska.<br />
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<i>Do we recommend it?</i> Absolutely. It gave us a look at a bygone America.<br />
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<i>What did we learn?</i> That Route 66 is alive and well . . .<i> traveled</i>, that is, not by the people who once supported hundreds of gas stations, motels and diners as they went from Point A to Point B. Instead, today it is a remarkable asphalt ribbon that is a mecca for nostalgia buffs worldwide who want to catch a glimpse of automobile travel in America as it was 70 or more years ago.<br />
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And yes, we DID get our kicks on Route 66.<br />
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Judy and GordonGordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-77239145918611163382010-10-29T17:57:00.000-07:002010-10-29T17:57:14.514-07:00The desert brings us back to civilization. Sigh.<b>Thursday, Oct. 7, Needles, Calif. --</b><br />
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This morning the group is splintered:<br />
• Bill and Doris are in Kingman, Ariz., planning to drive to the Havasu City truck stop, and Les and Jo, who are in Needles, are driving back to Arizona to meet them, then shadow them through the day to Rialto, Calif., changing batteries as needed until the alternator conversion can be done tonight.<br />
• Jane is at the wheel of the VolvoBird because Earl is feeling poorly and sleeping in the back seat. They're skipping Route 66 and heading straight west on I-40. Depending on how Earl feels, they'll either go straight to Rialto or meet us in Victorville, where we will be visiting the Route 66 Museum this afternoon. <br />
• We are with Duane and Nancy, two red 1957 Birds setting out to cross the Mojave Desert on our way to Victorville.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sZEY4Lo75hDA8nbhM1r88LSxdrKn9wALuhNk5ft_cNNLSDaU-uuir3J122NbmcnFDhep_omtQ8GeXsFpljHMCyFzAPekI68zKAJp-3iV4W4PmttUxShmYmDGWHOqStzeAef5mz3GJwi3/s1600/Bird+in+Mojave:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sZEY4Lo75hDA8nbhM1r88LSxdrKn9wALuhNk5ft_cNNLSDaU-uuir3J122NbmcnFDhep_omtQ8GeXsFpljHMCyFzAPekI68zKAJp-3iV4W4PmttUxShmYmDGWHOqStzeAef5mz3GJwi3/s320/Bird+in+Mojave:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-mEn1tgwZumTF_83nM_7AGRmLC4fo35czMExBu70bX0UUGu3nO5654IvcLAJB2cLYByjCjhEfgaoVWczbmmHr6Y5KU7LN-TCHSiEsQmI3-eRUTc2UWpcsHdu4KQ34DbTSA-dO3BKV9x1/s1600/Mojave:66+reachesto+horizon:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-mEn1tgwZumTF_83nM_7AGRmLC4fo35czMExBu70bX0UUGu3nO5654IvcLAJB2cLYByjCjhEfgaoVWczbmmHr6Y5KU7LN-TCHSiEsQmI3-eRUTc2UWpcsHdu4KQ34DbTSA-dO3BKV9x1/s320/Mojave:66+reachesto+horizon:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Straight as a ruler to the horizon.</td></tr>
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The desert is remarkable -- we'd feared hot HOT weather, but we're lucky: It's pleasantly warm, the sky is dotted with a few clouds, the air is clean and we've got the top down. On Route 66 we have mountains on either side, with flat scrub growth near the highway. Again, we appear to have lucked out on the weather; two days ago, L.A. had record rainfall, so it looks like we've managed to avoid heat, rain and tornadoes. Lucky us!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg79vgMWdd4vhHqkn3094o-afe6z85wIyxGD2o7V9NnN-9yKWFbU7beeBNFAC5inMLPuGZGgj6-04AdsSnpPQZ-XobHwYO6QGv-ocsJLjmHo6V-7NChuyitxBL0CC7rkqUbCGuOeJRjFV9i/s1600/Bird+w-66+on+pavement:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg79vgMWdd4vhHqkn3094o-afe6z85wIyxGD2o7V9NnN-9yKWFbU7beeBNFAC5inMLPuGZGgj6-04AdsSnpPQZ-XobHwYO6QGv-ocsJLjmHo6V-7NChuyitxBL0CC7rkqUbCGuOeJRjFV9i/s320/Bird+w-66+on+pavement:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>There are few other cars on 66 in the desert today, and it feels as though we have the road to ourselves. If we had auto-pilot we could snooze -- the road runs straight to the horizon with nary a single curve or turn. Except for a 139-car train (Nancy counted) that gave us a huge, long whistle as we went past, we have no vehicular company. There's even time to stop and photograph our cars by the painted Route 66 emblem on the pavement. We stop to check on what's left of the town of Essex -- not much, just a boarded-up cafe and some abandoned trailers.<br />
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Between Essex and Amboy, desert travelers for years have used medium-sized rocks to spell out names along a miles-long berm on the north side of the road. The plant growth is so sparse that it's easy to read the names and to wonder how long they've been there. We opted not to add ours lest we come face-to-face with a rattlesnake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJullup8AAyttd3s43IsKQL4jU0zORHlUHv1JlCIh9vMTOyNyd-xRtlKasRJ6qj8dx6kJF5FeQtdviq61TDc1UeYRX4eWNqSEeUifhpwXdSM5NS0R_vum34dQrhoQFpmAdDDanPikkHq6/s1600/Roys-Amboy:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJullup8AAyttd3s43IsKQL4jU0zORHlUHv1JlCIh9vMTOyNyd-xRtlKasRJ6qj8dx6kJF5FeQtdviq61TDc1UeYRX4eWNqSEeUifhpwXdSM5NS0R_vum34dQrhoQFpmAdDDanPikkHq6/s200/Roys-Amboy:small.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6Y0fEC6aOuN3tZou3MTiMwfL28WjmoHsC0R0MUkjp-uQiPk2m-oZzGbTw3O7xuSOywb3q19MhdZj2oD-xZeGc9dn0fBwwp_jy5UOJmOJ_-dHl4qiUlRyvdWAFTYVqrFjc-M0C-wD4dsZ/s1600/cabins:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6Y0fEC6aOuN3tZou3MTiMwfL28WjmoHsC0R0MUkjp-uQiPk2m-oZzGbTw3O7xuSOywb3q19MhdZj2oD-xZeGc9dn0fBwwp_jy5UOJmOJ_-dHl4qiUlRyvdWAFTYVqrFjc-M0C-wD4dsZ/s200/cabins:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>At Amboy we come across Roy's where it appears that a motel is primed and ready for guests, even to the little blue-and-white cabins, freshly painted and waiting for occupants.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3mc7QMQ6rBHHcPqKD8FUTvJBBghgW849F7q6jhPY6yGOAfMlcqPYnJT08F9fuo5xhGyUmbd1mO9dUqTMIhy2Dmgz3GuvGHOj0px0OV-ZA0WX7a8H4KdAaNo0QZjbkZvZVzDAUhUhlma_/s1600/lunch+ludlow:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3mc7QMQ6rBHHcPqKD8FUTvJBBghgW849F7q6jhPY6yGOAfMlcqPYnJT08F9fuo5xhGyUmbd1mO9dUqTMIhy2Dmgz3GuvGHOj0px0OV-ZA0WX7a8H4KdAaNo0QZjbkZvZVzDAUhUhlma_/s320/lunch+ludlow:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We've been in touch with Les and Jo by cell phone, and they and Doris and Bill are making good time toward catching up to us. They've decided to stop in Ludlow, and amazingly enough, we are able to meet them there within mere minutes of their arrival. Once again, except for the VolvoBird, the group is back together. Lunch at the Ludlow Cafe was good but slow, and to meet our hosts at the museum, it becomes apparent that we have the need for speed, so we reluctantly hop on the cement slab (sigh) and make tracks for Victorville.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxiB5hIN2lPTgUw-nRBBJtGcMiz8mKL5Hu35PBQRzT19stZ2L9jy1CUuMhE2rpno1eMdSrZS3z1JPpnLq0116MojJRktBOOFQIrYS421vdp1wivLr_ykIliDs3e_dceoZLoulEg0GeY-K/s1600/group-victorville:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxiB5hIN2lPTgUw-nRBBJtGcMiz8mKL5Hu35PBQRzT19stZ2L9jy1CUuMhE2rpno1eMdSrZS3z1JPpnLq0116MojJRktBOOFQIrYS421vdp1wivLr_ykIliDs3e_dceoZLoulEg0GeY-K/s320/group-victorville:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane (left) hurries to get into the group photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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What a great museum, and what a wonderful reception for us. The folks in Victorville really know how to make people feel welcome. This clever collection includes Route 66 memorabilia, gifts, and a "flivver" that provides a great photo op.<br />
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Our thanks to Paul, Saundra and Chick who made us feel so at home and also arranged for a surprise 65th anniversary cake for Bill and Doris. The lucky people who happened to be at the museum at same time were included in the celebration as well. Unfortunately we had to leave too soon, mainly because Les and Bill needed daylight to do the generator-alternator conversion in Rialto.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0ToQ0hGO0WHTgiVvK-rphCsyoVNljUTltn99kCJBRA4gX8ZIX8sAQThxaUU7eLdI29C7AQGBG6whGXxQSznLbsqJjvypQldZbnB-6skelzvkieLl7ERso22dzHdkywRgdES3QiTxn2h5/s1600/cutting+cake:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0ToQ0hGO0WHTgiVvK-rphCsyoVNljUTltn99kCJBRA4gX8ZIX8sAQThxaUU7eLdI29C7AQGBG6whGXxQSznLbsqJjvypQldZbnB-6skelzvkieLl7ERso22dzHdkywRgdES3QiTxn2h5/s320/cutting+cake:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A surprise cake in Victorville</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtN9hMTj875KVq7up1EXa3w-P7UfZn6gD2zWhFMpeW-Iqa9o0ZQryJE6zAGdc9cigLeBABNG-aiBFQ8GfreY2FbVIXARNze640U6EbxubzJpA8xP358DEPTgDr5SIDdRVuz7JgViFoC0l/s1600/les-jo+in+flivver:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtN9hMTj875KVq7up1EXa3w-P7UfZn6gD2zWhFMpeW-Iqa9o0ZQryJE6zAGdc9cigLeBABNG-aiBFQ8GfreY2FbVIXARNze640U6EbxubzJpA8xP358DEPTgDr5SIDdRVuz7JgViFoC0l/s400/les-jo+in+flivver:small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jo and Les in the Route 66 Museum's flivver</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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The trip into Rialto took us out of the desert and over Cajon Pass. The descent was breath-taking, not because it was scary (although those California drivers are something else!), but because it was so spectacularly beautiful. There was some haze that contributed to the sight as layers upon layers of mountains unfolded in sun and in shadow at every curve of the road. It was a spectacular part of my native Southern California that I'd not seen in 45 years.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yseNN05ztbaPF98J5kLSwZnZ1k-1MXNSCkFL274Itcv7sA3ggm9rsiPGL0rf7NqduZE592vWKkQ8XU6xNYRAhR8zGLW8kIQMnxdra8P86WbsJ4kZ4B1HVkY5yhWEQvepo66H0UjKtMIz/s1600/Nancy+and+Lucy:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yseNN05ztbaPF98J5kLSwZnZ1k-1MXNSCkFL274Itcv7sA3ggm9rsiPGL0rf7NqduZE592vWKkQ8XU6xNYRAhR8zGLW8kIQMnxdra8P86WbsJ4kZ4B1HVkY5yhWEQvepo66H0UjKtMIz/s320/Nancy+and+Lucy:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nancy, left, and Lucy Clark</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Getting to the Wigwam Motel was a GPS challenge -- using their GPS, Les and Jo were in the lead. We had ours, "Gypsy," programmed as well. And they did not agree! So as we followed Les and Jo on a crazy and impossibly convoluted tour of "beautiful downtown" Rialto, railroad and steel yards and residential streets with barred windows and iron security gates,<br />
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our GPS kept talking back to us!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLZR7z2U5jNMdfme4cDnoKAWlAL00DL9RqRKtgQ2kZgEsEH9kw_xDBDExOI2jiNaRNubVbW1DhwFxVXKjCN95uBH2VO6yZCgZGIsMTDhHa2nlHY6R9GtIeHT0_nHIepkartlVewCo850s/s1600/bill+and+les-wigwam:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLZR7z2U5jNMdfme4cDnoKAWlAL00DL9RqRKtgQ2kZgEsEH9kw_xDBDExOI2jiNaRNubVbW1DhwFxVXKjCN95uBH2VO6yZCgZGIsMTDhHa2nlHY6R9GtIeHT0_nHIepkartlVewCo850s/s320/bill+and+les-wigwam:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill and Les look over the parts for the generator conversion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But at long last we arrived at the Wigwam on Route 66 and were greeted warmly by California T-Birders Lucy Clark and Doc Dockter. As promised, Lucy (bless her heart!) had the conversion kit in hand for Les and Bill, and they quickly went to work.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNPzM7OOofRxNH9v-9nECGVHXdQtnealHCozK-GLeGqAjiNcDRO8288Jy8YJy5caQT0WpQXedytaahwOhRfiEHS9zdwor77r5aXdsGIu1y9Z78tpHXfF6DDEWvIVcM8Ni1lPneW7QZB5f/s1600/wigwam+sunset:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNPzM7OOofRxNH9v-9nECGVHXdQtnealHCozK-GLeGqAjiNcDRO8288Jy8YJy5caQT0WpQXedytaahwOhRfiEHS9zdwor77r5aXdsGIu1y9Z78tpHXfF6DDEWvIVcM8Ni1lPneW7QZB5f/s320/wigwam+sunset:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It was past 5 o'clock, so cocktails were in order after we were situated in our individual wigwams. These 30-foot-high vintage motel rooms are great fun, and really helped us hark back to the days when Route 66 was in its heyday. The sunset was beautiful as it silhouetted tall palm trees against a light golden sky.<br />
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While the mechanical experts toiled, the rest of us went to dinner -- and an unplanned tour of local shopping malls, courtesy of Doc!<br />
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This was our last full day on Route 66, with just a partial day tomorrow as we make our way into Santa Monica, but with our return to civilization, the Mother Road is now pretty much behind us.<br />
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For us, there's a sense of sadness that it's almost over, and that although we logged more than 5,000 miles -- one mile at a time -- the 21-day adventure went way too fast. Tomorrow we complete the last leg by driving to the End of the Trail on the Santa Monica Pier. Are we ready for it to be over?<br />
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More to come.<br />
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Judy and GordonGordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-7759386420011130522010-10-20T22:42:00.000-07:002010-10-20T22:42:29.423-07:00Day 13 on Route 66: Unlucky for sure!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Wednesday, Oct. 6, Peach Springs, Ariz. --</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sun! Glorious sun! Although the weatherman predicts more thunderstorms, we're surrounded by lots of blue sky. We see a study in contrasts -- mesas, craggy rock outcroppings, pointed peaks and even perfect pyramids rise out of the sagebrush and golden grasses. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2MX5CZKhSy_cfzpM-2TepinAJlG320yZx7abo-DVtvX0kA38IyQealp81_6ofU-2wM3R1SH5jZXRkgC_lTJgiTQoi_gVOniFmgpWHCGKr-Cz4KOpKdRO18QQg3NbiI4kH1xsqDAv15fF/s1600/Hackberry+store:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2MX5CZKhSy_cfzpM-2TepinAJlG320yZx7abo-DVtvX0kA38IyQealp81_6ofU-2wM3R1SH5jZXRkgC_lTJgiTQoi_gVOniFmgpWHCGKr-Cz4KOpKdRO18QQg3NbiI4kH1xsqDAv15fF/s320/Hackberry+store:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the tiny town of Truxton, we see a "junk art" sign, rusted bullet Studebaker and an old pickup truck. A weathered wooden sign points the direction to all of the towns named in the Route 66 song, but the wood is so soaked from rain that we can't see much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We're headed to the Hackberry General Store, renowned for being among the funkiest on Route 66. One sign says, "Tourists treated same as home folks" and another says, "Hippies use side door." And out back are some antique cars and a Burma-Shave sign:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Big mistake<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">many make<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">rely on horn<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">instead of brake.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_HxSnH-1B3eXzXtOfWIYqYZKFfrDnCbvgtxfXf_zjYLemF6O99NrOjRlcmarPSPlL3NDDX2qSV3SP_FgpFUREsjwKCcKWoMaRjMsfG4TNLVMnAZHmvSxgDP-fl98ZTD7Ba2AiIQsfp41/s1600/corvette-tbird:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_HxSnH-1B3eXzXtOfWIYqYZKFfrDnCbvgtxfXf_zjYLemF6O99NrOjRlcmarPSPlL3NDDX2qSV3SP_FgpFUREsjwKCcKWoMaRjMsfG4TNLVMnAZHmvSxgDP-fl98ZTD7Ba2AiIQsfp41/s320/corvette-tbird:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Inside, it's an assault on the senses: a cigar-store Indian, an old Texaco gas pump, a soda fountain mock-up and much more. The men's room walls are covered with photos of pinup girls; the ladies' room features full-size mannequins costumed as dance-hall girls complete with feather boas. Outside the front door is a 1957 red Corvette (hiss, boo) positioned just right for us to line up a T-Bird photo op. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unlucky incident No. 1:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> As we drove this morning, Gordon and I heard more and more "gurgling" from under the hood; some of the exhaust vapors were escaping and making noise. We opted to stop in Kingman to get it looked at by a muffler shop. Twenty minutes later it was pronounced OK to drive home -- a new connector would be needed once we were back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">From there it was just a few short minutes to the wonderful Arizona Route 66 Museum, where we met up with the huge group of motorcyclists we’d seen the night before. Turns out they are all from the same motorcycle club in England and on a tour of America's Main Street with Harleys rented from Chicago to L.A. (and a detour to Las Vegas) – 39 bikes in all – some singles and many couples. The worldwide fascination with Route 66 never fails to amaze us. Here we thought it was just an American thing!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This museum takes a different page from Route 66 history and focuses more on how the famous route came to be. In 1858, Lt. Edward Beale surveyed and cleared the Beale Wagon Road, the precursor to Route 66. So great was the constant need for water, the route was designed to take travelers from one spring to another. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(In 1915 etiquette expert Emily Post and her son, Edwin, drove west on what was then called the National Old Trails Highway in a Mercedes Touring Car. They planned to write a guidebook on the route, but by the time they got to Winslow, Emily had had it and took a train home. Readers were none the wiser, however, because she wrote the book anyway.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Clever life-size dioramas depict the evolution of Route 66, from travel by horse-drawn wagon to the huge exodus by dust bowl refugees during the Depression. Apparently when some of those refugees reached the California border, signs told them that they were not welcome in California and should turn back. According to the museum, only 8 percent of the refugees stayed in California, most returning to the Midwest within a few months. This doesn't jibe with other reports we've seen that say many people made their new homes there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadBEq_UBWfTPvPUo4ozfYGSxM-VP0Y6jqth0MT2njZRSMGeY6WYXPhd-GM_M72sUIjfzK7YmGSPAktpQnHJwkiKkYzBM3iCIzHt1mKI4oiNfZuAcSIgb36xhyphenhyphent1rBvXDbGUppTQvFZ-6V/s1600/g+and+sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadBEq_UBWfTPvPUo4ozfYGSxM-VP0Y6jqth0MT2njZRSMGeY6WYXPhd-GM_M72sUIjfzK7YmGSPAktpQnHJwkiKkYzBM3iCIzHt1mKI4oiNfZuAcSIgb36xhyphenhyphent1rBvXDbGUppTQvFZ-6V/s320/g+and+sign:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gordon and the '57 T-Bird sign he bought off the wall at Mr. D'z.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now there was a lot of discussion amongst the group about whether to take Sitgreaves Pass to Oatman. The Route 66 pass is steep with sharp drop-offs and no guard rails. And you're out there basically by yourself in the loneliest portion of the route. With all the rain of the past few days, we decided that we might encounter washouts or other hazards and opted instead to take the long way around. All right -- go ahead and say it: We chickened out!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYX5IzkSPuCZB_4AJ538ozc9gjVRV17sMfiDhZGLa4jjSi8l-tyRwsbnxP9VLWBPHXBfYzrddcRyq2_ybLare2QJA-KbVI51b0Vlmcqt98QPor6MIUBpesdSTriRs4W62lmjBSMvq6fc6l/s1600/road+into+distance:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYX5IzkSPuCZB_4AJ538ozc9gjVRV17sMfiDhZGLa4jjSi8l-tyRwsbnxP9VLWBPHXBfYzrddcRyq2_ybLare2QJA-KbVI51b0Vlmcqt98QPor6MIUBpesdSTriRs4W62lmjBSMvq6fc6l/s320/road+into+distance:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nWu_vWhsGeG0xEf7uQOq4oJgohrk7FxR_B9lUNYRCSsjj1xG-PAdtkoI45VL9H4ybYzYB5Avy5aA0HbrJnm0TuxnQ1_DPz3JnvRUCNlLil5XNjAy7Lu1U7F_iJXjORTfDlmLLzpobQU3/s1600/rt+66+sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nWu_vWhsGeG0xEf7uQOq4oJgohrk7FxR_B9lUNYRCSsjj1xG-PAdtkoI45VL9H4ybYzYB5Avy5aA0HbrJnm0TuxnQ1_DPz3JnvRUCNlLil5XNjAy7Lu1U7F_iJXjORTfDlmLLzpobQU3/s320/rt+66+sign:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This route around took us through the desert on some heavily patched sections of 66. Les and Jo were ahead of us, and the rest of the group was behind us. We were solo on the road, winding around mountain peaks, soft hills, pinnacles, and even a chartreuse forest of short cacti, then dipping into shallow valleys. The only signs of civilization were huge power lines that just like the road seemed to go on forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unlucky incident No. 2:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The good news was that we found Les and Jo immediately upon our arrival in Oatman, and about 15 minutes later the rest of the group arrived. The bad news was that Duane was back on the highway just short of Oatman, with a T-Bird that had boiled over. As we set about gathering water to take back for the radiator, Bill heard from a motorcyclist that Sitgreaves Pass, which we’d avoided earlier because of potential washouts, had been in perfect condition just hours earlier. Bill and Doris decided to drive the pass back to Kingman, and lobbied us to joint them; because we didn't make a decision, the senior couple in the group sucked it up and started off to drive Sitgreaves Pass from west to east</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and planned to join us later that evening in Needles, Calif., our overnight spot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaBNXRdSL9ggXU_K0o-OIM7oDUs4B4xqP1kRpZi-0oFXB7VXL39Mo4ZSGxlrZj6MNJcA264O06PpIfksCRAUKPq7OpSDycDC5KsCtXYv15P1aiosNuJLUrMW_RROzDF7L7zdKD9rjHoex/s1600/oatman+saloon:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaBNXRdSL9ggXU_K0o-OIM7oDUs4B4xqP1kRpZi-0oFXB7VXL39Mo4ZSGxlrZj6MNJcA264O06PpIfksCRAUKPq7OpSDycDC5KsCtXYv15P1aiosNuJLUrMW_RROzDF7L7zdKD9rjHoex/s320/oatman+saloon:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dollar bills (and more) stapled to Oatman Hotel walls, ceiling</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4J5FjPbYqvDLZ-cjSKt6DxMPP9kVcWWEtl7OjHbT3XYgk_jvkl_aJPQ9EhX7mSWIy4K7UiTiAPVZ8mLQztEV4bu_sEtpkV7-2LuMk9IAi7a-ds7HrLo5E287ozon6bVBoYaDE4vxFejRz/s1600/donkey:small+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4J5FjPbYqvDLZ-cjSKt6DxMPP9kVcWWEtl7OjHbT3XYgk_jvkl_aJPQ9EhX7mSWIy4K7UiTiAPVZ8mLQztEV4bu_sEtpkV7-2LuMk9IAi7a-ds7HrLo5E287ozon6bVBoYaDE4vxFejRz/s320/donkey:small+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now – about Oatman. What a hoot! This western-themed town saved itself from extinction by being relentlessly western -- in a good way. (Sort of how Leavenworth, Wash., is relentlessly Bavarian.) A boardwalk, saloons, the famous 1902 Oatman Hotel (a favorite of Hollywood stars in the ‘30s and ‘40s) where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard honeymooned in 1939, plus the ever-present T-shirt shops, Kettle Corn tent, jewelry shop, and even a tattoo parlor. The Oatman Hotel has thousands of $1 bills (some larger) stapled to its walls and ceiling. The waitress said they had recently counted the bills and came up with some $70,000 just hanging there!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfSSVpL2e7qkknEsdWt7rodrlpiM5pEvymFnbM-wx9us3QmeOe4lwAuQcRua2cMjiPytlm4Ycye2eTPYEdQunPZr4T89bK-JQOjwcUl8FuCXCjbqcsvfMDnPJopFTUbPXd94z_ocdL6Wdx/s1600/g+and+burros:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfSSVpL2e7qkknEsdWt7rodrlpiM5pEvymFnbM-wx9us3QmeOe4lwAuQcRua2cMjiPytlm4Ycye2eTPYEdQunPZr4T89bK-JQOjwcUl8FuCXCjbqcsvfMDnPJopFTUbPXd94z_ocdL6Wdx/s320/g+and+burros:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And as if that wasn't enough the other thing Oatman has that sets it apart from other western towns are many feisty four-footed panhandlers, a herd of wild burros that roams the town streets looking for handouts, braying loudly for attention and following visitors to their cars. The shops used to sell carrots to feed the burros, but now they’ve opted for little squares of burro feed because the burros had become too aggressive with the carrots. This Wednesday afternoon the town was jumping – lots of motorcyclists and other tourists; all the greedy burros were happy burros; Gordon bought a bag of burro feed and is immediately mobbed by a half-dozen of the creatures.