tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22534110846066764202024-03-13T08:10:41.850-05:00The Discreet TravelerJ. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.comBlogger329125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-48174534887775389062023-08-06T09:25:00.014-05:002023-08-06T14:57:46.735-05:00Up to the mountain<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I had been thinking about Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania since the last time I was there, in 2017. As readers of The Discreet Traveler know, on summit night I turned around at 5,200 meters above mean sea level (=17,060 feet), which is nothing to be ashamed of. Kilimanjaro is the highest freestanding mountain in the world. The problem for me was that I kept thinking it had affected me, my ability to go on and pursue other goals—even to get up for work in the morning! I had let Kili get in my head, and stay in my head, long after I’d left East Africa.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGqGBKhPOYt5zvJh04G_gnBMHjVQWoBmeeeuetjis9I5i3UVY_jKdgZ9szB87bXgMXnBRIToY2quNcR6vmkJq2-XgFhmu1Mx9m2J7Tl8infDzFUp4NKQKQEe-CsK3fns8bTVENZNCX6sZwHDOLFtk98ZUoe9iyHS6AHwUHCJmdhBKOj7fsaUYyyGNBiJ0/s880/P1000161.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGqGBKhPOYt5zvJh04G_gnBMHjVQWoBmeeeuetjis9I5i3UVY_jKdgZ9szB87bXgMXnBRIToY2quNcR6vmkJq2-XgFhmu1Mx9m2J7Tl8infDzFUp4NKQKQEe-CsK3fns8bTVENZNCX6sZwHDOLFtk98ZUoe9iyHS6AHwUHCJmdhBKOj7fsaUYyyGNBiJ0/w400-h300/P1000161.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilimanjaro from the plane</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I thought of things that I would do differently, if I ever tried to climb it again. But I didn’t really think I’d ever go back. Then Trish put the idea in my head of asking my brother, Ben, to climb it with me. She was sure that the two of us, together, could get to the top. Ben liked the idea and so we started planning to do it for my 50<sup>th</sup> birthday celebration. A belated one: the summer of 2023 would be the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Then, in the fall of 2022, our Mom’s illness took a turn for the worse, and our world stopped. She died of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis on the 10<sup>th</sup> of November. I felt helpless, and just wanted to do something, make some positive difference. I thought raising funds for the Pulmonary Fibrosis Foundation was a way to add meaning to our journey. PF is a rare and poorly understood disease, and currently, there isn’t much that medicine can offer to those who have it. Ben and I decided not just to challenge ourselves, but others, to support patients with lung disease. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;">“</span>When we hike at very high altitudes, our bodies have to work harder just to get oxygen from the air. We want to <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Jacqui-Knowles8">help people</a> who struggle with their breathing every day.”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">As T. and I have discovered countless times in our travels, people want to help!</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxWJNXzbTIuRmu4Hbi08Xdt64m9EI3zaXh0bdFAOD1LrNxdbIEyQMIKz0uChtYX-va8hl-6rPPtMcNDkAn4NzBjfrli8wyGLvO-aET_rp1N499UbVR7IlGD74dDe6tVzKHHALhUzCYnHBZjWZDYtnWoV6z2xooytxkB7PmtNysCJRC2oN4QIj1OUyCXs/s880/P1000297.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxWJNXzbTIuRmu4Hbi08Xdt64m9EI3zaXh0bdFAOD1LrNxdbIEyQMIKz0uChtYX-va8hl-6rPPtMcNDkAn4NzBjfrli8wyGLvO-aET_rp1N499UbVR7IlGD74dDe6tVzKHHALhUzCYnHBZjWZDYtnWoV6z2xooytxkB7PmtNysCJRC2oN4QIj1OUyCXs/w400-h300/P1000297.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colobus monkey in the rainforest, day 1. We camped at 2,785 m (9,137 ft).</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><br /><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Over the first months of this year, we organized flights to Tanzania via Nairobi, Kenya, and conferred with our trekking company. Specifically, I e-mailed back and forth with Henry Stedman, who wrote <i>Kilimanjaro: The Trekking Guide to Africa's Highest Mountain</i> (first edition in 2003) and has probably climbed the mountain more times than anyone else who isn’t Tanzanian. I’d gotten in touch with Henry years ago, picking his brain about my first trek, because I’d read online that he was happy to answer anyone’s questions about Kili—which is true! He’s just such an enthusiast and, although he’d recently organized a company himself with some other experienced people he’d worked with on Kili, his book and website never push you to become their customers specifically. Henry is all about providing information on all the companies and helping trekkers make an ethical and value-for-money choice. Funny thing is, based on all this we decided to book directly with the company he's part of—Kilimanjaro Experts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-cRdD13yh2U7BAfWmCXO_h4rFM9KDOMog8d_EmCzVM191axuBu1XL8buJ0ozB3tL-5a31doEJV0u-jHFvZjgYC1DjlfwvChSohNCNVUNHyTyFdCVlB79qcx6pMxkD13Ly97DkT7vfESQTExvuPu_Xtlaw-DC6_4ZYZ0cqJTu4xde--7_wWAEOa58iZ8/s880/P1000322.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-cRdD13yh2U7BAfWmCXO_h4rFM9KDOMog8d_EmCzVM191axuBu1XL8buJ0ozB3tL-5a31doEJV0u-jHFvZjgYC1DjlfwvChSohNCNVUNHyTyFdCVlB79qcx6pMxkD13Ly97DkT7vfESQTExvuPu_Xtlaw-DC6_4ZYZ0cqJTu4xde--7_wWAEOa58iZ8/w400-h300/P1000322.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note Maasai ring on my necklace, which Rachel and I brought Mom from Tanzania back in 2001.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">In contrast to six years ago, this time I was determined to make it to the summit. I was motivated by our fundraising goal, and by being part of a team—me and Ben, not just a collection of trekkers who happened to be with the same company at the same time. I didn’t want to let him down, plus I was now six years older, so I found and adapted a mountain fitness training program, and undertook it in earnest for the last three months. Last time I’d “prepared” for Kili by sauntering around Europe for a few months, but this was my challenge for the year I was 50, and I wasn’t going to fail to get to Uhuru Peak if I could help it. Altitude no one can control—it can affect each person differently each time—but I wasn’t going to arrive at base camp out of energy or feeling like I had nothing left in my legs. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmioyuxnT1rPH6uXFlKeI06EaSy9kir9OGbdQxP2IYRV2n3yXFGJIHGQ9ogFpbvnM6MliukPHWnWZYxUHxdAWPoQf_YCUbdubYaEaKJz9MNL-Met_rDgsC5vgT0S4oVlpG3wvCw9EX_e207dD1M_G70tU0Phd8rvdVDUt1kyxOyUUYvVy6l-AiggkCw8/s880/P1000342.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmioyuxnT1rPH6uXFlKeI06EaSy9kir9OGbdQxP2IYRV2n3yXFGJIHGQ9ogFpbvnM6MliukPHWnWZYxUHxdAWPoQf_YCUbdubYaEaKJz9MNL-Met_rDgsC5vgT0S4oVlpG3wvCw9EX_e207dD1M_G70tU0Phd8rvdVDUt1kyxOyUUYvVy6l-AiggkCw8/w400-h300/P1000342.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The porters are amazing and carry most loads balanced on their heads.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">When I could I hiked up and down hills, with between 500 and 1,000 m total ascent (1,640-3,280 ft). In Toronto, which is pretty flat, I found long staircases in the park and traipsed up and down them—with my daypack, trekking poles, and all! I even befriended, briefly, an older long-distance runner in one of the parks, who was interested in where I was going that I needed to do all these stairs. “The goal,” she said, “is to train hard down here, so you can climb easy [sic] up there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1dcdEPxgvo4Q51SmxYcCBm3Q6CCs_a9zC4gvoXQ_i4ht-VMT87c48LFJOL819d625D2WR7wDXSRBMSSs2mOSGYRoAjVJ-zljd4KTRyXBKja0Swtf4_FiBBESGasashUZrzeaHMNqDrLn8ZZFRPVixY-yZoVbCOue6MYxmdEdMehSY42jQ0u1MQWITHY/s880/P1000343.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1dcdEPxgvo4Q51SmxYcCBm3Q6CCs_a9zC4gvoXQ_i4ht-VMT87c48LFJOL819d625D2WR7wDXSRBMSSs2mOSGYRoAjVJ-zljd4KTRyXBKja0Swtf4_FiBBESGasashUZrzeaHMNqDrLn8ZZFRPVixY-yZoVbCOue6MYxmdEdMehSY42jQ0u1MQWITHY/w400-h300/P1000343.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shira Plateau, day 2. Now in the heath-moorland zone</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Ben kept remarking that the trip had seemed far in the future for a long time—then, all of a sudden, it was upon us! We conferred about gear; he flew to London; we got to Arusha, Tanzania, and finalized our bags. On Kili, almost all the carrying and work is done by porters, who outnumber trekkers on a team almost four to one. The crew do everything but walk for you; all you have to do is get to the top on your own two feet. I’d tried to tell Ben what a challenge it was, but I guess the only way to understand completely is to actually go there and try it.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCzcXH36Pa3AqdRF9BcWL2lDz2S0V2K0X1D4hw-_xiXXEO28uU5LrvU_APDowxO-oHralx29ncsKupoN77ZVyONEFEf2fXhVQtpfUxkdTsB1ESWAZ_uiHWXTKU86K6ufWOAMMNVHk9cHgLaD14VkiS-VF6jN70_IJfDDeynOeUbXKG4VZHf5naC893dE/s880/P1000358.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCzcXH36Pa3AqdRF9BcWL2lDz2S0V2K0X1D4hw-_xiXXEO28uU5LrvU_APDowxO-oHralx29ncsKupoN77ZVyONEFEf2fXhVQtpfUxkdTsB1ESWAZ_uiHWXTKU86K6ufWOAMMNVHk9cHgLaD14VkiS-VF6jN70_IJfDDeynOeUbXKG4VZHf5naC893dE/w400-h300/P1000358.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Shira 1 camp, day 2 (3,504 m=11,496 ft)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Our head guide was Ibrahim, ably assisted by Abdallah, Dixon, and Mariam, one of four female crew members. (That made our crew more than 10% women, in a place where crews are usually still 100% men.) Our porters were all well equipped, for example wearing decent boots or walking shoes and sufficiently warm clothing. But for me, the biggest contrast between my first attempt and this one was the pace set by the guides.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbEaW6AVYDB7iczLDktwfL7yFD0BgLIZwe2w6tn6x7cwYzNCeYmApKYEKSxz429y6XNHotrG_V9yNmwdmYHqQde72XdlVM5CLjG60TU2eOtLOCFsQrOsJ1ApVjYeZh_9VxFt2OYhKfYGz1Ulrs1Jo3nUSeTcYEHRkVhF9fIlvYTQ-s2V9HNcMJ4Bs_1s/s880/P1000349.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbEaW6AVYDB7iczLDktwfL7yFD0BgLIZwe2w6tn6x7cwYzNCeYmApKYEKSxz429y6XNHotrG_V9yNmwdmYHqQde72XdlVM5CLjG60TU2eOtLOCFsQrOsJ1ApVjYeZh_9VxFt2OYhKfYGz1Ulrs1Jo3nUSeTcYEHRkVhF9fIlvYTQ-s2V9HNcMJ4Bs_1s/w400-h300/P1000349.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben at Shira 1. In the background is Kibo, Kili's highest volcanic cone, our goal.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br />To reach very high altitude safely, one should ascend as slowly as possible. In Swahili, the expression is <i>pole pole</i>. On Kili, guides set a deliberately slow pace from the first day, so that it may take an hour to hike a mile. Ben realized soon that the mileage each day didn’t really tell us much about the length of the trek. In fact, the first couple of days the pace felt unnaturally slow—two of our six teammates, a young (30s) Russian woman now living in the U.S. and Olivier from Paris, soon set their own pace ahead of the rest of us, accompanied by Dixon. What I came to realize, though, was that even the <i>pole pole </i>pace set for our group in 2017 had not been slow enough for me. It was slower than I would hike at sea level, so I <i>thought </i>it was slow, but I was in a “strong group” with 20-somethings, and after six days of hiking with them, by summit night I found myself running out of steam.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVILHSMzRRrpW-ZKlE8dpCaGP37ujNGSNmm31IM-YmRRmBPyaAKp1XQ_NpGtzqEsKQwXXYcKmDKHOYa32KmIra2KfKl3hbBNMaYh1E2W8dZdg5Qfx-bUAcZ_Gh5J72GKB7yY6kQtIs8bEuOSOvxBXutWZEVPVERerfHy1HGf8nBrw6XeUWnTTR-KZh7Dw/s880/P1000371.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVILHSMzRRrpW-ZKlE8dpCaGP37ujNGSNmm31IM-YmRRmBPyaAKp1XQ_NpGtzqEsKQwXXYcKmDKHOYa32KmIra2KfKl3hbBNMaYh1E2W8dZdg5Qfx-bUAcZ_Gh5J72GKB7yY6kQtIs8bEuOSOvxBXutWZEVPVERerfHy1HGf8nBrw6XeUWnTTR-KZh7Dw/w640-h480/P1000371.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stars at night were awe-inspiring. Here you can see the "evening star"--the planet Venus.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">No one was that young on Ben’s and my team. I think the youngest was Anna, a German woman who lives in Sweden, and the oldest were me and a couple of British guys. Our final teammate was Dan, an American with whom Ben particularly hit it off. When I say our “final” teammate, this is literally true. We waited for him on the first morning, to see if he’d make it at all after a bout of food poisoning overnight! He did, and while just about every one of us had some day(s) on the trip when we were feeling pretty rough, Dan was a trouper from the very beginning!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYG44LUKVmWOhDz6d86t7KQf_dsLAyxCVq5fRiw1RDQKQ_AZ0x41B5W7_nI0LvxVFmoQuUESVZZHyLyLdnMyGXQ7hRsYNKytKCynhNvUDNWdgOSX4P65uy4i5ZWAEqNgvxInqzVOFzodXLkuSLP00kcpEU1hrCHImVlTqkEz8CSHE9SG5ImxBcndTcQas/s880/P1000417.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYG44LUKVmWOhDz6d86t7KQf_dsLAyxCVq5fRiw1RDQKQ_AZ0x41B5W7_nI0LvxVFmoQuUESVZZHyLyLdnMyGXQ7hRsYNKytKCynhNvUDNWdgOSX4P65uy4i5ZWAEqNgvxInqzVOFzodXLkuSLP00kcpEU1hrCHImVlTqkEz8CSHE9SG5ImxBcndTcQas/w400-h300/P1000417.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Moir Huts camp, day 3 (4,161 m=13,651 ft)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">At many points on the journey, Ben commented that if we’d been in America, someone would have been explaining what was going on and what was going to happen next. But that’s not really how they do things in East Africa. For example, that first day when we were waiting for Dan, it would have seemed a perfect time to introduce us to the crew, who we’d been told “can’t wait to meet you.” But no guide attempted this at all, and instead we stood around getting to know each other, the Swahili speakers presumably doing the same. Indeed, we didn’t have proper introductions to the people who were helping us so much until day 5, which was Ben’s birthday.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyEIvu4aD0nTO-UtdWPtI00Ibo4Kte82cty-ZrUDeq3cHHxYshUDumWEuc3g_Yq67E3cGg6JF4K4lEQpNPPlw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMu9np-jU_X7XhnDrOG_ibb2VLcS7tYF-cpXkiHq5zcDM9Y6kj5hrS-qg4YA1BJvHL8Q1LMyIQniQY7Och33wqD4iAlQFPuNZMH9cVjEMcPcY4uIb8ubHUb-N4FC3JrfoBfWfD_FaFxAhFX3eFPKs1vtzKmQSBFgsPjiOtKKK0TxY-FbETjeb5iSpeLek/s880/P1000423.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMu9np-jU_X7XhnDrOG_ibb2VLcS7tYF-cpXkiHq5zcDM9Y6kj5hrS-qg4YA1BJvHL8Q1LMyIQniQY7Och33wqD4iAlQFPuNZMH9cVjEMcPcY4uIb8ubHUb-N4FC3JrfoBfWfD_FaFxAhFX3eFPKs1vtzKmQSBFgsPjiOtKKK0TxY-FbETjeb5iSpeLek/w400-h300/P1000423.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We hiked to this ridge for acclimatization and again on day 4. 4,402 m (14,442 ft)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">As in 2017, I found the first six days—all the ascent before summit night—enjoyable, even though the hilly and rough terrain could be tough. Every day we were in a different climate zone, seeing different landscapes, flora and fauna. Unlike six years ago, though, I had some unpleasant symptoms of the altitude the first few mornings I awoke on the mountain, especially at camps 2 and 3. My head hurt so bad that I was sick to my stomach. I thought, if I continued to feel like this, I was going to have a miserable time. Fortunately, the headaches responded to ibuprofen and the nausea to ginger, a natural remedy used often on the mountain. My symptoms resolved quickly, and I was glad to have adjusted to high altitude early in the trek, rather than it hitting me all at once.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgWyC4-QLR2XaneAu49Hs_kY7B4AsH_KIO-kzGmLrf0TaTlknuPY5rPowA0dNs1lVoIEmDEk0eELyk-0m0yiz1fIVx9kEhPIocBRW-JxynImOeWvwbvJnqWriVI8TmU22LdrnCZeUzRGQ_Ia3k2wRflomE_bo6YaJuuQOTi-Y1SRXsv8i3N1Y2jPfY1w/s880/P1000429.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgWyC4-QLR2XaneAu49Hs_kY7B4AsH_KIO-kzGmLrf0TaTlknuPY5rPowA0dNs1lVoIEmDEk0eELyk-0m0yiz1fIVx9kEhPIocBRW-JxynImOeWvwbvJnqWriVI8TmU22LdrnCZeUzRGQ_Ia3k2wRflomE_bo6YaJuuQOTi-Y1SRXsv8i3N1Y2jPfY1w/w400-h300/P1000429.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset, 2nd Pofu camp, day 4. 4,033 m (13,232 ft)--some altitude lost</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Ibuprofen has been shown to help against mild to moderate altitude sickness. I’m used to taking it at home, but we were the only trekkers out of eight not taking acetazolamide, which is used off-label. Ben had a prescription but chose not to take it prophylactically. I had various reasons for not trying it in 2017, but my main one this year was that I hadn’t taken it last time and didn’t think I needed it (I doubt most guides or summit porters take it, and climbers never used to). In my head, if I made the summit this time, I didn’t want the difference to be that I took Diamox.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Because of course the biggest difference between this climb and my previous attempt on Kili was Ben! We’d only ever backpacked overnight together before, but we were a team, in a way I hadn’t been with that group of trekkers six years previously. Before we left England Ben and I agreed that if one of us had to turn around because of severe altitude sickness, the other should continue our mission to the top. But by day 2 on the mountain, we were reiterating to each other that we didn’t intend to be split up into separate groups and speeds. We meant to reach Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Kibo, together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXtJLWPtC7F5vZwQ17Ky8rGGz-cGgdMBjS5cF881OVPwTU3D73GfqWZ3XMO_bewZ_XTYTzH7_CYv9j9VrCxr94CUQBAeySFTUTOvNtuIwewOnZ5-lpvyFQvkd9lOBJ1IzdqVs-rqTMs2GPVS0_IbdIo96DhSw_-n1Dyx-bcS43uE6MK2GGn115azeKCE/s880/P1000433.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXtJLWPtC7F5vZwQ17Ky8rGGz-cGgdMBjS5cF881OVPwTU3D73GfqWZ3XMO_bewZ_XTYTzH7_CYv9j9VrCxr94CUQBAeySFTUTOvNtuIwewOnZ5-lpvyFQvkd9lOBJ1IzdqVs-rqTMs2GPVS0_IbdIo96DhSw_-n1Dyx-bcS43uE6MK2GGn115azeKCE/w400-h300/P1000433.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="-webkit-standard">I did feel that little bit closer to heaven.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Ben’s main complaint on the mountain was that every time he lay down, his nose was so stuffed up that he had to breathe through his mouth. With the cold, dry, dusty air (Kili is a dormant volcano), this could not have been pleasant. I felt fairly stuffed up, too; it’s hard to convey how much dust and dirt everything collects up there, including our insides! But neither of us seemed to be having problems with the decreasing air pressure (which is what makes us take in less oxygen with every breath). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOh1O48vaTlbHLttPjG_0RASgcthyycYAzKlskw3udjIXkDXbHVc3IHs4EeWTGLmEQuUMY-cjQjbeQd6-c7sOLZIX2Wz4kdX28ysUElQfJO0jt40HiCu6nGQHKYKMjXhSXoJIqNpWqSeOC1ImfG8RJTEyqN1QftiakStkS3I_LrePq5b4YRxVOlQAa8Dk/s880/P1000434.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOh1O48vaTlbHLttPjG_0RASgcthyycYAzKlskw3udjIXkDXbHVc3IHs4EeWTGLmEQuUMY-cjQjbeQd6-c7sOLZIX2Wz4kdX28ysUElQfJO0jt40HiCu6nGQHKYKMjXhSXoJIqNpWqSeOC1ImfG8RJTEyqN1QftiakStkS3I_LrePq5b4YRxVOlQAa8Dk/w400-h300/P1000434.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above the clouds</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Every evening in the mess tent, a guide would come with a pulse oximeter, one of those finger things that tests oxygen saturation and pulse. They aren’t super accurate in the best of circumstances—Mom, a.k.a. Groovy Gracie, had often been unable to get a reading with hers because her finger wasn’t warm enough. This happened to us too. One night Anna, despite repeated attempts, couldn’t get any reading at all. Finally Olivier put an end to her misery by observing that we could all see Anna was alive! Fortunately, the guides paid little attention to our numbers (anything over 80% was fine, and Ben’s and mine were usually over 90). Instead, they actually looked at us; there are specific signs of severe altitude sicknesses, such as edema, that they’re trained to observe. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZSpjfYTzGW31OYtE2bNjTQAT579VCbRKAAYBo_Jg-riMMKQ9kEgsCNlJ-QgunVzK4f3uQBGFji73wGGzd9l-Pm_F-MlYiAfOZWlczS3sAlBC08uQi2QiaEDreykaUIRb4TWNzGAbQVSd3yej8fd2G81DiQ_nvCfT0ayyUMOqwsUQLNIC8mult83Jjcw/s880/P1000443.