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbc7B-RzRv2CAGXIvBb7JQKJRNH9crAh28xkSQd9PNPukX6lKIxUBU2JvtMA5Z2UryqaHTThQD5EjcrJY2ZAUyH09o5ZekUxbLlmrucEAblBczFY_0R7rptiLdabs8lwHxE9AMGsIns2bA/s1600/duanes+car:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbc7B-RzRv2CAGXIvBb7JQKJRNH9crAh28xkSQd9PNPukX6lKIxUBU2JvtMA5Z2UryqaHTThQD5EjcrJY2ZAUyH09o5ZekUxbLlmrucEAblBczFY_0R7rptiLdabs8lwHxE9AMGsIns2bA/s320/duanes+car:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-CyPehABh8l7TdpwACxJUMknQETFfQtE1EleYIm_MvX6i7dteBuRswsRTafmoPvA28rI3DrzlQRTcptNCq8SZ-onjxDgbx28buCvKZQfc94GWkKQf45G8v_SFUjXbyATkFC66VJVN0zK/s1600/waterboy:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-CyPehABh8l7TdpwACxJUMknQETFfQtE1EleYIm_MvX6i7dteBuRswsRTafmoPvA28rI3DrzlQRTcptNCq8SZ-onjxDgbx28buCvKZQfc94GWkKQf45G8v_SFUjXbyATkFC66VJVN0zK/s320/waterboy:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unlucky incident No. 3:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> With a radiator full of fresh water, things once again looked good for Duane and Nancy. But it was not to be. Somewhere along I-40 they boiled over again and pulled off onto a side road; we all followed and set about trying to fix the errant thermostat. </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Silver Lining Sidebar:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> We were parked across the street from a housing development with a fountain at its entrance. Voila! All the water we could ever need! Many jugs of water were poured over the radiator and a new thermostat was installed. But still the overheating problem continued. Finally, the thermo was removed, and we were all able to continue on to our Super Bargain motel in Needles, CA-- $35 a night – the least expensive motel on the entire trip. But think: Who willingly spends a night in Needles?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unlucky incident No. 4 :</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Bill and Doris again had generator trouble on Sitgreaves Pass and limped into Kingman, deciding to spend the night there. The rest of us wound up in Needles. The plan was for Les and Jo to go back to Kingman the next morning (Oct. 7) and drive with Bill and Doris to Rialto, switching batteries from one car to the other as needed to keep going. Once we reached our Thursday night digs, Les and Bill would change out the generator for an alternator, which </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">we hoped would be picked up by Lucy Clark of Los Angeles, the ultimate T-Bird Road Warrior, best known for her 62-day, 48-in-08 tour of the nation’s capitals with Doc Dockter, who lives south of the Bay Area. They had already planned to join us for our last night at the Wigwam Motel, and had been busy drumming up Southern California Club members to come out and join us on the final morning, Oct. 8, as we made our triumphal drive to the Santa Monica Pier and the End of the Trail.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Day 13 on Route 66 turned out to be both eventful and frustrating given the car problems we encountered. Dinner at a Denney’s in Needles didn’t do much to salvage our spirits, but nevertheless we were safe, sound and ready to meet a new day! The day ended with several phone calls between us and Lucy, Lin Somsak (editor of the Early Bird magazine) and others, all trying to make sure we could have an alternator delivered to Bill and Doris in Rialto. Lin's husband, Bill, talked to Les and together they walked through what had to be done to make the conversion possible. This was another of the many examples of the wonderful T-Bird camaraderie we experienced throughout the entire trip.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Historic Wigwam Motel, here we come! Tomorrow will be our last night on Route 66.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Judy and Gordon<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">PS – Due to a five-day business trip beginning tomorrow, I won’t be able to complete the final two days of the blog until next week. But it's almost done! Please hang in there!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-82529650117328089902010-10-19T21:59:00.000-07:002010-10-19T22:23:33.691-07:00Thunderstorms, tornadoes and Burma-Shave signs<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span></span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Catching the news this a.m., we learned that much of Arizona would experience thunderstorms throughout the day, but the weather map showed that Route 66 would take us north of most of the expected rain. That was a good thing for us, and we were thankful our cars hadn't been hammered by large hail that fell farther south last night.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOtGieoxfJ0zyMxc214hIY4hz-CT-to4qdQvVFxG04hVERYVDVxs75ZVKJ8lTR1kZ6zsTRUPT4_x5BQW668WisA1zuwHvMuoXhmK-VlWWSx7JAS19w5P-q7LGENHyy65opHoaKl3Fzqxw/s1600/standin:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOtGieoxfJ0zyMxc214hIY4hz-CT-to4qdQvVFxG04hVERYVDVxs75ZVKJ8lTR1kZ6zsTRUPT4_x5BQW668WisA1zuwHvMuoXhmK-VlWWSx7JAS19w5P-q7LGENHyy65opHoaKl3Fzqxw/s320/standin:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Before we left Winslow we drove a few blocks to see the "Standing on the Corner" statue that pays tribute to the Eagles' song, "Take it Easy." There’s some confusion about this because a lot of people, including Gordon, thought it was a tribute to the “Standing on the Corner” song from long ago by the Four Lads – “Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by” etc. But no, this is Eagles’ corner.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> We also heard the Eagles song wafting from the Roadworks gift shop across the street! Not a coincidence, according to our guidebook.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>"Well, I'm a standing on a corner </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>in Winslow, Arizona and such a fine sight to see <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>slowin' down to take a look at me."</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b></b></span><br />
<b><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"><div style="display: inline !important;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>-- The Eagles</i></span></span></div></div></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Y7XU-j8rN06HUK1njCA6AkrxBIhr0LlYCE5LRR1Ni2TiBdqFBhyciVp7TDAtn8V33dLLeeA2rL6UwTKoel_42UcLwkKp6_BOl0hLE5UYTVbg6i0OceL59M0qu3WpV7lQy6t505xiq6uq/s1600/twin+arrows+2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Y7XU-j8rN06HUK1njCA6AkrxBIhr0LlYCE5LRR1Ni2TiBdqFBhyciVp7TDAtn8V33dLLeeA2rL6UwTKoel_42UcLwkKp6_BOl0hLE5UYTVbg6i0OceL59M0qu3WpV7lQy6t505xiq6uq/s320/twin+arrows+2:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A light rain was spitting, and the air was cool. We're at about 6,000 feet above sea level and traveling through the towns of Meteor City (so named for the meteor that left a huge hole in the desert), Two Guns (a storied tourist town) and Twin Arrows (once home to a diner, now boarded up and surrounded by jersey barriers but with two huge arrows stuck in the ground</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">) on our way to Winona. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In the song "Route 66," one of the stanzas reads<i> ". . . </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Flagstaff, Arizona, <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYponUklSw7r5s3wyW6mHP_Q4a1GagpmV1I5MhGLdmFabEmU7I_L9PbZuw6cB1aaUc6_Bw2JG2GdBxkmhyO4tTIeoB7ZRWNbuuTX2jW7ILtGSU2rNnNqPQiFu6rUU7VZ1jGUDOfOAVwCGt/s1600/bridge:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><i><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYponUklSw7r5s3wyW6mHP_Q4a1GagpmV1I5MhGLdmFabEmU7I_L9PbZuw6cB1aaUc6_Bw2JG2GdBxkmhyO4tTIeoB7ZRWNbuuTX2jW7ILtGSU2rNnNqPQiFu6rUU7VZ1jGUDOfOAVwCGt/s320/bridge:small.jpg" width="240" /></i></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Don't forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino.</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i> </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i> . . ."</i> Well, we weren't about to forget Winona. No siree! But it would be fairly easy to do. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">What we found in Winona were several homes, some junk cars, and a wonderful old iron bridge that is on the National Register of Historic Places. A section of old Route 66 approaches the bridge, which is closed to traffic. And that’s about it for Winona.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As we approach Flagstaff, elevation 6,930 feet, we are racing toward ever-darkening skies. Just outside this town nestled at the foot of a mountain, we seem to leave the desert behind and instead drive through a pine forest with huge trees that we didn't expect at all. Further along toward Williams, we're in rolling hills with brown grass and green trees, reminding us of Montana.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL740sI1i2NAKEuFwmbZfoRCiRI-Q5uIBKD7JnEY89fK5vbyWtx-h47nSqF3eP-Ik7C6h88gyzejFrvgwOPBin06BgOXtuknkWsgMeVU5JqLdGY2kORCwnebAsikGcVxyyw9rH8jpq59B/s1600/twisters+cafe:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL740sI1i2NAKEuFwmbZfoRCiRI-Q5uIBKD7JnEY89fK5vbyWtx-h47nSqF3eP-Ik7C6h88gyzejFrvgwOPBin06BgOXtuknkWsgMeVU5JqLdGY2kORCwnebAsikGcVxyyw9rH8jpq59B/s320/twisters+cafe:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Twisters '50s Soda Fountain and Route 66 Cafe, a 40-plus-year-old combination soda fountain-diner-gift shop-bar, all housed in a 1926 Texaco gas station, was our choice for lunch. But while we dined, the weather began to act up outside. By the time we left, it was pouring. Driving was slow but steady, and there didn't seem to be any lightning or thunder. Westward we went, into the darkening clouds and steadily heavier rain.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwORY4Hmu-6eclgIK_vz1TyCP5dfdcO5puD1dxSzrJ0O9exrnbsZEPSPX41FiNZxvx7vSCzbOyT4nVOKhfAzq4GrsBNtglnhZdCLmR-ESwcGbr9COjXx1DvH9BYpIxiWsJ9YBVNYS7oM1y/s1600/hi+line+motel:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwORY4Hmu-6eclgIK_vz1TyCP5dfdcO5puD1dxSzrJ0O9exrnbsZEPSPX41FiNZxvx7vSCzbOyT4nVOKhfAzq4GrsBNtglnhZdCLmR-ESwcGbr9COjXx1DvH9BYpIxiWsJ9YBVNYS7oM1y/s320/hi+line+motel:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZRtfQfdoiBtMrvcwgnfFrKKV_0fTApCsPuXH7bFhXoslR9swCsvE7mzbhs709jqeFkbiMDLAH6GJmIyp4FfMQhOaSHaKwVZAKyPBQI-ZGhBN3qylW8sCcLQU9a0u1LiKCguwr1jlZe1I/s1600/desotos+salon:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZRtfQfdoiBtMrvcwgnfFrKKV_0fTApCsPuXH7bFhXoslR9swCsvE7mzbhs709jqeFkbiMDLAH6GJmIyp4FfMQhOaSHaKwVZAKyPBQI-ZGhBN3qylW8sCcLQU9a0u1LiKCguwr1jlZe1I/s320/desotos+salon:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At Ash Fork, we saw the Hi Line Motel and DeSoto's Salon, a beauty shop housed in an old gas station that boasts a real DeSoto on the roof. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">And then the Burma-Shave signs began:</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It would be more fun</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">To go by air</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">If we could put</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">These signs up there.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He tried to cross</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As fast train neared</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Death didn't draft him</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He volunteered.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The one who drives when</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He's been drinking</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Depends on you</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">To do his thinking.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">But wait -- the weather was getting worse. Bolt lightning shot through the clouds ahead, the rain was more intense, and at 2:45 in the afternoon, it looked like twilight. Sheets of rain obscured our visibility as wind buffeted the car, and we had to slow down. Inside we were catching drips in several places. (Has there ever been a convertible top that </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">didn't</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> leak?) </span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkZzkNa9lQ3moMzSkaB_vC7X6ZevdvURhblPINO4DceddgN93JDZ_ttQHHgHe4TM_EbwnCBZY1E5Sd7aJzAA_BP_jUxQwZCZIXa4eFKx0Z8lIJCJ3nNXM4y_cGaoj6X9Twt5_rLkkEVbY/s1600/snow+cap:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkZzkNa9lQ3moMzSkaB_vC7X6ZevdvURhblPINO4DceddgN93JDZ_ttQHHgHe4TM_EbwnCBZY1E5Sd7aJzAA_BP_jUxQwZCZIXa4eFKx0Z8lIJCJ3nNXM4y_cGaoj6X9Twt5_rLkkEVbY/s320/snow+cap:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In Seligman, it was time for a milk shake break,</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> so we stopped at the venerable Snow Cap Drive-in, built in 1953 of scrap lumber by entrepreneur Angel Delgadillo. This tiny hole-in-the-wall has a small indoor ordering area that possibly could accommodate 15 people at best. But because of the rain, we were cheek-by-jowl with at least that many others who had remained in the tiny space to keep dry. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Behind the counter this day is Angel's nephew (Angel runs the gift shop a block away), whose sense of humor is a chip off the old block of Angel’s brother, Juan, and something to behold. He first does the mustard-shooting-out-of-the-bottle trick on me, then when Gordon asks for a straw, hands him a fistful of . . . real straw. Our bill was $50 for two malts, but the price was reduced when Gordon said he only had a $35 bill in his wallet. And so the off-the-wall lunacy goes: The neon sign says, "Sorry, We're Open." The door has a doorknob on each side – naturally, we tried to open it from the wrong side -- and this little ditty is printed on the window: "Our credit manager is Helen Waite. If you want credit, go to Helen Waite." </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanYj10bJSqA-FvOFtwKAsHRaBmz3Ae2PAKZpmHw71hWWqbERub2ra9oFxX5JDdfd3hdu4kqdj1wOGN6qCJvBmYVE0rjyFprAEujhPA7JCEx4WKvoX0FTxwI4PaukljsaaNJrNp8OwDwx4/s1600/gordy+burma+shave:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanYj10bJSqA-FvOFtwKAsHRaBmz3Ae2PAKZpmHw71hWWqbERub2ra9oFxX5JDdfd3hdu4kqdj1wOGN6qCJvBmYVE0rjyFprAEujhPA7JCEx4WKvoX0FTxwI4PaukljsaaNJrNp8OwDwx4/s320/gordy+burma+shave:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We toured the gift shop adjacent to Angel’s barber shop (Angel wasn’t there) and after seeing all the fun Burma Shave signs, Gordon found a Burma Shave license plate in red, almost the same color as our T-Bird. In a very short rain respite, that plate was installed on the front end. And we also found out that the Delgadillo family was responsible for making and installing all the Burma Shave signs in the area.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A regret: We didn't get a chance to eat at, or even see, the Roadkill Cafe in Seligman.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When there was a break in the weather, we left only to find out that the flashing lights at the next corner are not because of an accident; instead, a live power line has come down in the storm and is sizzling, shooting sparks all over the pavement -- road closed! We found a detour around it!</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">But now, all of a sudden, the sun is out, we have blue sky ahead and it appears that the storm is behind us. As we move west, we see mesas in the distance to the north and rolling green hills to the south. More Burma-Shave signs:</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Cattle crossing</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Means go slow</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">That old bull</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Is some cow's beau.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">If daisies are</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Your favorite flower</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Keep pushing up</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Those miles per hour.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">You can drive</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A mile a minute</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">But there is no</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia-Italic;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Future in it.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDjRwSOCOC4wrE56775e9gD20LDXT96hGPIIArWeFf7iXzZ_JZ0JjCgVaFuTilaP4FnZ_Qlg33oIZVMWg2mhACjTNf2Cl76UARU4pF-quDyRwGZgEqtKuLqvr0a_yoV-JSBVby07cpHPM/s1600/straight+road:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDjRwSOCOC4wrE56775e9gD20LDXT96hGPIIArWeFf7iXzZ_JZ0JjCgVaFuTilaP4FnZ_Qlg33oIZVMWg2mhACjTNf2Cl76UARU4pF-quDyRwGZgEqtKuLqvr0a_yoV-JSBVby07cpHPM/s320/straight+road:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">From Seligman west, we are on the longest single stretch of Route 66 left – almost 160 miles. The road is taking us north in a huge half circle, with Peach Springs at the top of the half circle before 66 dives back down south rejoining I-40. We are getting farther and farther away from any signs of civilization, and are feeling very alone now – there are no other vehicles coming or going. It’s like we’re in the back of beyond, just us and the road ahead, and the endless, unbroken landscape – it’s almost surreal. Not a good place to break down. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vroom, vroom! As we near Peach Springs, all of a sudden we are being passed by one motorcycle after another, and we estimate that there must have been at least 30 or more of them, each throwing up little walls of spray as they roar pass us. About half of them wave or give us a thumbs up -- there's some kind of road-warrior camaraderie going on here. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As we approach our motel in Peach Springs, the sky is a mosaic of color with pale and piercing blues, grays ranging from light to charcoal, and outlines of gold around soft yellow clouds. Suddenly the dark clouds lift and the sun explodes below, shooting flame-like shafts of bright light at us.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We're so busy watching the sky and trying to count the motorcycles that we blow right past our motel because it, and its sign, are on the other side of the road. </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Unfortunately we didn't discover this until we were at least 15 miles west of it. Sigh. So we turned around, backtracking eastward and arrived at the Grand Canyon Caverns Motel to find out that their onsite restaurant had been closed because of the storm. What? And there's no other place to eat in the entire area except one restaurant 15 miles west, ironically straight back in the direction where we had just come from, and where we had stopped to ask how far back our motel was. It seemed ridiculous to be so far from nourishment, so we decided to go back and stay at the hotel with the restaurant. So turn around and drive the 15 miles west. Again (primal scream).</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The group was widely scattered by now: two couples decided to make an 80-mile detour to the south rim of the Grand Canyon and were driving back in pounding rain. Another couple decided to bag Peach Springs altogether because of weather and were headed to Kingman for the night, and the fourth couple had holed up in Williams to wait out the rain. Unfortunately, most of us have AT&T cell phones and we were in a huge area where there is no service. What to do? We left word at the first motel that we'd moved on to the second, and at last, we finally all arrived for what turned out to be lovely rooms in a hotel on the Hualapai Indian Reservation. And the restaurant was part of the complex.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Later we learned that we had dodged some weather bullets today. In addition to running several hours ahead of torrential rains, we also were in and out of Flagstaff before four tornadoes hit -- overturning big 18-wheelers on the highway, destroying buildings and generally wreaking havoc. Whew! That was a close one!</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It had been quite a day, and we slept well. More soon.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Judy and Gordon</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></b></span></span>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-18553481905302921632010-10-18T21:44:00.000-07:002010-10-19T11:07:26.945-07:00Racing the train, the Continental Divide and the Painted Desert<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><b>Grants, N.M., Monday, Oct. 4 --</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiEojyqYM-691KaWMZZ95ChVXi14y0i_jrah2JP0tZw4gHkhSrYDBKOEaC38OU5_HlBQCKjKfEMZFN5Nqa-Hi_NcJX46gH8Mh_XpHUUOpPHiw4PeCr9alennZ-u-LG_mMQSS1nDwUO4yR/s1600/cheapo:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiEojyqYM-691KaWMZZ95ChVXi14y0i_jrah2JP0tZw4gHkhSrYDBKOEaC38OU5_HlBQCKjKfEMZFN5Nqa-Hi_NcJX46gH8Mh_XpHUUOpPHiw4PeCr9alennZ-u-LG_mMQSS1nDwUO4yR/s320/cheapo:small.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We loved this sign -- Cheap O Car Care -- advertising an auto paint and body shop. But obviously it </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">wasn't cheap enough! Out of business!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We raced a long freight train out of town. It had three engines, mostly flatbed cars with two-up containers and a number of auto carriers at the rear. No caboose. Sigh. We drove along Route 66 as it paralleled the tracks and raced alongside the train at 55 mph;</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> we</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> honked, waved, and got two great train whistles </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">in return from the lead engine. We knew it was for us, and we reveled in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwo5JCNlrATn49V_L4seXtsNo1jszWUpxfeI-77S6I5HdCU2DeDxTQDzehkZXv7YJVPA7Ar4BKiNsCLz6vc8iDDkLj-EWVOzE7O-NitPl78OLEjqPVqh-_S6jtdTY5LxdyYz_ObL8U45C/s1600/mesas+from+car:ttrax.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwo5JCNlrATn49V_L4seXtsNo1jszWUpxfeI-77S6I5HdCU2DeDxTQDzehkZXv7YJVPA7Ar4BKiNsCLz6vc8iDDkLj-EWVOzE7O-NitPl78OLEjqPVqh-_S6jtdTY5LxdyYz_ObL8U45C/s320/mesas+from+car:ttrax.JPG" width="320" /></b></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">All around us are flat-topped mesas ranging in color from brick red to rose and sand beige. For water and forest persons, this scenery is so unusual, so different, so unexpected. It's not what we would imagine as beautiful, but seeing it in real life, it is gorgeous. As we look to the horizon, we see a huge smokestack rising out of nowhere, spewing steam into the clouds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Soon we were in Thoreau, an Indian village where we saw a market and deli boasting 25-cent coffee. Ahead is another trading post with moccasins "for the entire family" along with plates, jewelry, spoons and T-shirts. Something for everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f76NNlVF7y_FyyeETKdcL2VNaqKrkh5C-ujes-wJba-QZ8NnO22IR3QO1iNFj_g0wO67KBtHiaJqL-uupvDWKaWFy9FXypgx-9ZbPwVlD00G6XcQMPGz-yu_yzvnrwEj1BmFr1y8AoJW/s1600/continental+divide:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f76NNlVF7y_FyyeETKdcL2VNaqKrkh5C-ujes-wJba-QZ8NnO22IR3QO1iNFj_g0wO67KBtHiaJqL-uupvDWKaWFy9FXypgx-9ZbPwVlD00G6XcQMPGz-yu_yzvnrwEj1BmFr1y8AoJW/s320/continental+divide:small.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">But -- here's the big event: We have again reached the Continental Divide, this time heading west. At 7,295 feet in elevation, we are indeed on the high plains. But it's confusing: Claiming to be the highest point on Route 66, it is lower than several points in New Mexico and Arizona. Oh well, </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">it's a great place for a Continental </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Divide marker and, of course, the ubiquitous</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> gift shop.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvSxP2mouG2PvjQS7tbJM6vvAQpIBLhQegjJUntyuuBitgc_g9uI7AIiv369yffjzHHQzLiG9h4shxyw9WsfKsbSf9-qBX-9YfRrXKvcXlZHctP-B0LdvEetqEY09F4u-FodtjOxLrYYa/s1600/cont+divide+bathroom:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvSxP2mouG2PvjQS7tbJM6vvAQpIBLhQegjJUntyuuBitgc_g9uI7AIiv369yffjzHHQzLiG9h4shxyw9WsfKsbSf9-qBX-9YfRrXKvcXlZHctP-B0LdvEetqEY09F4u-FodtjOxLrYYa/s320/cont+divide+bathroom:small.jpg" width="240" /></b></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Now let's talk about the gift shop restrooms: Pictured here is the ladies' version, which could be called a "hers and hers" or seen as a way for Mommy and daughter to be together. Or two really good friends. Or two really desperate strangers. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Gordon reports that the men's room urinal was most likely installed by someone in the range of 6 feet, 8 inches tall. Where's a good soapbox to stand on when you need it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">The trains continue to keep us company as we cross over and under them; we've never seen such long freight trains. They’re all more than 100 cars long. Nancy counted one at more than 140 cars. But as we approach Gallup, N.M., one of the famous towns noted in the song, "Get Your Kicks on Route 66" by Bobby Troup, we are surrounded by pink mesas, ocre hills and green scrub growth. The town itself has hotels, motels, restaurants and gas stations that are thriving: There's even a respectable-looking motel offering rooms for "29.99" and up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Once again we’re traveling in roadster mode with the top down; it was down for nine straight, glorious days from Springfield, Ill., all the way to Grants, N.M.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">, then up one day for rain, and now we’re back to the wind ruffling our hair and the sweet smell of Coppertone sunscreen. The heat we’d dreaded – and prepared </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">for – hasn’t materialized. The sun is warm, even hot, but the air is</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> cool while underway.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> Darned near perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><b>An odd sighting:</b></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><b> </b>An RV pulling a pickup truck with a golf cart in the flatbed. That’s a new one for us.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbu6u9SJ17C2yOJ-JMWgc42JpwCNBTSHJok0WqaYMacC83XkQlmMt9to6T8pJyo3clfxFfZGR4QkEGNCCqvuRgBat96gvaIDLUXO1lm5enRzFS7n0POV2UsfP6_8_Q8t2Ds4dr4FAUJ14/s1600/PD-striped+mesas+best:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbu6u9SJ17C2yOJ-JMWgc42JpwCNBTSHJok0WqaYMacC83XkQlmMt9to6T8pJyo3clfxFfZGR4QkEGNCCqvuRgBat96gvaIDLUXO1lm5enRzFS7n0POV2UsfP6_8_Q8t2Ds4dr4FAUJ14/s320/PD-striped+mesas+best:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Striped mesas in the Painted Desert</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Just barely into Arizona, we are on the Navajo Indian Reservation and soon have an extraordinary experience: The Painted Desert. I didn't know what to expect, but as we left the visitor center and pulled into Tiponi Point, the first viewpoint on a five-mile drive, the sight before us was breathtaking -- mesas, buttes, badlands all in remarkable colors, from bright coral to copper to pale pink. Some were topped with pale-green vegetation and dotted with mustard-yellow plants. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNj_QXWh-RfoJ_GYa5VxVanjCHcd037ElEGMuOGmflCC8xbcfVm4JIZAmtfn7Vc07FWKqSlnDxSZWVa5-pgKe7_7CJ8iQLhGM6Eg9YeLUv-cXU6KldbAsTfVAcQV8sQVf2CQcIY5Rc6hz/s1600/PDtopped+w-+sugar:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNj_QXWh-RfoJ_GYa5VxVanjCHcd037ElEGMuOGmflCC8xbcfVm4JIZAmtfn7Vc07FWKqSlnDxSZWVa5-pgKe7_7CJ8iQLhGM6Eg9YeLUv-cXU6KldbAsTfVAcQV8sQVf2CQcIY5Rc6hz/s320/PDtopped+w-+sugar:small.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sugar, anyone?</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdUO86jX4oQ4OKSq5FZbYdRq-ETDw2WHtnzlweWv6Kuz5RLp1-mrCbJ3StQWyOmzpXYY3V2Or2I4GW6fF9rqMchQlbu_LcLR20z-5EKE5Nc9Auu7MDBxKFtT-QViQAmDsTWrDL_HEG7EZ/s1600/PD+Round+Barn+2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdUO86jX4oQ4OKSq5FZbYdRq-ETDw2WHtnzlweWv6Kuz5RLp1-mrCbJ3StQWyOmzpXYY3V2Or2I4GW6fF9rqMchQlbu_LcLR20z-5EKE5Nc9Auu7MDBxKFtT-QViQAmDsTWrDL_HEG7EZ/s320/PD+Round+Barn+2:small.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Round Barn No. 2!</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Because the sky was filled with floating, fluffy cumulus</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> clouds, there was a constant shift from sun to shadow, turning distant mesas into blocks of deep purple. Many of the nearby formations were striped in multi-colored layers </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">of sediment, the result of wind and water on the land for more than 200 million years. At our second viewpoint we had a 180-degree panorama of soft mounds of sand and sugar sprinkled on the mesas. Unfortunately, the camera does not capture the essence of these photos' extraordinary colors and depth. Just imagine these with Photoshop in full play.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgnuJH9kKDmhPF5jirz70PSCOfcv_ujqF2dm7bFM9Mt9O3UPTH7k-2-eqvURlFUUblyVk4bvp37LDguzvuznN2Xygrp8Uc_m7sK6a9VZ-d9-EvmWk8mcKQA02NMfdjMnp3yWQUdaQ_blC/s1600/PD+Inn:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgnuJH9kKDmhPF5jirz70PSCOfcv_ujqF2dm7bFM9Mt9O3UPTH7k-2-eqvURlFUUblyVk4bvp37LDguzvuznN2Xygrp8Uc_m7sK6a9VZ-d9-EvmWk8mcKQA02NMfdjMnp3yWQUdaQ_blC/s320/PD+Inn:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painted Desert Inn</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We made a quick stop at the restored 1924 Painted Desert Inn, an old </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">adobe hostelry that includes an old-fashioned soda fountain with wooden stools along the counter. Once an overnight inn and</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> restaurant </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">for travelers, the inn today is a mecca for artists' groups, small conferences and nature lovers; there is a rabbit warren of rooms, many with arched adobe fireplaces. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Unfortunately, the top went back up on the car as we dodged dime-sized raindrops swirled by heavy winds in a series of squalls. We learned about the nearby Petrified Forest, but lacked the time to drive more than 12 miles of the</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> 40-mile round trip to see the actual trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojI_I0gZRj-tsS3eDfFsENFbBORYFqRbRClxV0g3N4_pnCFPIC7HYGgN0leClixALRZUhIWMbRsLeZHJ29Wc7x4_Sxzwj-5deLwZ905yZM9xZwVq7lpkYU-zV3tXYRTznjsCO4hheU8AE/s1600/King+Kong-stewart:small'.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojI_I0gZRj-tsS3eDfFsENFbBORYFqRbRClxV0g3N4_pnCFPIC7HYGgN0leClixALRZUhIWMbRsLeZHJ29Wc7x4_Sxzwj-5deLwZ905yZM9xZwVq7lpkYU-zV3tXYRTznjsCO4hheU8AE/s400/King+Kong-stewart:small'.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Help, help," she cried.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">On our way to Winslow, Ariz., and our night's lodgings, we passed Stewart's Petrified Wood and Rock Shop, a sleazy, cheesie "attraction" where you can feed ostriches (food for sale, of course). If it's possible, this tawdry, tacky place </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">made Clines Corners look good. The proprietor came on strong with the hard sell, trying to get</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> us to buy huge, table-sized pieces of petrified wood even though we pointed to the car and thought, "What are you thinking?" But at least we got a good look at the huge</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> "dinosaur with a bloody</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> mannequin in its mouth," a la Godzilla. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Toward the end of the day we met Duane and Nancy at JackRabbit, a highly touted gift shop that we thought we ought to see. In its heyday, the shop was advertised for hundreds of miles in either direction, but when we arrived it was just </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">a low-slung, rather small,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> rectangular building with a big painting</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> of a jack rabbit on one outside wall. Inside, it was just the usual Route 66 stuff</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> we’d seen several times before. Quite the let-down. To us, this was an example of a place that’s famous because it’s famous</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">. I think we've seen enough of these souvenir shacks.</span></div><b> </b> <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCzVt20PRr2wutOjhMO4eYvZFvYPNYCS4x3VDfXpUlHT-RBYVJ_Shki87wWC_T0AdnOkOoQtZcKrO7EaVz04O1h2fkoIncaQS4506MbpsIr_8GrZqH3H0AQRpJpzQ1CL0DXVPlbtudhTr/s1600/LAP-front+gate:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCzVt20PRr2wutOjhMO4eYvZFvYPNYCS4x3VDfXpUlHT-RBYVJ_Shki87wWC_T0AdnOkOoQtZcKrO7EaVz04O1h2fkoIncaQS4506MbpsIr_8GrZqH3H0AQRpJpzQ1CL0DXVPlbtudhTr/s320/LAP-front+gate:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZot2nDuF_1-MmecHj4b7GHk6y-2-gnbda0511vt-2qZcJ9Qr7WfA2d2P1-JpFDlQs2n8g9FRzxni8PBSRYbQLa-Pvu9pV-ejQgDx_AcuuNXMA_XyuGvjKNYAZiPCtruI63QnmaqxPT6tc/s1600/LaPosada-our+room:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZot2nDuF_1-MmecHj4b7GHk6y-2-gnbda0511vt-2qZcJ9Qr7WfA2d2P1-JpFDlQs2n8g9FRzxni8PBSRYbQLa-Pvu9pV-ejQgDx_AcuuNXMA_XyuGvjKNYAZiPCtruI63QnmaqxPT6tc/s320/LaPosada-our+room:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">And then we were in Winslow at the fabulous</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> 1928 La Posada Hotel, the last of the preserved Harvey House hotels that were situated a day's train ride apart when there were no overnight Pullman cars. Guests detrained just steps from each hotel and then were able to spend overnight or</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> several days exploring the area before reboarding the train. Considered to be the last geat railway hotel left in the U.S., La Posada is on the National Register of Historic Places. It’s quite a story about how this hotel opened at the beginning of the Great Depression, and over the years went slowly downhill until a businessman rescued it and over the years spent millions to bring it back to its original grandeur.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Gordon had put this overnight at the top of his "must-do" list as our one “splurge”and it was spectacular. The grounds were lovely and the interior seemed to go on forever, snaking this way and that from one sitting area to another, and from the wings to the “tower.”</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> We gathered for cocktails tonight in our room, one of only four rooms with a balcony (overlooking the nearby rairoad tracks, naturally)</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> and then had a wonderful prime rib dinner in the grand Turquoise Room. Dinner was a splurge as well and worth every delicious bite.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">More soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Judy and Gordon</span><o:p></o:p></div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-42137865949479123762010-10-13T09:03:00.000-07:002010-10-13T09:03:10.849-07:00Tacky-Cheesy, Albuquerque and changing landscapes<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
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<div><i><b>Here's a P.S. from yesterday:</b></i> While visiting a new garage of restored vehicles Duane and Nancy's T-Bird got clipped by an SUV in the parking lot, taking some chunks of paint off their right fender. Sigh. </div><br />
<b>Sunday, Oct. 3, Santa Rosa, N.M. --</b><br />
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</div><div><b></b>This morning was much more benign than Mother Nature's fireworks display last night. Expecting more rain, we awoke happily to sunshine and set out on another day of discovery. In this section of New Mexico the concrete superslab of I-40 buries Route 66, meaning that we have no choice but to hop on the freeway and head west toward Albuquerque. On either side of us, the high desert glows in the sun, but a wall of endless dark clouds hovers in the distance. The wind is blowing and the cars coming toward us have their lights on. We wonder what lies ahead.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFXgI_1sVfCu1PtjtX65PQm9xV76sSIHMTVOk_9-oFPyTx90Onc1ICRyDq20Nx4ZCiTwXsWNr7NwKPCm5ghwDkiqlurKtPIDoIoKlt4tYJ_mZLuKa9WIP8lATqmM3AlDYgSKtNs_cSxj-/s1600/clinescorners1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFXgI_1sVfCu1PtjtX65PQm9xV76sSIHMTVOk_9-oFPyTx90Onc1ICRyDq20Nx4ZCiTwXsWNr7NwKPCm5ghwDkiqlurKtPIDoIoKlt4tYJ_mZLuKa9WIP8lATqmM3AlDYgSKtNs_cSxj-/s320/clinescorners1:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After a while we see a barage of billboards for the Flying C Ranch, where tourists can stop for just about anything. The 16 outdoor boards promise, among other things, clean outhouses, hillbilly figurines (something we all need), pistachios that'll make you go nuts, jewelry, souvenirs, snake stuff, sharp deals on knives and more-bang-for-your-buck fireworks. But how could we stop at the Flying C when 1934-vintage Clines Corners lies just a few miles ahead?</div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqGIQn02_S92Ygk0V4q5SUiCkLM95scqQKYjYRh6mThFCnNOSOqb5FqE1WAMS8TAlFqv_jsRXYD_8V8LgKZ-DRhtZj5nT1AX9xnVq-q_uiiQOyttXnuCy1qpjT5xY7ZAjd_H7he3X3pZG/s1600/clinescorners:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqGIQn02_S92Ygk0V4q5SUiCkLM95scqQKYjYRh6mThFCnNOSOqb5FqE1WAMS8TAlFqv_jsRXYD_8V8LgKZ-DRhtZj5nT1AX9xnVq-q_uiiQOyttXnuCy1qpjT5xY7ZAjd_H7he3X3pZG/s320/clinescorners:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>What a disappointment -- we expected something touristy, but this was the worst example we've seen --crowded with cheap and gaudy gee-gaws, do-dads, tacky knicknacks, and just plain junk. Unfortunately the staff's attitude matched the merchandise -- cheesy, cheap and dirty. The ladies restroom was awful; of the five stalls, one was bolted shut, two more bore signs "out of order," the whole room was dirty and there was a line. Time to leave!</div><div><br />
</div><div>If you're in the market for railroad ties, we know where to find them: the Mother Road in New Mexico where you can buy 10 and get two free!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3NTw_ceR_Wnpwqc0NIiMdv1LhNFUN1MAR20lDuUz8j-ius_LaUC5NCG4x7S_yMz3sbMOzNmd5HCh3UdZCPbBra3BzL7cbI28nBA-OV5mwdcelbznSc7twWuFnu4Fzfd0IiwGQPJuW630/s1600/last+whiting+bros:small..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3NTw_ceR_Wnpwqc0NIiMdv1LhNFUN1MAR20lDuUz8j-ius_LaUC5NCG4x7S_yMz3sbMOzNmd5HCh3UdZCPbBra3BzL7cbI28nBA-OV5mwdcelbznSc7twWuFnu4Fzfd0IiwGQPJuW630/s200/last+whiting+bros:small..jpg" width="150" /></a></div>At Moriarity we saw the last remaining Whiting Bros. gas station. Begun in 1917, the chain of cut-price stations was an institution along Route 66 from Shamrock, Texas, to Barstow, Calif.<br />
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From there we passed through two small villages to Tijeras Canyon, which twists and turns through verdant forests with awesome views of the valley; it was totally unexpected for New Mexico. Along the road we spotted patches of crusted snow and hail, remnants of last night's downpour at a higher elevation.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-wcGjTSybGkNhOhVoTjuB_X_zhQWy0TAOTRLMxgqUYee0E6MTHrm2aV0GFoYsUYkMC-U-nuHqf9H084d-KmqRWHFIeF_xGzQPrr11FHK-mF812L3Nm4yf5gzGS6agdkE95L3pqfzJqbh/s1600/kimo2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-wcGjTSybGkNhOhVoTjuB_X_zhQWy0TAOTRLMxgqUYee0E6MTHrm2aV0GFoYsUYkMC-U-nuHqf9H084d-KmqRWHFIeF_xGzQPrr11FHK-mF812L3Nm4yf5gzGS6agdkE95L3pqfzJqbh/s200/kimo2:small.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Route 66 through Albuquerque begins with the same desolate, discarded gas stations and boarded-up motels we've seen everywhere, but here even modern stores are out of business, maybe more because of the economy than the presence of I-40. Eventually the area changes to a busy business district with many Vietnamese and Thai businesses, restaurants and food stores. There's a lot of adobe architecture, including a wonderful building that houses the Route 66 Fine Line Tattoo company. The road eventually leads us to an extraordinary old-town section with art deco architecture and thriving cafes and boutiques. Wonderful neon Route 66 signs proclaim Albuquerque's pride in being part of the Mother Road.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXt4IAtnhvfnEZ_fZww6GXFQ5ORINoG0EHitS4vQfgC7LmpwQTX7rHMZwNRETatPVpIQIOTsPA0LJE3dMxga6RGL1Rb8TduDmnHjBHUGfg_aAveUQhe-Q5p0M4tn9dN_hRHFVHMn2TsxS/s1600/kimo1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXt4IAtnhvfnEZ_fZww6GXFQ5ORINoG0EHitS4vQfgC7LmpwQTX7rHMZwNRETatPVpIQIOTsPA0LJE3dMxga6RGL1Rb8TduDmnHjBHUGfg_aAveUQhe-Q5p0M4tn9dN_hRHFVHMn2TsxS/s200/kimo1:small.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhgkAZYStTbPya7khklF1E2JVjtJAxkNLDpq1QDURp_R-bnD9YXGwd-n6pNrylyjA3MR0uq80aw9F_tUvfWHHzw2fbrkT8Xtymr_EZmvyY5jpaVR3VvSRUYO5k6kW0oHHyFs07M-FgG-4/s1600/kimo3:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhgkAZYStTbPya7khklF1E2JVjtJAxkNLDpq1QDURp_R-bnD9YXGwd-n6pNrylyjA3MR0uq80aw9F_tUvfWHHzw2fbrkT8Xtymr_EZmvyY5jpaVR3VvSRUYO5k6kW0oHHyFs07M-FgG-4/s200/kimo3:small.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We tried to eat lunch at a 1950s malt shop in old town, but when we got there, the black-and-white checkerboard floor was all that remained, and there was a "for rent" sign on the door. Another icon disappears. So we opted for another suggested eatery, Lindy's, a 1920s-era neighborhood hangout across the street from the beautiful KiMo Theatre: It was built in 1927 in the pueblo deco style, a mix of Southwestern and art deco styles with Indian motifs, cow skulls and murals. Since this was Sunday, the theater was closed for tours, alas, but even the entrance was magnificent. We later learned it was designed by the same architect who designed the fabulous Coleman Theater in Miami, Okla., that we had visited days earlier.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZFOXE6UVSJx2RZCYFnIR5Nhf8CJFnMvQHjTTZxcNmo55OvQ14HcnoHRO1xL8shEvoCzKTE9FTjpL_defxF70oFLmPsWlnjlttX2KO4YqjYGCR5na-lYsAyHPLdd5DfuY6x-34KCHGhL1/s1600/riopuerco1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZFOXE6UVSJx2RZCYFnIR5Nhf8CJFnMvQHjTTZxcNmo55OvQ14HcnoHRO1xL8shEvoCzKTE9FTjpL_defxF70oFLmPsWlnjlttX2KO4YqjYGCR5na-lYsAyHPLdd5DfuY6x-34KCHGhL1/s320/riopuerco1:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eZimYzWbRjelZhtIItZFbLe5THvnJeZ-MTeHL7kmF9heKWgtkSQCe1qZ9My00t7Jh_YJ0xw2vTk8q06IyQFc4SQ1yyJsgkFZoiz5NT6K9JJUTsXuOisAy8NjIW3A3ZdJ2ljEcGFzlcFR/s1600/riopuerco1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eZimYzWbRjelZhtIItZFbLe5THvnJeZ-MTeHL7kmF9heKWgtkSQCe1qZ9My00t7Jh_YJ0xw2vTk8q06IyQFc4SQ1yyJsgkFZoiz5NT6K9JJUTsXuOisAy8NjIW3A3ZdJ2ljEcGFzlcFR/s1600/riopuerco1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><br />
</span></div></div></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0XjFiCxBuNXtzz2eLt6lEAftJX2hwkNOqpkhKXtjefNAAnAZc9nnF_TN-jUvGkJ_vUpC-1xnOXSIOfDv_q2Oi4vfgU7IbSKxEWjmd49JVTnZL6E9wBFicGsYg6imz9BP9xwMBvXZANSC/s1600/riopuerco2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0XjFiCxBuNXtzz2eLt6lEAftJX2hwkNOqpkhKXtjefNAAnAZc9nnF_TN-jUvGkJ_vUpC-1xnOXSIOfDv_q2Oi4vfgU7IbSKxEWjmd49JVTnZL6E9wBFicGsYg6imz9BP9xwMBvXZANSC/s200/riopuerco2:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The American International Rattlesnake Museum didn't hold much attraction for us, so we hit the road to find the Rio Puerco bridge, a preserved 1933 vintage steel bridge that isn't open to vehicles, but is easily accessible for photos. For you bridgeophiles, it's a Parker Through-Truss design.</div></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL_tVHbzJg4TK4YzolkXvhM5FwPbGtFhQPCLnHONwztt04mhhTVzOJ5QPiUapifx03-1gBGcblnSB-anqWecjCMBzerATPh5ZTPXBfopo7a93W8gbx33GJmuBY3E4yAQcKjBurVSgBkHk/s1600/deadmancurve:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL_tVHbzJg4TK4YzolkXvhM5FwPbGtFhQPCLnHONwztt04mhhTVzOJ5QPiUapifx03-1gBGcblnSB-anqWecjCMBzerATPh5ZTPXBfopo7a93W8gbx33GJmuBY3E4yAQcKjBurVSgBkHk/s320/deadmancurve:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">While we have blue skies overhead, the gray skies in the distance are generating both sheet and bolt lightning. We're surrounded by red mesas that are table-top flat, and as the road hugs the bases of the mesas, we reach Dead Man's Curve, a true hairpin turn that curves around a narrow point of rock. As we move west, the soil becomes clay-pot red and mesas sprout green shrubs in rock crevices. Soon round hills join the tableau.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLMoa7UhNTDxd-gHDjl7irs7ZNXz53lBGvF6wHhiHGq6J8OcbudqqXdsQsldwZDmUK5luMpCP0KdaezTjelHSkyJuZiUCRsJyMNg5Qwt-7TTUdhECq_CZU4TlRHWdgUyxI1Nfn8oi7EnB/s1600/66+w-mesas:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLMoa7UhNTDxd-gHDjl7irs7ZNXz53lBGvF6wHhiHGq6J8OcbudqqXdsQsldwZDmUK5luMpCP0KdaezTjelHSkyJuZiUCRsJyMNg5Qwt-7TTUdhECq_CZU4TlRHWdgUyxI1Nfn8oi7EnB/s320/66+w-mesas:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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At last the gray clouds produce some precipitation in Paraje, and the air fills with the pungent odor of new rain as it hits the pavement, the desert floor and the sparse plant life. Route 66 is straight ahead, damp and gray.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vRl1JV0YLkv8JnbHLQKLVb3KBlJAMPJ5PCHXIHkb7mtk_o26N0qHbYOZ2ojXb2hHVqwvcDs8xCyXuZSWmX4VRdlJLEgx2WCRfb3ohNq2cUQJH_1Jc4g745w0QedUG2uzr_eC37KOuAW8/s1600/roadahead-rain:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vRl1JV0YLkv8JnbHLQKLVb3KBlJAMPJ5PCHXIHkb7mtk_o26N0qHbYOZ2ojXb2hHVqwvcDs8xCyXuZSWmX4VRdlJLEgx2WCRfb3ohNq2cUQJH_1Jc4g745w0QedUG2uzr_eC37KOuAW8/s320/roadahead-rain:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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Part of the Mother Road follows the train tacks west; it made sense because much of the clearing of land had already been done. And it's here that we encounter the first of many trains that will keep us company into California. More than 100 cars long, the train's engines and caboose (if there is one) aren't visible . . . just moving flatbeds with containers stacked two high, colorful cars of green, orange, red and yellow racing along the valley floor, silhouetted against a backdrop of blue-gray mountains in dark shadow. It was an amazing sight.<br />
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In late afternoon we arrive in Grants, N.M., for another night in another motel. Now where did they put the bathroom in this place???<br />
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More soon.<br />
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Judy and Gordon<br />
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</div></div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-19764063830534227272010-10-12T09:32:00.000-07:002010-10-12T09:38:40.624-07:00Old Caddies, spray paint and we're half way there!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: LucidaGrande;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><b>Saturday, Oct. 2, Amarillo, Texas --</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1kJeZeeo0cmeq8zVzpqJGxkoGc3BaRQ2tBRgrjO-giN2UR6Uvwh5lF_igy8eFboC3hsbE_9B8sC65oM7jRXMNQrV-q-zAhFrgk-OemevNUgI6kU7vOAC5MXkveQQyFUTHb7BqWrVfyHb/s1600/Caddy+Ranch:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1kJeZeeo0cmeq8zVzpqJGxkoGc3BaRQ2tBRgrjO-giN2UR6Uvwh5lF_igy8eFboC3hsbE_9B8sC65oM7jRXMNQrV-q-zAhFrgk-OemevNUgI6kU7vOAC5MXkveQQyFUTHb7BqWrVfyHb/s320/Caddy+Ranch:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Where else but in Texas and on Route 66 would you find the renowned Cadillac Ranch, a collection of 10 late '50s/early '60s Caddies buried nose first into the dirt, all at the same precise angle? This site is a pilgrimage for Route 66 road warriors and anyone else who's ever heard of it. But you don't just go to look at the cars, you help decorate them. Spray cans in hand, travelers from all over America and on the day we were there, Australia and New Zealand, leave messages and initials on the car bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYVvleyxcVFDBXyigDFb_wsqp9Pf8LW9NA9MB3CUXoMP0jynfGTBfjVYlF6hM0FSSVTpDCioACnY095n_txK22iuimkLKxDijnwWdURQraxYdKxIznANU0XlUhH7Em44EAgHEQj5joi9P/s1600/linedup:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYVvleyxcVFDBXyigDFb_wsqp9Pf8LW9NA9MB3CUXoMP0jynfGTBfjVYlF6hM0FSSVTpDCioACnY095n_txK22iuimkLKxDijnwWdURQraxYdKxIznANU0XlUhH7Em44EAgHEQj5joi9P/s1600/linedup:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYVvleyxcVFDBXyigDFb_wsqp9Pf8LW9NA9MB3CUXoMP0jynfGTBfjVYlF6hM0FSSVTpDCioACnY095n_txK22iuimkLKxDijnwWdURQraxYdKxIznANU0XlUhH7Em44EAgHEQj5joi9P/s1600/linedup:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6s6zjVj7FhYkmAkcky0mJ9F-PEEMT7fLMXSwDZMKj2EHeMAXWBG6iutLFwBUbcJy8TqyVeHRjcY_Y9ZXT4SOVDodvknBNf4l2BIhnOhkVCKgZqtTH98aNUzuuSjCkRd9qW_7j8MHx-0x5/s1600/tbirds+rule:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6s6zjVj7FhYkmAkcky0mJ9F-PEEMT7fLMXSwDZMKj2EHeMAXWBG6iutLFwBUbcJy8TqyVeHRjcY_Y9ZXT4SOVDodvknBNf4l2BIhnOhkVCKgZqtTH98aNUzuuSjCkRd9qW_7j8MHx-0x5/s320/tbirds+rule:small.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman;"><div style="text-align: left;">The cars were first "planted" in 1974 and moved to its present location in 1997. Sources say they've been repainted (to look normal) several times, but the look seldom lasts long. As the days, weeks and months go by, layer upon layer of paint is sprayed on the cars; every once in a while a chunk of paint falls off (we picked up some for souvenirs and met<br />