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZSpjfYTzGW31OYtE2bNjTQAT579VCbRKAAYBo_Jg-riMMKQ9kEgsCNlJ-QgunVzK4f3uQBGFji73wGGzd9l-Pm_F-MlYiAfOZWlczS3sAlBC08uQi2QiaEDreykaUIRb4TWNzGAbQVSd3yej8fd2G81DiQ_nvCfT0ayyUMOqwsUQLNIC8mult83Jjcw/w400-h300/P1000443.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were taking the quiet, unofficial "Northern Circuit" of Kili, overlooking Kenya.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Among much other chitchat among the trekkers, most of which I could have done without, was a discussion about whether anyone but our family had called the evening meal <i>supper</i>. Dan had grown up in Connecticut and assured us that they called it that. It turned out the Tanzanians did too! Perhaps they’d learned English from someone from Connecticut.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPphsBclowyoUhOoeDznJ_xCAjsN3ee-t1ca_Yi3kek9iqrtvtDvX7oTMC1fYsbs4wl_YgZgespmwkMsCdOPj1nwW1-9GOCbgarVAJGsvIQYOKPSbY3hbttNrqxoymdWa__1GjUKlOO5u1hBd2DJU28kH5svhqL-x3MOehp_dvf8nByD8Sx1AXEgpZv8/s1385/P1000492.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="197" data-original-width="1385" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPphsBclowyoUhOoeDznJ_xCAjsN3ee-t1ca_Yi3kek9iqrtvtDvX7oTMC1fYsbs4wl_YgZgespmwkMsCdOPj1nwW1-9GOCbgarVAJGsvIQYOKPSbY3hbttNrqxoymdWa__1GjUKlOO5u1hBd2DJU28kH5svhqL-x3MOehp_dvf8nByD8Sx1AXEgpZv8/w640-h92/P1000492.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here Kili's second (jagged) peak, Mawenzi, becomes visible to the left of Kibo.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Anyway, at suppertime in the mess tent, Ibrahim told us repeatedly how well we were doing, and what would happen on summit night. We would all start out together. Then, if it would be better for different members of the group to continue at different paces, we could split up—what I’d found so disappointing the last time. But there would be eight crew for the eight of us: all four guides plus four porters who would go to the summit. “I will lead,” Ibrahim said, “but if some people are walking more slowly, I will be the sweep.” No matter who was last, or at what speed, the head guide would be bringing up the rear, with them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><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/AVvXsEhvTGEssTmYLCnseZ-FI4bQVCGjUisfORAAEve4SXoLXwXtYqTkgq5e6w-EqltzIx2mwlTzCq4qMU4NmA4vIw9AbWWxXSwthAwlVe7QhGSrqfe3UoOF2SD8lyIzJo2FEnkolDoE_EoXf2UyKC64pR45yBjQDIhtmp19rBUEXR7RyC40zOBcUDV354dbb2M/s880/P1000448.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTGEssTmYLCnseZ-FI4bQVCGjUisfORAAEve4SXoLXwXtYqTkgq5e6w-EqltzIx2mwlTzCq4qMU4NmA4vIw9AbWWxXSwthAwlVe7QhGSrqfe3UoOF2SD8lyIzJo2FEnkolDoE_EoXf2UyKC64pR45yBjQDIhtmp19rBUEXR7RyC40zOBcUDV354dbb2M/w400-h300/P1000448.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By day 5 we were in the alpine desert zone. </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFp6ZXQbrkCM05zsuR-Df0Iiep0Fh1-bzLV0UdmVAwMx7v7Oo1vSfDEgLUaxGE6u39eMewlfGN-pi8Va9UyZnm5_PfpUL21IxEmbdlNRmKYynAHqHr9pC1CthFVfOnjrm29berEuyY64NdrvK7UHIpkJzIssULCZqqCSw16vjdMZ8Co1j-maWw393T10/s880/P1000488.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFp6ZXQbrkCM05zsuR-Df0Iiep0Fh1-bzLV0UdmVAwMx7v7Oo1vSfDEgLUaxGE6u39eMewlfGN-pi8Va9UyZnm5_PfpUL21IxEmbdlNRmKYynAHqHr9pC1CthFVfOnjrm29berEuyY64NdrvK7UHIpkJzIssULCZqqCSw16vjdMZ8Co1j-maWw393T10/w400-h300/P1000488.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading towards the Saddle between Mawenzi and Kibo</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">This makes sense! Why had the opposite happened in 2017—me in the back with an assistant guide, who wasn’t empowered to make any decisions? Anyway that didn’t matter now. Ibrahim was in charge on this climb, and he would always be the “sweeper.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuZr3rrarXE3u4zcfUloW9eM8HcPpYXrdvsmSnBoms29usqWbTz3Ds6jKD97Jd1Ksf9uzpS5sHxqNFrohwCyt_WIbPD116Voxvp4uo1gqTXvshlJUWtWKETbk_Y_XwvlgOuEwP_cy1mFffkExWlc-BXwe-tyLqHgGTu5m2I2SAOBw8GkzBcPIpw8a2X4/s880/P1000456.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuZr3rrarXE3u4zcfUloW9eM8HcPpYXrdvsmSnBoms29usqWbTz3Ds6jKD97Jd1Ksf9uzpS5sHxqNFrohwCyt_WIbPD116Voxvp4uo1gqTXvshlJUWtWKETbk_Y_XwvlgOuEwP_cy1mFffkExWlc-BXwe-tyLqHgGTu5m2I2SAOBw8GkzBcPIpw8a2X4/s320/P1000456.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helichrysums (everlastings) grow highest on the mountain.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk9QrygY4QQehgZcfe4Hi2owSIQmSqZtlR5YrRLUFLCJtvDtM_15y3SBy_ygwtawFMs6pmHcaiartsvqmJrqgLwLKSnL-9x4jEuWYq7tLa9iN6Re-9cq3lQ3AqgCAL4whueHnr_YCTwLt-cJYf4tIkHxI1MB6THD0dZhMidFIozb341RXJvdoP5dQFgE/s880/P1000490.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk9QrygY4QQehgZcfe4Hi2owSIQmSqZtlR5YrRLUFLCJtvDtM_15y3SBy_ygwtawFMs6pmHcaiartsvqmJrqgLwLKSnL-9x4jEuWYq7tLa9iN6Re-9cq3lQ3AqgCAL4whueHnr_YCTwLt-cJYf4tIkHxI1MB6THD0dZhMidFIozb341RXJvdoP5dQFgE/s320/P1000490.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Groundsel. We did not see nearly as many of these on this route, as the north side of Kili is drier.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Day 6 was a short hike, but our steepest ascent yet. I was somewhat nervous about it, because I remembered how exhausted I’d been six years ago, when I staggered into base camp. How little I’d had left in the tank, going into summit night. But we quite enjoyed the short, slow ascent from Third Cave (3,936 m=12,913 ft) up to School Hut camp. The guides were pacing us even more slowly; I was breathing comfortably, and came into camp feeling ready and focused for the long night and day ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><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;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTNwkafMYFlHO3TIKMLPp4GF7XhKyMhrNedQzo0xrKWAKZeuwYm0q3BijV1jkSFTLS_H9My413p1URGCqyB3xuw6Z7ozGVxL4ant_-uoZlIFq_JNL813wsmolSP6pr9GiPVtaF7DS_EU-mjohScrJsvhTkydJk2FfNVUqmQ9VO3Fi0wcfJr7AZHbOP8w/s880/P1000465.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTNwkafMYFlHO3TIKMLPp4GF7XhKyMhrNedQzo0xrKWAKZeuwYm0q3BijV1jkSFTLS_H9My413p1URGCqyB3xuw6Z7ozGVxL4ant_-uoZlIFq_JNL813wsmolSP6pr9GiPVtaF7DS_EU-mjohScrJsvhTkydJk2FfNVUqmQ9VO3Fi0wcfJr7AZHbOP8w/w400-h300/P1000465.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abdallah on day 6</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIViFpgvdR-KEkc8jw-B6uxR8CIziVc4ORDT_lFKo93eADovhbguX-lhODCrntxMnEc5izZtuuZH3qC6j4YTKESSkNovuH2D41pQuce7P-bv5aC554TllRv7qvMmi-_Kf9R2NHdBLB_nifU1M98JFbZzwfkgS9mFpNdAw8rr7SG9h_QLEDNiX_I4kU3UI/s880/P1000446.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIViFpgvdR-KEkc8jw-B6uxR8CIziVc4ORDT_lFKo93eADovhbguX-lhODCrntxMnEc5izZtuuZH3qC6j4YTKESSkNovuH2D41pQuce7P-bv5aC554TllRv7qvMmi-_Kf9R2NHdBLB_nifU1M98JFbZzwfkgS9mFpNdAw8rr7SG9h_QLEDNiX_I4kU3UI/w400-h300/P1000446.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">By now, our fellow trekkers knew that I’d been to Kilimanjaro before, and reached 5,200 m. It hadn’t stopped one of the two Brits from continuing to speak as if he knew all about it, but Dan asked interesting questions about this and many other subjects, and was relentlessly positive. The other member of our team that we walked with most often was Anna. We didn’t talk about our fundraiser much on the mountain, but we did tell Anna about Mom, one day in the mess tent. So she knew what we were doing there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSQamQS0jK1YCMPgbz3mTTBgK4IWDihVh0uS3ZnyhHQDdEXcVYmpr-XmTaKLmiLExZPHACfyveE-mWtsrkR2D54l7kiLYq6tFa8Exr8hxfvd4T4NPAyc7UTcWOquf5VPTc4pD_qCpyTEpdKAdrKZ7adzeUqMJy-h10TPR3672ztjAJ9E9UF2fAgSGae0/s880/P1000472.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSQamQS0jK1YCMPgbz3mTTBgK4IWDihVh0uS3ZnyhHQDdEXcVYmpr-XmTaKLmiLExZPHACfyveE-mWtsrkR2D54l7kiLYq6tFa8Exr8hxfvd4T4NPAyc7UTcWOquf5VPTc4pD_qCpyTEpdKAdrKZ7adzeUqMJy-h10TPR3672ztjAJ9E9UF2fAgSGae0/w400-h300/P1000472.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School Hut camp. 4,717 m (15,476 ft), overlooking Kenya</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRA7Q0y7a_g4RC_cqnbke5NzCDXrcuIHZ5JZUp8xtS_7zxJMGjTrQBznQvqqmVnRwKGd1d0YiDqJCii9swyFFYP9Rl2KJv3E4hG2cpyDzXUrTjjpV6W_rSopU1OtG73y9udjVjE6NlPjlP2SHNsQumDmizafIo1Hn-BSJT1wauVHideWPjK8KHZ1I2Uc/s880/P1000515.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRA7Q0y7a_g4RC_cqnbke5NzCDXrcuIHZ5JZUp8xtS_7zxJMGjTrQBznQvqqmVnRwKGd1d0YiDqJCii9swyFFYP9Rl2KJv3E4hG2cpyDzXUrTjjpV6W_rSopU1OtG73y9udjVjE6NlPjlP2SHNsQumDmizafIo1Hn-BSJT1wauVHideWPjK8KHZ1I2Uc/w400-h300/P1000515.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset, School Hut (base camp)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">At School Hut we had a strange schedule of lunch, naptime, supper, more expected sleep (though I don’t think people got much), and finally awaking at midnight for a night of climbing to the summit, followed by a day of descent! “Breakfast” wasn’t much more than a snack—appetites tend to go at high altitude, plus, who could eat under the circumstances? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">One of the things I remembered happening the last time was that I overdressed for the cold and quickly got overheated, so this time, I didn’t put on my down jacket at all—just my Aran jumper, an old-fashioned wool sweater, over some thin layers. I had the heavier jacket, plus my rain shell in case of wind, but in fact it was not cold by Kili summit night standards. Probably a little below freezing, whereas it could easily have felt like 20 degrees C colder (i.e., below 0 F). My toes were warm inside the winter hiking boots I’d brought from Canada, and I never did put on my down jacket; I think it (along with most of my other stuff) was being carried by a summit porter most of the night.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQdCNHAOgb4T0UFqzBGcMRkHzF91rrBGSIBatkoe4SFC9u7Isd-zMUIdF79sM-geBrT7UstB3bg_NB9w71HkBC3IacVNv8ncgLlTnC1IqvnVry-ITiEVfGhf8RrCSuK-wMeQCBuBZ_VtWKjxJVxMYoJmTtU23GAnEqLGSTiJFZ4CWAh__j9JfVXNdVF4/s880/P1000473.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQdCNHAOgb4T0UFqzBGcMRkHzF91rrBGSIBatkoe4SFC9u7Isd-zMUIdF79sM-geBrT7UstB3bg_NB9w71HkBC3IacVNv8ncgLlTnC1IqvnVry-ITiEVfGhf8RrCSuK-wMeQCBuBZ_VtWKjxJVxMYoJmTtU23GAnEqLGSTiJFZ4CWAh__j9JfVXNdVF4/w400-h300/P1000473.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQAWxej1xJ1L4nq6L4IFXOMVudwkTat5ZPG_z2mjbZl09sclcMqtSgQqChmNsMMsMHgaOAgfJGwICBAOTNXHCoCwVTT2714umsFfiDu4udmVuQ3P5IZ8byAhEdDywx19tq6SOkoCOjwQfHF7q1e9xgN-CpaS7QHAeVREegKZVF5uARAATRZeDP50VzW1U/s880/P1000476.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQAWxej1xJ1L4nq6L4IFXOMVudwkTat5ZPG_z2mjbZl09sclcMqtSgQqChmNsMMsMHgaOAgfJGwICBAOTNXHCoCwVTT2714umsFfiDu4udmVuQ3P5IZ8byAhEdDywx19tq6SOkoCOjwQfHF7q1e9xgN-CpaS7QHAeVREegKZVF5uARAATRZeDP50VzW1U/s320/P1000476.JPG" width="320" /></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">We started off <i>pole pole</i>, even more slowly than earlier that day. Soon our two relatively fast climbers took off with Dixon, as usual. The rest of us settled into a long, slow trudge uphill, in the darkness, lit only by our headlamps (it had been the new moon on Ben’s birthday). Every hour or so we would pause and sit on rocks for a “snack” but, though I had neither headache nor nausea, I could only manage a couple of peanut M&Ms. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">When we reached Hans Meyer Cave, we were at 5,259 m (17,254 ft). Anna pointed out that I’d now climbed higher than last time! I was encouraged; I felt, and I think Ben felt, that we were surely going to make it all the way to the top. However, I soon remembered why I’d turned around last time, and that it hadn’t been a flippant decision. What are described as “switchbacks” on Kili aren’t really; you turn briefly left, then right, but it’s just steep all the way up. Between Hans Meyer Cave and Gilman’s Point, our goal on the crater rim, was even steeper and, in the thinning air, hardest of all. I needed every ounce of my training for my legs to hold out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1CoqhnkOuXOEqtQNa5l4EezdtN-YnwSQejO0O3agLGW6e2qFN9355pk7M6GFbBCzZz6msKZaO2gfD1KGJUpgN5zjMIAUQfdBGH3RKI3c5y4rsztL9iYhtyNfpvzu2hupCDM3Jc5CEmasNIXKYvoQS8A48MUOMQyXWmrWkx9l--3c7n7wxNrZm_1nqdE/s880/tea.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1CoqhnkOuXOEqtQNa5l4EezdtN-YnwSQejO0O3agLGW6e2qFN9355pk7M6GFbBCzZz6msKZaO2gfD1KGJUpgN5zjMIAUQfdBGH3RKI3c5y4rsztL9iYhtyNfpvzu2hupCDM3Jc5CEmasNIXKYvoQS8A48MUOMQyXWmrWkx9l--3c7n7wxNrZm_1nqdE/w400-h300/tea.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ginger tea at Hans Meyer Cave. Photo: Kilimanjaro Experts</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">At our last break before the crater rim, I was sitting beside Ben and he said he was feeling shaky and lightheaded. Anna heard him and immediately went to Ibrahim, telling him, “Talk to Ben.” Ben explained how he was feeling and that he didn’t want everyone else to have to wait for him. Anna said that they didn’t mind, but she understood how he felt, and Ibrahim agreed that the others should continue and Ben would come along with him when ready. Of course, I was happy to rest longer and wouldn’t consider not waiting for Ben.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKz8wwdVNYEs-7lwoOVJy8wpex2CzwmbhbaZrE8aJ_KTaS-KWrTShK6ytziEZ0tkmItuHbk7cGaCULWuwteYX9gwVTunzzYO8fGoNtAZN2i2R3OV01qJ6Ohxh2kFckSFVSL4ojtLAPF0KaZ-wVIwSVb8Dj3zIlz-dMAFzFtUE-5DkKgWnlbSpeFBbio3g/s880/Ben.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKz8wwdVNYEs-7lwoOVJy8wpex2CzwmbhbaZrE8aJ_KTaS-KWrTShK6ytziEZ0tkmItuHbk7cGaCULWuwteYX9gwVTunzzYO8fGoNtAZN2i2R3OV01qJ6Ohxh2kFckSFVSL4ojtLAPF0KaZ-wVIwSVb8Dj3zIlz-dMAFzFtUE-5DkKgWnlbSpeFBbio3g/w400-h300/Ben.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Kilimanjaro Experts</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I was concerned about him, but we both thought it was a combination of lack of sleep (from the congestion that had plagued him every night) plus not having been able to eat enough in the hours preceding the summit push. After a bit we continued up to Gilman’s Point. From there, we knew we could make it to the summit itself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvUzJ1Fs8BBiTLGRj47iI_wY1XwxLo7ouOHIlitQulemCgu3FvEvMN3qysO2lh8e4ie84ikqPksUzPisiDT-0w4wCMdNhWJHcZZ5dPYrZbsTNare4RcQRDzkx0xTs65X9zDRU0nLX80KLc38wozdphYnaT9ND5vz7-KP1Wxw7cqxmFuAGoKeJCavzQpA/s660/Gilman's.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="660" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvUzJ1Fs8BBiTLGRj47iI_wY1XwxLo7ouOHIlitQulemCgu3FvEvMN3qysO2lh8e4ie84ikqPksUzPisiDT-0w4wCMdNhWJHcZZ5dPYrZbsTNare4RcQRDzkx0xTs65X9zDRU0nLX80KLc38wozdphYnaT9ND5vz7-KP1Wxw7cqxmFuAGoKeJCavzQpA/w400-h400/Gilman's.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kissing the ring</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uFneRW33Gy1QmwTzpMvC_Nu9kICS9wvRtgg024-xus7Ugma5BTF4Z-e4LvuDYaHdZt9FgmE05l8J-Y8u7wPv1dO8wZmcXGXb17fald2sFbsNJdALk80bLm7VOu7KEmrEeZjJpEznoYoQajhQzdwjnb6YxfwEbV85Sa99xastp0COLcIBBxoPJKzqaxQ/s880/sunrise.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uFneRW33Gy1QmwTzpMvC_Nu9kICS9wvRtgg024-xus7Ugma5BTF4Z-e4LvuDYaHdZt9FgmE05l8J-Y8u7wPv1dO8wZmcXGXb17fald2sFbsNJdALk80bLm7VOu7KEmrEeZjJpEznoYoQajhQzdwjnb6YxfwEbV85Sa99xastp0COLcIBBxoPJKzqaxQ/w400-h300/sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise, crater rim</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">It would take another two hours, albeit on a much more gradual slope, as we skirted the glaciers and walked the final steps up to Uhuru Peak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZl1Uz5gCAuiXJGyS7lhFmv3C-Q7Bi_LQen3uHWdzPSLbTzqL5yuX8mNKG_-tu26M3ejf12Ea1Oj9o9po0V4xbMXPKmHaTYqdadmqqr4QlM6IjRf_aP6KmIeNhADxHEt24RNRzW-GGRNk-uBOXh6k_iEhd1gyImzXojkkdIHf5pxzlyC1xQqbQ8GnWmE/s1173/rim.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="1173" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZl1Uz5gCAuiXJGyS7lhFmv3C-Q7Bi_LQen3uHWdzPSLbTzqL5yuX8mNKG_-tu26M3ejf12Ea1Oj9o9po0V4xbMXPKmHaTYqdadmqqr4QlM6IjRf_aP6KmIeNhADxHEt24RNRzW-GGRNk-uBOXh6k_iEhd1gyImzXojkkdIHf5pxzlyC1xQqbQ8GnWmE/w400-h225/rim.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Kilimanjaro Experts</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /><span style="font-size: 18pt;">With the sign coming into view I felt Abdallah take my left arm, and a porter (I’m still not sure who) take my right. “We’ll walk together and make it easy,” Abdallah said. By “easy” he meant “possible”; I still knew we were going to make it, but Ben, walking behind me, said I was “like a rag doll” at this point. Now it was his turn to get a second wind. </span><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">He took my right arm from the porter and draped it over his shoulders. “We’re doing it for Mom!” he kept saying. Together, step by step with Abdallah, we made it the rest of the way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqlGxV7PXLMlfZnWnhimq7Fkobsvkmdi2kjcCcXesNbucB_-ztsb1Q2OXer7__XgV6-FD4W53CMg-jwVGGcgMKE0aRDWyt3Bqf3PtdtqTwAW-pI3aRCiqpSX1sqgcIJ7L1UYHFyYt8SMcfNLHB0kCb1xbI4GiQyusdMarvcbKLf-2xLHlefXzIQkHOw0/s660/us%20summit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="495" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqlGxV7PXLMlfZnWnhimq7Fkobsvkmdi2kjcCcXesNbucB_-ztsb1Q2OXer7__XgV6-FD4W53CMg-jwVGGcgMKE0aRDWyt3Bqf3PtdtqTwAW-pI3aRCiqpSX1sqgcIJ7L1UYHFyYt8SMcfNLHB0kCb1xbI4GiQyusdMarvcbKLf-2xLHlefXzIQkHOw0/w300-h400/us%20summit.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I found out later that Trish, following updates as Kilimanjaro Experts posted them online, had written the following the day we were at base camp: “They hike through the night to summit for sunrise tomorrow, the 19<sup>th</sup>, and in the light that brings life to everything, I know they will reach up and touch their mother’s face because surely she will be smiling down at them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></span></p><p style="font-family: -webkit-standard;"></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZckXyCIFy10OzyilvTSLz1NbRS8i6obcuFe2RWJxnyHfSgWzXTpGv0O2OM5pw2qaGCX4rhZZCvDy8j32cNbIfpVGvnsfLT5eouxspyF1zBgJCk5HrpnbbwF_YAy9yWMcRFo3sRqfDICl2Qcf1nIP8uvGWnJLarAtT1nSVALznIm-UFFvvg1wvH2UzVF8/s880/top.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZckXyCIFy10OzyilvTSLz1NbRS8i6obcuFe2RWJxnyHfSgWzXTpGv0O2OM5pw2qaGCX4rhZZCvDy8j32cNbIfpVGvnsfLT5eouxspyF1zBgJCk5HrpnbbwF_YAy9yWMcRFo3sRqfDICl2Qcf1nIP8uvGWnJLarAtT1nSVALznIm-UFFvvg1wvH2UzVF8/w400-h300/top.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="-webkit-standard">Photo: Kilimanjaro Experts</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> As it turned out, we were only a few minutes behind most of our teammates. One of the British guys threw his arms around me--not the one I'd thought most likely to do this! And </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;">Ben had the presence of mind to remind me to put on sunscreen. We'd brought our sunscreen and sunglasses up there, but they'd been the furthest from our mind at one o'clock in the morning. Now, above the clouds, the sun at high altitude was harsh.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnRoduh3qeOq21DTDW-ktDScYmzDFtCCoii4ISbHWkMu1phJwQFjpuSNF7Mpz_Xli_vQXt5fJ6Oz9jUoV33iVP4vmLVGXy9L8aRDMfddAkiqyy6We56zU5-z434i4EMfc6vMhvW8873TTc_trCoCnvo8YcZ-RtBJgbxnWydQ_fRu-trGe9w9nG6-AJB8k/s880/P1000533.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnRoduh3qeOq21DTDW-ktDScYmzDFtCCoii4ISbHWkMu1phJwQFjpuSNF7Mpz_Xli_vQXt5fJ6Oz9jUoV33iVP4vmLVGXy9L8aRDMfddAkiqyy6We56zU5-z434i4EMfc6vMhvW8873TTc_trCoCnvo8YcZ-RtBJgbxnWydQ_fRu-trGe9w9nG6-AJB8k/w400-h300/P1000533.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The arctic summit zone</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><div><br /></div><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">And then…the descent. It’s funny; I remember being very aware in 2017 that I needed enough energy to get back down the mountain too; deciding I wouldn’t have that energy if I kept ascending is part of what made me turn around. But somehow, in the euphoria of knowing we were going to make it to the summit together, it felt like we squeezed out every last drop of effort just to get there, and forgot all about having to then walk halfway back down the mountain the very same day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpd-q8lgR2T_BoTDygYOdFWW0Rxg1kreiMfsx9rf8c9tMOxlPA-3-05eRI_-v-incJU9o78x7tFF-N8VtQ7u8VOvX4R7eaao-J_JmjwD5DcOsJwhLZQrn3VzMqdXTQ_UVGvxIzAqWhqEjrjzadHlNbWHHUfCWb9WFOBts45zZBjxrIgbsJJMRSO1gb9o/s880/P1000535.