a fellow who lives nearby and collects them for artwork), disclosing the many different colors of paint that have been sprayed there. </div></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6JDH4BvUG21qsfP6ZGLeumRAqkBqjdoThjgicCnuPe2IKg53iXm9KBp9TxKU3tJnzaLS3T3PulBIySJqW_AWkMjZf8PhDQWng9egCzua-NGxPq9vCgQmpZdZANUHZZdp4N9OrMH-FYn7/s1600/pseb1:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6JDH4BvUG21qsfP6ZGLeumRAqkBqjdoThjgicCnuPe2IKg53iXm9KBp9TxKU3tJnzaLS3T3PulBIySJqW_AWkMjZf8PhDQWng9egCzua-NGxPq9vCgQmpZdZANUHZZdp4N9OrMH-FYn7/s320/pseb1:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PSEB</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64Q3ZcZaPoXom3k7ujDmx5ni6syA5eeRtPSKF7ONkRni_68F_7ISIaO7C12bxUORBhhdhc7IMOkq9QP2fRP_6LiIF0DhqgEA-qwjeTRtoPW-DOsXdaR3Cy4XAuRMVrcWjNXZRNZt9TTzE/s1600/tbird+tour:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64Q3ZcZaPoXom3k7ujDmx5ni6syA5eeRtPSKF7ONkRni_68F_7ISIaO7C12bxUORBhhdhc7IMOkq9QP2fRP_6LiIF0DhqgEA-qwjeTRtoPW-DOsXdaR3Cy4XAuRMVrcWjNXZRNZt9TTzE/s320/tbird+tour:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T-Bird Tour</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">For our part, we brought red paint, but we found several partially used cans left by sprayed-out "artists" for others to use. On the wheels of one car, Gordon painted our names on the tires. On the underbelly of another he painted "57 T-Bird/Tour to L.A./10.2.10" and later painted "T-Birds Rule." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">It's impossible to know how soon the message will be obscured by another artist; your messages may last 15 days, 15 hours or just 15 minutes, so when our fellow Birders arrived several hours later they found only "PSEB," which we'd sprayed in honor of our club, Puget Sound Early Birds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2Uzz_QbRnDpt0RFAZJiRTSkkh-xjFFcdBbu-5Nwlq0VC3jcJellLaJU-sYZFq8-GwgP8RA-6aNC9TlLAKhD-T3zEIY4l_iNoMpFBpdZQcded3jKPwhudjtA5lt2n4HgwiHqQ5PeqtELK/s1600/gray+silo:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2Uzz_QbRnDpt0RFAZJiRTSkkh-xjFFcdBbu-5Nwlq0VC3jcJellLaJU-sYZFq8-GwgP8RA-6aNC9TlLAKhD-T3zEIY4l_iNoMpFBpdZQcded3jKPwhudjtA5lt2n4HgwiHqQ5PeqtELK/s320/gray+silo:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjzHWtFg3OLGw9Sy8guTQ2PY4ZgB_p-DyCeQAdxI6GW-orPtj32mdg597Pn_NKO32I5hUUGCI1t_U314drYOdZvqTIecqhe2zVmrepGiKNcBRzBQqKCLdtg94XBFMnM9lrUyN0tlbOJUW/s1600/criss+cross:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjzHWtFg3OLGw9Sy8guTQ2PY4ZgB_p-DyCeQAdxI6GW-orPtj32mdg597Pn_NKO32I5hUUGCI1t_U314drYOdZvqTIecqhe2zVmrepGiKNcBRzBQqKCLdtg94XBFMnM9lrUyN0tlbOJUW/s320/criss+cross:small.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feed lot silos</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We had been warned about nearby Wildorado, where a cattle feed lot produces an unmistakable (and sometimes unbearable) odor; as suggested by our guidebook author Jerry McClanahan, we duly rolled up the windows to avoid the smell. But with the top down, it didn't make a whit of difference. Interesting here was a square gray silo and at the feed lot, Gordon found a wonderful abstract collection of criss-crossed pipes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyM0MLwHLJTXyFax8odTsSDreSSEo0h2HprNYl1hKvVOCYTgWxbdrHUBGdFF-D_OWBNWDg2fU-im-9W6BTLKIDQ19yPvG5C5Y9FaCg0GtXH6XWM14ngHrgSWRpgQaN6fcP0LDwGAtnE5Q/s1600/magstation:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyM0MLwHLJTXyFax8odTsSDreSSEo0h2HprNYl1hKvVOCYTgWxbdrHUBGdFF-D_OWBNWDg2fU-im-9W6BTLKIDQ19yPvG5C5Y9FaCg0GtXH6XWM14ngHrgSWRpgQaN6fcP0LDwGAtnE5Q/s200/magstation:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note curtains on upstairs right</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPg_BT7gs3moSm5rN8M6wb5P4DvkTFNEw0mtBuhHVgxeeOsUF2xp6WlTSvBDo4vCEAcmYUj9l82ck3GGzx2MxQis3IPLRPGZuxKfHw8xxwIScbSG1j7yjgIx1STN4RwewhI8d52Ex7VJw/s1600/g+pump+gass:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPg_BT7gs3moSm5rN8M6wb5P4DvkTFNEw0mtBuhHVgxeeOsUF2xp6WlTSvBDo4vCEAcmYUj9l82ck3GGzx2MxQis3IPLRPGZuxKfHw8xxwIScbSG1j7yjgIx1STN4RwewhI8d52Ex7VJw/s320/g+pump+gass:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hose and nozzle are still there!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Have you ever seen a gas station with gingham curtains? And a second floor? In Vega we found a marvelous restored Magnolia Gas station dating from 1924 when it was on the Ozark Trail, the dirt road that became Route 66. Magnolia Petroleum was established in 1894, and the name was purchased by Mobilgas in 1934. The next year the new owners were married in the station and lived upstairs in two rooms, hence the curtains.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We were heading into clouds, wondering if we'd have to put the top up today. All around us there was nothing but cows to interrupt the view to the horizon -- flat, flat and more flat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTVKCKbryLWyLHQlkeU-KwDb4cSlyJi7io-DNnwtaBw2C_Bfjvw04fSclod767s_Y-rENAkrYRJpDrFZm9GgsT2RL6WhNwdo-GOkROI5IA_Ds7dSqncHsbVUYHKobakOsrWESYaoxyGYM/s1600/midpoint+sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTVKCKbryLWyLHQlkeU-KwDb4cSlyJi7io-DNnwtaBw2C_Bfjvw04fSclod767s_Y-rENAkrYRJpDrFZm9GgsT2RL6WhNwdo-GOkROI5IA_Ds7dSqncHsbVUYHKobakOsrWESYaoxyGYM/s320/midpoint+sign:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">The fun began when we landed at the Midpoint Cafe in Adrian, so named because it is precisely in the middle of Route 66: 1,139 miles from Chicago and 1,139 miles to Los Angeles. In business since the 1930s, the cafe began life with a packed-dirt floor that remained until the 1950s. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXq0lY8GKHa28RmDMd906fRP2YZa1oHJZ5-8dkHAoHDySz-zQ0sL-2rIhLs8vRJThWaca1U_85KHsZ7WH6B_e1-szsFOeFZBYIUXbS4TrLQsM9BZBS6gf5rw9Fd8veuw0Q8niM5Xe01Je/s1600/joann+pie:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXq0lY8GKHa28RmDMd906fRP2YZa1oHJZ5-8dkHAoHDySz-zQ0sL-2rIhLs8vRJThWaca1U_85KHsZ7WH6B_e1-szsFOeFZBYIUXbS4TrLQsM9BZBS6gf5rw9Fd8veuw0Q8niM5Xe01Je/s320/joann+pie:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joann Harwell and our dessert</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqV7i9sg_TdbZFZ0SAK8xu25V-i24oIuEDvRHrX84b0Y93FNNXkFvyjZ5mkn0fNwkh8_YpAJqu4K185pOCaOsuSvYY5vzfipXW6Qt5AoyRH1EbKPBHLB74Ht7Wh4naEOCfQzeb7qqLoGQ/s1600/cafe:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqV7i9sg_TdbZFZ0SAK8xu25V-i24oIuEDvRHrX84b0Y93FNNXkFvyjZ5mkn0fNwkh8_YpAJqu4K185pOCaOsuSvYY5vzfipXW6Qt5AoyRH1EbKPBHLB74Ht7Wh4naEOCfQzeb7qqLoGQ/s200/cafe:small.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Today, it's known as the home of "ugly crust" pies. Baker Joann Harwell, who has worked there for 15 years, originated the term when she was unable to make perfect fluted crusts like her grandmother. Hey, they looked perfect to us! The signature pie, which we split, is a warm chocolate chip/pecan pie topped with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream, homemade hot fudge sauce and a lot of whipped cream. And a cherry! Rich and delicious, at least 3000 calories. We could feel our smaller arteries snapping shut while enjoying the most decadent dessert on the route!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Outside the Midpoint Café, we were approached by a fellow who bought a 1955 T-Bird for $300 in 1972 and hopes to sell it to send his grandkids to college. It doesn't run, he says, and it's not restored, but he expects to sell it for $100,000. Learning that ours, which does run and is restored, is insured for $41,000 was not good news for him!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Flies! Flies! And more flies! When we opened the car door after our Midpoint meal, hundreds of little guys swarmed out. They obviously were hitching a ride and didn't want to leave. And some stayed with us for miles and miles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">As we traveled toward New Mexico we began to see more green, the occasional mesa and several watering holes surrounded by thirsty cattle. Because there was a break in Route 66, we had to jump on I-40 for more than 18 miles. Farther into New Mexico we faced dark clouds, flat mesas, red rock and scrub pine dotting the landscape in little green puff balls. The dirt continues to be rich and red, but now it had a pinkish hue. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOS4y7px71-unXJlX_Wu61VDPo6FsDIoHnG4FVq_qmPZkRW99vm3z5lXLmZ2JefIK7fLJPijfv5NedISlr4p6QwPLYd1QwGePsBl3FaYHKYMzD1nulyQ3EP7HG3-I2jLPkUtKZ1vUqdiEv/s1600/bllue+swallow:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOS4y7px71-unXJlX_Wu61VDPo6FsDIoHnG4FVq_qmPZkRW99vm3z5lXLmZ2JefIK7fLJPijfv5NedISlr4p6QwPLYd1QwGePsBl3FaYHKYMzD1nulyQ3EP7HG3-I2jLPkUtKZ1vUqdiEv/s320/bllue+swallow:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">In Tucumcari, N.M., we stopped to see the venerable Blue Swallow Motel, long a Route 66 icon, but found it surrounded by yellow caution tape. Concerned that something was amiss, Gordon went around back where some workers were boarding up windows and doors. He asked when they had closed, and received a short, curt answer from Mr. Friendly Owner: "Yesterday. We're closing for the winter like we do every year for the past 17 years." As if we should know this!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We reached our digs in Santa Rosa, N.M., ahead of some of the others and did a quick load of laundry. Gordon washed the car and after watching those black clouds all day, we opted to put up the top after nine days of driving in roadster mode. Good choice! About two hours later we had a doozie of a thunderstorm: bolt and sheet lightning, cracking and booming thunder--and a torrential downpour of Biblical proportions. It was pretty darned exciting! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">More tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Judy and Gordon<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-28517706187547868612010-10-11T18:13:00.000-07:002010-10-11T18:16:48.423-07:00Texas, Here We Come!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Bold;"><b>Friday, Oct. 1, Clinton, Okla. -- </b></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Just think: We left two Fridays ago. It seems like ancient history, and in checking the odometer we see that we've driven 3,451 miles since Sept. 17. Guess it was time for another mechanical incident -- Bill's power steering hose failed; he decided to continue on and get it repaired in Seattle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfebZcg_HR_gSBUNJSUYNW5rDWvCp4nMRBDfmDRpi4rn993Yp2wKirTmUIvcMK_UIs0YzfUTLGtwyITZHEGeLb3bevSTK4Hj0nio__PQpGZAxZoqpnMTqjjc9laMdm-nTf8HChYgGqlT90/s1600/beetle-tractor+tires:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfebZcg_HR_gSBUNJSUYNW5rDWvCp4nMRBDfmDRpi4rn993Yp2wKirTmUIvcMK_UIs0YzfUTLGtwyITZHEGeLb3bevSTK4Hj0nio__PQpGZAxZoqpnMTqjjc9laMdm-nTf8HChYgGqlT90/s320/beetle-tractor+tires:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Today was a big day, Texas style! While the rest of the group returned to the great Oklahoma Route 66 Museum, we ventured west on the Mother Road, soon seeing another example of the weird and wonderful on Route 66: a Volkswagen Beetle on huge tractor tires. It was perched in the middle of a field by the road, just for folks like us to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Here Route 66 is a frontage road that parallels I-40 as it does for more than a third of the entire route. When the interstate was built, it paralleled much of 66 but because it bypassed many of the towns, it led to their demise. (The next time you're on a freeway outside of a city, watch for a frontage road to the right or left. This two-lane roadway will give you an idea of what Route 66 was like in many areas.) As the trucks and cars speed past on the interstate, sometimes at 75 or 80 mph, we're leisurely driving at 45 to 55 mph on the 66 frontage road on the north of the freeway, then crossing over or under, and picking up the south frontage road. Back and forth we go, following the road as it passes through towns that either have no business or very little. Maybe a cafe, maybe a bar, maybe a car repair shop. But certainly nothing that would sustain a real economy. Most are hanging on by their fingernails. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRA1nz4pxJCu-V3E8rO7UuQJA8RXwWwuE8U_OF65QKs7mhCd2VY_rZZOKeTp9sQlUYX_my2GE3YybTpKwnG7RwH6XAvheMrQJo6bII5Hqc8ixc8DChO-yu-LdVLnqvILAQ9nOmXgwAj6dS/s1600/Shamrock+1.49:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRA1nz4pxJCu-V3E8rO7UuQJA8RXwWwuE8U_OF65QKs7mhCd2VY_rZZOKeTp9sQlUYX_my2GE3YybTpKwnG7RwH6XAvheMrQJo6bII5Hqc8ixc8DChO-yu-LdVLnqvILAQ9nOmXgwAj6dS/s200/Shamrock+1.49:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At Elk City we toured the National Route 66 Museum (all the others are state 66 museums). It was an interesting display, but in our opinion, the great Oklahoma museum in Clinton had it beat. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">In Sayre, Okla., we discovered an old Diamond Shamrock station, frozen in time with gas at $1.49 for both unleaded and diesel. Unleaded? Yes. How many years has it been since we saw that price? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkd0o7JVJi7d3CWA_7fv7Iw-oLNuNXUAGI9cZMbHUNImGkrsX9rlKzkLr2PMppUbAryPONqmR1KA8SWiAzn3JjrTJZLvuFsrC8D_MMteI-W4byY0ZVkg6u7C4QJD9cTLbM4ETXS_StO0b/s1600/tbird+on+oldest+road:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkd0o7JVJi7d3CWA_7fv7Iw-oLNuNXUAGI9cZMbHUNImGkrsX9rlKzkLr2PMppUbAryPONqmR1KA8SWiAzn3JjrTJZLvuFsrC8D_MMteI-W4byY0ZVkg6u7C4QJD9cTLbM4ETXS_StO0b/s320/tbird+on+oldest+road:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">And from there we found a portion of the long-abandoned original roadway. This is what's called the "original alignment" (there were several alignments -- or paved routes -- between the 1920s and 1950s). Although posted "Road Closed," this alignment nevertheless was accessible to a 1957 T-Bird, at least for a photo. It would be impossible to drive this section because the trees overhang the roadway and in many areas touch the pavement. It was an excellent example of the various alignments. As we faced west on the present Route 66, the I-40 freeway was on our left, and the 1920s closed roadbed was on our right, all parallel to one another.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_zq1_QeGIh2VBaQE3Mh2BJq208YtioVwHk9UstRXgy6KpsRq7MotpNUqMmZ4oCyW5yNl6bWq5rBTLFFFEOHsu-kOoMc1K_jWZ29gPkMq8ZT2EjOlhPfiJTiU6nt7ynzYwllGHz-ThKSg/s1600/erick+meat+market:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_zq1_QeGIh2VBaQE3Mh2BJq208YtioVwHk9UstRXgy6KpsRq7MotpNUqMmZ4oCyW5yNl6bWq5rBTLFFFEOHsu-kOoMc1K_jWZ29gPkMq8ZT2EjOlhPfiJTiU6nt7ynzYwllGHz-ThKSg/s320/erick+meat+market:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Next, at Erick, hometown of Roger "King of the Road" Miller and singer/actor Sheb "Purple People Eater" Wooley, we were disappointed that one of the Route 66 icons we most wanted to see was closed. This is the site of the former City Meat Market, now called the Sand Hills Curiosity Shop and self-described as "the redneck capitol" where "insanity rules." It boasts all sorts of really far-out memorabilia outside, and one can only guess what treasures lie inside. The owners of this establishment are Harley and Annabelle, aka the Mediocre Music Makers, and if given a little notice, they will perform for customers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">The rest of Erick is still alive but struggling -- dusty pickup trucks parked outside the few businesses that remain, two abandoned gas stations on adjacent corners, and an abandoned motel with a few trucks parked between the units and weeds sprouting in the pavement. Do you remember the movie, The Last Picture Show?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZxqEWCLjgDFtsCCqIqRU2k5wuBL_-JmJEwvVi6vlM14TeLQqeZ90HYRuINWmPSA-35Quj5XMF5iO4bv6Lvdw5Z8VeHhcBRzO30QmvyzDL0K50wiFUGomgS01ThCgq_QVC5QuC_LCOaWi/s1600/falling+down+station+2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZxqEWCLjgDFtsCCqIqRU2k5wuBL_-JmJEwvVi6vlM14TeLQqeZ90HYRuINWmPSA-35Quj5XMF5iO4bv6Lvdw5Z8VeHhcBRzO30QmvyzDL0K50wiFUGomgS01ThCgq_QVC5QuC_LCOaWi/s320/falling+down+station+2:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">But then we got to Texola and a four-lane stretch of Route 66 was ours; no competition from other cars and certainly no businesses operating. It was so silent we could hear only white noise. And the town had an air of despair -- abandoned houses as well as businesses. How it must have bustled when 66 was the only way west.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At last: The Texas state line. And all of a sudden the Route 66 roadbed changed from a yellow hue to pinkish beige. In McLean (pop. 880) we found the remnants of tourist courts, some operating so recently that they were for sale instead of abandoned. Someone is thinking positively!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QAfU9gOc6C0Tz75Zh7NewBnI4US_90FwmeYTRVGQGk-pQV9DmBRV9QViVEqthocRWy78Rv0oX4nqw8qGq3GJ3OxaosYQCZhboqEbb0FC_99Xfn5XM4oRAL_stQRKfGHwDHUwRoyXWCtV/s1600/barbed+wire:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QAfU9gOc6C0Tz75Zh7NewBnI4US_90FwmeYTRVGQGk-pQV9DmBRV9QViVEqthocRWy78Rv0oX4nqw8qGq3GJ3OxaosYQCZhboqEbb0FC_99Xfn5XM4oRAL_stQRKfGHwDHUwRoyXWCtV/s320/barbed+wire:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPrKuhYPsc_dZU8XNiuMOjiEjohEulhfCZOcUwYrnR4fi-RO6kzpHz1ibIjfpB7iYyEcQs73c9kGduWnli8Sbmw7jFX9tgMSucXQiMRk7NnwGX-B9t2mDJojFlPlVg4lcvFfc2H6nHerY/s1600/G+at+Texas+museum:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPrKuhYPsc_dZU8XNiuMOjiEjohEulhfCZOcUwYrnR4fi-RO6kzpHz1ibIjfpB7iYyEcQs73c9kGduWnli8Sbmw7jFX9tgMSucXQiMRk7NnwGX-B9t2mDJojFlPlVg4lcvFfc2H6nHerY/s320/G+at+Texas+museum:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">McLean also is the home of the Texas Route 66 Museum, which shares quarters with the Devil's Rope Museum in a former brassiere factory that led the town to be called the "Uplift City" in bygone days. We visited both and found barbed wire exhibits to be incredibly boring and the Route 66 vignettes charmingly low-tech. Gordon decided to whisper sweet nothings in the ear of the "waitress."</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">We encountered the very first Phillips 66 station outside of Oklahoma in McLean. Built in the 1920s, this tiny restored brick station operated for 50 years.When it closed, the gas was priced at 19.9 cents a gallon. As a side note: For several days we've been wondering whether the presence of so many Phillips 66 stations on Route 66 is a coincidence. Finally, we learned the story. It seems some Phillips executives were looking for a name for their new series of stations, which originated in Oklahoma. They were driving on Route 66 and one of them mentioned that they were going 66 mph on 66. They decided to name it after the highway and it stuck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKntj4cTvke3omGzL_m0chGD701lpY_4A44egV7w2duiCZDVn8vY6hyFJPmzDXLrtsTlEPb4-AmjhmoGIAnMG0c_FbgarB-AMTBFwrM705UcWNhu6AaQXHCTKLcfkbfXlwnu8iRsdNVz59/s1600/McLean+mural:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKntj4cTvke3omGzL_m0chGD701lpY_4A44egV7w2duiCZDVn8vY6hyFJPmzDXLrtsTlEPb4-AmjhmoGIAnMG0c_FbgarB-AMTBFwrM705UcWNhu6AaQXHCTKLcfkbfXlwnu8iRsdNVz59/s320/McLean+mural:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Our view of McLean? There's no "there" there. OK -- a wide, dusty street, a barber shop mural, a roofless building, and standing in the middle of the road to take a photo poses no danger because no one is going anywhere. An almost ghost town in the middle of nowhere, with just the wind to keep us company. A quasi-Burma Shave sign led us out of town:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Italic;"><i>Go East</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Italic;"><i>Or go West</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Italic;"><i>Route 66</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Italic;"><i>Does it Best</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Italic;"><i>--McLean, Texas</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQFHfl8MMaRGVfR1INn10YX8al9g8XvoLoHgJxih0RaS7cN4OHj13RlxDydd90tgjFvCxCuXpQCePP5HPtlFiqF-jjjNgCqICccbrYnYyXr8p3yKpG_thtg5YyBIIipRSl7B-bUHJ41ap/s1600/Udropin:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQFHfl8MMaRGVfR1INn10YX8al9g8XvoLoHgJxih0RaS7cN4OHj13RlxDydd90tgjFvCxCuXpQCePP5HPtlFiqF-jjjNgCqICccbrYnYyXr8p3yKpG_thtg5YyBIIipRSl7B-bUHJ41ap/s320/Udropin:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">In Shamrock we visited the U Drop In, a 1936 restored art deco masterpiece Conoco gas station with a cafe. The building now houses the Chamber of Commerce, and unfortunately there are no plans to turn the cafe into a viable business. Nevertheless, it is a spectacular piece of architecture.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNV7Km2KBjmmRzkk7PDkSSsl9moK147hAsMyDLcDk6Ohal6ipSfPi6jDU771rJbP1N0ms4kjUbVIWZCnqqWIbGFbkemOY24OgCy0faphZzHgb6eiNWVSF_5_PMfzkjNlSWoZehfLklnmc0/s1600/justice+of+peace:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNV7Km2KBjmmRzkk7PDkSSsl9moK147hAsMyDLcDk6Ohal6ipSfPi6jDU771rJbP1N0ms4kjUbVIWZCnqqWIbGFbkemOY24OgCy0faphZzHgb6eiNWVSF_5_PMfzkjNlSWoZehfLklnmc0/s320/justice+of+peace:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Now that we're in Texas, the land is flat and brown with eroded gullies on either side. It's stark and spacious from horizon to horizon with riverbeds and shallow canyons. As we move west, we see what is called the largest cross in the world--it's 19 stories high. Why there? Why not? It's at Groom (pop. 587), and is visible for miles. Also in Groom, an old gas station has been commandeered by a Justice of the Peace. Maybe there's a chapel inside! Just one more Route 66 oddity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe546YskczWNbDsL6oNmkVVYQEBS1MQ4HPw8BGI2d9SEnZZyWx9qhkCGHp-hBcWCkHIE8aUhR5H-1FeVp-Jd6311KJ4K8JEFPfA6EtiHJMYPQwddI6wEgCvhi_Ha2UbxKtQE1bYpyK9lv/s1600/cars+at+texan:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe546YskczWNbDsL6oNmkVVYQEBS1MQ4HPw8BGI2d9SEnZZyWx9qhkCGHp-hBcWCkHIE8aUhR5H-1FeVp-Jd6311KJ4K8JEFPfA6EtiHJMYPQwddI6wEgCvhi_Ha2UbxKtQE1bYpyK9lv/s320/cars+at+texan:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At last we are at the Big Texan Motel in Amarillo, another Route 66 icon and surely a parody of all that once was, or once would be, the spirit of Texas. Actually these are the most interesting lodgings we've had so far; outside they look like a collection of separate buildings in an old western town. Walking into our ground-floor motel unit, we smell pure cedar. Our room is paneled, comfy and very much western, even to a saloon-type swinging door into the dressing room/bathroom area. We have "wanted" posters on the wall, Texas-motif woven coverlets, and it's just plain fun! Quite the change from the standard motels of the past nights.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxAh35h5KiN8jSNo6L_uHks00LwYRJcC5Q6A1Y7qp5wsGT70I1bjbAaPjENHAhd3NzyzBRdxDt0P6REdYGApY1kURG1G244AJU3pSEtwBc0GhDoU1MBavx05JNIFO1trAEzcOwdxTh14P/s1600/big+texan+sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxAh35h5KiN8jSNo6L_uHks00LwYRJcC5Q6A1Y7qp5wsGT70I1bjbAaPjENHAhd3NzyzBRdxDt0P6REdYGApY1kURG1G244AJU3pSEtwBc0GhDoU1MBavx05JNIFO1trAEzcOwdxTh14P/s320/big+texan+sign:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Across the parking lot is the Big Texan restaurant, a huge facility that attracts tour buses unloading 44 hungry gray-haired tourists at a time nonstop for dinner up until 8 p.m.-- the huge dining room is crammed with people eating Texas fare, while dozens of people wait for their electronic beepers to tell them a table is ready; most pass the time wandering the gift shop or admiring the huge neon cowboy sign. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgErcKFQ2IJmTFoppGxJvr1vmIWCU91KVceVJW91DD5AoPbhjDS8TrDOi74IT18uhhq1K-x5gKYZhwbIi1ABrWJOn8mOjDM9pB9UUWRv25Jdj87B6Uy8-nqbeOHqWPT7fd-YXvonpmUuJv/s1600/72ounce+steak:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgErcKFQ2IJmTFoppGxJvr1vmIWCU91KVceVJW91DD5AoPbhjDS8TrDOi74IT18uhhq1K-x5gKYZhwbIi1ABrWJOn8mOjDM9pB9UUWRv25Jdj87B6Uy8-nqbeOHqWPT7fd-YXvonpmUuJv/s200/72ounce+steak:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Challenge Meal</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">The Texan is the home of the famous 72-ounce steak challenge; if a person can eat that huge steak and all the side dishes in one hour, the meal is free. We watched one man finish the challenge in business-like fashion and walk off grimly, perhaps to go to Upchuck City. Another man began with a chat-em-up attitude; it turns out he has done it before, and was mighty casual about his attack on four-and-a-half pounds of steak, a huge baked potato, rolls, tossed green salad and a side of butterflied shrimp. If a person fails, the dinner bill is $72 -- actually not too bad for all that meat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">For us, our 16-ounce prime rib shared by two was delicious! We sat up in the balcony that ringed the main dining room with a direct view of the raised table on the stage where the brave eaters tried their luck, and watched as Mr. Chat-em-up won and got the meal for free. We learned that only 10 percent of those who try actually win this gorge-a-thon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">In the early evening, Duane, whose right window was stuck in the up position, was met by Gary Fields, a member of the High Plains Thunderbird Club who lives in Amarillo. Duane had called the club and Gary volunteered to help him install a new motor (shipped to Duane at the Texan) for the window. Off they went to Gary's home, and by 11 p.m., Duane was back with a window that works. Gary's generosity and helpfulness is an example of what we continue to see as we meet T-Birders along the route. We have a network of good-hearted, skilled and talented individuals who are ready to help others who love these iconic cars. Thank you, Gary!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At last, it was time to slumber in our sweet-smelling room. The only negative here was that they were "working on the Internet service," and despite trying to get online throughout the motel and restaurant, we were unable to do so. But you know, sometimes it's good to be out of touch!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">More to come soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Judy and Gordon</span></div><b><br />
</b>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-60611465285671515072010-10-07T22:47:00.000-07:002010-10-09T20:48:32.341-07:00Meeting Mr. Route 66 and a Fabulous Mother Road Museum<b>Thursday, Sept. 30, Chandler, Okla. </b><br />
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<i>Seattle folks will love this:</i> While watching TV this a.m. for a weather report, we happened upon a sportscast with coanchors in suits and ties chatting with each other. Next to one of them, and being completely ignored by the sportscasters, was an ugly, hairy and horned mascot in a team uniform for the Oklahoma City Thunder, you know, that team that used to play mediocre-to-poor basketball in Seattle. It was so laughable -- the mascot (Rumble the bison) bopped around doing little dance moves, swinging his arms, generally looking ridiculous and saying nary a word. It was obvious the two suits were embarrassed as they turned their back on him. We're probably lucky they left town.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLNdMlaskBjlocPNWTw8IzOu2okosgcbrsKv3hodZrZi_4x-rpJm3AsPDuCQ_SZJPgSO20xcDgkPsTG03F5WamwkseZCeyRSJkmQ-m7aAgX75w0ltNoKCuJaOlKhKSOLfyuv3iJvTwqkX/s1600/JerryMc:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLNdMlaskBjlocPNWTw8IzOu2okosgcbrsKv3hodZrZi_4x-rpJm3AsPDuCQ_SZJPgSO20xcDgkPsTG03F5WamwkseZCeyRSJkmQ-m7aAgX75w0ltNoKCuJaOlKhKSOLfyuv3iJvTwqkX/s320/JerryMc:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Leaving the bedbugs behind, we ventured just a few short blocks to meet Jerry McClanahan, Route 66 artist and guidebook author whose "EZ 66 Guide for Travelers" has been our bible throughout this trip. Countless hours spent on Route 66 over the years led to an exhaustive study of the road and (let the bells ring out) turn-by-turn directions for the entire route westbound and eastbound. To say Jerry rode with us day by day is an understatement.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqiVJV9IgZv9-cN0lL19D3hS4l7ECG2v8723Ie36qMezORM9h07wfpaVpVMwwd6lv_Eb_genyOQ5EOaUD4SQuuMpQQz9hpyDEH1aV6-Ept16QXzo6w91U5Imr4FyoBtmXa0iz22MY_oXZ/s1600/roundbarn+w-+birds:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqiVJV9IgZv9-cN0lL19D3hS4l7ECG2v8723Ie36qMezORM9h07wfpaVpVMwwd6lv_Eb_genyOQ5EOaUD4SQuuMpQQz9hpyDEH1aV6-Ept16QXzo6w91U5Imr4FyoBtmXa0iz22MY_oXZ/s320/roundbarn+w-+birds:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Gordon had contacted him early on in our planning, and he was grateful for Jerry's suggestions; meeting him in person was a treat. Jerry has a gallery in Chandler to display his artwork, maps, cassette tapes and more -- we jokingly said he needed fewer Corvette pictures and more T-Birds. Before we left, Jerry autographed our guidebooks and then sent us on our way.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1nSGg2XsLIwYtdVWB-bQXo-It_oGM1Ezx4enGwC1o7NlQJu8aAIELNxGpjhxJjBn6Alwjvs92siYSHSAwOQVMHOBa6AFp6wjW5l8Pm29ay0HL2woOhUaOXIEky_aFIXH65toUQ5cfvjx/s1600/roundbarn+inside+roof:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1nSGg2XsLIwYtdVWB-bQXo-It_oGM1Ezx4enGwC1o7NlQJu8aAIELNxGpjhxJjBn6Alwjvs92siYSHSAwOQVMHOBa6AFp6wjW5l8Pm29ay0HL2woOhUaOXIEky_aFIXH65toUQ5cfvjx/s320/roundbarn+inside+roof:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Next stop was a round red barn, right on Route 66. Built in 1898, the barn houses a museum/gift shop on the ground floor and a ballroom on the second floor. There are two theories about why the barn is round: 1) It was less likely to be hit by a tornado because the wind would go around it and 2) That horses could walk in circles inside to generate electricity. Whatever the reason, it resulted in a fascinating construction achievement, especially inside the round dome where the roof supports create an amazing latticework pattern.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtl1H34nayqJp9JMuyuJXZEiIV3f3KCRY88EQHHaptM72zjNSD76ZzDzqX98vPag2ZnemUIZxbZy4HItpcdk2TZo1fmRMoJ0B2H8VyBuIRRIN2wvWFAnNOAIaAfkrbNyuOPV8p86aSGMpG/s1600/pops+bottles:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtl1H34nayqJp9JMuyuJXZEiIV3f3KCRY88EQHHaptM72zjNSD76ZzDzqX98vPag2ZnemUIZxbZy4HItpcdk2TZo1fmRMoJ0B2H8VyBuIRRIN2wvWFAnNOAIaAfkrbNyuOPV8p86aSGMpG/s320/pops+bottles:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>People who love soda pop will find nirvana at Pops, a food, fuel and fizz establishment that opened on Route 66 in 2007. It's hard to miss Pops with its giant soda bottle and straw of neon tubing. We saw it in the daytime but are told it's bright red at night. Pops boasts more than 500 varieties of soda, from the nostalgic Nehi Grape and Nesbitt's Orange to the latest in 21st-century flavors such as Juicy Pear and Nectarine Splash. The glass walls are lined with approximately 80 kinds of soda in a rainbow of colors that gleam in the sunlight.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CF0UVXSPCJx_cnKXeib4cMsotxnwPAOP497llZM4bTAc5W5ETuQJ2j78E5LpsbFMDgf4CdRK47WrfZ1hRugeQZ3MTvUrnTFN01e0xpJynt_GeA27iiXD3DeAcIdaYE0LHCsUWbKcxqV1/s1600/roberts+grill+exterior:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CF0UVXSPCJx_cnKXeib4cMsotxnwPAOP497llZM4bTAc5W5ETuQJ2j78E5LpsbFMDgf4CdRK47WrfZ1hRugeQZ3MTvUrnTFN01e0xpJynt_GeA27iiXD3DeAcIdaYE0LHCsUWbKcxqV1/s320/roberts+grill+exterior:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAgx1_6kE5X17JwjIuxmOfeFqCe-zcI_1CFT5VVuwSxRUFfhQaSa1nb6bvyzKm2iuw5Uu-kSzXO5ceeOCJL1xpdSpdno0VpBTEqLyLwI0BGbXFgCbVP3j5lOGB-pkqxCk1NItOPs0-2Zi/s1600/roberts+inside:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAgx1_6kE5X17JwjIuxmOfeFqCe-zcI_1CFT5VVuwSxRUFfhQaSa1nb6bvyzKm2iuw5Uu-kSzXO5ceeOCJL1xpdSpdno0VpBTEqLyLwI0BGbXFgCbVP3j5lOGB-pkqxCk1NItOPs0-2Zi/s200/roberts+inside:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Searching for remnants of Old 66, we happened upon the 1927 vintage Robert's Diner in El Reno, a 12-stool lunch counter that circles the tiny kitchen. Think Saturday Night Live's ongoing skit with John Belushi and Dan Akroyd portraying fry cooks and shouting, "Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger . . . Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi." Somehow we felt we'd hit another time warp -- the deluxe cheeseburger was $2.85!<br />
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We made a quick stop at nearby historic Fort Reno, a military installation that housed German POWs following World War II. And then we were off to see more of Oklahoma -- flat land with the occasional gentle hill, rich orangey-red soil, and lots of happy, "contented" dairy cows.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu_1xNxGQzTknx2ibJ7v8RCI8OwgE4TQ0X_hRv2g9nh03Qrw7af6s0Wuew9Dk3dSZmrZgoCqq29eMxiZmxmC3d_ys13A_w3xTryjonTeiSyFEAjNCohjhNSZHWUKHGmqjj18-kGtzjIiy/s1600/ka-thunk:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu_1xNxGQzTknx2ibJ7v8RCI8OwgE4TQ0X_hRv2g9nh03Qrw7af6s0Wuew9Dk3dSZmrZgoCqq29eMxiZmxmC3d_ys13A_w3xTryjonTeiSyFEAjNCohjhNSZHWUKHGmqjj18-kGtzjIiy/s320/ka-thunk:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk. That's how this 1930s portion of Route 66 sounded as we drove over concrete segments that had been laid side by side to form the roadway. The sound was hypnotic, reminiscent of a metronome, as we cruised mile after mile at the same speed. The wheat-colored road was straight as it undulated over small hills and through valleys. And all the while, ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk. Pure music to our ears.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_WNr3Wu-DlrRTw62GW-eH7JcfEhNC-fPljbYNU9sp7cEbrc_PLI6c6n1tel_DQAdwFRbgt70NbtT497o3-XrJucitolWVZPy2mNuBHPgn4fxkq1XZBLyebHEgPDEzR4Cj8KPGYcUYtre/s1600/Marion+and+Dolores:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_WNr3Wu-DlrRTw62GW-eH7JcfEhNC-fPljbYNU9sp7cEbrc_PLI6c6n1tel_DQAdwFRbgt70NbtT497o3-XrJucitolWVZPy2mNuBHPgn4fxkq1XZBLyebHEgPDEzR4Cj8KPGYcUYtre/s320/Marion+and+Dolores:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This afternoon we had the pleasure of meeting Marion and Dolores Davidson, the movers and shakers of the Lawton, Okla., T-Bird Club. We gathered at Lucille's, a restored '50s diner in nearby Clinton. After a delicious afternoon snack of floats and shakes, we followed them to the fantastic Oklahoma Route 66 Museum. The Davidsons, who worked tirelessly to see the museum become a reality (he's in the Route 66 Hall of Fame) treated the group to free admission (we send our many thanks!), and we began the tour.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxjbBq1IacmER_Td0nwPZsMp3QALyqm2yfB0HaqsMr1qwu3hCBOpjWpN_9BkWH7aJsy3lpoq0pXNQO6YxCV_vYOi3r7Az66D3pFaEyLxnnwKYSXrNea7IzIO48srnaiqV1ixJrB5iieWx/s1600/OKmuseum+map:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxjbBq1IacmER_Td0nwPZsMp3QALyqm2yfB0HaqsMr1qwu3hCBOpjWpN_9BkWH7aJsy3lpoq0pXNQO6YxCV_vYOi3r7Az66D3pFaEyLxnnwKYSXrNea7IzIO48srnaiqV1ixJrB5iieWx/s320/OKmuseum+map:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Taking visitors down the Mother Road by decade was an ingenious concept. As we passed from one tableau to another, we pushed a button and music of the era played, setting the scene for the exhibits of the people, places and cars of the Route 66 history. We're learning that this highway, which we've come to love, reflects much of the history of our country's second westward movement. In its own way, it has been a part of thousands and thousands of lives. And now it's a part of ours.<br />
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More to come as soon as we can.<br />
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Judy and GordonGordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-83827751760258596582010-10-06T00:02:00.000-07:002010-10-06T06:45:25.097-07:00The Show Must Go On . . . and so must the T-Birds<b>Wednesday, Sept. 29 -- Miami, Okla.</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInU-qPayAL7D6RB5dqXPc8MVnSH9GQ9z9V2AbL-NTJOQFCPDfKixvXeBOzURCjqzv-4ZzqDp2IiZBaYQknGuH0HDbjIYt_MPGb6mWiaWCK-b0aTUrvPY4-rJ3OawWAM8eX5On2hOHm5jp/s1600/Whites+car+at+Coleman+theater:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInU-qPayAL7D6RB5dqXPc8MVnSH9GQ9z9V2AbL-NTJOQFCPDfKixvXeBOzURCjqzv-4ZzqDp2IiZBaYQknGuH0HDbjIYt_MPGb6mWiaWCK-b0aTUrvPY4-rJ3OawWAM8eX5On2hOHm5jp/s320/Whites+car+at+Coleman+theater:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And now we tell you a tale of blood, sweat and tears. Not the band of the same name, but an exceptional example of what a community can do when its residents want to preserve an important part of their heritage. By 10 a.m. today we were on tour at the Coleman Theater on Route 66 in Miami, which was built in 330 days and began life in 1929 as a venue for vaudeville and silent movies. The opulent theater was built by wealthy lead-and-zinc baron George Coleman in 330 days, a rush job to meet the deadline on a signed contract for the famed Orpheum vaudeville circuit to appear. Equipped with a "mighty" Wurlitzer organ, imported silk drapes, velvet seats, specially woven carpets and gold leaf everywhere, the Louis XV interior dazzled the 1,600 people who attended opening night at $1 per person. (From then on, the admission fee was 10 cents!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V5qUECIMUhxFTCB4bZNT3R6M-vgt2GPpdDANFuV-572Pwom3uvTBZIIJGBySLoZ16BlxOxoILxKkPkmKnUfm4ZRoDCRqP21_ASfL998MvTzi61jYBDHK6J7T8Levia4ZR-q-rt8m2iff/s1600/group+at+Coleman+theater:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V5qUECIMUhxFTCB4bZNT3R6M-vgt2GPpdDANFuV-572Pwom3uvTBZIIJGBySLoZ16BlxOxoILxKkPkmKnUfm4ZRoDCRqP21_ASfL998MvTzi61jYBDHK6J7T8Levia4ZR-q-rt8m2iff/s320/group+at+Coleman+theater:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Fast forward to the 1980s when the theater had a leaky roof, the furnishings were tattered, and folks who attended movies there sat under the balcony to keep dry when it rained. In 1989 the theater was donated to the city, and a group of fervent volunteers began a 21-year journey to bring the Coleman back to its former glory.<br />
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Our docent, Glenn Reding, described the rebirth of the Coleman as a series of miracles: the original organ was found after a 12-year search; the chandelier, missing for 40 years, was found disassembled in a box, and the missing parts were remanufactured from original specifications; and other lost or damaged components were miraculously repaired, relocated or refurbished. "It's almost kind of spooky," Reding said.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURGjirCj6YZ3OAGupIw2msh8nykqAMQ_J69XLQun4em-uQHbJxphdglO1YxVhxfJt4TSxeomfobu6LOK-9sZVvQZN0OqqzR09vbue7Q5pSTcLXeDK0kNBOa3qXKtuOzN9Rn3EZlfYByIc/s1600/Coleman+Chandelier:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURGjirCj6YZ3OAGupIw2msh8nykqAMQ_J69XLQun4em-uQHbJxphdglO1YxVhxfJt4TSxeomfobu6LOK-9sZVvQZN0OqqzR09vbue7Q5pSTcLXeDK0kNBOa3qXKtuOzN9Rn3EZlfYByIc/s200/Coleman+Chandelier:small.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>All the labor was provided by volunteers, and the $8 million in materials to restore the building was raised locally and through grants. From polishing and cleaning the the 12-foot-tall chandelier's crystals to applying the new gold leaf on doorways and sculptures, the locals who believed in preserving this piece of history did it all.<br />
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<b>Back on the roadway,</b> this was our chance to drive what's called the "sidewalk" or "ribbon" portion of Route 66. When it was paved in 1922, the budget was big enough to do it two ways: pave a certain portion 18 feet wide or pave twice as much at 9 feet wide. Oh, what to do? They opted for the longer, narrower roadbed that meant cars and trucks had to pull over to the shoulder to pass an oncoming vehicle.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_t_3bYg78vzGTcLk0Nuhg4HvrrN7_xNzlUCoRv40HpnD4kCDLLYdj-aIqnw3tVIX_5NqGl6fxRlAH5kKIs3kou-vwZs5UZe2GehU-PDhi6Xn7WiWmzLKc8bbt8AksBJWMAm6td08xLjD/s1600/ribbon+rd+2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_t_3bYg78vzGTcLk0Nuhg4HvrrN7_xNzlUCoRv40HpnD4kCDLLYdj-aIqnw3tVIX_5NqGl6fxRlAH5kKIs3kou-vwZs5UZe2GehU-PDhi6Xn7WiWmzLKc8bbt8AksBJWMAm6td08xLjD/s320/ribbon+rd+2:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Today it's set apart from the two-lane Route 66 and only traveled by those seeking to experience one of the more weird parts of the road. It's a combination of gravel, worn original concrete paving and the occasional asphalt patch. The road is rough but passable -- slowly -- and challenges the suspension of a 53-year-old car and its occupants. It's one of the few remaining examples of the original curbing that characterized Route 66 in the early days. There are two sidewalk sections in this area; we did the first one and figured we'd sampled enough and didn't need to drive the second section. Others in our group agreed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mxuIqKdxLnocIa11LRsHpk6Paxp-voopQI801Bswv6niOJu-C42MGyC7up4hDBZ7XiaRq3RNfQpLQGZrnzbXVko14DSeJ4u8rN1gY2QQ78Eqm7T39ht4sfcvEiZ33osaWqzHXvMpd5We/s1600/packard:studeb:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mxuIqKdxLnocIa11LRsHpk6Paxp-voopQI801Bswv6niOJu-C42MGyC7up4hDBZ7XiaRq3RNfQpLQGZrnzbXVko14DSeJ4u8rN1gY2QQ78Eqm7T39ht4sfcvEiZ33osaWqzHXvMpd5We/s200/packard:studeb:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_23Tbq-t0oBBUq77jiO5aT7OdaiNMghPqmcVP1ZQ_DNjb9kdE40ulYuvJ_dU1LtuW1sEqd3FTudqTwjd8UzZk-Ye_0gVkSm1Z3i3MiqshH9ZZOXw2O3qry_auT-diAiJyag0Tv51wD-yQ/s1600/DX+station-Afton.:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_23Tbq-t0oBBUq77jiO5aT7OdaiNMghPqmcVP1ZQ_DNjb9kdE40ulYuvJ_dU1LtuW1sEqd3FTudqTwjd8UzZk-Ye_0gVkSm1Z3i3MiqshH9ZZOXw2O3qry_auT-diAiJyag0Tv51wD-yQ/s320/DX+station-Afton.:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In Afton we took a quick look at a restored gas station filled with memorabilia including several vintage Packards and a Studebaker (the one where you weren't sure which way it was going). Across the street was a brick hotel that had recently caved in and a grocery store where the roof collapsed in March. The store was still in business, and the owner cancelled his insurance and walked away from it; there still are groceries on the shelves.<br />
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Lunch was at Clanton's, an eatery in Vinita that has been in the same family since 1937. Their specialty is "calf fries." When we asked what that was, the waitress replied, "Them's calf's balls, honey." Specialty or not, we opted for regular fries.<br />
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Some of the group went to the Will Rogers Museum, and we headed for Catoosa, home of the huge blue whale. We had glorious sun -- about 80 degrees -- and with the top down, the wind in our hair, and sounds of "Earth Angel" on the radio as we bopped along. We passed farm houses with bright green lawns and all the trimmings of autumn -- yellow and rust chrysanthemums, pumpkin arrangements, straw bales, antiques.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Yx4LPNAt1VfvIZTuhpnN-n7FpQjfSxVythbSDGYWQILNT5OiAeL01-WicE8x9X4H60F1Vh_xHNNwGblepxrkVDPxKIDxLr-u3_S3uOL3yetSM-Ep0Ufqeno8091r1VSnck14gbX4kb88/s1600/blue+whale:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Yx4LPNAt1VfvIZTuhpnN-n7FpQjfSxVythbSDGYWQILNT5OiAeL01-WicE8x9X4H60F1Vh_xHNNwGblepxrkVDPxKIDxLr-u3_S3uOL3yetSM-Ep0Ufqeno8091r1VSnck14gbX4kb88/s320/blue+whale:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And then there it was -- the Catoosa blue whale, a larger-than-life rendition of a happy whale sporting a bright blue coat of paint. Hand built between 1970 and 1973 by Hugh Davis, his son Blaine and grandson, the whale is large enough to walk through and could probably be called the forerunner of a water slide. The idea was that families would stop here, picnic at tables under shade trees, wander through the whale and then opt to slide down a short chute into the pond or jump from its back tail. One likes to think that the water was clearer and cleaner in the '70s because today it would be akin to jumping into an algae-clogged piece of standing water. Closed in 1988, the whale attraction is operated by Blaine who came out to welcome us.<br />
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We were about to leave the whale when a tour bus filled with 40-plus Brits pulled up to view it. However, our Bird attracted a lot more attention and soon there were about 12 to 15 people swarming around it, wanting to sit in it for photos, and asking all sorts of questions of Gordon. Eight or nine ladies took turns sitting behind the wheel being photographed by grinning hubbies and others.<br />
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The rest of our travels took us along 66 through a series of small towns, many of them nothing more than a collection of tattered, sad looking buildings -- abandoned gas stations, weed-infested tourist courts, boarded up storefronts. But it was possible to see how these towns once had been vibrant locales that catered to the tourist of 60 or 70 years ago.<br />
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Our digs for the night were at the EconoLodge in Chandler, Okla., and two couples found they were sharing their rooms with BEDBUGS!! Les and Jo's room had a lot of evidence of BBs, and they were moved to another room. We thought we saw a couple of BB leavings, but opted to spray the living daylights out of the mattress and rest of the room with Sleep Tight, an anti-BB product we'd brought with us. We awoke alone, just the two of us, with no evidence of midnight marauders.<br />
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As a side note, we were all pretty well prepared to deal with bedbugs, and we'd learned how to look for them and what action to take. We'd even consulted a website that lists hotels/motels that have had BB reports filed with them. The place that was booked for this night was not on the list, and it shows that unless you've had the chance to inspect lodgings firsthand, you can't be sure what you're getting just because it's a known chain of motels. Overall this one was pretty bad, and the other guests were beer-swilling cigarette smokers. Our only other choice for the night would have been to drive some 30 miles more.<br />
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We don't know who did it, but while we were sleeping, someone tried to pry off the chrome "Thunderbird" plate from our left rear fender. They managed to break the metal and walked away with the "Thun" while we are now left driving a "derbird." Disappointing, irritating, but easy to replace.<br />
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More tomorrow.<br />