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpd-q8lgR2T_BoTDygYOdFWW0Rxg1kreiMfsx9rf8c9tMOxlPA-3-05eRI_-v-incJU9o78x7tFF-N8VtQ7u8VOvX4R7eaao-J_JmjwD5DcOsJwhLZQrn3VzMqdXTQ_UVGvxIzAqWhqEjrjzadHlNbWHHUfCWb9WFOBts45zZBjxrIgbsJJMRSO1gb9o/w400-h300/P1000535.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking <i>down</i> on Mawenzi!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The first part of our descent, after a few Pringles at Stella Point (partway back along the crater rim), was straight down a scree slope—not the way you go up! It would have taken forever for us to pick our way down with our hiking poles, trying not to fall. So Goodson, the porter who’d been carrying everything but my water, locked arms with me, took one of my poles in his other hand, and strode downhill with me for the next three hours, counting big steps: “One, two!” I expected to fall at least a couple of times, but he never let me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gVCvYsYCAfSFrU8g0NmybTjcjehAVpEX_cjs0wHUbb9Tkwq8AMTvFROe3kiG4pLz7a9qr_HxgqBecRGhqe4j8ERHz3TyTtXotMnbai57uDlR0v_eZLpHVZvTsGCZn_KOGsAFEqL2HXjLex1FIUlvxfrLL_sNyQy4w9sE3PHnjaSKHG_C4ipN8Rj8PHI/s880/P1000537.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gVCvYsYCAfSFrU8g0NmybTjcjehAVpEX_cjs0wHUbb9Tkwq8AMTvFROe3kiG4pLz7a9qr_HxgqBecRGhqe4j8ERHz3TyTtXotMnbai57uDlR0v_eZLpHVZvTsGCZn_KOGsAFEqL2HXjLex1FIUlvxfrLL_sNyQy4w9sE3PHnjaSKHG_C4ipN8Rj8PHI/w400-h300/P1000537.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">We got back down to Barafu Huts (4,662 m=15,295 ft). This was supposed to be our “brunch” break, but perhaps because it had taken us so long, Ibrahim was eager to get us all the way back down to the high camp where we’d spend our last night on the mountain. He urged Ben to eat something, not that Ben wanted it, and then get up and keep going. Ben was not feeling it, and I was getting concerned. Even though the long summit day is exhausting, you’re supposed to feel better as soon as you start going down, because the air is richer and you’re getting more oxygen. I felt it, but Ben seemed to feel as lousy as he had higher up. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RH0w826lzsgmJOd365IwbLAVF3K3vDK3xC5jpX00LVuwYegE0Udz0A9FvOPn2XqiC_v1B9UgzNVYWPhi5cm2edirxGoGFFP-lPAtA63QU7yeo_qotn6vp26ljz4Fw660YofIO5DAxDQKuRr0Lm7VMU8V3z-0dY48p1QIZCDaw3O4Wn-fpUksh-9Iydw/s880/P1000544.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RH0w826lzsgmJOd365IwbLAVF3K3vDK3xC5jpX00LVuwYegE0Udz0A9FvOPn2XqiC_v1B9UgzNVYWPhi5cm2edirxGoGFFP-lPAtA63QU7yeo_qotn6vp26ljz4Fw660YofIO5DAxDQKuRr0Lm7VMU8V3z-0dY48p1QIZCDaw3O4Wn-fpUksh-9Iydw/w400-h300/P1000544.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Nevertheless, another summit porter, called Ngana, helped him similarly and we all continued downhill. Like most porters, Goodson and Ngana didn’t speak much English; Swahili is already most Tanzanians’ second language, with their mother tongue being one of many tribal languages. But Ben managed to communicate with Ngana anyway, and says he’d never have made it back down the mountain without him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2nUg2KoM1QZqxHHRGdhREQ7O_m9q8nYSigWuRzsnkuJ9oVpHP5vhN0oRJE9cpPtcJnTtmFc2gAKRpV4KcJaON_EB0bIaBCN5ZwAkdHV1oLN0t1T1QBpTauuYt8ImQ7CR3Q3aIZu7HQjQa9CftSghJ-WURvHNgIxZkLu5ugDKO1HuGuHOUGM2LwGlpB8/s880/P1000545.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2nUg2KoM1QZqxHHRGdhREQ7O_m9q8nYSigWuRzsnkuJ9oVpHP5vhN0oRJE9cpPtcJnTtmFc2gAKRpV4KcJaON_EB0bIaBCN5ZwAkdHV1oLN0t1T1QBpTauuYt8ImQ7CR3Q3aIZu7HQjQa9CftSghJ-WURvHNgIxZkLu5ugDKO1HuGuHOUGM2LwGlpB8/w400-h300/P1000545.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Meanwhile, I thought I didn’t need any more help now that we were back down on a normal path, but evidently Goodson was enjoying my company too much to let go. We walked back most of the way to our final camp together—Millennium Hut, 3,827 m (12,556 ft).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp-YW_mFnw-A1F9G6QvASCLQo9owQlAwUQRWlGgSrL_ESI7iWUdO-RNn_LPughu42hpLr7XMz2gqcuB86JUPLto7hKYotumaUzW-gc8XWlLJ1_Mgw2MJiRZ9RNtj-VAoYNpnDFEewsuKzy2_1npX2b52_stfP72T_nB8brWq0lDz3LzR4TnPgSTeDBIU/s882/last%20camp.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="882" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp-YW_mFnw-A1F9G6QvASCLQo9owQlAwUQRWlGgSrL_ESI7iWUdO-RNn_LPughu42hpLr7XMz2gqcuB86JUPLto7hKYotumaUzW-gc8XWlLJ1_Mgw2MJiRZ9RNtj-VAoYNpnDFEewsuKzy2_1npX2b52_stfP72T_nB8brWq0lDz3LzR4TnPgSTeDBIU/w640-h478/last%20camp.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving our last camp at dawn, day 8. Photo: Kilimanjaro Experts</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The last day we still had to get back down to Mweka Gate (1,633 m=5,358 ft). It was slow going, with lots of rocks and mud. Mariam led us most of the way, amazingly without even the help of trekking poles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The entire team and crew went to a celebratory lunch together in Moshi. I was encouraged to see Ben eating a hamburger and fries, and figured he just wasn’t in the mood for a beer yet. I guess I drank his share. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5SuZ2n2F3enb4xRcGTPexjIqfwETv9BdBVvvlsBr8I_a1Cx0aN_Fh9DjXr7IE_M7HrvvHKdLZNrbww2Qo9ZYPpl3I-uSF_HJWEHGEyVmkzgKyH3sWUDrQFoECrDg_GfGafzSPvlhUXUQKQoZ_gUb093xcr6ZWzQwt4ckkKXw0Ab7BnJ94CLDEUNJM_Q/s660/P1000556.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="495" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5SuZ2n2F3enb4xRcGTPexjIqfwETv9BdBVvvlsBr8I_a1Cx0aN_Fh9DjXr7IE_M7HrvvHKdLZNrbww2Qo9ZYPpl3I-uSF_HJWEHGEyVmkzgKyH3sWUDrQFoECrDg_GfGafzSPvlhUXUQKQoZ_gUb093xcr6ZWzQwt4ckkKXw0Ab7BnJ94CLDEUNJM_Q/s320/P1000556.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Back at our Arusha lodge, I called Trish. You have to understand that T's hearing loss means that we hadn't had a proper phone conversation in at least 5 years! Amazingly, a cochlear implant (along with a hearing aid and months of practice) are enabling T. to hear things now that she thought she'd never be able to hear again. As cousin Lez said </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">In many ways, she has climbed her own mountain" </span><span face=""Google Sans", arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(77, 81, 86); color: #4d5156; font-size: 16px;">❤️ </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">This was amazing! And surely, after a good night’s sleep in a bed and showers, etc., Ben would revive in time for our trip back to London the following evening.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Well, there was to be a postscript that nobody wanted. Ben still felt rough enough the next day that he thought I should call Kilimanjaro Experts (I actually ended up speaking to Henry, back in England!) and see if his symptoms needed checking out. They did, and Ibrahim, along with Abdallah and Dixon, all came to Arusha’s “hospital,” more like a clinic where a doctor could check Ben out. A chest X-ray showed nothing of concern, and we went on to the airport with some medicines for congestion. Unfortunately, he continued to feel worse on the short flight to Nairobi.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">We were only meant to be changing planes there, so we didn’t even have visas to enter Kenya. But it seemed foolish to get on another, longer flight when Ben’s chest felt so tight and he was worried about not being able to breathe properly. I asked the nearest official-looking person—a young female officer—for help, and a Kenya Airways nurse named Winnie soon arrived. From there, it was the airline’s doctor who examined and treated Ben and eventually decided that we would not be able to fly out safely that night. Instead, he would escort us to a hospital in the airline’s own ambulance—after we surrendered our passports to Immigration because we weren’t actually supposed to be in Kenya at all! I was given a receipt for them, indicating that we were allowed to leave to go to the hospital (and, presumably, straight back.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">This was all rather stressful, as Ben was first admitted to the Nairobi hospital, then told he needed 48 hours of antibiotics to fully treat an “infection” (we were eventually told it was pneumonia, but in the way of these places, no one ever brought it up or seemed really concerned about it). The hospital was basic, open to the outdoors and the mosquitoes, but efficient, and the plentiful food tasted like someone had cooked it properly, in a kitchen. Ben was treated well. We hardly had anything with us, since our bags were checked through to Heathrow airport—no change of clothes, antimalaria medication, or even a phone charger (I kept having to take my phone down to the cashier’s desk, where she would charge it for me). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">George, the hospital administrator, kept coming by and updating us on the conversations he was having with Kenya Airways. He declared that we were “his people” and he was responsible for taking care of us until the airline came with their ambulance and took us back to the airport. It was never clear to me why we had to ride in a (rather expensive) ambulance on the way back, since Ben would now be discharged; I think it had something to do with having to enter the airport in some official capacity, because our passports had been taken away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Eventually, I got a message from an airline contact named Linda that our tickets had been reissued and we would be on that night’s flight back to London. We were relieved! Of course, normally I would expect some kind of record of this, such as a reservation number or a confirmation e-mail. It made me a bit nervous to have nothing but Linda’s assurance, so I e-mailed to ask her “</span><span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Do we have new tickets or a confirmation of our flight tonight?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">She</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> <span lang="EN-GB">just wrote back, “Yes we do.” 🤣</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Finally—me texting the Kenya Airways doctor and him assuring me that our ride was on its way—the ambulance arrived, and we were accompanied back to the airport by a very smiley woman. As we jolted and bounced along what was supposedly a five-mile journey, but felt much longer, she said, “Ambulances. Only comfortable for the driver!” She also told us it was fortunate that they’d gotten us on that night’s flight, as after that, there were no seats on the Nairobi-London flight until three days later!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">It was just as well we had an official airline escort, because when we arrived at the airport, it was chaos. Long lines of people (I use “lines” loosely) jammed outside the airport, not even able to get indoors to the initial security screening. Our escort, a man who had gotten our passports back from Immigration, took us through various priority lanes and instructed me to hand over the receipt, so that we could exit Kenya without ever having officially entered it in the first place. Finally, we were on our own, going through a regular security line in time to get to our gate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><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/AVvXsEgXQVLVx7FGikePDAfpq305947cD9ToYc5mb6UlwK_ghiThKd5WOE4thWJb06u9eZGrhf3Hk4IGGfWUlGJzmVbs88qEQm55UBMsR_9E632-PPEd1npio6Alom1diHdRkDYZfdVJVJki7BWwo57swPHyjM3T2JlaP6rt9NYo_M16Ms2b5MuHEyTJA9MI9wY/s880/P1000506.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQVLVx7FGikePDAfpq305947cD9ToYc5mb6UlwK_ghiThKd5WOE4thWJb06u9eZGrhf3Hk4IGGfWUlGJzmVbs88qEQm55UBMsR_9E632-PPEd1npio6Alom1diHdRkDYZfdVJVJki7BWwo57swPHyjM3T2JlaP6rt9NYo_M16Ms2b5MuHEyTJA9MI9wY/w400-h300/P1000506.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben with Kibo in the background</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtwbelPVmj94Anm2Z3Y-B8cNVgAwlDVg_on4YkIvr_Uf93Aznayvwy9C9NujBfsYISsszDN7vLht6U4K0TKWqszrLvTc91RpF5hrWeyddvVtomBy4NFBrk0i9t8JrHqOjW5nO7pMVmvjnBcLqHUE3QUEiiN_5qwiDaiHEFus-Ly05vmXLn7kMEhK5I5bM/s880/P1000520.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtwbelPVmj94Anm2Z3Y-B8cNVgAwlDVg_on4YkIvr_Uf93Aznayvwy9C9NujBfsYISsszDN7vLht6U4K0TKWqszrLvTc91RpF5hrWeyddvVtomBy4NFBrk0i9t8JrHqOjW5nO7pMVmvjnBcLqHUE3QUEiiN_5qwiDaiHEFus-Ly05vmXLn7kMEhK5I5bM/w400-h300/P1000520.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of it was fun. Right, Bro?</td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The rest of the story is that Ben recovered fine, got a flight later that week back home to Phoenix, and even felt well enough, before leaving our house, to have that delayed celebratory beer. Kilimanjaro was the hardest thing either of us has ever done, by some measure. Literally and physically, we could not have gotten all the way to the top (and back down safely) without each other.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfGNV90cQBATyfV3KtD0w-W9TocyV_rb_O_B-rWWAU5ZiW36RjulL_gxasGGzRfz0Yg00tVaC3m6oIJp_gbzLmZ7ErGLZ1NpTy3COhIWXOdStdocYWcDKgC4Gr5kh72bK-Jsblw5nPkD_SpSt1fJ-vYhudRzbJJy-poshUUFLwfIKMPu40WK-WNIpyEo/s1080/Ben%20beer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfGNV90cQBATyfV3KtD0w-W9TocyV_rb_O_B-rWWAU5ZiW36RjulL_gxasGGzRfz0Yg00tVaC3m6oIJp_gbzLmZ7ErGLZ1NpTy3COhIWXOdStdocYWcDKgC4Gr5kh72bK-Jsblw5nPkD_SpSt1fJ-vYhudRzbJJy-poshUUFLwfIKMPu40WK-WNIpyEo/w400-h300/Ben%20beer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">So ultimately, this is a success story. We were able to look back on our climb with pride and, mostly, enjoyment. And we did it for Mom, so it seems only right that she—Groove—should have the last word. As you might observe, people have a habit of coming to another country with me and then having to go to the hospital; jokes have even been made about me being on a secret tour of hospitals around the world. Dad was reminded “</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">of a series of AMEX commercials (in the 80s?), where actor Karl Malden used to somehow always be present when someone's wallet was stolen, yet all was well, because the victims had American Express cheques! Mom used to laugh, ‘Don't you wonder about the fact that whenever wallets are stolen, Karl Malden happens to be right nearby?!’" </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Apple Color Emoji"; font-size: 18pt;">😂</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSLJ9Renm2oJGBsIKnBFOdiUFfEA3TTkqXpKPDuxf6Y4bTWhBW71X6kzt1qtfDBLRl0257AzeJOfID45F4pA4G2NtQvaEdSLU980aj9yqyGwjCu8azRDTmNbmZfw3lFJkT4ds9jZp4Hq_oPe5T_kGoQUxOUBNU1vM4hzlFjsTPgvu9By-gt0dMav8Zd0/s880/P1000509.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSLJ9Renm2oJGBsIKnBFOdiUFfEA3TTkqXpKPDuxf6Y4bTWhBW71X6kzt1qtfDBLRl0257AzeJOfID45F4pA4G2NtQvaEdSLU980aj9yqyGwjCu8azRDTmNbmZfw3lFJkT4ds9jZp4Hq_oPe5T_kGoQUxOUBNU1vM4hzlFjsTPgvu9By-gt0dMav8Zd0/w400-h300/P1000509.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Relaxing at Third Hut camp, day 5</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50eY24ChHzJzWqgJpqX8-cQTnzh0ay3RSpJa-pBjSpG8JL8igapYD1U1iz79RvkYHKVjCWcma1KiwuVE_slPBQcQt-vGAngK3dKSXIzkOnUVqtl-M08B9HNOo9zBrMZiBfgykZEPVBUvnO0L6k1EKDRJAxAy67EtD0xgi-OJQZ62h2S9gUgBSoG7K0EA/s880/P1000431.JPG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50eY24ChHzJzWqgJpqX8-cQTnzh0ay3RSpJa-pBjSpG8JL8igapYD1U1iz79RvkYHKVjCWcma1KiwuVE_slPBQcQt-vGAngK3dKSXIzkOnUVqtl-M08B9HNOo9zBrMZiBfgykZEPVBUvnO0L6k1EKDRJAxAy67EtD0xgi-OJQZ62h2S9gUgBSoG7K0EA/w640-h480/P1000431.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx8XCAPPeLAAJ7sR_k3p2-caugtFdT8e9MLuRHSSjLIWGMVR6au2ILdrvH0qd5Feq1L2AKDT7hm6coZbwX4dA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-26839421155083251542023-05-15T12:08:00.003-05:002023-05-24T14:45:40.067-05:00Norway<p> <span style="font-size: large;">It was our first trip to a new country since we came back from traveling to 29 countries in 2019. Like a lot of people, we had things disrupted in the past few years, especially travel. Cruising to Norway was one of those things that T. and I had talked about doing for years, and when we weren't able to spend Christmas together, we decided to give each other this trip to the fjords.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Few countries in the world can have undergone as complete a peacetime transformation as Norway. Whereas Norwegians' fierce warrior ancestors, the Vikings, once dominated northern Europe and even sailed to the coast of North America, for centuries Norway was ruled by its neighbors, Denmark and Sweden. Until very recently it had always been one of the poorest countries in Europe. </span><span style="font-size: large;">All that changed in 1969, when oil was discovered under the North Sea. </span></p><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Today, Norway is one of the richest countries in the world, and a place of fascinating contradictions. In another country all that oil wealth would have enriched private corporations, but so socialist was Norway that in the period following World War II, some Western powers feared that it would join the communist bloc. That didn't happen, but the country's great resources are still owned and distributed by the state. It administers the money on behalf of Norwegians, who have one of the world's highest and most equally distributed standards of living. That also means that for visitors, the price of everything is eye-watering. Norway is a country known for its generosity, full of environmental concern, yet a whaling nation and one whose wealth is built on fossil fuel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqigz_kXRZYYWRblDEzxHSRm_bK6YR95HlH4cpRJDd-UwM-j4cVMQkiDzjIXV5c9VD_MrWdINAOwmiwgksopsnT76peB5skLELr-BDUWG5KHWJH9M2BE3j8mFck1MJIF4tUdaXc8VPfdf4PbGRdWYUPUcgRJk8rdUoiO--_4236kIjzMEjZU8ujuv/s2048/Recycling,%20bike.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqigz_kXRZYYWRblDEzxHSRm_bK6YR95HlH4cpRJDd-UwM-j4cVMQkiDzjIXV5c9VD_MrWdINAOwmiwgksopsnT76peB5skLELr-BDUWG5KHWJH9M2BE3j8mFck1MJIF4tUdaXc8VPfdf4PbGRdWYUPUcgRJk8rdUoiO--_4236kIjzMEjZU8ujuv/w400-h300/Recycling,%20bike.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stavanger</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Our trip was likewise contradictory. We enjoyed the cruise, but don't recommend such a large ship. Nevertheless, what we saw of the southwestern and western fjords was spectacular. And it was nice to be traveling the nearest to "normal" since before the pandemic: able to share a dinner table with strangers, T. able to hear and talk with them more or less successfully...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">We expected snow in Norway and we got it; we did not necessarily expect sunshine, so warm on our sailing from England that we could bask on the deck! Not having to take an airplane anywhere was a bonus. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsxuG0frScszAtaK-wNolvqemQbgoJXOMV0zLV6fR5ow-m4VPtXCoErMSxQaawekImpNN3Wvz_QChXqgFQaAKVHVUyYQhQKu3P1Soxue9U_GIkxIfcS0NfAg17pnn4N49hgxE6erGzOmeby4AjYIVEnILKFWKwo5CeTum0YEt8Ag8OFzAzMvWuj-w/s2048/North%20Sea.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsxuG0frScszAtaK-wNolvqemQbgoJXOMV0zLV6fR5ow-m4VPtXCoErMSxQaawekImpNN3Wvz_QChXqgFQaAKVHVUyYQhQKu3P1Soxue9U_GIkxIfcS0NfAg17pnn4N49hgxE6erGzOmeby4AjYIVEnILKFWKwo5CeTum0YEt8Ag8OFzAzMvWuj-w/w400-h300/North%20Sea.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the North Sea. Did not expect to be in the pool!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Ever since we lost my mom, precisely at sunset, M. Soleil has had an even more special place in my heart. When the sun broke through the clouds over the North Sea, where a few moments before we'd felt raindrops, T. said "That's Grace, showing you the sun still shines." The first night I saw some pink in the sky over on the port side and had to run and get T., as the beautiful sun was just starting to dip below the horizon--at 9:00! "She's outdone herself today," T. said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Anyway, our first port of call was the oil city of Stavanger. Bizarrely, we docked right next to the old town.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWD0GTa9RyKeqCLvkwsLsePpik_NSqn1rD6H65wtk5yHQD7a0rOEEoj8C045JAE0j_C1mCg9xqHevD1CqnyBXMlSoojv66Bddh3k2mzuU_ax98EcpS1iJJqNsCBz4t1QItzhcJqFmRshNBW872aTguPqAU8S43Mc_y6tchZG3IddiReX-yjVDwaN0/s2048/Gamle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWD0GTa9RyKeqCLvkwsLsePpik_NSqn1rD6H65wtk5yHQD7a0rOEEoj8C045JAE0j_C1mCg9xqHevD1CqnyBXMlSoojv66Bddh3k2mzuU_ax98EcpS1iJJqNsCBz4t1QItzhcJqFmRshNBW872aTguPqAU8S43Mc_y6tchZG3IddiReX-yjVDwaN0/w400-h300/Gamle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">This did mean it was an easy walk into Gamle Stavanger--Old Stavanger--and around the city park.