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Judy and GordonGordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-1318508379125153052010-10-02T21:23:00.000-07:002010-10-02T21:23:40.070-07:00Meeting Characters in the Ozarks<div class="MsoNormal"><b>Tuesday. Sept. 28 – Springfield, Mo.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It didn’t take us long to leave Springfield behind (no, KDs, I didn’t see 700 Landers Bldg.). After passing a sorry collection of auto repair shops and boarded-up buildings, we found ourselves in pastureland dotted with stands of trees. The air was cool, sun warm, and the sky was a beautiful clear blue.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We rolled along on two-lane Route 66 past gray barns, red barns and made an interesting observation: At least 99 percent of the farm houses we saw were painted white. Some had green or black shutters, but only the occasional house was painted some other color.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just before reaching Halltown, population 189, we passed an abandoned masonry building that had long lost its roof and now was covered with vines outside; shrubs and small trees lived inside. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIOifoLRWgYUcKEQGr-6IyP2tkLTZR1byJpjmSq_ihhgUMqPW2X0UkR12r3Wd2MjCzPaWb2cchBARk65OUhAZ-m_EvIKP0Wjglz1oZ79XjFox8d1qRFi8peVctsTuwXSh22VBYIvLgD0y/s1600/Whitehalls:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIOifoLRWgYUcKEQGr-6IyP2tkLTZR1byJpjmSq_ihhgUMqPW2X0UkR12r3Wd2MjCzPaWb2cchBARk65OUhAZ-m_EvIKP0Wjglz1oZ79XjFox8d1qRFi8peVctsTuwXSh22VBYIvLgD0y/s320/Whitehalls:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Jerry E. White</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Our guidebook encouraged us to visit the Whitehall Mercantile, built in 1900 by George Hall. The present owner, Dr. Jerry E. White, whose great-uncle had managed the store in 1910, purchased it 29 years ago to give his wife something to do. She filled it with odd items and collectibles, and today it’s a jumble of items and the occasional antique. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dr. White greeted us wearing a plaid shirt and camouflage pants, playing “Fascination,” on his harmonica. He reckoned he had “15 harmonicas in the place and needed to be sure they all worked.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suspect life at the Whitehall Mercantile can be pretty lonely. It was obvious that Dr. White didn’t want us to leave, chatting us up to the point of hanging onto the door of the car. Among the things we learned is that he still lives in the house where he was born. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2dgSU8AcQG9U7hyphenhyphennlde5WRGWzXGURh9pGEEEcQWaVWVH3ccjCNAuUFfS1D7rbLWaOrJjrMHoUbC557ZO5Ft8i3FGgkQvV_CGkse5ZEG5G5LC9qzshPlzOXoztxdaVcgqwRRQ355ybp5J/s1600/gay+parita2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2dgSU8AcQG9U7hyphenhyphennlde5WRGWzXGURh9pGEEEcQWaVWVH3ccjCNAuUFfS1D7rbLWaOrJjrMHoUbC557ZO5Ft8i3FGgkQvV_CGkse5ZEG5G5LC9qzshPlzOXoztxdaVcgqwRRQ355ybp5J/s320/gay+parita2:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">At our next stop, the Gay Parita filling station, we met another chatty fellow, but this time it was a bit of a hard sell. He helped us take pictures, but then put the arm on us to buy a book of Route 66 photos. They were great photos, and several in the group purchased them, but we are relying on our own images. We finally bought a $7 T-shirt and were on our way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But yikes! We had a stowaway! A not-so-small grasshopper landed on my lap, then hid behind the rearview mirror. He finally hopped away, but several of his kin wound up as really big splats on the windshield.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb8JhFSZ1aFmwk6tiUenkL2OehyphenhyphenCGAmImQkY8G1G_Mfg-pfM9jgxYPdiF6XBpo8OBLhDE71XAICUMmwH3NV6hbYyyghvyBGy-Yjo-V3YOBNITig7bs4yc7jOnxmhyphenhyphenWzbktQfMPRtgCQ5K/s1600/les+in+plane:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb8JhFSZ1aFmwk6tiUenkL2OehyphenhyphenCGAmImQkY8G1G_Mfg-pfM9jgxYPdiF6XBpo8OBLhDE71XAICUMmwH3NV6hbYyyghvyBGy-Yjo-V3YOBNITig7bs4yc7jOnxmhyphenhyphenWzbktQfMPRtgCQ5K/s320/les+in+plane:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We met up with the gang at Red Oak, a time-warp settlement of old buildings that had been moved onto the property along with a huge assortment vehicles, including a rusting airplane. Les, our erstwhile USAF veteran, donned his leather cap, goggles and scarf and sat in the pilot’s seat with one hand on the outside mounted machine gun. Once more, he resembled Snoopy and his Sopwith Camel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5vmZeQHXmKxbX2DQ3FklcP1XPU3N4O6KlzOQhr5tnPq4b5sWRCgCAAvOFZ0iwRmEYkmEFt8aLqQZzlNPMF9l_rtD1QEF3C5VzwNiejvamyO7fjQ7fnrKvkLwSKcp98IYaqID8UsQXFTP/s1600/group+red+oak:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5vmZeQHXmKxbX2DQ3FklcP1XPU3N4O6KlzOQhr5tnPq4b5sWRCgCAAvOFZ0iwRmEYkmEFt8aLqQZzlNPMF9l_rtD1QEF3C5VzwNiejvamyO7fjQ7fnrKvkLwSKcp98IYaqID8UsQXFTP/s200/group+red+oak:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing for the reporter at Red Oak</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">A reporter from the nearby Carthage, Ill., newspaper learned we were there and came to take photos and interview us. Pressed for time, we posed as instructed, but didn’t do much else. Turns out a worker at Red Oak had alerted him. Slow news day in Carthage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbNwxuLCP4ak8YvKiGzk9-rsoun6J6ONyiGgsdCL4KgyzWnFS5Z6c3WF5X_Q9W5SU7e9OITZbKwv3YdcG_meAErdYckfs3jqFaIMJV-wclopGQgQ8PM_2M-lmqfYfmVwD-MrWwMorAy8o/s1600/bradbish-car:crp:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbNwxuLCP4ak8YvKiGzk9-rsoun6J6ONyiGgsdCL4KgyzWnFS5Z6c3WF5X_Q9W5SU7e9OITZbKwv3YdcG_meAErdYckfs3jqFaIMJV-wclopGQgQ8PM_2M-lmqfYfmVwD-MrWwMorAy8o/s320/bradbish-car:crp:small.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Next stop was Webb City for lunch at Bradbury Bishop Drugs with its old-fashioned soda fountain and restaurant. We called ahead and when we arrived, there was a table for 10 on 1950s Formica and chrome tables with matching chairs. We were surrounded by poodle skirts, posters, records and other memorabilia on the walls, but all eyes were on the back end of a ‘50s Buick that was embedded in the wall. Lunch fare included patty melts, reubens, burgers, and of course, milk shakes and root beer floats. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Manager Sheri Roosevelt told us the history of the building, which was across the street from the former Teel Drugs. The two were in hot competition in the 1930s (please pardon the pun when you see it). It seems that it was customary for both businesses (and others, we presume) to store fireworks in the buildings. (Side note: We saw many, many fireworks stands, shops and distributors in this area.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60ezKpiy6boRZ8tn670HT9c4jPWo2tu0lP9JYPT4MHtfE2ne_gHfFjXUDhDKrloXgGJ8PXO1SaOWWmwIWHtdLh5OzefQyX9KLyNAE65xRFLeYhgBt3eOpcRLHL2FOmQJAYFaegZbc7wlK/s1600/table+at+Brad-Bish:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60ezKpiy6boRZ8tn670HT9c4jPWo2tu0lP9JYPT4MHtfE2ne_gHfFjXUDhDKrloXgGJ8PXO1SaOWWmwIWHtdLh5OzefQyX9KLyNAE65xRFLeYhgBt3eOpcRLHL2FOmQJAYFaegZbc7wlK/s320/table+at+Brad-Bish:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">In an effort to discourage people from patronizing the rival business, the two drug stores would routinely shoot Roman candles across the street at each other to scare customers away from the other’s business! These “drug-store wars” went on for years, until one of Teel’s Roman candles flew amok and blew out the Bradbury Bishop front window. What’s worse, it landed in Bradbury Bishop's stash of fireworks and set the building on fire.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, they rebuilt, and now who’s got the last laugh? Teel Drugs no longer exists.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74asKVrGuk-8uT3jc_9DpcHp0yqDGUCOxKO83kerq9In1UWNNnp9pdUs6Cdu1-iYy9a1IaI6BRE78WNe485Gy3D5Lktv2bCL6pkS4mx0qlAKaLzPJNeqdl1QVlLj4WGiRzCOg-34CENcV/s1600/rt66+info+center:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74asKVrGuk-8uT3jc_9DpcHp0yqDGUCOxKO83kerq9In1UWNNnp9pdUs6Cdu1-iYy9a1IaI6BRE78WNe485Gy3D5Lktv2bCL6pkS4mx0qlAKaLzPJNeqdl1QVlLj4WGiRzCOg-34CENcV/s320/rt66+info+center:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">From here Bill and Doris join us as we popped into Kansas for 13 miles, just long enough to see the 1930s-era Phillips 66 station that has been restored and is now on the National Register of Historic Places. We were invited to "sign" a brick on the painted wall.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0CDkAYDKxwsJwJpTksiUgfFUHHEIm8HkHqKyVN9s-GRbGj13gR0riuXqakGS4s87Kp3U8_G2Pemjn35ZPQf9QDy7HwpyuCNGl77aeEuADvyTzcEl00meo2OX1egbiT0xNZuOGs0FQuOt/s1600/kukubird:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0CDkAYDKxwsJwJpTksiUgfFUHHEIm8HkHqKyVN9s-GRbGj13gR0riuXqakGS4s87Kp3U8_G2Pemjn35ZPQf9QDy7HwpyuCNGl77aeEuADvyTzcEl00meo2OX1egbiT0xNZuOGs0FQuOt/s320/kukubird:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant Ku Ku Bird sighting</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The farther west we went, the flatter the land became. We were headed for Oklahoma. Soon we were in Miami. No we didn’t make a wrong turn and arrive in Florida. This is Miami, Okla., but it’s not pronounced in the typical way. Here it is Mi-am-uh for the Indian tribe in the area. After doing a quick laundry, we headed into town to have dinner at Waylan’s Ku Ku Burger, a renowned Route 66 diner.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcbWTC_gu_PVLAXYGORnmZmzgry0v5KQB949DqjbuKD37aV4WqV0rD8B9tFf4IBkqx2H3sXIDxO67bJoDEtRApVqR3KIpIpXk4k-qnqZ1uHa-XVXlA1T8rNdYfkf4pupfeHsQG5fYA8MR/s1600/Waylan:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcbWTC_gu_PVLAXYGORnmZmzgry0v5KQB949DqjbuKD37aV4WqV0rD8B9tFf4IBkqx2H3sXIDxO67bJoDEtRApVqR3KIpIpXk4k-qnqZ1uHa-XVXlA1T8rNdYfkf4pupfeHsQG5fYA8MR/s320/Waylan:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gene Waylan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Once part of a 200-plus Ku Ku chain in the Midwest, Waylan’s, originally built in 1965, is the very last one standing. And on this night, owner Gene Waylan, who has owned it for 37 years, was flipping burgers in the back. We decided to order everything odd or unusual on the menu; so it was breaded, deep-fried dill pickle spears; deep-fried yellow squash; Frito pie; and then for a "known" entree, delicious grilled chicken burgers. And the best fresh-squeezed limeade we've ever had -- spectacular. Nevertheless, it was a weird, far-out dinner. We liked the pickles more than the squash and loved the Frito pie. Gene came out to meet us and we enjoyed hearing more about his many years in this location. Gene is not just an entrepreneur, he’s a community volunteer, local sports team sponsor, and we were told by another customer that he does all he can to help troubled youth in the area. The Waylan walls are covered with plaques and commendations from the community.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so it was time to blog and go to bed. More to come!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Judy and Gordon</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-63847189577991481622010-10-02T16:14:00.000-07:002010-10-02T16:14:30.137-07:00Savoring the Mother Road<b>Rolla, Mo., Monday, Sept. 27 --</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9cr8rHCqAU2d9haAZ6YYG9V-Zi-jedsS3Ly7fXP5qH9w218kh_VXjR4wH7fkh_6JOLor7a4h6lIVDdXGcDNzdCYOxoHfXpU9Duh5PTR-OZTfb5LPHS6FZZXQs6g4F3KZIgQsd-8ACp-pE/s1600/chicken+in+car:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9cr8rHCqAU2d9haAZ6YYG9V-Zi-jedsS3Ly7fXP5qH9w218kh_VXjR4wH7fkh_6JOLor7a4h6lIVDdXGcDNzdCYOxoHfXpU9Duh5PTR-OZTfb5LPHS6FZZXQs6g4F3KZIgQsd-8ACp-pE/s320/chicken+in+car:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yet another Route 66 giant sighting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unbelievable! That's what we said when we departed Zeno's in Rolla and the odometer said 16,666 miles on our T-Bird. How fitting as we struck out again for Route 66 and sights yet to be seen. We traveled through valleys and over hills with the top down, the warm breezes ruffling our hair and the sweet smell of new-mown grass all around us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtN0nI0ds7Kywa97lMKSh6xS5BX6AyBV2SaIRxdGbhdgreR4ZmHkkAhkcNQwNO_k2a-zq33T4C_MVGIfbf2RDEsqhVX_lP96QQYXP6y43v0lqAAklywCG_NK5ML7ccdqKa0j9hAigvDVG/s1600/RUSH+HOUR+66:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtN0nI0ds7Kywa97lMKSh6xS5BX6AyBV2SaIRxdGbhdgreR4ZmHkkAhkcNQwNO_k2a-zq33T4C_MVGIfbf2RDEsqhVX_lP96QQYXP6y43v0lqAAklywCG_NK5ML7ccdqKa0j9hAigvDVG/s320/RUSH+HOUR+66:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rush hour on Route 66</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Remember the pink highways? Here Route 66 is ocre colored, taking its hue from the local soil and rock. Just outside of Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri we encountered a four-lane divided Route 66. We discovered that in 1941-45, it was expanded to handle the additional military traffic from the fort. But today there were no jeeps or trucks, just us blue sky, fluffy clouds, the distant drone of an airplane and above us, a hawk riding the warm thermals.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pd0vvPriJD4GjfAA4Y6TY1zgeYOUdibqb2FjRxFrBdBW7WQQqlWTxUhEGU9hXvbxO2p8htQnYRZOGfmY72fBGU0dUC9StCleaqzniFdmzR6pkBZRydJWUEzOiXr5BPBmpKlIZXkDpBjo/s1600/Terry+and+books:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pd0vvPriJD4GjfAA4Y6TY1zgeYOUdibqb2FjRxFrBdBW7WQQqlWTxUhEGU9hXvbxO2p8htQnYRZOGfmY72fBGU0dUC9StCleaqzniFdmzR6pkBZRydJWUEzOiXr5BPBmpKlIZXkDpBjo/s320/Terry+and+books:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terry Beck, author and entrepreneur</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Taking a 1923 bridge over the Big Piney River, we passed the Elbow Inn (site of countless bras stapled to the ceiling -- a la the Bird House in Alaska) and arrived in front of the Devil's Elbow, Mo., post office. As we were getting out of the car, a man came out of the P.O. and asked if we were driving Route 66. Hearing the affirmative, he handed me a book, "Route 66 Pocketbook," the tiniest guidebook ever printed. Complete with photographs and detailed information on things to do, stuff to know and places to see, the book was handed to me by Terry Beck, the man who wrote it! Wearing a shirt printed with Route 66 signs and icons, Terry is a consummate 66er. He was traveling with his wife, sister and brother-in-law. After a few moments, his wife asked if we were the T-Birders mentioned in Route 66 magazine. Indeed we were. We enjoyed some good conversation and before we said goodbye, Terry handed us yet another copy of his book; this one, the "large print edition" was a bit easier to read. Large is a relative term here, of course. Meeting Terry and his family was a real treat, and we have since seen both versions of his book in gift shops. We wish him well!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbyYbRYrrcXhC4mNCVLc0iWvvFNstng1j5FJSkRVEgZEvpbLQt-0svK4ceZHYMzBmR1VHB0703b69UwRhsowHwp_YHFwJLzgn2aESPDp5_yk26L-qs9TphU8Rp2oTR_k1sj-ne6slEx5v/s1600/signs-bowlingpin:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbyYbRYrrcXhC4mNCVLc0iWvvFNstng1j5FJSkRVEgZEvpbLQt-0svK4ceZHYMzBmR1VHB0703b69UwRhsowHwp_YHFwJLzgn2aESPDp5_yk26L-qs9TphU8Rp2oTR_k1sj-ne6slEx5v/s320/signs-bowlingpin:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Today we came across an interesting collection of road signs on one small parcel of land. Here's what they promoted: Liquor, Nazarene Church, Grace Covenant Christian Center and the Adult Super Store; adjacent to that was a giant bowling pin. We thought you'd most enjoy this one.<br />
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We've been so pleased with the Route 66 signage in Illinois and Missouri. Our guidebooks have been invaluable, and coupled with the frequent "Historic Route 66" signposts, it's been pretty much stress-free.<br />
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On one stretch of road today thought we'd entered a time machine. As we looked around, we realized that there was nothing that wouldn't have been in existence in 1957. We fancied that we were driving our brand new 1957 T-Bird over green hills and valleys. Rarely sharing the road with another car, we had plenty of time to imagine Route 66 more than 57 years ago.<br />
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It was then that we found it hard to imagine the kind of traffic that Route 66 saw over the years. Being the main road west for so many years, it was the route used by trucks as well as cars, two lanes most of the way, and not a lot of opportunities to pass another vehicle. It makes us appreciate the clever, homey and sometimes kooky sights along the way. Imagine a family traveling west, children bored in the back seat (no DVDs or Gameboys), and how welcome would be the sight of a huge coke bottle, a round barn, that oversized bowling pin! Anything to add a break in the tedium of driving a two-lane road for more than 2,400 miles. It is estimated that from 1930-40, more than 60,000 individuals moved west, many of them arriving and staying in California. Being able to drive this remarkable road for pleasure instead of necessity leads us to believe that we are seeing the changing American landscape in a much different context than the travelers of 60 years ago. We are incredibly lucky!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFYCzxTBjlKgD-XxBLnQm5Tgr77lHcWRCJE2GoSFkpM-cm4mBanOiN2OO3ogY1c_XPBMwUJE4e42fQrD5SNYNsbICCjXbUYsQFJ8GAOYiFW1OyzQ_QcwNGWGtfo_o5Myyn70Hh4JpzXb2/s1600/Munger+Moss:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFYCzxTBjlKgD-XxBLnQm5Tgr77lHcWRCJE2GoSFkpM-cm4mBanOiN2OO3ogY1c_XPBMwUJE4e42fQrD5SNYNsbICCjXbUYsQFJ8GAOYiFW1OyzQ_QcwNGWGtfo_o5Myyn70Hh4JpzXb2/s320/Munger+Moss:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We popped into the Munger Moss Motel, a true icon, to look around. We would have loved to stay there, but our schedule didn't permit it. The woman in the gift shop showed us another bit of writing by Terry Beck, a prayer patterned after the Lord's Prayer:<br />
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<i>Our Mother Road</i><br />
<i>Which art in Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California</i><br />
<i>Traveled be thy ways 'til the end of time.</i><br />
<i>Thy road be driven on Earth as was in the old days</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>Give us this day our daily drive</i><br />
<i>And give us safe trip as we make our journeys</i><br />
<i>And lead us not into dead-ends</i><br />
<i>but deliver us from freeways</i><br />
<i>For thine is the old way, the quiet way and the right way</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlh9BDCyYTSHDatROqd1sP6jzf6JAkSkHEsJk42BXtsIMgpqM3dZ-r6spQkU1bO3a6g-OqWf503HRG7igLZ-WPrW6B22lLb8SuPik0jgmNsNqAPuevhXng-gzgtBWjC7pgTMh-6qRDCQp/s1600/Somebody+stole+the+M:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlh9BDCyYTSHDatROqd1sP6jzf6JAkSkHEsJk42BXtsIMgpqM3dZ-r6spQkU1bO3a6g-OqWf503HRG7igLZ-WPrW6B22lLb8SuPik0jgmNsNqAPuevhXng-gzgtBWjC7pgTMh-6qRDCQp/s200/Somebody+stole+the+M:small.jpg" width="200" /></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Who stole the "M?"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><i>Forever and ever.</i><br />
<i>Amen</i><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>At one point today we drove alongside a school bus; the kids shouted in unison, "We like your car, we like your car!" Ah, it was a good thing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNlhXh0AVME6W-twrB8Jk9Zbe3WICad01b6GZMDATwwgkiNyNvljHEGouI9Q3Wq1bz7bVC4mVxt79IG0odwGDGoLysw_TkTLQLMrYaZLALw4dfDY0F_qH1wICQk0CrQ3p_pyvdY4jLsfH/s1600/G'smessage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNlhXh0AVME6W-twrB8Jk9Zbe3WICad01b6GZMDATwwgkiNyNvljHEGouI9Q3Wq1bz7bVC4mVxt79IG0odwGDGoLysw_TkTLQLMrYaZLALw4dfDY0F_qH1wICQk0CrQ3p_pyvdY4jLsfH/s200/G'smessage.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gordon's message at Britts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We had a wonderful lunch with Les and Jo at Britts Route 66 Grille, where everyone is encouraged to sign their names and add a message to the backs of booths and the walls. And then it was off to seek out antiques and other good stuff.<br />
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Others in the group went to the nearby university to explore a half-size replica of Stonehenge and tour the U.S. Geodetic Survey office where they learned about mapmaking and printing. They arrived after the Elbow Inn was open, so got to see the brassieres in person, then went to the Sweetwater Bar and Cafe for a lunch of barbecued ribs. They did not eat much dinner tonight!</div><div><br />
</div><div>By the end of the day, we'd bounced along through farmlands, pasturelands, alongside John Deere tractors, dairy cows, cattle; we'd crossed one-lane vintage bridges, sailed through tiny villages, and all the while savoring the Mother Road. I found out today that it was John Steinbeck who coined that term in "The Grapes of Wrath." He called it "the Mother Road, the road of flight."<br />
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Today brought us to another Springfield, this one in Missouri. Our stop for the night is another Route 66 icon, the Best Western Rail Haven. More tomorrow.<br />
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Judy and Gordon</div><div><br />
</div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-79111634466584359962010-09-29T21:37:00.000-07:002010-09-29T21:37:15.757-07:00A Day for All Things Lincoln and Then Some<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVpLiZzinW8Atmkyh9CpYQ9eJpVNGErJenuN0IvE9sSCG5PQMbOrPN5qTM-6OTCvfw9rstK5I0D2w1T1xdD2CVLHlbz70a13Se3JLqvIcBMUqpe0xhqGBbAkExgM6-j2e6qbOTeAYia-s/s1600/Drewes+upsidedown.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrEMpNyEFHrbrcQ4XD2_G5FLbW4EjnrPqmJ0JFvP83OcEoKVZdzpo7ZrfXOiFOzC9eVdEmw6iitJYZRUZrOzSoBD7MZ6YGzmKwZ-SVwNtyxZiARJxG62yvZyVaDpLf8E5TcWpT_fY33FH/s1600/Drewes+upsidedown.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Saturday, Sept. 24, Springfield, Ill. </b></span><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After a long day Friday and a late evening with our Springfield T-Bird friends, it seemed logical to sleep in on Saturday. Yes, but only just a bit. Duane was up-and-at-'em by 6:30 a.m. to see about getting his right window fixed. On Friday, it froze in the down position, and with suspected rain, something had to be done. Coming to his rescue was Keith Rose of the Springfield club who shared his garage, tools and talents to at least get the window into an up position; the electric window motor is burned out and those repairs will have to come later. Duane sends his heartiest thanks to Keith.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the agenda was the chance to delve into Abraham Lincoln's life and to see where and how he lived in Springfield. First up was a tour of his home -- a modest frame house even for its day. It is the only house Lincoln ever owned. The neighborhood consists of other original homes from the era, and is closed to vehicular traffic. What an experience to be in the same rooms that this great American inhabited. Our guide from the Park Service warned us not to touch items in the recreated rooms with the exception of the stair railing to the second floor; it is the same wooden bannister Lincoln used on the stairs. It was surreal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We also enjoyed Lincoln's Presidential Library and Museum, its incredible and lifelike tableau of Lincoln's life, from his childhood log cabin to the White House. There also were papers, memorabilia and the one thing that struck me most, his black stovepipe hat with two worn spots on the brim made by his fingers when he doffed his hat to others.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDXEG3HduYlnRpgbC_k5SNXhlQSjUIMT0dXMmXYvhrPymgs53ZIFYtUNAoFx36y3x7as-UrM49jKUe5kYx1_VKPbNNjDHOt41ItWYWNTwaB5pMtb1Y7dxdH2QP8d250BQhEDpprHMkyhe/s1600/ariston:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDXEG3HduYlnRpgbC_k5SNXhlQSjUIMT0dXMmXYvhrPymgs53ZIFYtUNAoFx36y3x7as-UrM49jKUe5kYx1_VKPbNNjDHOt41ItWYWNTwaB5pMtb1Y7dxdH2QP8d250BQhEDpprHMkyhe/s320/ariston:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">While some ventured out to the State Capitol and Lincoln's tomb, we let the road lead us. In Litchfield we tried to eat lunch at the Ariston Cafe, but they don't serve lunch on Saturdays. Nevertheless, they invited us in to look around. Owner Demi Adam's father-in-law built the restaurant in 1931 and it's been in the family ever since.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cbWSDBrsbQH0u1XU4jbc8sUV6iq0uVk1xRYPv7Tt28kUp6gmaYzGhP-drYGYdAyHtKI5qFPsmWnLExNTrEK3Lo-Yyr53AAD6O7jQjgOll1UPWDC27wVMUBJ7fTPKoStZkXQeeo6ozow4/s1600/soulsby:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cbWSDBrsbQH0u1XU4jbc8sUV6iq0uVk1xRYPv7Tt28kUp6gmaYzGhP-drYGYdAyHtKI5qFPsmWnLExNTrEK3Lo-Yyr53AAD6O7jQjgOll1UPWDC27wVMUBJ7fTPKoStZkXQeeo6ozow4/s320/soulsby:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Route 66 took us into Mount Olive where a 1926 Shell station that sold gas along the road for 65 years is being restored. Soulsby Station sports antique red and yellow Shell gas pumps; the National Park Service recently approved a $10,000 matching preservation grant to complete the project.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Among Route 66's wackiest roadside attractions is one called Henry's Rabbit Ranch. Ah, you say, picturing all sorts of critters and hutches and such. But that's too simple and straightforward for the Mother Road. Instead, think of cars and one in particular. Yep, the Volkswagen Rabbit. We don't know if this is a love affair or a hate relationship with the Rabbit, but certainly it is being given its due. See how eight of them are displayed below.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTC9KDJXlch5onbpeXahe2G3QZxZVAVhvpfoIvHKDAfIIY709ybOWuvTqchNVBI5hSDpeTrQyMWwR3VuH2xgMfkPeZ37hzj8NhNJbz7muxEXNCQ4c2K3g6yRHjNk2V1rr79P-tjPClZ7PG/s1600/rabbits:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTC9KDJXlch5onbpeXahe2G3QZxZVAVhvpfoIvHKDAfIIY709ybOWuvTqchNVBI5hSDpeTrQyMWwR3VuH2xgMfkPeZ37hzj8NhNJbz7muxEXNCQ4c2K3g6yRHjNk2V1rr79P-tjPClZ7PG/s320/rabbits:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And for a Judy whose maiden name is Hare, this sign was just too good to let go unnoticed!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BLskfD5fFWlpHu-H-ydpB55B0ydSCnbr2jANRT_pOlhfCBcsktOXiKKn0TlO6rbV_1wX3Z8jbi_sQi2g1Ggm0WwBbWg0tf9psgtJnyGfaWRUJrtp49N_NOHuQJBA2Zh1kyI6rPJ0hE8Y/s1600/rabbit+ranch:sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BLskfD5fFWlpHu-H-ydpB55B0ydSCnbr2jANRT_pOlhfCBcsktOXiKKn0TlO6rbV_1wX3Z8jbi_sQi2g1Ggm0WwBbWg0tf9psgtJnyGfaWRUJrtp49N_NOHuQJBA2Zh1kyI6rPJ0hE8Y/s320/rabbit+ranch:sign:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div>And now it was time to head toward Hazelwood, Mo., and our overnight venue. As we drove west toward St. Louis we traveled through some of Route 66's most beautiful scenery -- rolling hills and lots of green away from the highways.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We were reminded by Bill and Doris that they are beginning their 66th year of marriage on Route 66. Sounds good to me!</div><div><br />
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<b>Sunday, Sept. 25, Hazelwood, Mo., a St. Louis suburb</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vzdK2oN_PAnLKjKutnR7nit5KlbAHmpna2unDYU5HUfI2Ema-T-nbbhmuC7ggLGo8wDtP7k5gH9RE_I1XjlbLJ0FpeLmQiVKAvwJshZzALTqiY4mopFWAhCWHw0ohf49j-MwYPcdshdQ/s1600/landc+boathouse:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vzdK2oN_PAnLKjKutnR7nit5KlbAHmpna2unDYU5HUfI2Ema-T-nbbhmuC7ggLGo8wDtP7k5gH9RE_I1XjlbLJ0FpeLmQiVKAvwJshZzALTqiY4mopFWAhCWHw0ohf49j-MwYPcdshdQ/s320/landc+boathouse:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>It was a day of diverse discovery as we went in several directions. One group returned to Illinois to see the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center while others of us sought out the famed explorers in a different way -- their boathouse near their departure point on the banks of the Missouri River. Here replicas of their boats are on display next to gardens filled with plants native to the area in 1802.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgsrlKEiZ-vVqOCawbGrB9VewlW67clbbRK2SHNng2orqgv2bHnPO1-sBcEQpIYOCRmr_QuYQdaqxOnEWxLbPZaS72mpP7qb1RQhdjbxdhP4PlGRl0Q0A25aiL34aUKiB5D47XYthkRg1/s1600/St+Charles:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgsrlKEiZ-vVqOCawbGrB9VewlW67clbbRK2SHNng2orqgv2bHnPO1-sBcEQpIYOCRmr_QuYQdaqxOnEWxLbPZaS72mpP7qb1RQhdjbxdhP4PlGRl0Q0A25aiL34aUKiB5D47XYthkRg1/s320/St+Charles:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>But first, I have to back up. We left Hazelwood for nearby St. Charles to reach the boathouse. As we came in the driveway, a man waved us through to the "registration table." The what? We had inadvertently stumbled upon a classic car show, and because we arrived in our own classic cars, they naturally assumed we were participants! We demurred, but Les decided to register just so he could get another dash plaque for his collection. Later he decided to have his car judged -- and since there were only two T-Birds entered, he figures that at the very worst, he'll win second place. We weren't there for the announcement of winners, so any and all trophies will be mailed to Washington.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We decided to wander into the village of St. Charles, first capital of Missouri. This charming collection of beautiful brick buildings dating from the 1850s are stylish as befitting a state seat of government. Today the buildings house restaurants, shops and businesses along the tree-lined street. </div><div><br />
</div><div>While others decided to look at the car show or wander in and out of the shops, Gordon and I began our pilgrimage to the renowned Ted Drewes Frozen Custard, home of the "concrete" milk shakes and an icon in St. Louis for decades. En route downtown, we saw huge brick homes, canopies of trees, well-trod sidewalks -- all with a classic signature look that says "Midwest" to people of the West Coast. </div><div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmV8uDzZwRzL4BKExOGCNWN-b18LsxJLtP0ow6dXF6Pka37AtgMb9EKC4gN7lOLwXPI2wbzrd-GYwg0h-tMcCxjEmk1nqkeaOdBRYNsQp7ltwnLq7NGim6E01J-QLSqTJaz0yK_Hwy2YNR/s1600/Drewes+upsidedown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmV8uDzZwRzL4BKExOGCNWN-b18LsxJLtP0ow6dXF6Pka37AtgMb9EKC4gN7lOLwXPI2wbzrd-GYwg0h-tMcCxjEmk1nqkeaOdBRYNsQp7ltwnLq7NGim6E01J-QLSqTJaz0yK_Hwy2YNR/s320/Drewes+upsidedown.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">And then, there it was, an unassuming white building that would be easy to miss except for the sign and the people lined up at multiple windows to place their orders. Faced with a huge selection of flavors, we opted for hot fudge/caramel concretes, so named because they are so thick that they are served upside down with a long-handled spoon firmly in place. A nice couple offered to take our picture with the concretes upside down, but apparently we had waited too long: mine dripped but held and Gordon's went kersplat on the driveway! You can bet we provided great laughs for those still in line. When I reported the spill, they gave us another one without charge, saying, "Oh, that happens to first-timers all the time."</span></div><div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s320/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">But soon it was time to head for our overnight at Rolla, Mo., home of the newly named Missouri University of Science and Industry, and also home of Kappa Delta's Epsilon Alpha chapter. </span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">As we cruised Route 66, we came upon a roadside attraction, Indian Harvest, complete with colorful teepees and a gift shop boasting Native American art, blankets and silver. We pulled in so Gordon could take a photo, and I was about to get out of the car to explore the gift shop, when a woman came out and asked us if we were going to patronize her store. We said we didn't know, and she said that until we paid a $2 per person fee to enter the gift shop there would be no photos allowed. We explained that we were writing an article for a major magazine, and she said, "Yeah, you and a hundred others." Then a man came out and invited us to leave, escorted us to the gate, and said, "Your photos don't pay our bills. Somebody has to pay for my driveway." When we mentioned this to the group, Jo said she'd read similar comments online. Quite a contrast to the wonderfully friendly people we've met ever since we left.</span></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGV9_CQXP5-w8gZIQjKBuEbDcuDOmYcUVhh1BwlnlcmGx5d2BoBsFmafLO5elioEEOVrF271zvpL5jjbZp0qCC-GpMcxKXd6JItYUgaij_1_68d5sQVN5ACQHwq8GVZe8arODhzEaNqG8/s1600/camo+chevy+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGV9_CQXP5-w8gZIQjKBuEbDcuDOmYcUVhh1BwlnlcmGx5d2BoBsFmafLO5elioEEOVrF271zvpL5jjbZp0qCC-GpMcxKXd6JItYUgaij_1_68d5sQVN5ACQHwq8GVZe8arODhzEaNqG8/s320/camo+chevy+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSWujwUIaTJ8GZclctAn0x6-V0y9qU33WLzzBZAW4zUTh3PPgIS1DsFAzxJ5GNh1Xrk1utfdXTGllaxQcMrSQGPuoOMFHbKLQjRYMfN-vMfPkNLoD6B5H87ZmZiLHDlxx_UFu5VPxQPEp/s1600/rocking+chair:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSWujwUIaTJ8GZclctAn0x6-V0y9qU33WLzzBZAW4zUTh3PPgIS1DsFAzxJ5GNh1Xrk1utfdXTGllaxQcMrSQGPuoOMFHbKLQjRYMfN-vMfPkNLoD6B5H87ZmZiLHDlxx_UFu5VPxQPEp/s320/rocking+chair:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><u>Our route took us along some lovely roads that led to interesting 66 icons -- the rusted 1950 Chevy painted in camouflage as a centerpiece at the Wagon Wheel Motel, the Pump Handle Snack Shop and of course, the world's largest rocking chair, 42 feet high and 20 feet wide.</u></span></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-fOmtCXLANuTiJ-pLn_-e1iYW2PkxQ2vQEmxaopVaiZdjnAxD1LUyOrU0ZsRegjbWJk2nl1R-6Bys3sBHD0HdTuhh0y-J9zodWNZaRtke4LS4qaOsXPvWQmeE-70BW1V3xUVy1GAv-pq/s320/zenos-drivers:small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Birds and the Boys: from left, Duane, Les, Gordon and Bill<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">Our digs for the night was an honest-to-goodness tourist court, Zeno's Motel and Steak House. We'd all been longing for a good steak, but it was not to be; Zeno's and most every other restaurant in Rolla had closed at 2 p.m. Nevertheless, we were harking back to a bygone time when little family-owned motels were the standard lodging along America's highways. Zeno's opened in 1957 and has remained in the family for more than 50 years. Our room was spacious and exceptionally clean, yet the chairs had lost some of their wood stain; it was replaced by the patina of age and had become silky smooth. </a></span></u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u><br />
</u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u>A disclaimer: Although I can usually operate a computer program with some success, this blog has been unbelievably difficult to format. For one thing, I can't get rid of the underlining in this text, and for another, some paragraphs insist on being centered instead of flush left, and for some odd reason, the text above is blue. What's more, the photos aren't placed the way I'd like -- but trying to move them around is impossibly time-consuming. So I ask all of you to bear with me. Maybe I'll get it right, and maybe I won't. But I am trying -- very trying. </u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u><br />
</u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u>More to come,</u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"><u>Judy and Gordon</u></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><br />
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</u></span></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><u><br />
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</u></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqu8vAH6Ty-alvNBEONUnNrrMAO4OOMurNunbE13TmJjAoPdrL2VUl604GY5v3IVvx3OfDQ2qR5CQzFOQgASkLnpkB7URYMrAGdVs5Cadwl-sWOwyAT385S2Kia4xXuu1Zgp9BGQuNhSdF/s1600/DrewesConcreteSplat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><u><br />
</u></span></a></div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-58965047515453779062010-09-27T22:14:00.000-07:002010-09-27T22:14:31.403-07:00Catch Up Again!<u><br />
</u><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Sioux Falls, S.D., Sept. 22: Generator Fails!</u></span></b></div><div><u><br />
</u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IPoqgm7sInIx7xWINPJJOoHLJ20aCvK7pDHc5jr61Wu7ZA08LZOZIurBlPOOfjV0rPmak-APrmMIZHdANfJotZlxrwsoMGjzoW8KSwXuwNLqc0ZodeMhR13C-l3ppl8ZXMFlbKD2tl4N/s1600/van's+auto+electric:blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IPoqgm7sInIx7xWINPJJOoHLJ20aCvK7pDHc5jr61Wu7ZA08LZOZIurBlPOOfjV0rPmak-APrmMIZHdANfJotZlxrwsoMGjzoW8KSwXuwNLqc0ZodeMhR13C-l3ppl8ZXMFlbKD2tl4N/s320/van's+auto+electric:blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><u>Our gloomy, gray morning matched our spirits when Bill and Doris' generator failed. Les, our master mechanic, donned his bright red coveralls, yanked out the recalcitrant part, got it to a repair shop, and soon it was back, fully rebuilt in a matter of an hour. Van's Auto Electric in Sioux Falls dropped everything on their schedule to get us back on the road. We dropped by to give our personal thanks, and then were on our way out of town.</u><br />
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<u>We were in hog heaven, so to speak, as we passed the John Morrell packing plant with its building labeled Hog Pens and adjacent structure, Livestock Xchange. Little did we know that in the coming miles, we'd see lots of little piggies going to market, their little pink behinds showing through the openings in their travel pens. And, of course, if you didn't smell them coming, you smelled them going!</u><br />
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</u></div><div><u>Departing Sioux Falls, we were back in the flat lands where the yellow plowed-under cornfields disappeared off the horizon with just an occasional copse of green trees for contrast. Again we were on a stretch of I-90 highway that ran straight ahead as far as we could see, bearing no resemblance to the I-90 of Western Washington. </u><br />
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</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u>Today was a three-state day: South Dakota, Minnesota and Iowa, where we actually encountered rolling hills and gentle valleys. Smokestacks and silos stood tall in the distance while dairy cows and on-the-hoof black angus steaks grazed in fertile fields. We were in a Grant Wood painting!</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u>We passed by Clear Lake, Iowa, which may strike a chord with those who remember that this is where “the music died” in 1959 with the death of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper. Departing in bad weather with a teenage (!) pilot, they all perished when the plane crashed in a cornfield shortly after take-off. Gordon and I paid tribute by popping a Buddy Holly tape into the cassette player and singing along to “Rave On.”</u><br />
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<u>Who knew that there was a Golden Spike on I-90? Apparently this highway was built from the East and from the West, meeting near the Minnesota state line where a Golden Spike at a rest stop commemorates the two sections meeting.</u><br />
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<b><u>Odd sighting</u></b><u>: A boat for sale, parked on its trailer on the side of the highway next to a cornfield. </u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2lfX3zrJhKNLvgAsmTAx5NEnNnyDUpEVy3iOcJa9RcubqTlJaXIdUePwfvE0z3aHf9ggEy2HmI6_5qSUXpNQJELeu_TH9QP2V8SMK04Tcgcb8Shotat6_MwXprT6NbIiKq1t-qDfVrpOR/s1600/tbirtdpacecar:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2lfX3zrJhKNLvgAsmTAx5NEnNnyDUpEVy3iOcJa9RcubqTlJaXIdUePwfvE0z3aHf9ggEy2HmI6_5qSUXpNQJELeu_TH9QP2V8SMK04Tcgcb8Shotat6_MwXprT6NbIiKq1t-qDfVrpOR/s200/tbirtdpacecar:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><u>Earl and Jane in the T-Bird Pace Car have been invaluable to our tour; they’ve made this trip more than a half-dozen times and have developed local knowledge of the area – where to find a good truck stop for gas, a park to picnic – plus the historical and geographical facts they’ve gathered during their trips. We’ve all be grateful for their help and insight into the area.</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u>Our stop in Waterloo gave us an opportunity to do laundry. Doris, Jane and I killed time shopping at the Dollar Store next door, then returned to watch our clothes dry – isn’t there a joke about something like that? Watching paint dry? Watching grass grow? We’d been warned to keep an eye on our drying clothes, so that is what we did.</u><br />
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<u>It had been a long but satisfying day, bringing us ever closer to the end of our long, steady trek east. Tomorrow we’d be in Chicago and soon the adventure would begin!</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Waterloo, Iowa, Sept. 23:</u></span></b><u> We departed under gray clouds, milky skies and humidity. There were storms all around us that we hoped to avoid. Today we would be in a hotel on Joliet Rd. (aka Route 66) in Countryside, Ill., a Chicago suburb.</u><br />
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<u>But first we had a long way to go and a short time to get there (Smokey, do you read me?). We've noticed that Midwest drivers tailgate. We mean REALLY tailgate, within 10 feet of the car in front, and sometimes there are up to six cars in a line doing this. It seems to be a way of life here; it reminds us of the autostradas in Italy, but just not as fast!</u><br />
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<u>At 12:15 p.m, we crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois, but the day was not to be without incident. As we moved east, the crosswinds became stronger. While traveling on I-280, the lid to Les' empty lightweight car topper attached to his small trailer blew open at speed. We pulled to the side, secured it and at the next truck stop, he took it off and tossed it. </u><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rsztFkVH2JlYeOZ22r1rACE3X5nyUiD4-gSpLZk-90TWQhA5GL4REPK4tg2bcABHHOdL9h5Tb8BQnzgfmB5aDVIYMAICuZI23XIDf1xi2hh-QQDO63SBJXpJ5NbLv_1VPIPg5nfX_yhe/s1600/les+and+richard:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rsztFkVH2JlYeOZ22r1rACE3X5nyUiD4-gSpLZk-90TWQhA5GL4REPK4tg2bcABHHOdL9h5Tb8BQnzgfmB5aDVIYMAICuZI23XIDf1xi2hh-QQDO63SBJXpJ5NbLv_1VPIPg5nfX_yhe/s200/les+and+richard:small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><u>As Les was purchasing straps to tie down the lid to the trailer, he was approached by a man in an SUV who offered to give him some straps. While exchanging names, we learned this helpful stranger is a chiropractor who attended Palmer College, as did Les, and graduated just four years later. The Good Samaritan is Richard Everett, who practices at Princeton Chiropractic Center in Princeton, Ill.</u><br />
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<u>"Are you really from Washington?" asked an SUV driver while we crept along in the Chicago traffic. "Yes, from Puget Sound," we replied. Turns out he used to live on Vashon Island (a mile across the water from our home in Gig Harbor) and could hardly believe we were there.</u><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jVHCQS_Ffm0ORC4mbDad0PoOSpZoJboMMvp0H5b9F97M2jqygzg4wfxlY4xPbBiH2HMyp51dcb7zbsL3k7P1PDXPzvd4yJ3_73ZosMPC2eF_7kyxX3CHLsEwytuovT_tUTR3UgoDYRf_/s1600/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jVHCQS_Ffm0ORC4mbDad0PoOSpZoJboMMvp0H5b9F97M2jqygzg4wfxlY4xPbBiH2HMyp51dcb7zbsL3k7P1PDXPzvd4yJ3_73ZosMPC2eF_7kyxX3CHLsEwytuovT_tUTR3UgoDYRf_/s1600/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Let the party begin! </span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtbizVUbAYnkzPs74b00ruK5GBYbLQ_44OHMN5dVogBK9gMt5Y6jhcQm76K_gCDvk8MInvXYdEsei8dm2GAcQfcezMdPHNgWV6zQl2KSdDq44raDKEVJpyv2R1-3qzPEvGxweFWQyL77D/s1600/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtbizVUbAYnkzPs74b00ruK5GBYbLQ_44OHMN5dVogBK9gMt5Y6jhcQm76K_gCDvk8MInvXYdEsei8dm2GAcQfcezMdPHNgWV6zQl2KSdDq44raDKEVJpyv2R1-3qzPEvGxweFWQyL77D/s320/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomr9fblUM0-oAtDVRB3GQOYzW2tOuQ8XycBUa8jZ4xr82ghV_Y47dqJiKuTABcTzOfB9joTpYstOBHt3XKAtaiF88ePzqJSLi8hNl7Vre6r_kWKGs0-LRNVAN2yRzO5QFuHahBajj7qPg/s1600/chiBirds:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomr9fblUM0-oAtDVRB3GQOYzW2tOuQ8XycBUa8jZ4xr82ghV_Y47dqJiKuTABcTzOfB9joTpYstOBHt3XKAtaiF88ePzqJSLi8hNl7Vre6r_kWKGs0-LRNVAN2yRzO5QFuHahBajj7qPg/s320/chiBirds:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jVHCQS_Ffm0ORC4mbDad0PoOSpZoJboMMvp0H5b9F97M2jqygzg4wfxlY4xPbBiH2HMyp51dcb7zbsL3k7P1PDXPzvd4yJ3_73ZosMPC2eF_7kyxX3CHLsEwytuovT_tUTR3UgoDYRf_/s1600/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Once ensconced in our Countryside Motel, we ventured out with Gypsy (our GPS) leading the way to Dell Rhea's Chicken Basket, a renowned Route 66 restaurant since 1946, still in the family and still fabulous. We were met there by members of the Chicagoland T-Bird Club for a spectacular dinner and T-Bird fellowship. Hinsdale, Ill., residents Pete and Marylu Kramer made the arrangements, and we had a great time. Besides the delicious chicken, we had a chance to mingle with fellow T-Birders, and we celebrated Bill and Doris' 65th wedding anniversary with a decorated cake, singing and gifts from us Puget Sound Early Birds. </span></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fQjSPZu_vu9_PVjMpRaegBQGrheAS6m_q80wH4sgl0EQprB8xSQq0t8FjflvpU91UijvD1wEtqkhfKh9mP3tftjJdtlglr_wpA9df6LqoT5XAuHhpV9EMLKBXCUi5gavb-Cg10y-qKzP/s1600/cake:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fQjSPZu_vu9_PVjMpRaegBQGrheAS6m_q80wH4sgl0EQprB8xSQq0t8FjflvpU91UijvD1wEtqkhfKh9mP3tftjJdtlglr_wpA9df6LqoT5XAuHhpV9EMLKBXCUi5gavb-Cg10y-qKzP/s320/cake:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jVHCQS_Ffm0ORC4mbDad0PoOSpZoJboMMvp0H5b9F97M2jqygzg4wfxlY4xPbBiH2HMyp51dcb7zbsL3k7P1PDXPzvd4yJ3_73ZosMPC2eF_7kyxX3CHLsEwytuovT_tUTR3UgoDYRf_/s1600/dell+rheas:sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Our thanks to all the Chicagoland T-Birders who came to dinner with us on a busy T-Bird weekend. We so enjoyed meeting you and were especially happy to talk with Bert Eisenhour, a founder of Classic Thunderbird Clubs International and an icon in the T-Bird world, and Liz Werth, the CTCI regional director.<br />
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Pete and Marylu kindly led us back to our hotel through some lovely residential areas, and soon we were in our little beds with dreams of Route 66 dancing in our heads. Tomorrow it all begins!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Countryside, Ill., Friday, Sept. 24:</span></b> We're he-e-e-e-r-e! At last we're driving Route 66! To avoid some of the traffic, we slipped through beautiful midwestern side streets, passed the ominous-looking Old Joliet Prison, where Al Capone took up residence for a time. All along the way we were slowed by roadwork; Earl tells us that there are two seasons in the Midwest, winter and construction.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Our Pace Car is no more. Now there's an explanation:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCOI_N8mGBIqkqaEMO74OIHQtOw1MpVqcC6-18hE_SgUttDEOIvFv67UlmWLSv7vslxnGb9WYhrNOaxxmpnJnSyFIai3R6hRGurKRb1XF6UDfjWCGMhAt12ERmu2zrGbPyxLehW_jJwS4/s1600/callard+sign:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCOI_N8mGBIqkqaEMO74OIHQtOw1MpVqcC6-18hE_SgUttDEOIvFv67UlmWLSv7vslxnGb9WYhrNOaxxmpnJnSyFIai3R6hRGurKRb1XF6UDfjWCGMhAt12ERmu2zrGbPyxLehW_jJwS4/s320/callard+sign:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWN33Ti_R7jCT9r_ApsN9x6wZPKh73eAiAveLFOo6zRLfUDdAscV-Q-cY90B3hyphenhyphend_FeKXc5_ve89xeyIXvGSWG70y0j_CNTlMZq5gXcSmboZPI9GmKtUaMLzwvYaZ8_j97faQAkzI4zyS/s1600/Gemini+Giant:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWN33Ti_R7jCT9r_ApsN9x6wZPKh73eAiAveLFOo6zRLfUDdAscV-Q-cY90B3hyphenhyphend_FeKXc5_ve89xeyIXvGSWG70y0j_CNTlMZq5gXcSmboZPI9GmKtUaMLzwvYaZ8_j97faQAkzI4zyS/s320/Gemini+Giant:small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>We reached our first giant sighting at the Launching Pad Drive-In in Wilmington, Ill. Meet the Gemini Giant, holding a rocket. As you can see, we really enjoyed getting to know him. We all opted to sample the goodies at the drive-in, from sundaes to shakes; what the heck, eat dessert first!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8fZe51cVBqwrwfocp8E9ECeXgCtkFReJsVY88EUlIOGUc_6rL_fqHjVYBB16eg_7SOlfYXath_t5Pt6lsZy8JrHDNPQcxJOEEdEKrppYrVBMOwZesfy1Uh1QpD4YpkD7TnYmEDVCDNQj/s1600/birds-chevys:copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8fZe51cVBqwrwfocp8E9ECeXgCtkFReJsVY88EUlIOGUc_6rL_fqHjVYBB16eg_7SOlfYXath_t5Pt6lsZy8JrHDNPQcxJOEEdEKrppYrVBMOwZesfy1Uh1QpD4YpkD7TnYmEDVCDNQj/s320/birds-chevys:copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As we wandered along Route 66, we came upon a caravan of vintage Chevys, headed as we were for the annual International Route 66 Mother Road Festival in Springfield, Ill. The T-Birds and Chevys met at the Odell restored gas station, a wonderful mix of old tools, gas cans, gas pumps, souvenirs and such.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1vgBHt5XnDBY9jY4DxBF4OMp6DhYp1HtMM_UdxMNmaf4OQPp70aaLiX-aNhRdaQuM_YPk1dLsbS6vxo8uPh2CBg4Kz6m8v7Er_13GKBXmdopRthdmHkHnW1iUq7zRDc6kvYRXVkRGmkP/s1600/memlane1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1vgBHt5XnDBY9jY4DxBF4OMp6DhYp1HtMM_UdxMNmaf4OQPp70aaLiX-aNhRdaQuM_YPk1dLsbS6vxo8uPh2CBg4Kz6m8v7Er_13GKBXmdopRthdmHkHnW1iUq7zRDc6kvYRXVkRGmkP/s320/memlane1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWa9s6PQYv4yD2GqGV_fCfaOsepdQDkNodj-4t0MYZZt5F1l1v9b9G3_tfItssd3ZTdq9FAZqLApIRSmGMhQgAf5noWnkUii5DdnrLNimzkNpFwLiCa1tL0_5tiXm5uOlxIrGdmtvgOWM9/s1600/memlane2:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWa9s6PQYv4yD2GqGV_fCfaOsepdQDkNodj-4t0MYZZt5F1l1v9b9G3_tfItssd3ZTdq9FAZqLApIRSmGMhQgAf5noWnkUii5DdnrLNimzkNpFwLiCa1tL0_5tiXm5uOlxIrGdmtvgOWM9/s320/memlane2:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Our next stop was Memory Lane in Lexington. One of the oldest sections of Route 66, this one-mile stretch has Burma Shave signs and old billboards to recapture the 1950s. However, it is only open several days a year to cars; otherwise you have to walk the area. And that's what we expected. But lucky us, the road was open today because of the Springfield event. So there we were, our own little birds on this remarkable road.<br />
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And on a personal note, one of my KD sorority sisters, Cheryl Sizer, who lives in Mahomet, Ill., met us at Memory Lane. It was great to see her in her own neighborhood, if only for a short time! Thanks, Cheryl, for making the trek to Lexington.<br />
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We're finding that Gypsy, our GPS, is doing pretty well in keeping us on Route 66. We programmed him (we have a male voice now) to avoid highways and for the most part, he agrees with our Route 66 literature and maps.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0NnEBI0lTYVIIvnVVEcJe1OnNPsDuTaNwv9ytp1_DpIMDI4Hn2XmU7tsDMO67fyD3dHy_vfeQGP5cHKkqAJAlEBEudK6GONwYOk1RQs8ZuksxNM5kQtE2IUP-xufuYZ61M06wsT7uMi4/s1600/parade+lineup:small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0NnEBI0lTYVIIvnVVEcJe1OnNPsDuTaNwv9ytp1_DpIMDI4Hn2XmU7tsDMO67fyD3dHy_vfeQGP5cHKkqAJAlEBEudK6GONwYOk1RQs8ZuksxNM5kQtE2IUP-xufuYZ61M06wsT7uMi4/s320/parade+lineup:small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Charlie Gouveia, president/newsletter editor of For the Birds T-Bird club in Springfield, met us at our hotel and led us through the streets to a huge parking lot that was the staging area for the Route 66 parade and cruise-in to the historic downtown area. En route we picked up five Springfield T-Birds and arrived together. More than 1,000 cars lined up for the parade, and few of them were in groups such as ours.<br />
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It was a cacophony of testosterone and excessive horsepower as engine after engine revved up to begin the parade. A few cars ahead of us were several muscle-car drivers who were intent on laying down rubber on the road. They'd let the cars in front of them go ahead, then egged on by the crowd, they peeled out, burning rubber short and fast. Spectators cheered, and we inhaled the burned-rubber smoke from their antics. Still, it was a fun parade as people lined streets for six to eight miles, sitting in lawn chairs, on their truck tailgates, sidewalk benches or on curbs. We were popular, in some measure because there were nine of us, but the early classic T-Bird is an American icon; it simply attracts attention wherever we go.<br />
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Once we'd reached downtown, we parked among the displayed autos and walked to Augie's, a renowned restaurant where they set up a sidewalk table for about 22. The weather was perfect, and we were surrounded by collector cars of every imaginable kind. Just as we were finishing, Earl and Jane's son, Drew, who lives in Indianapolis, arrived to spend the night and next day with his parents. It was fun to meet someone we'd heard so much about.<br />
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After our leisurely dinner and goodbyes to our new friends, we returned to our cars, checked in at the beautiful President Abraham Lincoln Hotel in Springfield's historic district, and wended our sleepy and weary way to our absolutely lovely rooms on the hotel's club floor.<br />