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1iyok1rYdxvWKdhUmiooaUuab3SuBTrQs3NCAx4lOjhUknus52E1GFKEVB0E8NmAM1vaFDPKnUCbAiYM3911FpCjWa0QwWCCJjPi6OwsRE4kOlh3gWPzBsNgGPd1cas5jxbPIfb1WuGSV-8SjdpxvapqKUSAgCtGaoyqtW0YZcIfN3pfTHUMHF6Z/s2048/Stavanger%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1iyok1rYdxvWKdhUmiooaUuab3SuBTrQs3NCAx4lOjhUknus52E1GFKEVB0E8NmAM1vaFDPKnUCbAiYM3911FpCjWa0QwWCCJjPi6OwsRE4kOlh3gWPzBsNgGPd1cas5jxbPIfb1WuGSV-8SjdpxvapqKUSAgCtGaoyqtW0YZcIfN3pfTHUMHF6Z/s320/Stavanger%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMc_9jZw66UE3MccxN2IxHa41Tzf87fAfwquGVx6BIC0c4QLCY76C9exCvvkg5TD149m4N3ftqamyn4B1xYl3wbF9RBnNbFjakrtoENnXRxeNa-SYhXkWk7jEMOQMW1GHnsrkLE9npFOZTYFOusBZEHX4riiDAmWf9kPPvjodsCbkSZGDyoozX0I0m/s2048/Park.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMc_9jZw66UE3MccxN2IxHa41Tzf87fAfwquGVx6BIC0c4QLCY76C9exCvvkg5TD149m4N3ftqamyn4B1xYl3wbF9RBnNbFjakrtoENnXRxeNa-SYhXkWk7jEMOQMW1GHnsrkLE9npFOZTYFOusBZEHX4riiDAmWf9kPPvjodsCbkSZGDyoozX0I0m/s320/Park.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I wanted to visit the Domkirke, Norway's oldest cathedral, but it was closed for renovations. Although a different building is currently serving as the parish church in Stavanger, closed churches would become a theme of this trip. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJCyVkehAfvhmSHrL88dnreFEyjGes2bDlGVi0kAPEAuuVyr3w4x5qau8fgs3DeAunewhbDgslPqI4kn5YHZp3p0J-D42yzBnpG87uJjNycYT6HalO4jQ99pSJBUYuDPyg2sfVOev1smlvN5mhMdS3xaQ6f4Yf4gZkMsK5n0ZWr63gB4jrwVHVoUb/s2048/Cathedral.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJCyVkehAfvhmSHrL88dnreFEyjGes2bDlGVi0kAPEAuuVyr3w4x5qau8fgs3DeAunewhbDgslPqI4kn5YHZp3p0J-D42yzBnpG87uJjNycYT6HalO4jQ99pSJBUYuDPyg2sfVOev1smlvN5mhMdS3xaQ6f4Yf4gZkMsK5n0ZWr63gB4jrwVHVoUb/s320/Cathedral.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral detail, Archaeology Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">We had a browse around some shops, not that we were going to buy anything very big at Norwegian prices. We looked at a poncho and both had the same thought: "[Your] Mom would like this." She seemed to be with me everywhere. Back on board there was a pianist in the atrium playing Del Shannon's "Runaway," complete with Musitron part. I got a chance to listen to him, while wearing my gym shorts and desperately fighting through crowds of formally attired people--I had an appointment at the spa but it was black tie night!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The sunlight "fingers of God" cut gorgeously through the sky as we chugged north, even as the waves rocked and reeled so much they had to cancel the acrobatics show. There was a real drop in the temperature that night. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Early the next morning we docked at the tiny village of Olden. Almost everyone in town seemed to be passengers on our ship, but they all must have gone off on excursions, because we were among only a few people hiking up the trail to Huaren viewpoint.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9lanb19-SxiIX-OuTzxCnRHL3rRef437h3zNo4Cl1vvAuJCuXaET9p5sxrWgBAyW0I-vCqNzZupU9-jak9WalvZJGt71IH0bwR6T9YK_iItlhEi6D9_9QOU7d1IURyNGWKZo2kOT8W_EiLLTHUwiYPSCSENLLafy70x0IIiB-7ToFUaJtwCyKPHj/s2048/Trish%20climbs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9lanb19-SxiIX-OuTzxCnRHL3rRef437h3zNo4Cl1vvAuJCuXaET9p5sxrWgBAyW0I-vCqNzZupU9-jak9WalvZJGt71IH0bwR6T9YK_iItlhEi6D9_9QOU7d1IURyNGWKZo2kOT8W_EiLLTHUwiYPSCSENLLafy70x0IIiB-7ToFUaJtwCyKPHj/s320/Trish%20climbs.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz0pVzVqW1ib0X0jVxirXJHA2zNRUfmPkYXzB8qiZKmrpAbaMmhi49Y83kUwgIahy0WCAQDPI7wApHjgiPydw_YzY9u9-L1c6bleQnRU053ISZ94OxFctzn-0orYpe4LESfLo0Zhin7jiDTLL_QLDAVqSZwVUi4YXfXAMDvIvXeASv-UeLFU2aC_b/s2048/Trail%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz0pVzVqW1ib0X0jVxirXJHA2zNRUfmPkYXzB8qiZKmrpAbaMmhi49Y83kUwgIahy0WCAQDPI7wApHjgiPydw_YzY9u9-L1c6bleQnRU053ISZ94OxFctzn-0orYpe4LESfLo0Zhin7jiDTLL_QLDAVqSZwVUi4YXfXAMDvIvXeASv-UeLFU2aC_b/s320/Trail%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">On that 380-m climb, there was an interlude that T. said was a microcosm of how the world should work (and often does). At the top, a woman offered to take our picture, </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrELv3TyaxWrxVRywU-26sdiDgk8s1En3FX4U3_kup7ywHJecGFy9IicZ0ZanwSjjuJZk497hrn6TEu1nF2xhNC4bnTiumY-d9BHGOBmjTT9liHJYKW97haobMeY4M-3uxp706wOCYaa2O4_qbPZxP7aOwUOHm4QyDvA0C1wQwCNLUQWFHn54rOTH3/s2048/Huaren.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrELv3TyaxWrxVRywU-26sdiDgk8s1En3FX4U3_kup7ywHJecGFy9IicZ0ZanwSjjuJZk497hrn6TEu1nF2xhNC4bnTiumY-d9BHGOBmjTT9liHJYKW97haobMeY4M-3uxp706wOCYaa2O4_qbPZxP7aOwUOHm4QyDvA0C1wQwCNLUQWFHn54rOTH3/s320/Huaren.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">and then partway down the track we saw a glove lying on the ground. I glimpsed the same colors as the glove on a man further down the trail--new gear? I hurried back to grab the glove for him, and some time after we returned it, his companion picked up T's lens cap, which she hadn't heard fall to the ground. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vzK0gALU0j3fFaNDjpO1DJvtvnshzNhlKDSKw7aesN6TbePpiA1MTb47EeE4ha1J2gycXtlhDVD8un6jIhDNjCeYlef_XIo0FHVsHdCgeEU_RKHgP4YGj_ylauvj7r1Mc3-afAlTSAsOaGFronj1k5sIK_W9cT551MFBLhCWsZ7Wo74sDrTKwfLf/s2048/Olden2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vzK0gALU0j3fFaNDjpO1DJvtvnshzNhlKDSKw7aesN6TbePpiA1MTb47EeE4ha1J2gycXtlhDVD8un6jIhDNjCeYlef_XIo0FHVsHdCgeEU_RKHgP4YGj_ylauvj7r1Mc3-afAlTSAsOaGFronj1k5sIK_W9cT551MFBLhCWsZ7Wo74sDrTKwfLf/s320/Olden2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqD7I8a4hExMlyLdxKiRM_7W5exDEpSrqFtywMkyUGXGQqRxz-1xNsGvIZ3-jXdE2QDXbru-SeRTr8tA2frsyhOVuHPsKir4EI1WBL0nIclbDEG5BdCRhRfKURH2OF1WZ7LrNqm2eEsp3Q5EoT-Bw_SnLZ_PYjPPCCYJ0rI1Wntw_XF_z0A8tV3xx/s2048/Olden%20Trail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqD7I8a4hExMlyLdxKiRM_7W5exDEpSrqFtywMkyUGXGQqRxz-1xNsGvIZ3-jXdE2QDXbru-SeRTr8tA2frsyhOVuHPsKir4EI1WBL0nIclbDEG5BdCRhRfKURH2OF1WZ7LrNqm2eEsp3Q5EoT-Bw_SnLZ_PYjPPCCYJ0rI1Wntw_XF_z0A8tV3xx/s320/Olden%20Trail.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><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/AVvXsEjb9HEWx7bzLlQ0YdFA3TQVyC0XfQGOu9sH_ruiJ317wt3D-hwqqqzvALz3CfZ9UKnIVNqjEmc5ZtZv5U5pS9lQhXGHW38dlu-bwbyMhU8efQmUGjMgyUrVcgn-OLSn-p2uwfiIGNOv5MwhCTqQrm7TwEgH4dzNNnHXPSl0nbRyPYVEsTsT-qh9gbvC/s2048/View%20from%20the%20top.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9HEWx7bzLlQ0YdFA3TQVyC0XfQGOu9sH_ruiJ317wt3D-hwqqqzvALz3CfZ9UKnIVNqjEmc5ZtZv5U5pS9lQhXGHW38dlu-bwbyMhU8efQmUGjMgyUrVcgn-OLSn-p2uwfiIGNOv5MwhCTqQrm7TwEgH4dzNNnHXPSl0nbRyPYVEsTsT-qh9gbvC/s320/View%20from%20the%20top.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view from the top</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESZjTAJ6KdrpuN47ntHsu1GEmm2rLE_Z5HkIhXdLQRojN8LJEmeyuIAb0syYWcOmKOoXOv9uvQajq_cULyyud0wc9-aq33WMQZ121R1NVboMubKI8cZrZxGZ8s3hQMMk2wSXdVdFb3v2IEyQqMp2rqyLvot_bFODw0kxweFf1Q7Mx8zSNwuWRSv5A/s2048/Olden2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESZjTAJ6KdrpuN47ntHsu1GEmm2rLE_Z5HkIhXdLQRojN8LJEmeyuIAb0syYWcOmKOoXOv9uvQajq_cULyyud0wc9-aq33WMQZ121R1NVboMubKI8cZrZxGZ8s3hQMMk2wSXdVdFb3v2IEyQqMp2rqyLvot_bFODw0kxweFf1Q7Mx8zSNwuWRSv5A/s320/Olden2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K5VSr06Bq3MdnMRCAqQ8_lygnGxMfy9gk2EpHAQHYL5VvIAmFEkkw37O9KpWn9IcIAsHXe9FoSVut_kZG4Pm3-2rpz76lac_iBULUDyQzc2jGNE9tdKR2QiLnZqMguRhInz0Ex9xP1jltlSzLaVj2oS6ARsab1BEQCWR029WmY6gt_tWgM-OuSqq/s2048/Olden%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K5VSr06Bq3MdnMRCAqQ8_lygnGxMfy9gk2EpHAQHYL5VvIAmFEkkw37O9KpWn9IcIAsHXe9FoSVut_kZG4Pm3-2rpz76lac_iBULUDyQzc2jGNE9tdKR2QiLnZqMguRhInz0Ex9xP1jltlSzLaVj2oS6ARsab1BEQCWR029WmY6gt_tWgM-OuSqq/s320/Olden%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpITOVYioWmY_IAh5weRsoEZrcG89ft-KPJrLzMZ9IHXgm4K69cxcMQqKJkV1XPEfR99sskqRkw1NMtzB4VCR-uETUL9Mq8xmqxt4IsVjT7vWMEaRUdTmXVZnLMhqMyBqxQNQ9T7sjUzZQRcIJhAKOBe_VCLvIrZJ-mrvXsms1S7NaS1_nT8h17A7P/s2048/Olden%204.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpITOVYioWmY_IAh5weRsoEZrcG89ft-KPJrLzMZ9IHXgm4K69cxcMQqKJkV1XPEfR99sskqRkw1NMtzB4VCR-uETUL9Mq8xmqxt4IsVjT7vWMEaRUdTmXVZnLMhqMyBqxQNQ9T7sjUzZQRcIJhAKOBe_VCLvIrZJ-mrvXsms1S7NaS1_nT8h17A7P/s320/Olden%204.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfuIz72XRAtTDIC2QRwCzHQndbC_4Z8pA__wJGV3_3d5MCgcneFum-QQ2MIlLuUup3BWaLvt5A_nntgJKR8FJEUQKxC7KjNLQt0XUkGsQXe3uENjplNu9gKdrBmVPECMMsRQKzId5SzlVjSyicKvpmBOn0NyD9F6ohFZByID5vGrtuega4Qs2RzI1/s2048/Olden%205.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfuIz72XRAtTDIC2QRwCzHQndbC_4Z8pA__wJGV3_3d5MCgcneFum-QQ2MIlLuUup3BWaLvt5A_nntgJKR8FJEUQKxC7KjNLQt0XUkGsQXe3uENjplNu9gKdrBmVPECMMsRQKzId5SzlVjSyicKvpmBOn0NyD9F6ohFZByID5vGrtuega4Qs2RzI1/s320/Olden%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SEJL_rvt_wj6qrH046QestzRohWDsbnHFhiJFnfpfJiX8thLSQizQ0w3bXlKX1YQug6pB8DQasQI3o09mBF9hJqo_SZJy5D_DGMF4ivmRAvPN2XFR5lWbAEwmTQ8Uv0hoQHbk0iomOWUCg8SPTLmJwZKQeWda2kbf58_yuoj-QGiGFDcl53eLwvc/s2048/Olden%20Trail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SEJL_rvt_wj6qrH046QestzRohWDsbnHFhiJFnfpfJiX8thLSQizQ0w3bXlKX1YQug6pB8DQasQI3o09mBF9hJqo_SZJy5D_DGMF4ivmRAvPN2XFR5lWbAEwmTQ8Uv0hoQHbk0iomOWUCg8SPTLmJwZKQeWda2kbf58_yuoj-QGiGFDcl53eLwvc/s320/Olden%20Trail.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">That evening we sailed through Nordfjord, with gorgeous views all the way. It must have been after 9:00 p.m. when I put on my down jacket and scarf and braved the cold winds of the forward deck to catch yet another amazing view. The burning sun dipped below a horizon of Viking-dark clouds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGO8Srci6ALonwBGtNnhFGC8SWaDPa8CuWPmH7UWyv03eJYedJh2Mc-Avhizf4ZsQ93YAmxbvuqy_hlArhueMUSrH3uj1rdj6-ERNPgJRmrwCoZhPa4IUty0Vc0MOvTglQNHB7mi_JEr10YJkfyXFgwXdeNvrBCBP1blelQCp9Jb4C6vood1fK60dY/s2048/Nordfjord.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGO8Srci6ALonwBGtNnhFGC8SWaDPa8CuWPmH7UWyv03eJYedJh2Mc-Avhizf4ZsQ93YAmxbvuqy_hlArhueMUSrH3uj1rdj6-ERNPgJRmrwCoZhPa4IUty0Vc0MOvTglQNHB7mi_JEr10YJkfyXFgwXdeNvrBCBP1blelQCp9Jb4C6vood1fK60dY/s320/Nordfjord.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiyZ-sV_cv6FGbQCcaSq5g1dawsCKwqn7BvVi0EzTZTlBtmtT2Fcv-jcrHtYisToFX3w93tSzsRXQaNZ0YPK0PIomqZr2dPGsEgP7WZNNfidFXm1LZ2A0PLwuF7Kq0ueRA1A-vJ4yePExgfmfWKzSQxrheSNPJGrpTCuj5kLKhIEcEOdJFDfpnTeh/s2048/Sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiyZ-sV_cv6FGbQCcaSq5g1dawsCKwqn7BvVi0EzTZTlBtmtT2Fcv-jcrHtYisToFX3w93tSzsRXQaNZ0YPK0PIomqZr2dPGsEgP7WZNNfidFXm1LZ2A0PLwuF7Kq0ueRA1A-vJ4yePExgfmfWKzSQxrheSNPJGrpTCuj5kLKhIEcEOdJFDfpnTeh/w400-h300/Sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The weather had certainly changed, and now it was against us. The next day, in Ålesund, we had actually booked an excursion, to hike Sugarlump Mountain. T. was concerned about back-to-back ascents of 300 m, but in the event, the hike was canceled. There had been snow and high winds in the area that week--not that we experienced any during our day in Ålesund! Along with everyone else in town, it seemed, we were climbing the Aksla Steps to a nature trail, and a view overlooking the peninsula.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5EOGjrL8JyBYQuqEa2LnlcaOywPbCpFaMr3AIRy1xtMmwVojfBUSTsoKJCqvSbFzPfrrrAcgLv-2lENhjX2niBxDPHbLvZcPtiaWwODv_I2hywmlu2XDIf4EE_OO4q1lwLsJTi0EE0NoxidN9ZM8UyZLoSYYRWfF21peqfldwgFhqRNnMTjlfwO7/s2048/Alesund%20trail%20up.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5EOGjrL8JyBYQuqEa2LnlcaOywPbCpFaMr3AIRy1xtMmwVojfBUSTsoKJCqvSbFzPfrrrAcgLv-2lENhjX2niBxDPHbLvZcPtiaWwODv_I2hywmlu2XDIf4EE_OO4q1lwLsJTi0EE0NoxidN9ZM8UyZLoSYYRWfF21peqfldwgFhqRNnMTjlfwO7/w300-h400/Alesund%20trail%20up.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg_lpaPP8JVDgQtveUXTfs6yzNExQeuQANZS9nXeY66GYFQ5e6XX5Sx82Bhwe5rOEcJeueaB-uUSmaeImQGhTvUp20bMHCqXcmHsKU4IWk7G_qvlfQA5JmyfcQNmrpwr9-Jp-o_xaJ88NmDcTX62jEJd1SFlKkMPbh8MvIOD8VbKWrD5WvdesCZIv/s2048/Art%20Nouveau.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg_lpaPP8JVDgQtveUXTfs6yzNExQeuQANZS9nXeY66GYFQ5e6XX5Sx82Bhwe5rOEcJeueaB-uUSmaeImQGhTvUp20bMHCqXcmHsKU4IWk7G_qvlfQA5JmyfcQNmrpwr9-Jp-o_xaJ88NmDcTX62jEJd1SFlKkMPbh8MvIOD8VbKWrD5WvdesCZIv/w400-h300/Art%20Nouveau.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">At the bottom of the hill we finally got <i>good </i>coffee, one of a number of things the P&O company does not get right, at Racoon Coffee (yes, that’s how it is spelled). Nicer than gravadlax (smoked salmon) or even Norwegian fish pie, which I also tried on the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00XZmrS_vqU0RTPPe9jI2xNZ6iJ1F4VGGTzi5ENpaZWuh-iS9D_7G2imcxIQ_woDP8DjCsE87uvtcA65457koXCXE9oiDvFBrJy5-vZ1DyGDrRUNtINpHxhVkA8DepQGk33AFANeE6V8gze9AMXh9dhepFqxYVaJ1KVEvNyT0qQ1_GU1ZvbQplg2m/s2048/Racoon%20Coffee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00XZmrS_vqU0RTPPe9jI2xNZ6iJ1F4VGGTzi5ENpaZWuh-iS9D_7G2imcxIQ_woDP8DjCsE87uvtcA65457koXCXE9oiDvFBrJy5-vZ1DyGDrRUNtINpHxhVkA8DepQGk33AFANeE6V8gze9AMXh9dhepFqxYVaJ1KVEvNyT0qQ1_GU1ZvbQplg2m/s320/Racoon%20Coffee.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The unique thing about the skyline, as it were, of Ålesund is its domination by Art Nouveau architecture. There was a tremendous fire in the town in 1904, as a result of which, much of the city was rebuilt in the style popular at the time, which Norwegians call by its German name, <i>Jugendstil</i>. We visited the <i>Jugendstil </i>center, housed in a 1907 pharmacy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-puAhGV69KHn791QThdZEAZKfePK4oI3SGSQ851yu7FErVhhCgPfUrUIz93t4qmUbr1KHns1Uk2qpimZPuk68lgQAige0WDJOQ5Npqe8-b5qe56wLWHSMa1bm973XOla6eHSmaz1xVuvO_pvPxwr3CMgUW2PnJJi21Jc7yRY871hxm4tzlhntJX5/s2048/Art%20Nouveau%20museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-puAhGV69KHn791QThdZEAZKfePK4oI3SGSQ851yu7FErVhhCgPfUrUIz93t4qmUbr1KHns1Uk2qpimZPuk68lgQAige0WDJOQ5Npqe8-b5qe56wLWHSMa1bm973XOla6eHSmaz1xVuvO_pvPxwr3CMgUW2PnJJi21Jc7yRY871hxm4tzlhntJX5/s320/Art%20Nouveau%20museum.jpg" width="240" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg_lpaPP8JVDgQtveUXTfs6yzNExQeuQANZS9nXeY66GYFQ5e6XX5Sx82Bhwe5rOEcJeueaB-uUSmaeImQGhTvUp20bMHCqXcmHsKU4IWk7G_qvlfQA5JmyfcQNmrpwr9-Jp-o_xaJ88NmDcTX62jEJd1SFlKkMPbh8MvIOD8VbKWrD5WvdesCZIv/s2048/Art%20Nouveau.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I carried on to have a look at Ålesund church, but guess what? It was closed!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXvhx1L09qnY8vK5TLtGR5PUoDz4tqftHdUr41tT0ve202tWzq4cztovSWHs0vSlz7ZnDyoOLi8MHKKNjkMWzy7JqC1IgrQ9SVdryIkSvrryFS4SJKxKR56hxEBqQYUJ_dUGoARf6ecuZsPp13PkmIRsJgBg3oKSefyHsVpVWf-nMGIPEU39VNqtD/s2048/Haugesund%20church%20and%20school.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXvhx1L09qnY8vK5TLtGR5PUoDz4tqftHdUr41tT0ve202tWzq4cztovSWHs0vSlz7ZnDyoOLi8MHKKNjkMWzy7JqC1IgrQ9SVdryIkSvrryFS4SJKxKR56hxEBqQYUJ_dUGoARf6ecuZsPp13PkmIRsJgBg3oKSefyHsVpVWf-nMGIPEU39VNqtD/w400-h300/Haugesund%20church%20and%20school.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church on left; big yellow building at top right is <span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px; text-align: left;">Aspøy skole</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I continued up the hill to take a look at an absolutely massive yellow building that you can look up and see from anywhere in the town. A woman (perhaps local; certainly Norwegian) approached me and said “English?” When I confirmed that I speak English, she went on to address me in that language, saying how unfortunate it was that the church, of which Ålesund is so proud, was closed, when it’s worth visiting. “It’s a <i>shame</i>!” she repeated after me. She seemed sorry on behalf of Norway. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">(The yellow building, by the way, is </span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Aspøy skole, built in 1921. I thought it must be a museum or something by now but, charmingly, it is what it always was: the local elementary school.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5BdJqd3y9owOIcRc9tm4vUtMSiTFtD64qaYc5K7pYc61xRov3Eg55QW5a5ASYZAnAkhSRbjW9gGVGE3AB8-b8AIpJZMGaqVM6jQtJN4lPKIPjboBKYZhonRdQ_UMm7xMeOdZDmVXPyro116DtupH9wddYVk-cM5QDNZJxfJST8m6dzsrskxWG3hh/s2048/Joachim%20R%C3%B8nneberg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5BdJqd3y9owOIcRc9tm4vUtMSiTFtD64qaYc5K7pYc61xRov3Eg55QW5a5ASYZAnAkhSRbjW9gGVGE3AB8-b8AIpJZMGaqVM6jQtJN4lPKIPjboBKYZhonRdQ_UMm7xMeOdZDmVXPyro116DtupH9wddYVk-cM5QDNZJxfJST8m6dzsrskxWG3hh/w300-h400/Joachim%20R%C3%B8nneberg.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 2px;">Joachim Rønneberg led the raid (from Britain) during World War II on German heavy water manufacturing, preventing the Nazis from getting the atomic bomb.</p></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Norwegians may not be a very religious people these days, but everyone we spoke to was extremely nice! Where else in the world would a taxi driver, to whom we gave way as pedestrians, roll down his window and say “Thank you very much” in our language?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">If the drivers of Norway were any friendlier, they’d wait all day for others to go.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtZFIm8m0vjJfU6jn2SI776ngZz5VHATZ4jsZLdqAmwoNftfUX0ACp51SPWBuPitsXHcdiTCzGSUKbgScznw_4IMFpVNbSwEbmfZDGPav1SAJjbVkQm2Uo69iaHydc8DxT9QMwcPmaU1qflg14IF2fHd6soYNLZI54bKFhAn83EPRxrTFkMb6dOXw/s2048/Sister%20and%20Brother.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtZFIm8m0vjJfU6jn2SI776ngZz5VHATZ4jsZLdqAmwoNftfUX0ACp51SPWBuPitsXHcdiTCzGSUKbgScznw_4IMFpVNbSwEbmfZDGPav1SAJjbVkQm2Uo69iaHydc8DxT9QMwcPmaU1qflg14IF2fHd6soYNLZI54bKFhAn83EPRxrTFkMb6dOXw/w300-h400/Sister%20and%20Brother.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sister and brother" statue</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Niceness and generosity are much-needed characteristics in Norway, as in other countries. The Norwegian settlement pattern is unique: historically, a farming and fishing population was spread thinly all across the land, with few areas either wilderness or densely populated. Meanwhile, the massive social changes of the past five decades include a significant population change: whereas in 1970 immigrants, including people with two immigrant parents, numbered a mere 57,041 in 1970, by 2017 that number had risen to 883,571. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J4lcSEEoYxo3kosJ9QiQlH-9lDMUsZFM1rzGe58zcicw9x3rxdlV6R3JyFkRFnymp-Tymr5Bw9GN6A7rQykdhRn99V9chzdIlOMCLMe65fx1GDJK5EFetUKfXm8OpdPI7a4IGeODaVtYXTGPWdImerH1GDQuoN_1ggqTECIRZT_qy9HVwm7kV21U/s2048/Multicultural.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J4lcSEEoYxo3kosJ9QiQlH-9lDMUsZFM1rzGe58zcicw9x3rxdlV6R3JyFkRFnymp-Tymr5Bw9GN6A7rQykdhRn99V9chzdIlOMCLMe65fx1GDJK5EFetUKfXm8OpdPI7a4IGeODaVtYXTGPWdImerH1GDQuoN_1ggqTECIRZT_qy9HVwm7kV21U/s320/Multicultural.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Our fourth and last port of call was further south down the coast, at Haugesund. We heard from some women we had dinner with that it had pelted down snow the night before, and there was snow on the deck in the morning.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28fji3cNqGQztX0ZZDT82NI8IMlDopjq5NNBUtiCvOKgERf3lBzf1ne8_ABx6SQoD0vwOWqORZZL9bfK2qThTKzltqWw558l-zRvRLt1hoDTiUiR8R-geqkJW6OlyX7aAeehnrtstT-7IG3j1j-o_qr2boGcNLjhOUf3-TXuU6KUUDa4S-jUdQPjx/s2048/snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28fji3cNqGQztX0ZZDT82NI8IMlDopjq5NNBUtiCvOKgERf3lBzf1ne8_ABx6SQoD0vwOWqORZZL9bfK2qThTKzltqWw558l-zRvRLt1hoDTiUiR8R-geqkJW6OlyX7aAeehnrtstT-7IG3j1j-o_qr2boGcNLjhOUf3-TXuU6KUUDa4S-jUdQPjx/w300-h400/snow.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqGlrqNqPMIcbacHjEgJwSgVbs5E-sF5qa6tJD04nsTV-GXgBIfAASuQtRbwBdOF-vrlWfjiEsWlqNiH_ma3dPmDjgkqrz7touZzcxlQlv-9PtDZ4etOLUzym4nL-03mdSG1PDgOP42qOVqcRWKvg5Ss2c-3QUu_qVet_M4S3Ui-HACvkPI-4RETM/s2048/Polar%20bear.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqGlrqNqPMIcbacHjEgJwSgVbs5E-sF5qa6tJD04nsTV-GXgBIfAASuQtRbwBdOF-vrlWfjiEsWlqNiH_ma3dPmDjgkqrz7touZzcxlQlv-9PtDZ4etOLUzym4nL-03mdSG1PDgOP42qOVqcRWKvg5Ss2c-3QUu_qVet_M4S3Ui-HACvkPI-4RETM/s320/Polar%20bear.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polar bear skeleton found when someone renovated their basement</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">However, the sun came out once again in Haugesund and it was lovely all day! We had more good coffee and pastry at Totalen—our reward for walking 6 km out and back along the coastal path. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkWKb4LT0SL_LX-RIglNBSJXmq6nZL_a2JVGPe4BD0jNBNPPx_0i777tXX38RKPfv-peIepRJCUByyIIQRV7gwXaH7J55ASMHGacFEFtMvOMtHJg7lwoTSIaoqXrktnMHkzPpUem6YmWzH42H-rpQ2CQPK9Rnr3Ck0l7dDovZiagg30m_wVWv5LDX/s2048/lighthouse%20and%20turbine.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkWKb4LT0SL_LX-RIglNBSJXmq6nZL_a2JVGPe4BD0jNBNPPx_0i777tXX38RKPfv-peIepRJCUByyIIQRV7gwXaH7J55ASMHGacFEFtMvOMtHJg7lwoTSIaoqXrktnMHkzPpUem6YmWzH42H-rpQ2CQPK9Rnr3Ck0l7dDovZiagg30m_wVWv5LDX/w400-h300/lighthouse%20and%20turbine.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old and the new</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xVVfcjwjvFG0sYMlhp50y9P7CK_PiTH2sPbDNgAJRwZNPEjHNx4mPVM0Lp8XhIWW6PTwlwsmhecW76l5m4ZyeSubnVH5c-djunzJKDfoIEgiw7wHjKTUIinVuGdtUGBeDS9IdN4b11LsP5H9MhXRynHcCQg0DBCYN0_BcZd39Mwv4r3AGf8VQmrL/s2048/Haugesund%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xVVfcjwjvFG0sYMlhp50y9P7CK_PiTH2sPbDNgAJRwZNPEjHNx4mPVM0Lp8XhIWW6PTwlwsmhecW76l5m4ZyeSubnVH5c-djunzJKDfoIEgiw7wHjKTUIinVuGdtUGBeDS9IdN4b11LsP5H9MhXRynHcCQg0DBCYN0_BcZd39Mwv4r3AGf8VQmrL/s320/Haugesund%206.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4weustbNjmw04iGC1s8DgUAuRiqoPcT5lSTBykUif9tixBzVxgzadgziXcxTTKBRP2FPPmLL-f-nvCizl6733TGyKFtUwwmQmz3Mu-mqCImqs5dROgDRs2Bw5WUgcnqToGnh-W8hi2Yh8fIcKyVg-iQXZwk2oIYi6meJHEn50Ki9p66USpKwokYW1/s2048/Haugesund%205.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4weustbNjmw04iGC1s8DgUAuRiqoPcT5lSTBykUif9tixBzVxgzadgziXcxTTKBRP2FPPmLL-f-nvCizl6733TGyKFtUwwmQmz3Mu-mqCImqs5dROgDRs2Bw5WUgcnqToGnh-W8hi2Yh8fIcKyVg-iQXZwk2oIYi6meJHEn50Ki9p66USpKwokYW1/s320/Haugesund%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WwllDLwkY61mMzJVUhQIKeION4bSnEkrTMsw8S3poCA4427GnkCVwTU2N7Dh1r952qmwZ7P_SH6TR8pywvoFQgUYqS0H-fe9Xq5Ro0UgFa3X_ceEUpBghupNwpQ2UiPrSBw6Q3IpUJnhvg4MTryY49daKUehiRPxGz2hctkCN8ud-3Ztm5BI98HM/s2048/Haugesund%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WwllDLwkY61mMzJVUhQIKeION4bSnEkrTMsw8S3poCA4427GnkCVwTU2N7Dh1r952qmwZ7P_SH6TR8pywvoFQgUYqS0H-fe9Xq5Ro0UgFa3X_ceEUpBghupNwpQ2UiPrSBw6Q3IpUJnhvg4MTryY49daKUehiRPxGz2hctkCN8ud-3Ztm5BI98HM/w400-h300/Haugesund%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixS_s7axNaqxE4sCSsSahsylLwdyulhZ23IwNEJPmq38Nyb64VFUKnuSaw9MnL1y3-AcufrIJQFPi8dc3z9r6p0DWfWXCpN9ojMFtWuKZMrcT9qgLhRhOqbTuG97mTNJakklNU8_TPv8r6BguCA1h1OP9bvhpCt87odTj76p5IiuwmBOaSfLFD5Okj/s2048/Haugesund%202.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixS_s7axNaqxE4sCSsSahsylLwdyulhZ23IwNEJPmq38Nyb64VFUKnuSaw9MnL1y3-AcufrIJQFPi8dc3z9r6p0DWfWXCpN9ojMFtWuKZMrcT9qgLhRhOqbTuG97mTNJakklNU8_TPv8r6BguCA1h1OP9bvhpCt87odTj76p5IiuwmBOaSfLFD5Okj/w300-h400/Haugesund%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone cross in Haugesund, dating from ca. A.D. 1000</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ix4RiBv4vPWAtC2td5wkit8jXwRy6xEoDNmcaXDgKXEOanmkDst2deT-kw_uKG1kaQh-P6hPljSJWJFkOAZ64s1-MVa24-BcNgWaKlPy0FOF5VE2Ow9R3IdEjEY_Gn3CnahmeS_mlkSnDwANg0-vFg1xwPWnNKfuPN2I3LKy-lrpctzo19jKnTfD/s2048/Haugesund%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ix4RiBv4vPWAtC2td5wkit8jXwRy6xEoDNmcaXDgKXEOanmkDst2deT-kw_uKG1kaQh-P6hPljSJWJFkOAZ64s1-MVa24-BcNgWaKlPy0FOF5VE2Ow9R3IdEjEY_Gn3CnahmeS_mlkSnDwANg0-vFg1xwPWnNKfuPN2I3LKy-lrpctzo19jKnTfD/s320/Haugesund%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haraldshaugen, monument to Harald Fairhair, who first united Norway</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjPiahOZawf5aJRIYSuQ3aYK8-ZUA3wp1VR6Sr-3stDBFIvDUU1EicJPnx6ak87GV99kfgZjWsoeatW80YAucSfl6zMOSC0STQzHefzsix0S7WakESkTVatGEctMwQSK1F4AKDCYaBIWfTVYygzCD52gmVpYfupxbtJddVgKCzZUuzJP5MNoTawuD/s2048/closed%20church.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjPiahOZawf5aJRIYSuQ3aYK8-ZUA3wp1VR6Sr-3stDBFIvDUU1EicJPnx6ak87GV99kfgZjWsoeatW80YAucSfl6zMOSC0STQzHefzsix0S7WakESkTVatGEctMwQSK1F4AKDCYaBIWfTVYygzCD52gmVpYfupxbtJddVgKCzZUuzJP5MNoTawuD/s320/closed%20church.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(77, 81, 86); color: #4d5156; font-size: 14.000000953674316px; text-align: left;">Vår Frelsers church. Closed!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">On our last, sea day, T. had a little luck in the casino while I, belatedly, discovered the “busker” on board. He played songs like “American Pie” and “Wichita Lineman,” and of course, that put me in a mellow mood. I wish I’d been to more of his shows but I talked to him that night, and learned he’d just bought his new 12-string guitar at a music shop I’d seen in Haugesund.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JdLeb2sA5BDsJhGSnYJ7KaEjBDDhFLduQsAyCC7en-gduocus_0iyekvsPCcL4ubrHrUZr9vtcbRpIZEy-igFeHxuCe0EDAKz_6LbRKdwj8aEmdGgdGpKVvvO5L6YbzA4ca0CXUNFn28Bps_sF0KBuAtNef8u3tC_AXZqul5inClCJVOuAjjxqOv/s2048/Yolo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JdLeb2sA5BDsJhGSnYJ7KaEjBDDhFLduQsAyCC7en-gduocus_0iyekvsPCcL4ubrHrUZr9vtcbRpIZEy-igFeHxuCe0EDAKz_6LbRKdwj8aEmdGgdGpKVvvO5L6YbzA4ca0CXUNFn28Bps_sF0KBuAtNef8u3tC_AXZqul5inClCJVOuAjjxqOv/s320/Yolo.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Relaxing in Olden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">In the evening, the sky cleared and once again I saw some pink sky. Had to go out walking on the deck, where there was one other woman, who started talking to me. She lives in London, but sounded French; at any rate, she was enjoying the beauty of the sky. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKSy9QG2-NnD6s02aqZOLcEtu3JOjSA-LIyc9NT_s1DCiatbrt9Od-0qhYq-JRfxLZcVQ5Am7QZ4iODvHxsy7uK2LE-8SzMWnjeguGPYw3Bo0mnUkkaKWuxhAtk9mcHT8jw1DafxMA_57oMjWxt_b71Bb9y2sEr8Gs-CmRqTBqGLH3jnRav4Qv0w8P/s2048/Rocky%20sailaway.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKSy9QG2-NnD6s02aqZOLcEtu3JOjSA-LIyc9NT_s1DCiatbrt9Od-0qhYq-JRfxLZcVQ5Am7QZ4iODvHxsy7uK2LE-8SzMWnjeguGPYw3Bo0mnUkkaKWuxhAtk9mcHT8jw1DafxMA_57oMjWxt_b71Bb9y2sEr8Gs-CmRqTBqGLH3jnRav4Qv0w8P/s320/Rocky%20sailaway.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Norway may not have that many world-famous artistic figures, but their best-known include Henrik Ibsen, the most-performed playwright in the world after Shakespeare (his <i>A Doll's House</i> was the world's most-performed play last year) and Edvard Munch, whose <i>The Scream </i>set a record price for the sale of a painting.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb0zhLUHKJMwXAjpzOKdwAo_aasBrwkgG3bSzC0Gtmwx0UM-CEJL35TnhkOhM7beBoGz5sH0CC-7-fQdztsBH5mhxOAUoY67XUKNf-whZlh9oZO55aI28Z3c7Y5L7vDVMInPA5IMpKkE3xrhs14aswlqlvNqnCxPmWPq04M1kDqi5HUk3QYjNUNlN/s370/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-15%20at%2012.55.09%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb0zhLUHKJMwXAjpzOKdwAo_aasBrwkgG3bSzC0Gtmwx0UM-CEJL35TnhkOhM7beBoGz5sH0CC-7-fQdztsBH5mhxOAUoY67XUKNf-whZlh9oZO55aI28Z3c7Y5L7vDVMInPA5IMpKkE3xrhs14aswlqlvNqnCxPmWPq04M1kDqi5HUk3QYjNUNlN/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-15%20at%2012.55.09%20PM.png" width="305" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Much parodied</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">One of the only Norwegian books I have read is <i>Sophie’s World </i>by Jostein Gaarder. In this novel, Sophie, a girl about fourteen years old, is led through a discovery of Western philosophy and the contributions of wise men and women through the ages. An unlikely subject for a bestseller, perhaps, but philosophy professor Gaarder managed to take a good idea and make it accessible to millions of readers. It is with a quotation from another Gaarder book, seen on display in Stavanger’s archeology museum, that I will leave you. Like so many things, it reminds me of my Mom, and how great a teacher she was of children, including her own.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitER_upzIh0Lfvn5GL9GhHvMDM9zulVECXRS9mKZwMEtvA0JxO7UA5MZwQsAbUvbkCW0t5w3hxay9nMLkVSvwRaRl1Hty8l2qXTukHcU1xIfLVAaRottvRXNGytTo3q8ND4ZZcu9PCvjiJOTd4YCke9Bsabp94CXDCfBlImsqs80ObttoHMZcyfrZD/s2048/Jostein%20Gaarder.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitER_upzIh0Lfvn5GL9GhHvMDM9zulVECXRS9mKZwMEtvA0JxO7UA5MZwQsAbUvbkCW0t5w3hxay9nMLkVSvwRaRl1Hty8l2qXTukHcU1xIfLVAaRottvRXNGytTo3q8ND4ZZcu9PCvjiJOTd4YCke9Bsabp94CXDCfBlImsqs80ObttoHMZcyfrZD/w640-h480/Jostein%20Gaarder.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-46200934788905729822023-04-14T03:20:00.005-05:002023-04-14T09:05:17.478-05:00Groove<p><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">“…the death of my mother was the thing that made me believe the most deeply in my safety: nothing bad could happen to me, I thought. The worst thing already had.” </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">― </span><span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold;">Cheryl Strayed, </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"></span><span id="quote_book_link_12262741" style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/17237712" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;"><i>Wild</i></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When I first read Cheryl Strayed’s memoir ten years ago, I thought it was the story of her hiking alone on the Pacific Crest Trail. Recently, I reread it and realized it’s about grieving her mother, who died at the age of forty-two. Of course, it is both.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I notice different things now because, as for Cheryl Strayed, my mother’s death has fundamentally shifted my world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s been five months, and in that time I’ve traveled from my home state, Tennessee, to Arizona for Thanksgiving, and back again for Christmas with my dad, then finally home to England for the New Year. You’ll notice two uses of <i>home </i>in that sentence, and I’m not sure if both of them are accurate, or neither. This is what I mean: I have become, in some way, a different person. I’m still a traveler and a writer, but not the one I was before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mom spent the first nine nights of November in the hospital in Johnson City, where I was born, and left us precisely at sunset on the 10<sup>th</sup>. We took turns staying overnight with her, and for most of those days she was consciously with us: talking, laughing, even singing to the extent that high-flow oxygen allowed. A friend of mine who remembers well Gracie’s gift for song remarked that a lung disease seemed uniquely punishing for someone who was such a good singer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When, periodically, a medic would come in to confirm Mom’s name and date of birth before some treatment, she would almost smile, before enunciating quietly: “Grace Knowles. June 12<sup>th</sup>, 1948.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Groovy Gracie. Groove, as I called her. All the years after I left home, when I phoned or, more recently, e-mailed the two of them at Dad’s address, I always said “Hi, Groove.” Dear Groove </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Apple Color Emoji"; font-size: 16pt;">🎵</span></p><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;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuY0a7W9jffm3vKEcM6OAIb67ivp71Yqc8CyBvtJMg66gLClJF2aY4TxI3O8vY2w_iBgLz7OyPUorMnTsoLUESbCYRhyl9IGkCbUmK78Sp0I1LnetBdCtGyAp3-tOnelt42ewsnIK_rOfUSbX7JWO5JPSfwGwHPSezCqQkwdIIHGBAN87wLmR4Sri/s1008/groove1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuY0a7W9jffm3vKEcM6OAIb67ivp71Yqc8CyBvtJMg66gLClJF2aY4TxI3O8vY2w_iBgLz7OyPUorMnTsoLUESbCYRhyl9IGkCbUmK78Sp0I1LnetBdCtGyAp3-tOnelt42ewsnIK_rOfUSbX7JWO5JPSfwGwHPSezCqQkwdIIHGBAN87wLmR4Sri/w400-h300/groove1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bisbee, Arizona (Ben & Elizabeth's wedding), May 2011<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A musical note was her symbol, because she was always singing. If you said “How does ‘Memphis, Tennessee’ go?” or “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…” Groovy Gracie could sing it all the way through, and would, at a moment’s notice. To her kindergarten students, she sang about colors and shapes. In the hospital, she sang along with an <i>a cappella </i>hymn the five of us used to sing together; but she also insisted I find, on my phone, a <i>Sesame Street </i>parody called “I Want to Hold Your Ear,” and went through it to the very last frame. In church, in the choir, she sang hymns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Hymns were not the only songs we sang in church. There are a lot of folk songs, especially on the records Groove had listened to over and over in the 1960s (which I still have) that evoke biblical promises. It was one such song, “You Can Tell The World” by Bob Gibson and Hamilton Camp, that I specifically had in mind when I decided I wanted to learn the guitar. I wanted to play the guitar and I wanted to sing that song, with Groove:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“The Jordan River is chilly and wide,<br />I’ve got a home on the other side.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This is the imagery of spirituals, also found in Gibson and Camp’s song “Well, Well, Well”; in “Go Tell It On The Mountain” and “I Wonder As I Wander”; even in Bob Dylan’s “When The Ship Comes In.” We sang them all, as anthems in front of the church. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We loosely followed the versions we heard on Groove’s records, or my tapes and CDs, and “just knew” them. When we played Peter, Paul and Mary’s version of “When The Ship Comes In,” a song with four verses and no chorus, I started the song, and on the second verse Groove joined in vocalizing in harmony. Halfway through the third verse she started singing the words with me, and came in on the last verse, which we sang all the way through together. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Groove would also, occasionally, find sheet music of songs she thought I’d like, and mail them to me: in Chicago, Oxford, Toronto. In my guitar case I have a version of the Sacred Harp hymn “Devotion.” This version is not written in shapes, but I love singing shape note music, and she knew that. I always wanted to take her and Dad to a Sacred Harp singing, but the closest we ever got was singing “Wondrous Love” in church.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The last weekend of this past October was the London All-Day singing, and I led “Devotion.” At an All-Day you are limited to one or two verses, because there are so many singers and songs to get through. “Devotion” has been a favorite since my Toronto days and I’d almost always led the first and last of the three verses, but this time I chose the first and second. The words, like so many in <i>The Sacred Harp</i>, are by the eighteenth-century hymn writer Isaac Watts:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: #fff1da; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Sweet is the day of sacred rest;</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">No mortal cares shall seize my breast.</span><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Oh, may my heart in tune be found,</span><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Like David’s harp of solemn sound.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Then shall I share a glorious part,</span><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">When grace hath well refined my heart,</span><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">And fresh supplies of joy are shed,</span><br /><span style="background-color: #fff1da; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Like holy oil, to cheer my head.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><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/AVvXsEigdQ6pvU3x13dGSrjQk8Sp2m-yVBXSCeymI-6dYnn0yd-Zcj-oTmN7E96riNmmneTPEs0u04NPNYrRyUHE3-9EfeMk5FUTbQ-Uk4N7Fo0nXQLg3P6etIKgtoWZYAXvuJTF_TtGgyPhVxtsWfzAPTqQYyXDBzNX_lwmicWknHGBQDPBGTRt8TiG_GgN/s2048/Groove2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdQ6pvU3x13dGSrjQk8Sp2m-yVBXSCeymI-6dYnn0yd-Zcj-oTmN7E96riNmmneTPEs0u04NPNYrRyUHE3-9EfeMk5FUTbQ-Uk4N7Fo0nXQLg3P6etIKgtoWZYAXvuJTF_TtGgyPhVxtsWfzAPTqQYyXDBzNX_lwmicWknHGBQDPBGTRt8TiG_GgN/w400-h266/Groove2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glacier National Park, Montana, July 2018. Photo by Trish </td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I spent the weekend singing, but it was an uneasy one. E-mails with Dad on Saturday brought news that, as in the previous few weeks, things were getting more difficult for Mom at home. On Sunday night I exchanged WhatsApp messages with Groovy Gracie from the pub, where we were singing sea shanties and folk ballads in the basement. “You and your ’60s records are here in spirit!” I wrote. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was our last text message exchange. Two days later, I Skyped them but Mom couldn’t even join in the call. We ended it and Dad took her to the hospital. It turned out her pain was due to a collapsed lung.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">That was the 1<sup>st</sup> of November. On the 2<sup>nd</sup>, they finally got her symptoms under control, but recovery was proving more difficult. Mom’s sister came to the hospital, then my brother Ben and sister Rachel flew in from Phoenix. By the 3<sup>rd</sup>, I was there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Over the coming days we gathered, reminisced, and basked in Groove’s smile. Her daughter-in-law and granddaughter came. Some of her dearest friends, some from decades ago. Such a steady flow of chaplains and other devout people were praying in the room that I didn’t pray at all, nor feel that I had to. I let their prayers buoy me up. And they did buoy us up. Those words helped every member of our family, whatever our degree of religiosity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In my updates for Gracie’s friends and relations, I wrote that when you’ve practiced your faith as long and consistently as Mom has, it’s like anything else, muscle memory. When you come to the time when you really, really need that faith, you don’t have to think about it because it is just there. Like a reflex. <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">She did not seem to be afraid of anything. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One of the songs I played for her on my phone was “Devotion.” I sang along, and what with all the repetition Ben joined in too by the end. I don’t even remember what day that was, sacred time all blurring together. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The night of the 8<sup>th</sup>, it was my turn to stay with Mom again. During the early hours, I tried to play a <i>Messiah </i>chorus for her, but she was too tired to keep listening. “We’ll sing more in the morning,” she told me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Sometime the next day Mom slipped into unconsciousness. Rachel said she was aware of some of the praying that was going on around her, but I’d gone for a nap by then. Late that night Trish arrived from England, got to hug Mom and talk to her. I ended up staying that night also, because Trish didn’t want to leave her, and neither of us wanted to leave Ben there on his own.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our Gracie left this earth the way I would want to leave it. She had no fear, and everywhere around her was her loving family. She’d often spoken about not wanting to lose her memory or her capacity to relate to people. It was a good death, but she was only seventy-four.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I suppose it is always too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On Christmas Eve </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I was at Mom and Dad's house, going through a drawer with her jottings etc. in it. At the bottom of the drawer was a rubber mat. I noticed a small card (back of a business card) that had gotten tucked underneath the mat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I pulled it out and Groove had written:</span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpAMtAq4jprpwflM_2IcDduoOZQTupD9HkDNqfl16h0UgQ_-SYO3UPUyqInLOn54bXeBVzZnZF3lf4Fs5dXC7g7Q5dd3qgjt5uHoGwYwDahk0o4WPZPaQEcoFoymX3GksbijNcUZLCymOiX5XRRp7r5yZ-jzWiwzOjittezPvwjo_kIppW08TYdPE/s2048/Groove%203.