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It was a glorious, wonderful, friendship-filled day and evening. Our thanks to Charlie Gouviea and all our fellow T-Birders in Springfield and environs for making our first day on Route 66 so memorable.<br />
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More to come tomorrow!<br />
Judy and Gordon<br />
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</div></div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-73435510257371871112010-09-25T18:52:00.000-07:002010-09-26T05:17:54.368-07:00It's time to catch up!<b>It is said that time flies when you're having fun. </b><div><br /></div><div><b></b>And so it is on Route 66. Some of our days have been long, and I've had magazine proofing to do, so the blog has had to be set aside. But tonight we're in a St. Louis suburb, and I've got some time. Here's a day-by-day recap of our exceptional experiences, and I hope to be all caught up tomorrow.</div><div><br /><div><b>Monday, Sept. 20, Buffalo, Wyo., to Keystone, S.D. </b>-- This is the land of pink highways! Really! The I-90 roadbed is actually pink because native pink-colored stone, which you can see along the road, was used to surface the highway.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>And Wyoming has amazing geography, with flat plains punctuated by pyramid-shaped mounds that resemble those you'd see in Egypt; others look like the top of the pyramid was sliced off with a knife to create a butte. </div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>As much as we felt compelled to start building mountains of mud a la Richard Dreyfuss in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," we eschewed a side trip to Devil's Tower because it would add another 50 miles to our already-long day. Passing Gillette, which suffers aesthetically, we saw an ingenious way of generating power -- a landscape-scouring coal mine on the left and the power plant on the right. In between was a conveyor that ran from the mine under the highway and directly to the plant.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>Our morning rest stop at Moorcraft brought us to an oasis of trees in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Not surprisingly, we learned that it was a former stagecoach stop where, of course, horses and people were well-watered. And as we move along the highway, we see long rust-red buttes, ridges of reddish stone and, sadly, road kill -- deer, sheep, raccoon. After driving through the flat, yellow plains, we came over a ridge and voila! Trees! We had just entered into the Black Hills of South Dakota. </div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font><b>Deadwood, S.D. </b>-- what grand architecture of brick buildings built in the 1870s -- to us it was reminiscent of the beautiful facades of Port Townsend, Wash. But taking a closer look, Deadwood is pretty much dead unless you're into slots and smoke-filled gaming rooms. There are empty storefronts, plastic-clad windows, cheezy souvenir shops, and in spite of the sunshine and blue skies, the town is a sorry tourist trap. There are two wooden signs that indicate important events for Wild Bill Hickock -- one shows us where he was shot (in front of a now-abandoned casino/it was a saloon in his day) and the other is where the shooter was captured; we had trouble reading this last sign because T-shirts from the shop that occupies the space flapped in the breeze and obscured the lettering.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>What's so amazing about this route is that we're seeing flat, flat, flat -- and yet our elevation is more than a mile! We're traveling straight as a ruler -- no mountain passes -- and we're at 5,450 feet above sea level.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>We arrived in Keystone in the afternoon, and after getting situated, departed for nearby Hart Ranch to meet Duane and Nancy's friends, Ron and Marla Sande (Duane and Ron went to high school together), who hosted us with wine and beer and some lovely and filling appetizers. Their friends Bart and Diane were visiting from Minnesota, and we had a great time meeting and talking with everyone. And then there was Tess, their wonderful dog who would have nothing but to find someone to throw a frisbee toy for the catching. Our heartiest thanks to the Sandes for having us to their lovely home.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>We beat feet back to Keystone, grabbed jackets and headed for the night program at Mount Rushmore. We weren't quite sure what to expect, but knew we would see lights of some kind shine on the faces of Washington, Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt and Lincoln. But how lucky were we -- with a full moon, the sculptures were already illuminated while we watched a very moving video about what these four great Americans contributed to our government. At the end, the Park Service narrator asked all men and women in the military to come down to the stage to participate in the lowering and folding of the American flag. There must have been more than 100 retired and active-duty soldiers there, including three of our party. We sang the national anthem, clapped continuously for the military representatives, and sniffed our way through the ceremony. It was such an extraordinary experience, and it made me so proud to be an American. One wonders what it would be like to be able to call on those four great minds today to help solve some of our country's problems.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Tuesday, Sept. 21, Keystone, S.D., to Sioux Falls, S.D. --</b> But we weren't done with Mount Rushmore yet. This morning we dashed back up the mountain to see the faces in sunlight. It was remarkable as the clouds played a light show on them; we went to one particular viewpoint where only Washington's face is visible in profile. Luckily our fellow 66er Les, who portrays George Washington several weeks a year in Colonial Williamsburg, was there, and after he stopped laughing, he obliged us with the chance to shoot his profile -- stone George above and live Les below. Remarkable!!</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>Today was a day to cover distance with nearly 370 miles to Sioux Falls. That's not a huge number of miles, but remember, we're traveling at 60 mph while the speed limit is 75 mph. We just don't want to push these babies too hard. After all, they were built when going 50 mph was a pretty fast pace.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> We've left the Black Hills, and w</font>e're still on a high-plains plateau, but today we're only at about 3,000 feet above sea level. During the drive Les had a tire problem; he thinks he lost one of the wheel weights used to balance the right front tire. He went on ahead to the next town and had the tires rebalanced, meeting us later in the afternoon at a rest stop.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>The song "You've got your dead skunk in the middle of the road . . . and it's stinking to high heaven" has been on our minds as we've sniffed our way across I-90. But today we actually saw the source of the stink -- We had our dead skunk on the <i>side </i>of the road, and . . . well, you know the rest!</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>In the interests of making good time, we decided to put off lunch until well after noon. But we didn't know that on the way to the next rest stop, we'd move into Central Time, losing an hour. When Nancy found out, she radioed us all that now, knowing it was really after 1 o'clock, we was REALLY hungry.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>Driving the straight-as-a-board I-90 has been an interesting lesson in aerodynamics. We're all keeping close tabs on our gas consumption (although prices went down as we moved east), so compute the miles-per-gallon figures often. We've really paid attention to winds especially and how it affects our mileage. We've had head winds (15 mpg), crosswinds (17 mpg) and tail winds (20 mpg); we've also found that, of course, our mileage is much better on the flat, no matter what the wind is doing.</div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>Other sights: Water towers that look like golf balls balanced on a giant golf tee, herds of Black Angus cattle, withering corn stalks mile after mile. And then, we came over a rise and suddenly we saw green -- lots of green -- and felt a new humidity to the air! </div><div><br /></div><div><font class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </font>We passed the South Dakota Tractor Museum, but oh Deere, we had to miss it.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-30293172102020054762010-09-19T19:42:00.000-07:002010-09-19T21:39:30.867-07:00And Then There Were FourThey say nothing ever goes down easy, and it couldn't be more true with vintage Thunderbirds. On Day One, Earl and Jane got three blocks from their house and realized that their new tires were rubbing against the inside of the fenders. Scrape, scratch, screwed! But troupers that they are, Earl and Jane dashed back home and transfered everything from their T-Bird (which had seen a lot of preparation for the trip, including a new tranny, cruise control, seat covers and more) into the trunk of their trusty Volvo and were on their way to our meeting place. <div><br /></div><div>So before we even started, we were down to four T-Birds and a Brand X, but nevertheless, five couples very much looking forward to a longtime dream. We departed at 9:30 a.m. in a cool, but not rainy, overcast, Doris and Bill in the lead. Our first break was at the Twin Pines restaurant in Cle Elum, where some of us took Les' advice to sample their peanut butter shakes; it was a good recommendation. From there we took back roads and I-90 to Vantage and ate a picnic lunch in the sun on the banks of the Columbia River.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just outside of Spokane we met some fellow T-Birders -- Dan and Linda Garcia and Bob Willford -- at the Sprague rest stop, and they escorted us through Spokane into Post Falls, Idaho, where we stopped for refreshments at the Hot Rod Cafe. Quite a place -- cars on the ceiling, car parts turned into seating areas, red parking meters at each booth, signs and memorabilia galore. And reserved parking for hot rods only -- yes, we took those spaces.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our route from Post Falls took us along the shores of beautiful Lake Coeur d'Alene -- sparkling blue water and high peaks all around -- to our overnight stop in Kellogg, Idaho. And then my computer problems set in -- including losing all my passwords, so that I could not get online to do this blog and some magazine work. Otherwise it had been a long, happy day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day Two found us in the rain as we departed for Big Sky Country. I can't think of a term that more aptly describes Montana than that. No matter where you are, the sky seems huge and the vistas are endless. Even though you can't see the horizon, you feel as though you can see forever. It's magical, and we enjoyed it all. We lunched at a rest stop just outside of Missoula and found ourselves standing, not sitting, around the picnic table. We looked at one another and asked why. The resounding answer was that it felt good to not be sitting! Vintage T-Birds have bench seats that give nary a nod to a bucket seat (those hadn't been invented in the mid-1950s!). And some of us wind up prying ourselves out of these wonderful cars -- there's leg room, but we're sitting low to the ground, and those of us with long legs and arthritis find getting in and out to involve several moves known only to contortionists.</div><div><br /></div><div>On our way to the night's stay in Bozeman, we crossed the Continental Divide at 6,395 feet, followed by a 6 percent downhill grade where trucks were required to stop and get "instructions" on going downhill. With trucks limited to 25 mph downhill, there still were several runaway truck lanes just in case those brakes didn't work. </div><div><br /></div><div>So how fast are we going? We're trying to keep these old engines at about 2600 rpm, which means about 60 mph. That's all well and good in some states where the speed limit is 65, but get into Montana and we felt like we were standing still as 18-wheelers, pickups, SUVs and cars pushed the 75 mph speed limit to well over 85 mph. As usual, our T-Birds attract a certain amount of attention as we travel in the right lane. However, it wasn't so for Earl and Jane in their Volvo; they were the lead car and set their cruise control to help determine our rpm speed. Nope -- they got dirty looks and several single-digit salutes from people who were passing on the left. </div><div><br /></div><div>Problem solved: At our Bozeman hotel, Earl and Jane made signs that read "T-Bird Pace Car," and taped them into their windows, so today, Day Three, the rude salutes turned into one "Thumbs Up" after another.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we went east in Montana today we began to see touches of fall color -- golds, yellow-greens and a bit of orange. No reds yet, but with just one more day left of summer, we're getting a glimpse of what is ahead. We left Bozeman in bright sunshine with a fall nip to the air. It was glorious until we hit a mountain pass and dense fog that lasted for about an hour. From there it was hazy sun as Montana flattened out -- no more canyons, just rolling hills, some square buttes and more Big Sky.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lunch was at a rest stop in Wyoming where again we stood happily around the picnic table. As we were departing, Les, who's pulling a small trailer with spare parts should we need them, put down his soft top and said he'd catch up with us. Little did we know that within 20 minutes, he'd come flying by looking for all the world like Snoopy atop his dog house flying his WWI sopworth camel biplane. Yes, there he was in a leather aviator's cap and goggles, wind swirling all around him. It was a sight to behold!</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight we're in beautiful downtown Buffalo, Wyo., at the Econolodge. You gotta love this town: In a field on the outskirts, a billboard reads, "Not just a one-horse town." Nancy and I ventured to the nearby Family Dollar store -- looking for a bargain -- and then wandered across the street to the Crazy Lady liquor store. After picking up some beer, we decided to avail ourselves of margaritas-to-go. They're frozen margaritas in a Styrofoam cup, dispensed from what looks like a soft-serve ice-cream machine and available at the drive-through window. Yes, all you Washington staters, a drive-through cocktail lounge! The drinks are sealed in a plastic bag, so once you buy it -- sealed -- the liquor store is no longer responsible.</div><div><br /></div><div>After dinner at a nearby steakhouse, we're turning in. Tomorrow we're off to Deadwood and then Keystone to see Mount Rushmore. We've taken some great photos, but I'm having trouble placing them in the blog. Sorry, but we're hoping to solve that problem in the next couple of days. </div><div><br /></div><div>All our best to you all, </div><div>Judy and Gordon</div>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-67323008724147083472010-09-15T15:00:00.001-07:002010-09-15T18:24:32.329-07:00Packed and ready to go!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><b>It’s almost here!</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">After 18 months of planning, our departure on this epic journey of discovery is now just days away. Some of our group have had their bags packed and placed in their Birds for days. And those of you who know me also know that packing early is not my style, but by golly, this time I am! My bag will be in the car tonight -- but I'll still be throwing things together at the last minute, I'm sure. The laundry list of things to buy keeps getting longer: Do we have all the laundry stuff for washing our clothes along the way (check); how about the Delo 400 motor oil and the Dot 5 brake fluid (check, check); what about our spending cash (oops, gotta do that tomorrow); did we get the sun shield for the windshield (check) and the sunscreen for us (check); what about all the juices, colas, yogurts, fruit, etc. for the cooler (OK, need more); did we pay all the bills ahead of time (well, some) and cancel the paper and mail (yikes, haven’t done that yet) – and so it goes. On and on. We had a T-Bird club event this past weekend, and nine of the 10 Route 66 road warriors showed up for it, with some coming just for our final group meeting. (I stayed home to work on the KD magazine -- always a deadline! Sigh.) Gordon reports that the 66ers discussed road etiquette and more importantly, our need to be forgiving of one another when whomever is leading makes a mistake and sends us down a dead-end road, or we have to backtrack to find an attraction we missed. That’s all part of the fun – and challenge – of trying to find the existing bits and pieces of the long bygone America. So the serious stuff is coming up fast – giving out emergency contact numbers to neighbors and family, arranging for house sitters and pet feeders, drawing up lists of the details they’ll need to know so that they don’t over-water the plants and under- water the cats, etc. etc. It’s hard to believe this is actually going to happen – for so long, it’s been a distant dream, something in the future -- but now it is fast becoming a reality. Gordon is fielding several phone calls and e-mails a day from T-Birders around the nation, wanting to know when we’ll be in Chicago, Tulsa, Springfield, San Bernardino, Arizona. Several groups have said they want to meet us and host us to a lunch, or dinner, or cocktails or escort us for a distance, just to be a part of this adventure. We’re frantic right now, and loving every minute of it. Well, almost every minute. I’ll send you another blog when we hit the road, after it has really finally hit me that we’re actually underway!-- Judy (and Gordon too)</span>Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917404320546304522.post-29971891451544178292010-08-22T18:27:00.000-07:002010-08-23T15:16:34.583-07:00Mother Road, Here We Come!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TlxsHJwA4y7PYpGKrU7lTc-Oe_3OCB58NMocEVl06duzCGFECWdKgzw4fh5LmIXMrL6lmMQQlHTDK-UuYn-14mYX3Pd9Bv9veQx7zkHPELmVD6ybuXarf7r10kPc1n6TlHfmM0FE9dOo/s1600/R66w:nocarshowing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXYHiOqLQkqzcYSPPQ7XAdVb-KwycgRQyfLosPOKbujLQ_y_UmupIoe6g_SxKXYso3UY9AdoUUavppNYLXa1CRJIjcVo78fGNs2MXSKWDNVLqgrJxup1Ucrr9kGth9nQfIgm_WZYWi-Jg/s1600/R66w:nocarshowing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXYHiOqLQkqzcYSPPQ7XAdVb-KwycgRQyfLosPOKbujLQ_y_UmupIoe6g_SxKXYso3UY9AdoUUavppNYLXa1CRJIjcVo78fGNs2MXSKWDNVLqgrJxup1Ucrr9kGth9nQfIgm_WZYWi-Jg/s400/R66w:nocarshowing.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><b>It's been called The Mother Road and America's Main Street.</b> It's been featured in songs, magazines, movies and even its own TV show. It's Route 66, very likely the most famous road in the world.<br />
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After years of dreaming about driving it, and after 18 months of planning, unbelievably enough, our Route 66 departure will soon be upon us. It'll be an epic journey of 15 states and almost 6,000 miles. And it will be a quest to find bits and pieces of a bygone era -- echoes of the America of 50, 60 and 70 years ago. Those pieces are still there, found in little towns and villages that the freeways have bypassed as well as on dusty roads with old cafes and Mom-and-Pop weird, funky and fun roadside attractions.<br />
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It began as a major driving adventure for just the two of us in our classic 1957 Thunderbird. But all that changed at a classic T-Bird club meeting where I wore a themed jacket that featured vignettes of Route 66 -- stylized illustrations of 1950s cars (sorry, no T-Birds), drive-ins, diners and plenty of Route 66 highway signs. Another member commented on the jacket, and I mentioned that it was appropriate because Gordon -- who had the original idea -- and I were planning to drive Route 66 in the future. She (yes, SHE) squealed with delight -- "Can we go with you? Can we? Can we?"<br />
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And so it began. Our happy little T-Bird band grew to five couples, which we determined was just right if we all expected to spend each night on the road at the same lodgings. Any more and it would become cumbersome.<br />
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So, who are we? Among the 10 of us are a retired insurance executive, retired doctor, retired chiropractor (yes, we'll all be well-adjusted!), retired travel PR consultant, former business owner, homemakers, community volunteers, editor, and two women who are still working. We range in age from early 50s to mid-80s. And we all share a love for the early, classic Thunderbirds.<br />
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For planning, we've pored over books, maps, websites and magazines. We've had several informal meetings and one big one where we all agreed on our own rules of the road, and then adjourned for a great potluck lunch. We have a spreadsheet of the attractions along Route 66, and each person has had a chance to express her/his own degree of interest in each of them. If no one wants to see the largest ball of barbed wire in the world, then we'll skip it. If everyone wants to see the world's largest ketchup bottle, it'll be a must stop.<br />
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But we won't be attached at the hip every minute of every day. We plan to be off the road by about 5 p.m., and each evening during our happy hour we'll review what we've seen and look ahead to the next day's possibilities. We may go our separate ways during the day, but we'll always have an idea of where we'll all spend the next night.<br />
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To prepare, we've improved our vintage cars -- new transmission, new tires, auxiliary electric fans, disc brakes, etc. Several have added air conditioning and every car's belts and bodily fluids have been checked, drained and flushed more than once. Still, we're planning to have some tools and spare parts with us -- more hoses, belts, generator, alternator, fuel pumps, water pumps and miscellaneous items -- thanks to one couple who is towing a small trailer behind their 'Bird. <br />
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This brings up the topic of packing for a nearly monthlong trip in a two-seater with only a trunk for storage. Gordon and I are each taking one small bag (fabric, collapsible, with a few outside pockets). We usually use these for 3-4 night trips, so this will be a big challenge for me because I always want "choices" and tend to over-pack. But this time I can't, so we'll be visiting laundromats every week or so. In addition, we'll have another small bag for toiletries, shoes and miscellaneous. Add to that a small cooler and bag of dry groceries and that's it! Oh -- and the laptop so we can keep you "up to speed,"so to speak.<br />
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We're happy to say that we're going to be meeting some fellow T-Birders along the way. The night we arrive in Chicago, we're having dinner with couples from the Chicagoland T-Bird club -- we'll be dining at a well-known, historic Route 66 eatery close to our hotel. The next day, we'll serendipitously be in Springfield, Ill., for the annual Route 66 Mother Road Cruise-in Festival with up to 1,500 classic and collector cars participating. I'm not sure how we managed this coincidence (we picked our travel dates many months ago), but it'll be a great way to kick off our tour. And before we reach Santa Monica, friends from the Southern California T-Bird Club will meet us in Rialto, Calif., (near San Bernardino) and drive into Santa Monica with us. Then we'll all go to a diner on the Santa Monica pier for a celebratory lunch. We're very much looking forward to all this T-Bird camaraderie.<br />
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As we get closer to our departure date, we get more excited. This will be a once-in-a-lifetime trip of several thousand miles, and we look forward to sharing this experience with our family and friends.<br />
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And we're hoping that our fellow travelers will contribute to this blog, so if you see someone signing an entry as Nancy, Duane, Earl, Jane, Les, Jo, Bill or Doris, don't be surprised. We each will take something special from this experience -- and differing perspectives will add to the fun for us, and we hope, for you, too. -- Judy (and Gordon, too)Gordon and Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13782245458919557422noreply@blogger.com2