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpAMtAq4jprpwflM_2IcDduoOZQTupD9HkDNqfl16h0UgQ_-SYO3UPUyqInLOn54bXeBVzZnZF3lf4Fs5dXC7g7Q5dd3qgjt5uHoGwYwDahk0o4WPZPaQEcoFoymX3GksbijNcUZLCymOiX5XRRp7r5yZ-jzWiwzOjittezPvwjo_kIppW08TYdPE/w400-h300/Groove%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">She had come in on the last verse.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y2cxqQanZ9E" width="320" youtube-src-id="y2cxqQanZ9E"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-49691782670484798722022-09-25T10:54:00.014-05:002022-10-23T09:42:41.168-05:00London: showing some class<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And so it’s farewell, to a classy individual who caused people to dress up, stand and march in straight lines, and brought us together in unity, while exhorting us with old-fashioned values. I speak, of course, of the recent death of my high school band director, Bill Scott.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeqdcoLes70yGSjtbnfgngbV5dDlfglQGdI2nhI5QfURQedo3rSnkvD6Z6dcpI7YmYATDDDc39OUIhQgwqmLkhvpSoznDrUfbTj1Q6iLFZshBz7WlqeWSx9Q3vt08toxYVj1Slrs-9j-Fd_OnwbvZ3uuwzi3a1HuRlYCtkaf8bRbq-PJ802LAxx08/s4000/P1070727.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeqdcoLes70yGSjtbnfgngbV5dDlfglQGdI2nhI5QfURQedo3rSnkvD6Z6dcpI7YmYATDDDc39OUIhQgwqmLkhvpSoznDrUfbTj1Q6iLFZshBz7WlqeWSx9Q3vt08toxYVj1Slrs-9j-Fd_OnwbvZ3uuwzi3a1HuRlYCtkaf8bRbq-PJ802LAxx08/w400-h300/P1070727.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clarinets, state funeral procession, 19 September 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mr. Scott preached “class,” a word that sounded old-fashioned even at the time, especially in America. “Show some class,” he would urge us at a band competition. Other bands lacked <i>class</i> because they went around with their jackets unbuttoned, but also because they failed to applaud other bands. When we won the band equivalent of a sportsmanship medal, we knew that made him prouder than any of the other awards we received.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOCT6wPVR8eG5Qc-w-kygmGCgt0QO2Dc-5rX1nAfhgAY7STRxPd-VjUgNORv_BIyUaAgLzyyj4heBQMRpHymFguME_TjzYtfB_dOQUyB8EaOIoPu-gpLGl6TO6Wl3c05yLHQsPM33IEAxq7mUzbSMwBO1xSZEaxUzmAcgLpGR3VzubqkkmAE1yHqi/s4000/P1070714.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOCT6wPVR8eG5Qc-w-kygmGCgt0QO2Dc-5rX1nAfhgAY7STRxPd-VjUgNORv_BIyUaAgLzyyj4heBQMRpHymFguME_TjzYtfB_dOQUyB8EaOIoPu-gpLGl6TO6Wl3c05yLHQsPM33IEAxq7mUzbSMwBO1xSZEaxUzmAcgLpGR3VzubqkkmAE1yHqi/w400-h300/P1070714.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Being high school students, we made fun of Mr. Scott a lot, but we admired him too. Authority figures are complicated. They speak to us from another generation and of course, we think we know better in the new. Jeanette Winterson, in her <a href="https://amp.theguardian.com/uk-news/2022/sep/11/jeanette-winterson-on-mourning-the-queen">reflection on the death of Queen Elizabeth II</a>, writes “</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #121212; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The wrecking ball of revolution, big or small, smashes what we have loved, as well as clearing the way for something new. New doesn’t always mean better – as the exhausting disruption and acceleration of our own times makes clear.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktjUEwpnHE2Y9E0gLrhiFyj1AbmsEO-oMbBFeR7QARTx2Yn92r7JtX7AbhAcdbDf_EGLqNNditJEBsOr2OTUFjRqxxAgotFMFcf5naiGm-TJFoDJmd5GPIzC5XALOd6qmQ8OJixts_xTPXOmbYVKQDkWEIcYD7-AK9tNud8dJZKL4oWiaG1wTltn2/s4000/P1070717.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktjUEwpnHE2Y9E0gLrhiFyj1AbmsEO-oMbBFeR7QARTx2Yn92r7JtX7AbhAcdbDf_EGLqNNditJEBsOr2OTUFjRqxxAgotFMFcf5naiGm-TJFoDJmd5GPIzC5XALOd6qmQ8OJixts_xTPXOmbYVKQDkWEIcYD7-AK9tNud8dJZKL4oWiaG1wTltn2/s320/P1070717.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Winterson also mentions that many in Britain and beyond would call themselves republicans, meaning they would prefer an elected head of state to a monarch. One of my republican (in this sense) friends acknowledged that a lot of people were saddened by the death of the Queen, but her heart went out to everyone who was saddened by the loss of anyone. I’ve heard a lot of people say, and I also feel, that we’re surprised how much we’ve been affected by this death of someone we didn’t know personally. Because it’s not just about one person, but about a different generation, the values those people represent, and all that we have lost.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9vkF8rfwuTrSR7y_hzleAe0BaXPe-Z13pMkXyxcUvQN6gPIncROuePsdGptQLBqc0xSU72lk3CaKezbBLxfoF-roKuIPLye1ye92bhYQwDvuIjmWJfh6Z-U1h_Iehm2VLbNDWRmVs90Lr2zx4U61X9l1ow5Gw7TH6KqE7YFWDK3VMPuWrNOl8NzS/s4000/P1070740.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9vkF8rfwuTrSR7y_hzleAe0BaXPe-Z13pMkXyxcUvQN6gPIncROuePsdGptQLBqc0xSU72lk3CaKezbBLxfoF-roKuIPLye1ye92bhYQwDvuIjmWJfh6Z-U1h_Iehm2VLbNDWRmVs90Lr2zx4U61X9l1ow5Gw7TH6KqE7YFWDK3VMPuWrNOl8NzS/w400-h300/P1070740.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Goodness knows, as a world, we’ve had a lot of loss in the past few years. Early in 2020 we visited our friend Margaret, who had lived across the road since the 1950s, until failing health forced her to move. She and her husband, Fred, were married on the same day as then-Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip, and they received a Diamond Anniversary card from the Queen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">That visit to Margaret turned out to be our last. I saw her daughter on our road, gathering some things from the house she’d been born in, and she mentioned that the government was soon going to order us to stay home, because of the pandemic. Shortly after the first lockdown began, we lost Margaret. Her death was not caused by COVID-19, but our inability to see her was.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As was our inability to celebrate her life. Like so many other families, our neighbor’s were not allowed to have the funeral gathering they would have wished. Our road is a friendly place and many longtime residents wanted to say goodbye to Margaret. On the morning of her funeral, her family arranged for the hearse to pass slowly down the street, past the house where she’d lived with Fred until just a few years ago. We, the neighbors, lined up to pay our respects to a good woman and a long life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zNhJQIQT-JLbdk_DMtUUqIAP0NvRkjn0CB3PC_2tk_hxbDGDk4pACFDBaJjB4_u8165V_5QlTNW7JMtZymp7mHjXdJURDsmxDpXpDMLXj_yhnCVSokGGNe16Utv5EPB1LV6aCO3Tlijl9AB_cEPTdJsCMsCbWhPS2HOq9mj2vc5YZXp4ZfIfABXT/s4000/P1070734.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zNhJQIQT-JLbdk_DMtUUqIAP0NvRkjn0CB3PC_2tk_hxbDGDk4pACFDBaJjB4_u8165V_5QlTNW7JMtZymp7mHjXdJURDsmxDpXpDMLXj_yhnCVSokGGNe16Utv5EPB1LV6aCO3Tlijl9AB_cEPTdJsCMsCbWhPS2HOq9mj2vc5YZXp4ZfIfABXT/w400-h300/P1070734.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arms reversed in mourning</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I thought of Margaret when I saw the long and growing queue to visit the Queen’s coffin lying in state. The BBC broadcast a continuous live stream of this event, and I was hardly able to take my eyes off it. There is something deeply human about wanting to connect with other people, and the opportunity to do so in such an old, ritual form is rare these days. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWft52EtLbtZwvaDFuk8a12wbBhitwyPdCX-jleOy6mjt1CLJd4UWsNXeE1SgNpGSgN4I2OIWJnlkleVAC3bfDj4ZQVC0pghkhdoAJJ4VKkW4Gv_gZkoidKdU0UO5PEl_FmIPWKBJZVzlaKR_Viewo01_L1YLqYEnP2DEf9HkgxhlVmQw5L1HLdG8t/s6176/P1070708.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="6176" height="88" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWft52EtLbtZwvaDFuk8a12wbBhitwyPdCX-jleOy6mjt1CLJd4UWsNXeE1SgNpGSgN4I2OIWJnlkleVAC3bfDj4ZQVC0pghkhdoAJJ4VKkW4Gv_gZkoidKdU0UO5PEl_FmIPWKBJZVzlaKR_Viewo01_L1YLqYEnP2DEf9HkgxhlVmQw5L1HLdG8t/w640-h88/P1070708.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Mall</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I heard about Mr. Scott’s death from another country, shared only in comments from fellow band members I have not seen in decades. I know that he—like Queen Elizabeth, like Margaret—was preceded in death by his spouse. So was my paternal grandmother. For their golden wedding anniversary, she and my grandfather (who, like many in my family, served in the Second World War) had the gift of a trip to England, Wales, and Scotland. In her journal Grandma wrote of one occasion when Grandpa raised eyebrows at her singing along to the national anthem, “God Save The Queen.” “She’s a nice lady,” was Grandma’s comment. “Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcIvAHOtKHnCNUuTmjgxIaNj3GHS-YgzPfPP68VS-v5kSEsrZK27uuJbnWzdAtgfN4hySoeOXnaysPn6WVpPvwHn61_Jvn0SnSREzmplNiFUzkFYAAe7YjG3xlVz2gbpxFKiIsxYKKjb8VO5Rrdx5IH7QRglCOj8y4wXU7MEPGvKRyNlwArjEhCis/s4000/P1070735.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcIvAHOtKHnCNUuTmjgxIaNj3GHS-YgzPfPP68VS-v5kSEsrZK27uuJbnWzdAtgfN4hySoeOXnaysPn6WVpPvwHn61_Jvn0SnSREzmplNiFUzkFYAAe7YjG3xlVz2gbpxFKiIsxYKKjb8VO5Rrdx5IH7QRglCOj8y4wXU7MEPGvKRyNlwArjEhCis/s320/P1070735.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Nice ladies. Grandma, Margaret, and the Queen. It’s an old-fashioned word, “lady,” another that Mr. Scott would have used. “Behave like ladies and gentlemen,” he might have said. How dated! Yet as the people queued past Queen Elizabeth’s coffin—hour after hour, filing through the oldest part of the complex that houses the British Parliament—I got a different perspective on dated. “Old” might mean ninety years, or it might mean a thousand years, the age of Westminster Hall.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAAqWXbt-REH9ASXgPyXskIwF_o4WAmQSF0UOZ2weA962lPYikVOYVrVrusLm-v52ZhLS4J1Iq3vNFI9qlYi6SSViVugDuyIBqm80mlfC5eIoqLCu3NtQQZ-HctSI_6Y6UpRqpBHvaCoXvkUwVyMbrVRtkFri21iTr8ORxsB4NTaSshZDXh1_JWJC7/s4000/P1070712.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAAqWXbt-REH9ASXgPyXskIwF_o4WAmQSF0UOZ2weA962lPYikVOYVrVrusLm-v52ZhLS4J1Iq3vNFI9qlYi6SSViVugDuyIBqm80mlfC5eIoqLCu3NtQQZ-HctSI_6Y6UpRqpBHvaCoXvkUwVyMbrVRtkFri21iTr8ORxsB4NTaSshZDXh1_JWJC7/w400-h300/P1070712.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Security, done unobtrusively and/or with class!</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One member of the public, interviewed in the queue, said he knew “everyone on Twitter thinks we’re all nutters.” Yet another sign that Twitter is not real life. Sitting at a keyboard expressing an opinion, as I am, is not <i>doing </i>something. I can’t defeat Putin from here, although it’s fashionable to imagine fighting fascists is something one can do in a Tweet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Still, we can’t resist offering our opinion, and some on Twitter at least were offering theirs politely. “This is a country I don’t recognize,” one wrote. Who are these people, wearing black and standing in line for hours to genuflect to someone “they deeply believe is better than them”?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CMw3wi_ISoS5h50I68t7f3j5H5c2sZ39ZKxsDccBt_1aayB-3jVTJjQRy1NGcZGTTaR30uODxDSNOQ9bYYV_cYl-0ekJsp8sLfXk96Kaq_Zd-aFy7yD5zwVbIdMgy_WCoHXBI3Hb_HDZm-b1ESk1aF3FPb3KZIR564dZ3v3RBDe82cqVd61b2Nk3/s4000/P1070715.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CMw3wi_ISoS5h50I68t7f3j5H5c2sZ39ZKxsDccBt_1aayB-3jVTJjQRy1NGcZGTTaR30uODxDSNOQ9bYYV_cYl-0ekJsp8sLfXk96Kaq_Zd-aFy7yD5zwVbIdMgy_WCoHXBI3Hb_HDZm-b1ESk1aF3FPb3KZIR564dZ3v3RBDe82cqVd61b2Nk3/s320/P1070715.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Well, they are thousands, tens of thousands, of your compatriots and people from other countries too. So it’s worth asking who they are, and not just rhetorically. Spend any time watching the live stream and you would soon see that the full range of age, race, disability, and indeed dress was represented. From jeans and T-shirts to uniforms of saluting officers, whose service was to the Queen. There were people crossing themselves. There were skullcaps. There were turbans and headscarves.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpO6N85uOgOceGnGk4lQh9uVh1ocla41J1A2gm3fGOPPN_Yh8megVP3BQBUtu-_Ow6RJBIN3-N4OdpupcJRjMyb7Etxsvp-BXNGyXsJS77F12R4bbviGqmOwzbGkK26AmHc8-HWTINMLpZsRjnhDDgRJVJNVsuTD2XOUJKN9xfIHEjYwOvr8WXEbi/s4000/P1070733.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpO6N85uOgOceGnGk4lQh9uVh1ocla41J1A2gm3fGOPPN_Yh8megVP3BQBUtu-_Ow6RJBIN3-N4OdpupcJRjMyb7Etxsvp-BXNGyXsJS77F12R4bbviGqmOwzbGkK26AmHc8-HWTINMLpZsRjnhDDgRJVJNVsuTD2XOUJKN9xfIHEjYwOvr8WXEbi/s320/P1070733.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And kilts</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I can’t speak for why they were all there or whether they believed Elizabeth II was a better person than they were. What does “better” mean, anyway? I presume the objection is to the old-fashioned notion of “your betters,” people whose status is above you and therefore, to whom you should bow. Some bowing and curtseying went on, and some tears. Many people seemed only to want a moment to stand, in quiet reflection. My instinct when Margaret’s hearse went down the street was to raise my fist in salute, but I wouldn't do that at the Queen’s coffin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7s74x1jEu9ouzyEaVSj7KPtdVQUSJaBcC7AzI6q31u004fh-Niw_VnF0mjsv9jK4W9SDjyb0p7wbCOiRBlKfz9pt7uq0rYln7G0kEPcu7m_FbEeq-uQMLw4Dj60rusvKjOEQvQzXqqWJ4sb4u2-Fjnld9hOCSerCPsX9eDTzF7FsDO3wCxRcWlCI/s320/Knowles_car%202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7s74x1jEu9ouzyEaVSj7KPtdVQUSJaBcC7AzI6q31u004fh-Niw_VnF0mjsv9jK4W9SDjyb0p7wbCOiRBlKfz9pt7uq0rYln7G0kEPcu7m_FbEeq-uQMLw4Dj60rusvKjOEQvQzXqqWJ4sb4u2-Fjnld9hOCSerCPsX9eDTzF7FsDO3wCxRcWlCI/w640-h480/Knowles_car%202.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: center;">Car containing Prince George, Princess Charlotte, and their mother, the Princess of Wales</span><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Perhaps they were there for the quiet. Occasionally a baby cried, and there was, every twenty minutes, a gentle tapping to indicate it was time for the changing of the guard. But it was otherwise <i>silent </i>in Westminster Hall, and no one was there to disrupt it. Even the most solemn observances outside, in public places, weren’t that quiet. There was spontaneous applause, shouting (some, but not all, respectful), singing of “God Save The King.” Outside, with no queue, you could go along just to see what was going on if you wanted to.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And of course, take a picture. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys3LLQyMAk5MndnlfKO6ejsg-eQK18-Aohxg5vH17PQGr02uiK3clfBhrFTpgeVRKiqNyxH_SI_-5v9g_Q3bKAYmUWIeBrC0r4IyWR38BagBhqLifIzDyiotcOhCMD11t9OBO7B_lDFq51pHhzPZS6ZmHiMonE1x0kr2oF-wcVc3pA5VJhSkBdKIR/s4000/P1070721.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys3LLQyMAk5MndnlfKO6ejsg-eQK18-Aohxg5vH17PQGr02uiK3clfBhrFTpgeVRKiqNyxH_SI_-5v9g_Q3bKAYmUWIeBrC0r4IyWR38BagBhqLifIzDyiotcOhCMD11t9OBO7B_lDFq51pHhzPZS6ZmHiMonE1x0kr2oF-wcVc3pA5VJhSkBdKIR/s320/P1070721.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is it just me, or does it look like our Guard stuck his finger in the light socket?</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br />Every other event surrounding the Queen’s passing was pictured with a crowd of people holding their mobile phones aloft. It could be pretty, like the effect of holding up lighters at a concert, but everyone was trying to capture their individual moment with the Queen, the King, the princes. Inside Westminster Hall, you couldn't take pictures. The room is a thousand years old, and people were behaving, more or less, the way they would have behaved a thousand years ago on a similar occasion.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmSWpLPldicPM0w-RMOOqpqPt6Q4ih2i49OdFDvB5zFONL6GN9V61wYKrI9NCI4ruaTkkbwIXPpKuzPtuhMcTib4Oc118sPXK1beNxt9AS4e4NTys15wqYZlQQc-17beVODek5K-9FpXiOtcc6myO8y3qiBJKKqaO3Ire_gAgRkuEsv8ARGJrv-KG/s4000/P1070720.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmSWpLPldicPM0w-RMOOqpqPt6Q4ih2i49OdFDvB5zFONL6GN9V61wYKrI9NCI4ruaTkkbwIXPpKuzPtuhMcTib4Oc118sPXK1beNxt9AS4e4NTys15wqYZlQQc-17beVODek5K-9FpXiOtcc6myO8y3qiBJKKqaO3Ire_gAgRkuEsv8ARGJrv-KG/s320/P1070720.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We live in an era when everything is photographed. When something hasn’t happened unless it’s documented on a phone. I tried to think of places in the world, occasions, where people had been this quiet and respectful and no one was taking selfies. The only ones I could think of were those associated with death.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">People usually behave this way in church, too, but attendance at religious services is part of far fewer people’s regular lives than used to be the case. They may only have attended weddings or funerals. At the lying in state there was a solemnity, a sense of the sacred, that may only happen on a few occasions in many contemporary people’s lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqrnKugo7ghAdHbBZcAcKCyPRrB7QeNrtq-MXkZ_HHxetnCvnjW2LV8TwopGdB04cvTTFffB8SqVclUOqmm3jPIgwZynIMDCoAn7JQlxWOuEWmzNuovfNjKTNuRB8sHV3p6YeCTG5nF41pN6RiDImzAf0bDswTLaxXRUf8r4z1PA5LDmiZLfaMam-/s4000/P1070736.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqrnKugo7ghAdHbBZcAcKCyPRrB7QeNrtq-MXkZ_HHxetnCvnjW2LV8TwopGdB04cvTTFffB8SqVclUOqmm3jPIgwZynIMDCoAn7JQlxWOuEWmzNuovfNjKTNuRB8sHV3p6YeCTG5nF41pN6RiDImzAf0bDswTLaxXRUf8r4z1PA5LDmiZLfaMam-/w400-h300/P1070736.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I imagine that, for many attending the lying in state as well as for me, there was also the sense of being part of a collective experience, of a moment that had not come for over seventy years and—at least in terms of a Queen—will not come again in our lifetimes. Other people have pointed out that the world, and even the business of Britain, did not stop because of this moment and that a lengthy period of public mourning was perhaps a distraction. For a Ukrainian, or indeed a British family struggling to pay daily living expenses, all this pageantry might seem far removed from a more urgent situation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGK5vnPWFe3H0fSDR0AFFwW4d3cODU4dZeea7HmTKGJlnBPJuhGFaNDhgr0dOPssuPpVn-LEvK5AgkouREJYTtXqr-EkWFDT9HG93jORHFMh0-7jFxGW8or8dw4D40GOLP4MSe4dgmuVblUTufBGxrS5KbboPnMCHTXSNLQeMQGkPGiAdkG8Nuj_P/s4000/P1070748.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGK5vnPWFe3H0fSDR0AFFwW4d3cODU4dZeea7HmTKGJlnBPJuhGFaNDhgr0dOPssuPpVn-LEvK5AgkouREJYTtXqr-EkWFDT9HG93jORHFMh0-7jFxGW8or8dw4D40GOLP4MSe4dgmuVblUTufBGxrS5KbboPnMCHTXSNLQeMQGkPGiAdkG8Nuj_P/s320/P1070748.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">All that is true. And yet when I think about the Queen, and Margaret, and my Grandma, and Mr. Scott, I think about what they represented. Ladies and gentlemen, duty and class. Which, as it turns out, I miss when they are gone.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Late in the Queen’s life came the funeral of Prince Philip, who died in 2021. Many remarked on the sad spectacle of the Queen sitting alone, masked, at the funeral of her spouse of seven decades, which was the duty of everyone in Britain at that time. It has since emerged that members of the government that ordered those sacrifices were ignoring the rules themselves, partying away, in one instance the very eve of that funeral. But it was Her Majesty’s government, and she did her duty, setting an example for everyone else. Who looks “better” in this case: the hereditary monarch, making the same personal sacrifice as so many ordinary people did, or elected politicians and their cronies showing only contempt for the people who trusted them with extraordinary power over our lives?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="yiv4823580248p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 2.25pt;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DsJTvYoDyjkbiP1WwFtdvjeDi5iRvrlKoQB-4Ss6GjCifdEu-r9BGJ3W3xvsJ8LIw4CNzXPEQf4ys2ylV1Q9e4S-zQ0uzuFXxNE7h9bNsL9OWfcXFyE9a936O6KmyxAdthGWRP4ySkq8YxgQOwb3LnAKfbNrbeb35nDw4UmXhd2EXSzqrfBRVF37/s4000/P1070728.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DsJTvYoDyjkbiP1WwFtdvjeDi5iRvrlKoQB-4Ss6GjCifdEu-r9BGJ3W3xvsJ8LIw4CNzXPEQf4ys2ylV1Q9e4S-zQ0uzuFXxNE7h9bNsL9OWfcXFyE9a936O6KmyxAdthGWRP4ySkq8YxgQOwb3LnAKfbNrbeb35nDw4UmXhd2EXSzqrfBRVF37/w400-h300/P1070728.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Representatives of armed forces from across the Commonwealth</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />One of the articles I read immediately following the Queen’s death described the massive changes that had taken place in society over the long decades of her reign. In the 1950s, status still depended on <i>class</i>, which in Britain means upper class, working class, etc. Whereas now, status means wealth or celebrity. It was a factual description, not commentary, but I immediately wondered which one was <i>better</i>. The Queen was not a celebrity, she never gave an interview; but in our day one can be a celebrity just for having a big arse. Or being on a reality television show, a work of fiction that elevates to the real presidency.<span style="color: #1d2228;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="yiv4823580248p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #1d2228; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Of course an elected leader can be revered: the last state funeral in this country was for Winston Churchill. And the black mourning veils on the princesses reminded me of Jacqueline Kennedy, mourning the death of her husband in drastically different circumstances. But in my own lifetime, I can’t think of any president or prime minister whose coffin I’d line up to see—even the ones I voted for. (Nor would I dance on the grave of any human being, but that’s <a href="http://jeknowles.blogspot.com/2022/06/blessed-are.html">another story</a>). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQuRhhfmQWM2kl-b1ceUw-RcTjAu40RWU8cfJRxKny1X_Ad05hqQYsbW7j-K1DGEiiBAqppgGKkMLtUWppamPpDU8tGxe8dcxjNpoKGjJg6O06flgduNqdzPyNiCAVYL6qY973ya7ZkLATAF6BcbeJ_FhoE7WipEd4MLz-mr5obp5llYgvXneMorl/s320/Knowles_horse%202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQuRhhfmQWM2kl-b1ceUw-RcTjAu40RWU8cfJRxKny1X_Ad05hqQYsbW7j-K1DGEiiBAqppgGKkMLtUWppamPpDU8tGxe8dcxjNpoKGjJg6O06flgduNqdzPyNiCAVYL6qY973ya7ZkLATAF6BcbeJ_FhoE7WipEd4MLz-mr5obp5llYgvXneMorl/s320/Knowles_horse%202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQuRhhfmQWM2kl-b1ceUw-RcTjAu40RWU8cfJRxKny1X_Ad05hqQYsbW7j-K1DGEiiBAqppgGKkMLtUWppamPpDU8tGxe8dcxjNpoKGjJg6O06flgduNqdzPyNiCAVYL6qY973ya7ZkLATAF6BcbeJ_FhoE7WipEd4MLz-mr5obp5llYgvXneMorl/w320-h320/Knowles_horse%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blues and Royals with horse</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Another of the memories people kept mentioning about the Queen was how, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">from her and her husband’s own isolation in Windsor Castle in 2020, she spoke directly to us about the challenge of the pandemic. It was during that first lockdown period, the hardest time, when death counts were daily headline news and vaccines barely dreamt of. This elderly, unelected head of state looked into the camera and evoked the wartime anthem “We’ll Meet Again” to encourage us in our separation from one another. Only someone from the Greatest Generation could have done that, with any authenticity. By contrast, the then-prime minister stood up daily and tried to make Churchill-like sounds, but nobody was fooled by them. People elected him, but he was just another politician. The queen had been through thirteen prime ministers before him, the first one Churchill himself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9jvGAtaHixAM7iYIzV6lTPhiap6oRH6ip72KRhyKQ3v3s3RbINPFszLWKEVsVUWRKFX0el6Iy7TE_HhZjcsgGgpQIrPI3gJzKEeGpxZoX8JWwWdmMGEd0mHfxvYCYILWloyXMYnYEGte72YpwL_B_Ou3VJa9aFcUIGzu_EQURb0jCW3uGRaxA-VW/s4000/P1070740.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9jvGAtaHixAM7iYIzV6lTPhiap6oRH6ip72KRhyKQ3v3s3RbINPFszLWKEVsVUWRKFX0el6Iy7TE_HhZjcsgGgpQIrPI3gJzKEeGpxZoX8JWwWdmMGEd0mHfxvYCYILWloyXMYnYEGte72YpwL_B_Ou3VJa9aFcUIGzu_EQURb0jCW3uGRaxA-VW/w400-h300/P1070740.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If the events surrounding the death of the Queen showed us nothing else, it’s that she and Vera Lynn were right: we met again. Not everyone, of course. Not our friends who died during the pandemic. COVID-19 is not over, it may never be over; but case numbers are lower in Britain than they’ve been since October 2021, and people are meeting again. In Westminster Hall, and outside, large crowds gathered, the government no longer forbidding them to do so. We can gather in our churches or our gardens or in the streets, like we did during the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee, just a few months ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The whole notion of reverence is old-fashioned, as is obedience (to laws, even when one doesn’t agree with them), and faith, and the belief that one is on earth to serve others, and God. The Christian faith is full of reverence for God as King, and this old-fashioned language has been changed, because it’s thought people can’t relate to a king these days. <span class="yiv4823580248s2"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Modern people aren’t supposed to believe anyone is <i>better</i> than we are. Equality means “leveling up,” whatever the Conservative government meant by that.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The idea that someone is “better” than us seems so offensive—until we think of someone, or at least some action, that seems beyond what we can do ourselves. Someone we aspire to be. Perhaps only God is really better, and that belief, to many, is old-fashioned too. <span class="yiv4823580248s2"><span style="color: #1d2228;">The ambivalence I have about monarchy—the absurdity that Charles Windsor should now be our King, in the twenty-first century—is not unlike my belief in God, or for that matter in “ladies” or “showing some class.” There are some problems with all of these, but if we get rid of them, what are we left with?</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyEoNp-BkbER4WB0HT576O35WTj24PytmmRlVHWMFq8fXtW04FHZkYAqiOZuj76dt7fSYZgr2y4dtAvFo0YZsE0u4JPDEInsYx2Je-UG5OaES95nGN5bbUI7hLZBIPFm8hYXVholwa2fqJ6mU2lgGW7sgYxIQ5-UcrkvA16mXf3MKwBuGJLZt4gzG/s4000/P1070739.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyEoNp-BkbER4WB0HT576O35WTj24PytmmRlVHWMFq8fXtW04FHZkYAqiOZuj76dt7fSYZgr2y4dtAvFo0YZsE0u4JPDEInsYx2Je-UG5OaES95nGN5bbUI7hLZBIPFm8hYXVholwa2fqJ6mU2lgGW7sgYxIQ5-UcrkvA16mXf3MKwBuGJLZt4gzG/s320/P1070739.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">By all accounts, Queen Elizabeth genuinely thought that her life was meant for service, to God and her country; this whole essay is starting to sound like the Scout oath or law. No one does something, however bizarre, for seventy years without genuinely believing in it. To me personally, the Queen didn’t represent royalty so much as just that generation of my grandparents, who did their <i>duty</i> by serving their country in World War II, and made real sacrifices in their lives. The Great Depression, or just staying married for all those decades. We have heard, almost on a loop, Princess Elizabeth’s pledge to her people on her twenty-first birthday: </span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service…”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But many people her age made vows at the age of twenty and stuck with them to the end of their very long lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Since the Queen’s and Margaret’s generation, people have increasingly quit marriages. We’re positively encouraged to quit jobs. But the Queen never quit. A lifetime commitment inspires awe in me because it’s something I can never do. And when we can only aspire to something, what’s wrong with calling that better?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYA3LlEovQJd4AFKPyetJPyOjf5DsiLg3uC-_lJFGMLJYyOqTStqX1CHITo1gA2us5GVPZ9vQDCgbKeV3o4TsdJhuc2hLBVbxiuinklWh1kFEDq2r4cf4xrwZ_GTsrpV44G0XQAcAx9hRFOxKZosFEFEnNTBQozaU85Qfw5wDVIhf884bFAWPnl_z/s4000/P1070724.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYA3LlEovQJd4AFKPyetJPyOjf5DsiLg3uC-_lJFGMLJYyOqTStqX1CHITo1gA2us5GVPZ9vQDCgbKeV3o4TsdJhuc2hLBVbxiuinklWh1kFEDq2r4cf4xrwZ_GTsrpV44G0XQAcAx9hRFOxKZosFEFEnNTBQozaU85Qfw5wDVIhf884bFAWPnl_z/s320/P1070724.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The procession was led by the Mounties.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5R1C1KDgcGgMFcbNmaLcze2_VjXdggL__ObmSKNwuFMslLzA-tABaw4qN2naAlFXBUXQqE_Zu7StT2NlPqzEYjwBrKfJmmUT-2Z9wWb3ztAkkyy_lwctkSHSWOMfY7X2SAUzN2vxTNbdPPcngZHTCuqSRQtrKZsOFaSQu3oGSwcQ7duWDlRtLlPQ3/s4000/P1070725.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5R1C1KDgcGgMFcbNmaLcze2_VjXdggL__ObmSKNwuFMslLzA-tABaw4qN2naAlFXBUXQqE_Zu7StT2NlPqzEYjwBrKfJmmUT-2Z9wWb3ztAkkyy_lwctkSHSWOMfY7X2SAUzN2vxTNbdPPcngZHTCuqSRQtrKZsOFaSQu3oGSwcQ7duWDlRtLlPQ3/s320/P1070725.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royal Canadian Mounted Police</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br />It’s a funny relationship we have, the British monarchy and I. I grew up enthralled with U.S. history, disappointed to learn that my own ancestors had been Tories, Crown loyalists, who left America for Canada. But then I went and did the same, working for the Canadian Forces (of which the Queen was commander-in-chief) and, in my citizenship oath, pledging my loyalty to the Queen of Canada, “her heirs and successors.” People who are born British subjects or citizens of the Commonwealth never have to make that pledge, unless they are police officers, or members of the armed services.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WdJdeYBP2uMLayHcfa6u9sRwkKuhPSlY_W48KRsV3n-EWt8jR1J9Ne1Rkmm0jjs7D3O542jjsrQlv3U_GNtflXYlKgm5698rSNzSUlTh7obdxsRStERUUFVuLOwqx5eHAuknxglFHsLZJg_rYoCxVVb_BvlqoBQR5Eo6jgg-EiuIACsr4WQi7aaI/s4000/P1070709.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WdJdeYBP2uMLayHcfa6u9sRwkKuhPSlY_W48KRsV3n-EWt8jR1J9Ne1Rkmm0jjs7D3O542jjsrQlv3U_GNtflXYlKgm5698rSNzSUlTh7obdxsRStERUUFVuLOwqx5eHAuknxglFHsLZJg_rYoCxVVb_BvlqoBQR5Eo6jgg-EiuIACsr4WQi7aaI/w400-h300/P1070709.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On Monday morning, we were out in the crowd to watch the funeral procession. I didn’t take a picture when the Queen’s coffin passed. I wanted, like those other people, just to have the moment, her and me, saying goodbye. But I also think that, while the coffin may contain the small body of Elizabeth R, she is not there. She is, perhaps, in the hall of another kingdom, with Margaret or Mr. Scott.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zJRJOdQ3gWs5kr26MYQa5XA_6A8Zj0kmkSr-AnCspe10a56UzlM8Y7Nd-_EETZlrGy8H1luuW_5sSpNqZxdeolK4PuOobHIB_L-LeGRKiocG3Mj6PsJAJR2bg8Pqmp-ngJ4NQ3cXVOsWM70j61rjGk-T0KxsxhtMHfvfCn3K1q2SsGx3IZg9V1lQ/s4000/P1070743.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zJRJOdQ3gWs5kr26MYQa5XA_6A8Zj0kmkSr-AnCspe10a56UzlM8Y7Nd-_EETZlrGy8H1luuW_5sSpNqZxdeolK4PuOobHIB_L-LeGRKiocG3Mj6PsJAJR2bg8Pqmp-ngJ4NQ3cXVOsWM70j61rjGk-T0KxsxhtMHfvfCn3K1q2SsGx3IZg9V1lQ/w300-h400/P1070743.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-43987703087975909692022-06-06T03:29:00.001-05:002022-06-06T03:29:22.187-05:00Blessed are<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">When the BBC news started playing audio of Steve Kerr, the head coach of the Golden State Warriors, I knew he wasn’t going to be talking about basketball. The NBA playoffs are not prime time news in Britain. Kerr was talking about gun violence—specifically, attacks that had just taken place in a Buffalo grocery store, a church in California, and a school in Texas. He was expressing the frustration that many people, in America and in its friends and allies abroad, feel about the seeming inability to do anything about what have become numbingly familiar massacres.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Kerr blamed the intransigence of Congress, specifically Republicans in the Senate. The BBC reported that</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;"> gun violence is now the <a href="https://fox4kc.com/news/guns-now-leading-cause-of-death-among-american-kids-cdc-research/">leading cause of death among</a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;"><a href="https://fox4kc.com/news/guns-now-leading-cause-of-death-among-american-kids-cdc-research/"> </a></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;"><a href="https://fox4kc.com/news/guns-now-leading-cause-of-death-among-american-kids-cdc-research/">children</a> </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;">in the United States--and then had to follow up with confirmation, because people were calling into the station incredulous. How could this be true, of a country not technically having a war on its soil?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I wanted to write that it isn’t as simple as Steve Kerr says. How gun violence is only one example of how the U.S. has become almost ungovernable, at least at the national level. But I didn’t write, because what I was feeling was worse than the frustration, anger, and bewilderment that Kerr and others were expressing. I was feeling numb, cynical, like this situation is never going to change. I felt like giving up. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">What feels worst is that it is my generation of Americans that has allowed this catastrophe to unfold. When <i>we </i>were growing up, there were no active shooter drills in schools. Mass shootings happened, but they were still exceptional, outrages. Yet we had the same Constitution and the same Second Amendment that had been around for 200 years—and we had an assault weapons ban. It is on our collective watch that this maximalist interpretation has been allowed to take over, and it is our generation's children who are being robbed of their psychological health, if not their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Meanwhile, I kept getting e-mails from Greenwood Rising, the excellent new museum in Tulsa, Oklahoma that commemorates Tulsa’s historic black neighborhood. I’m on their mailing list because we paid an <a href="http://jeknowles.blogspot.com/2021/11/to-tulsa.html">excellent visit </a>to Greenwood Rising last year, on our Route 66 road trip. Readers of this blog will recall that 2021 was the centenary of a horrific massacre of black Tulsans, one of the worst mass killings in the history of a country that has seen so many. The e-mails were letting me know about Greenwood’s observance of the 101<sup>st</sup>anniversary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">And then, in the middle of that observance, Tulsa itself was the site of another mass shooting, this one in a hospital. T. remarked that there are so many of these (a mass shooting is defined as four or more victims) that they are reported in categories now. “Another school shooting.” “A church shooting.” Like they are a <i>thing</i>. (As I was writing this, and looked up “church shooting” to verify the one on the 16<sup>th</sup> of May in California, <i>another </i>one came up just hours before, in Ames, Iowa.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">My feelings were not changing from numbness and cynicism. I already knew what everyone was going to say, from a basketball coach to British reporters to my various friends online. Some blame “the Constitution” as if it were an actor in all this. Some attack those to the left of them for proposing solutions that won’t work. Some attack those to the right of them for not caring about dead children. Importantly, it’s all words and no actions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">What good can more words do?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I didn’t read many words that moved me, that broke through my desire just to turn away and pretend none of it was happening. But I did read some, a comment by a friend of a friend, someone who, from the words he used, I guess has an evangelical background. He summed up the left and right bickering and the resulting inaction, and then asked: Who is happy at this state of affairs, that Americans are so hopelessly divided and angry at each other that no action can be taken to stop horrors we all know are horrific? Who could be happy about this? Jesus or Satan?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Now, many people do not talk this way. If I were to say to you, “I see the hand of the Enemy in all this,” we might quickly get hung up on is there a literal, personal Satan walking around causing misery, and that is not really where I want to go. Instead, I go back to my feelings, and the many (strong!) feelings swirling around, and ask a different question. Is the best way handle this to tune in to and express my feelings about it, or to wait until I’m experiencing the “right” feelings? Are feelings, perhaps, just sometimes, overrated? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Which brings me to a completely different set of events that's been going on in Britain and the Commonwealth this weekend: the Platinum Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">If some of you don’t know what to make of my bringing up Satan, others will surely feel the same about the Queen. She, or her role (which I would argue are not the same thing) seem odd or anachronistic. In fact, I am going to argue that in spite of a wide range of political opinions about the monarchy, there is something about the Queen that is countercultural, even radical. There may be something to learn from someone who has been around so long, and seen so much. Someone who is an anachronism or, to put it another way, a link to a different time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Put simply, the Queen in her official role is a stoic. There is probably nothing more unfashionable in the 21<sup>st</sup> century than stoicism. Think about the extent of emotions that people are constantly expected to express, from crime victims with microphones being shoved into their faces to seemingly everyone on social media. We may sympathize with the feelings or we may be angered by how wrong they are, but either way, we expect to emote all over the place. Nothing should ever be kept inside, whether it helps anybody else or not. And our own emotions are not enough; we are then supposed to ridicule the emotions of others, the ones that are wrong. Barack Obama’s tears were mocked from the political right. “Thoughts and prayers” are mocked from the left.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">For various reasons my adult politics have tended more to the left than the right, certainly by U.S. standards; and yet I’ve frequently been irritated (and irritating) on that part of the spectrum. For my brothers and sisters too often seem to be unhappy whatever is happening. They’re unhappy when their opponents are in power, certainly, but they hardly seem happier when their representatives are. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;">By the simplest definition, conservatives want to conserve things and progressives want progress, so perhaps it makes sense that conservatives would be happier with the world as it is. A</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">ccording to a </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="http://pewresearch.org/files/old-assets/social/pdf/AreWeHappyYet.pdf" style="color: #954f72;" target="_blank"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #008fd5; padding: 0cm;">report from the Pew Research Center,</span></a><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"> Republicans have claimed greater happiness than Democrats every year since the </span><a href="http://www3.norc.org/GSS+Website/" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #008fd5; padding: 0cm;">General Social Survey</span></a><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"> began asking in 1972. B</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">ut this isn’t true only in the U.S. There are British and Commonwealth voters who want nothing to do with the Queen, but they even more strongly dislike elected politicians. There seems to be no one they do like. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I sympathize with the votes of these unhappy people, but I wonder if they <i>want </i>to be happy. Those happy Republicans, I imagine the Democrats saying, are happy because of their privilege, because everything is stacked in their favor. There is so much wrong with the country; how can we be happy about it? Meanwhile the British and Commonwealth lefties can’t be happy celebrating a holiday weekend with their neighbors because it’s all about the Queen, and the Queen stands for privilege, and how can we be happy about that?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The funny thing about the Queen—and here’s the difference between her and her role—is that it is all about her, and yet it’s not about her at all. The Crown, like the Constitution in America, is something bigger than and separate from any one individual. It is what members of the military, officers of the peace, and civilians swear their allegiance to. Something bigger than you or me or even Elizabeth II, who has known fourteen presidents, whose first prime minister was Winston Churchill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">It is so hard, these days, to grapple with the concept that whether we <i>like </i>someone, how we <i>feel </i>about something, is not the most important thing and perhaps even gets in the way. The explosion of the internet, the divisiveness of Brexit or Trump, has brought tsunami after tsunami of feelings that are really quite awful, that I was not brought up ever to express. Being on the right (or is it the left?) side now means dancing on the grave of a prime minister, or wishing for the death of a president. I was not raised that way. When I was a child, even the word <i>hate </i>was not allowed in our house. If it appeared in a story that was being read aloud to us, it would be replaced by “dislike.” Some feelings were unacceptable, or certainly their expression out loud was.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Was that really so bad? Because the America I grew up in also didn’t have “school shootings.” Columbine hadn’t happened yet. There is nothing inevitable about the battle lines that are now drawn, about the warlike country Americans are living in. (Despite all these mass shootings, most of that gruesome statistic—gunfire being the leading cause of death in children—occurs away from the headlines, in neighborhoods that are violent for so many of their residents and not just children.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">For gun-rights advocates, gun ownership is an <a href="https://www.pewresearch.org/social-trends/2017/06/22/americas-complex-relationship-with-guns/">essential part of their sense of freedom</a>—how they <i>feel</i>. “But they shouldn’t feel that way!” We can deplore those feelings, or we can recognize that it is for that reason that <a href="https://news.osu.edu/americans-underestimate-public-support-for-key-gun-policies/">90% of Americans, including most gun owners</a>, <i>do </i>support some measures like universal background checks and “red flag” laws. Because they see no reason that such laws would prevent them, personally, from owning guns. If we realize this, despite how we may <i>feel</i>, we can work on doing <i>something </i>instead of the complete failure of the federal legislature to enact measures most citizens want.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">With a nod to the apolitical Queen, I challenge us to think of something we can do besides “defeat the opposing party.” Because let’s be honest: that hasn’t fixed things. I know, I know: if you don’t hate the people you disagree with, at the very least you <i>cannot </i>work with them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">How do you think the Queen felt when, as part of the Northern Ireland peace process, she shook the hand of a former commander in the Irish Republican Army, which had murdered her own cousin? No doubt she felt some emotion she did not express; but it wasn’t about her. She was serving something more important than any person, and more important than one country. Even the Queen could not, by herself, bring peace to Northern Ireland; but what she could, she did.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">In a position alien to Americans, the monarch is head of both state and church, “Defender of the Faith.” By all accounts, the Queen’s Christian faith is sincerely important to her, but for the role that she plays her personal feelings are, again, not so relevant. As part of the public role of Christianity in this country, we have people like the Queen and the Archbishop of Canterbury talking about forgiveness--yet another ridiculed foreign concept, along with its necessary companion, penitence. Such an old-fashioned word<i>.</i> Today people want accountability, which somehow excludes both forgiveness and penitence. If an artist, for example, has done something wrong or said something wrong—something on the side of hate!—we are never to enjoy their contributions again. People are unforgivable, and the way we punish them is to punish ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">This is awkward for Christianity, which teaches that <i>all</i> have sinned, as well as for Judaism. In the Hebrew Bible it is plain that everyone’s accomplishments are in spite of the ways they fell short, and there is no suggestion that they are not accountable. Moses and David faced real and severe consequences for the things they did wrong—and those are the most revered and “right” figures in the entire tradition. Were King David’s sins “forgivable”? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">My own reading in the Hebrew Bible has recently brought me back to the Books of Kings. Occasionally they describe a king who, like David, "did what was right in the eyes of the Lord," or a wise ruler like the queen of Sheba. Most of the kings, though are reported to have done what was evil. And what made them most evil of all? In their day the people "made their sons and daughters to pass through the fire." Child sacrifice. What made the gods of the nations <i>idols </i>was not just that they were other gods; idolatry leads to the deaths of innocent children.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">What is wisdom, what is duty, in a nation or a world where such violence is possible? None of us, even a head of state, has the power to change things alone. Perhaps change is best</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> accomplished not at the level of a throne or a nation, but on streets and in communities. For the Jubilee, we knocked on our neighbors’ doors and chatted on the street. I know that there are other neighborhoods where this is not possible, where people are being killed on the street. If we have the privilege of that not happening in our neighborhood, then maybe we have the responsibility of doing something for those not so fortunate. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">How old-fashioned that sounds, too! But getting hung up on whether that’s the correct way to feel or not will just be paralyzing. I admire anybody—volunteers, donors, officers of the Queen’s peace—who are doing something to reach out to communities and make a positive change in some measure. Hosting a refugee. Passing a state or local law. Whatever action means for you. What we can do, we should.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">“It may not seem like much," Madeleine L'Engle wrote in her work on the Beatitudes; "it is not much; but it is what is given at the present moment....When we are given the grace to be peacemakers even in these little, unimpressive ways, then we are children of God."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I still may not feel any better. But it’s not about me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-16092592101419814412021-12-10T05:00:00.001-05:002021-12-10T05:05:46.458-05:00End of the trail<div class="separator"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Dawn cracked over the Wigwam Motel. I heard a rooster crow. Still have no idea where that was coming from.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnBOmZ3eUR_bA9cnMichOP9gjg4VHZxa4ooGct1Qigv8WyGSQ63tn9vOOf280yYpbRl1-HwB9oAW4DySOcbGYxxe9KgnauMA7NebK_59wGBciKew_VOuf3N4fjyNHgNyaqJRF-lP8V6HHInyRI03nXpvlQm8vqPiYgTE_8tMv4NqNb_PW6Bu892pSZ=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnBOmZ3eUR_bA9cnMichOP9gjg4VHZxa4ooGct1Qigv8WyGSQ63tn9vOOf280yYpbRl1-HwB9oAW4DySOcbGYxxe9KgnauMA7NebK_59wGBciKew_VOuf3N4fjyNHgNyaqJRF-lP8V6HHInyRI03nXpvlQm8vqPiYgTE_8tMv4NqNb_PW6Bu892pSZ=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDMENm8zX4R5Fgtlrdgo96wkb_w5YZZqvDmde6QtmjhgqL_0XYCiyc0C4dRX1AeTEnT067ldjF84rWZpf--bq8EDhv1hA4Pa3_nwJJQSP5OKA7vcKgn4hypjfLPlx5uMISF-ButEeWxUi1uUQ4PHbi8YcbomM4YVh2CBQTaTXq73fx9IOCBHxJMkxJ=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDMENm8zX4R5Fgtlrdgo96wkb_w5YZZqvDmde6QtmjhgqL_0XYCiyc0C4dRX1AeTEnT067ldjF84rWZpf--bq8EDhv1hA4Pa3_nwJJQSP5OKA7vcKgn4hypjfLPlx5uMISF-ButEeWxUi1uUQ4PHbi8YcbomM4YVh2CBQTaTXq73fx9IOCBHxJMkxJ=w298-h400" width="298" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were on Foothill Boulevard, Route 66 west of San Bernardino. Decades ago this was lined with fruit trees. Now a lot of it is modern sprawl, though there are still things to look out for.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTyxwQgRhJIcHrUoJUmVL12eJsAOXD3lj3TIOnW2o3Oo3r_JrBKQKZvY1SNdBlpeuj9oXrRx8xHmpRMMgbqazMPycskHmZV-txKAJAMEQ6qDZtIfaZak8_xIQVZWdbPc2NkCILnWSTedxreTdLbt8QljMMOPr0iT1ZUekkbuIFZcv0YSQH5ZZ9I4q3=s2000" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTyxwQgRhJIcHrUoJUmVL12eJsAOXD3lj3TIOnW2o3Oo3r_JrBKQKZvY1SNdBlpeuj9oXrRx8xHmpRMMgbqazMPycskHmZV-txKAJAMEQ6qDZtIfaZak8_xIQVZWdbPc2NkCILnWSTedxreTdLbt8QljMMOPr0iT1ZUekkbuIFZcv0YSQH5ZZ9I4q3=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art Deco Standard Oil station, Rancho Cucamonga</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiFjBwJgrqHYOjixgiC8hekXZmHZxpWuXRSshMbKSq_AVO1r-nP_Uy1BsZYtNsEGjfKF7Ez41z74Su69-z8Oxw9eTBz1A8ZNXmPjC7bprhdMAGWIIYs5KGvHZlgWZNup_eJWQS05wgYBgY-fRNqyjULi2t4iYwIU3-g-aKGnOK3rt0pXh3ByDjH8AT=s2000" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiFjBwJgrqHYOjixgiC8hekXZmHZxpWuXRSshMbKSq_AVO1r-nP_Uy1BsZYtNsEGjfKF7Ez41z74Su69-z8Oxw9eTBz1A8ZNXmPjC7bprhdMAGWIIYs5KGvHZlgWZNup_eJWQS05wgYBgY-fRNqyjULi2t4iYwIU3-g-aKGnOK3rt0pXh3ByDjH8AT=s320" width="320" /></a><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiFjBwJgrqHYOjixgiC8hekXZmHZxpWuXRSshMbKSq_AVO1r-nP_Uy1BsZYtNsEGjfKF7Ez41z74Su69-z8Oxw9eTBz1A8ZNXmPjC7bprhdMAGWIIYs5KGvHZlgWZNup_eJWQS05wgYBgY-fRNqyjULi2t4iYwIU3-g-aKGnOK3rt0pXh3ByDjH8AT=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Rancho Cucamonga is, first of all, a great name for a town. Picture it as it was in Route 66’s heyday: orange groves, vineyards, wineries dating back as far as the 1830s! Now there are a lot of gas stations, none prettier than the 1915 Richfield station, preserved as a museum by enthusiastic volunteers.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinMezxknOC0ibrvBN0H3-ZLSAr3fyN75wwiC-3dfcejKBTT6HLSXd_XIQXLOmOpzL2AybfPTBznc0Ng_vjgLLyIZa6hTiCbYbLj8iLmJq0zKkZV3SXkxLwvArdR3MPHyAGTvYZ6-EjJvqTEt2YC36mhO5PwnOy1zvMNtEy6f3-QK_g5JAn3wXPhx4D=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinMezxknOC0ibrvBN0H3-ZLSAr3fyN75wwiC-3dfcejKBTT6HLSXd_XIQXLOmOpzL2AybfPTBznc0Ng_vjgLLyIZa6hTiCbYbLj8iLmJq0zKkZV3SXkxLwvArdR3MPHyAGTvYZ6-EjJvqTEt2YC36mhO5PwnOy1zvMNtEy6f3-QK_g5JAn3wXPhx4D=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK2gFf3kykE_IkKTM2ixcbx9pjGiAic0Mx8nCNYLDEUrNjr-kamgcoEMNW7Y_RMycCT0woiN5Q0VK3cQ49bgSRhKZ6aZR8tIiz_vO1jFShm3jPjyDbvV2oaTuIW3zp7OO-ku79zzZnE9lGjoLM-gf5Qu8hR9kSOMFRSGVy2ijZ0NypZ3pBkwnAZmOw=s2048" style="clear: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK2gFf3kykE_IkKTM2ixcbx9pjGiAic0Mx8nCNYLDEUrNjr-kamgcoEMNW7Y_RMycCT0woiN5Q0VK3cQ49bgSRhKZ6aZR8tIiz_vO1jFShm3jPjyDbvV2oaTuIW3zp7OO-ku79zzZnE9lGjoLM-gf5Qu8hR9kSOMFRSGVy2ijZ0NypZ3pBkwnAZmOw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Route 66 IECA (Inland Empire, California)</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The friendly volunteer here took our picture for the heritage association’s </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Facebook page. She showed us how every detail of the station has been restored—even the bell that rings when a customer drives (or in our case walks) up! “Are you going to the end of Route 66 today?” she asked. “It’s 90 degrees here but it’ll be nice in Santa Monica. Everybody will be going there today.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK2gFf3kykE_IkKTM2ixcbx9pjGiAic0Mx8nCNYLDEUrNjr-kamgcoEMNW7Y_RMycCT0woiN5Q0VK3cQ49bgSRhKZ6aZR8tIiz_vO1jFShm3jPjyDbvV2oaTuIW3zp7OO-ku79zzZnE9lGjoLM-gf5Qu8hR9kSOMFRSGVy2ijZ0NypZ3pBkwnAZmOw=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Somewhere along Foothill Blvd., T. spotted a sign for the “first adobe house 1843.” I didn’t photograph anything quite that old, although the Sycamore Inn began as a stagecoach stop only five years later.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxYpNA95CYiw18cybFqkVV4r6Mzlp3mNWi9A2iGalp1YbnLos-0_dq9xv5ev8g70ZSDYaQgrTm4bZlPbccCBO8elXE9MvDQ7Twu18E9XXFr51WGESJrKb4xpN-ycW71DBN32z0eivva_67eqVG8hVK6-Yjg_HdY3nAQa50N2QkH4syKWj8sBc033aV=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxYpNA95CYiw18cybFqkVV4r6Mzlp3mNWi9A2iGalp1YbnLos-0_dq9xv5ev8g70ZSDYaQgrTm4bZlPbccCBO8elXE9MvDQ7Twu18E9XXFr51WGESJrKb4xpN-ycW71DBN32z0eivva_67eqVG8hVK6-Yjg_HdY3nAQa50N2QkH4syKWj8sBc033aV=s320" width="320" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikWgdbw5QCWJJ0N6tjeVzxVoS0jLUMi8NShD8JNs9z6AIRX3_BNecL1wn75rPfaxjvKjOZH0RvlpEwWlbssV36v4Zb_3ts6vbJ94UaZw4DRUyVmFnm6tFr-SmblVQBufk-x4UPWAcc_C7LL_K35SZ0f6KokfqHgq0CJcbgiHJoe3Z8FITAbqfS2b6u=s2000" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikWgdbw5QCWJJ0N6tjeVzxVoS0jLUMi8NShD8JNs9z6AIRX3_BNecL1wn75rPfaxjvKjOZH0RvlpEwWlbssV36v4Zb_3ts6vbJ94UaZw4DRUyVmFnm6tFr-SmblVQBufk-x4UPWAcc_C7LL_K35SZ0f6KokfqHgq0CJcbgiHJoe3Z8FITAbqfS2b6u=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magic Lamp Inn (1957)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If you take the time to drive this way, the sights come thick and fast. Upland has one of twelve </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Madonna of the Trail</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> statues, this one identical to the one we saw on old Route 66 in Albuquerque. Jerry McClanahan writes amusingly of “those sturdy women who had to listen to months of ‘How much longer?’ and ‘When will we be there?’ from the backseat of the covered wagon.”</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLIgaHV95MIai9X633TTOsSSHOvz2Vq3H_o1ln0IGUPz7Ks480HlV-fCWMp2xKBca9hOZcqXqDcFggUloR9GgSLWQsNedMfMOYWtma0wIItfux2jYaCj6wv6qWzsVA_8KeCp8nbKQ6HutYFU5Ltwr0yW2LV9W2OWCh3DoDK3CakltLz_gjMuAX-fm-=s1291" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1291" data-original-width="893" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLIgaHV95MIai9X633TTOsSSHOvz2Vq3H_o1ln0IGUPz7Ks480HlV-fCWMp2xKBca9hOZcqXqDcFggUloR9GgSLWQsNedMfMOYWtma0wIItfux2jYaCj6wv6qWzsVA_8KeCp8nbKQ6HutYFU5Ltwr0yW2LV9W2OWCh3DoDK3CakltLz_gjMuAX-fm-=w276-h400" width="276" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> There’s a market along the tree-lined boulevard through Claremont that’s been run for over a hundred years by the same family. La Verne has a classic building built in the mission style in 1928 (the restaurant and sign date back to 1966).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvHzeEtY8C3FH1fFN0awQfWMWkaZEXEVggotMbvxKghIA75PoYxVnE8WSUL4BL-qpLuL-lL4VmIlKLc_hTkmGuljdU27KhP2CblBQPenHtaXBsgvmmT2yWr7tuOvLas7bEYsgVUQUiy72nkzckcRnm5tQQTx91tJJ1d7VMkr3pUE1RryiW-IOOKIya=s2000" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvHzeEtY8C3FH1fFN0awQfWMWkaZEXEVggotMbvxKghIA75PoYxVnE8WSUL4BL-qpLuL-lL4VmIlKLc_hTkmGuljdU27KhP2CblBQPenHtaXBsgvmmT2yWr7tuOvLas7bEYsgVUQUiy72nkzckcRnm5tQQTx91tJJ1d7VMkr3pUE1RryiW-IOOKIya=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Verne</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgY-I1VphJNUqvLN0O1CqGNdiIMFYTAQVpAzmkbU4lWi6YKgnkiFvQkYJIlIWoqWCswaQIjpveXufkhE6ROORFPZm_dQ5PFjM4Ebph8gCGk-OdaptsNcati7arF-KAIcxjI4O2lij1UfHi7IyjNzAmT6AgDn74PQBNOjkL4b4SJ5tCUd4vR6lD-BTVs=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgY-I1VphJNUqvLN0O1CqGNdiIMFYTAQVpAzmkbU4lWi6YKgnkiFvQkYJIlIWoqWCswaQIjpveXufkhE6ROORFPZm_dQ5PFjM4Ebph8gCGk-OdaptsNcati7arF-KAIcxjI4O2lij1UfHi7IyjNzAmT6AgDn74PQBNOjkL4b4SJ5tCUd4vR6lD-BTVs=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinnacle Peak Steakhouse, San Dimas</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I was determined to stop in Azusa. This town, “A to Z in the U.S.A.,” was where my great-grandmother (Gi Gi) spent the last years of her life. I remember addressing many notes to her address in Azusa, thanking her for the $2 bills she liked to send. I was too young then to know or appreciate Gi Gi’s colorful life, including a stint running a motel in Las Vegas, Nevada in the ’60s! Azusa has a tile and stucco City Hall (1932) as well as the preserved marquee of what was the Foothill Drive-in Theatre.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn8UADY2nKnzUsOl2haraykLrp6ikB03-iqdGj8aFMN7yz6weMah6MZUsUgeV3HC-4Wvh17n_WqhQy6A476NAXl3uuxL5nV-Bx0PGizHrY2uGt0euZHYSN7zn-IBtWiVWh6op7yeKnf9cFJuhAfwpT9xXHyFY4iCLHa8pH4Oh30-LoEQ4X_btV994r=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn8UADY2nKnzUsOl2haraykLrp6ikB03-iqdGj8aFMN7yz6weMah6MZUsUgeV3HC-4Wvh17n_WqhQy6A476NAXl3uuxL5nV-Bx0PGizHrY2uGt0euZHYSN7zn-IBtWiVWh6op7yeKnf9cFJuhAfwpT9xXHyFY4iCLHa8pH4Oh30-LoEQ4X_btV994r=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrbuugqmappDJakYWiTkg8QnM3VpLh-mlPCfPivq2LCyNiKeH0DKW-rhQbE8M_vLnK4ybF85m-U9-8Cneb-LIJT-pmwWnM5jvq4lT-zRcYmXrYB4klnkPZwZYKrSrbDf4tDI9ANG1X0rzfE5L_cUFAfL823NsGm8X__gJ97b3xLFyn3B3AiHBSTbVp=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrbuugqmappDJakYWiTkg8QnM3VpLh-mlPCfPivq2LCyNiKeH0DKW-rhQbE8M_vLnK4ybF85m-U9-8Cneb-LIJT-pmwWnM5jvq4lT-zRcYmXrYB4klnkPZwZYKrSrbDf4tDI9ANG1X0rzfE5L_cUFAfL823NsGm8X__gJ97b3xLFyn3B3AiHBSTbVp=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mayan Revival is another style of architecture that has almost disappeared from the country. Fortunately, Monrovia’s Aztec Hotel (1925) is still there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEs4O1Zosqwp9dLA5WeJR6VfYp2N142H5zdtc8pmEeuO4QMOrkWWEP9tBxeWmd7IJD02Kwkf01Rlv_6dE4ybL9FnrAxQ_fDLTcWZwBryPrlBju77fRN9o1HwWgd4DfbwLgz37BhMKic4DKt2a-04kYWHLwFyUSl-RFvG5wEAcbTEhgp7_5rCGakd_8=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEs4O1Zosqwp9dLA5WeJR6VfYp2N142H5zdtc8pmEeuO4QMOrkWWEP9tBxeWmd7IJD02Kwkf01Rlv_6dE4ybL9FnrAxQ_fDLTcWZwBryPrlBju77fRN9o1HwWgd4DfbwLgz37BhMKic4DKt2a-04kYWHLwFyUSl-RFvG5wEAcbTEhgp7_5rCGakd_8=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were headed for Pasadena and, since Route 66 passes right through Old Town, there was no excuse not to see my cousins Adam and Alma and their two daughters. We’d last seen these folks when we stayed with them in 2018—back when we were traveling around the world—and, what with COVID-19 canceling Thanksgiving and everything else last year, were overdue for a visit. Alma and Adam and the girls were eager not only to see us, but to find us the best lunch in town.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwA9P4sJA7TOZ80BkZKfD_VAdPwWiSmjpAu9doSxtFeNvroXBoostWLv20wu34l1YjMVYsPPQLJhJHmQ3OBoQ7KutGbYz--108S4z793gB7c1lHOcVKfOKbgVk95n-6nq3XHMoGASBs7AN9i45Fh9z6cimrTTkkOBB7Wq0QfLPRcQeGIy_fEjzuxGZ=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwA9P4sJA7TOZ80BkZKfD_VAdPwWiSmjpAu9doSxtFeNvroXBoostWLv20wu34l1YjMVYsPPQLJhJHmQ3OBoQ7KutGbYz--108S4z793gB7c1lHOcVKfOKbgVk95n-6nq3XHMoGASBs7AN9i45Fh9z6cimrTTkkOBB7Wq0QfLPRcQeGIy_fEjzuxGZ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcU7lE_6iv79FsWsInGoVFGsE8JCAIVmWF0dJ2bA09WDlBJSsSW_VrniuOddwm9mR05jG417who_WdUpZdIpqrSJqszuI9M7-pR4VJb5nUCHxvpgq4-onlEsV-CNLlfoipi_drhSKqa5uJk-P4SGeuSX3GuVE90IkNxTpgmVmDNx7Hrg7zR3XieL0p=s2048" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcU7lE_6iv79FsWsInGoVFGsE8JCAIVmWF0dJ2bA09WDlBJSsSW_VrniuOddwm9mR05jG417who_WdUpZdIpqrSJqszuI9M7-pR4VJb5nUCHxvpgq4-onlEsV-CNLlfoipi_drhSKqa5uJk-P4SGeuSX3GuVE90IkNxTpgmVmDNx7Hrg7zR3XieL0p=w400-h266" width="400" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbd-jpiuDBsKx-VkrGAUDvp1hj0xpFBh7Ug2ItGDi1-IL7optPKZeATsbGyQDoZKuSqZXWs0WrVwWgo6L-e3--bgcW9ADStM_6PTzcPuT0zmYTmIpXpKehfr77EhSz2zcYevHWpPQrTKmJ2d3BH0LoyMUCaMxAvSuKRBxUfhBln0pntlP4xILhfSnP=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbd-jpiuDBsKx-VkrGAUDvp1hj0xpFBh7Ug2ItGDi1-IL7optPKZeATsbGyQDoZKuSqZXWs0WrVwWgo6L-e3--bgcW9ADStM_6PTzcPuT0zmYTmIpXpKehfr77EhSz2zcYevHWpPQrTKmJ2d3BH0LoyMUCaMxAvSuKRBxUfhBln0pntlP4xILhfSnP=w266-h400" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Much as there are three different eastern ends of Route 66 in Chicago, so there are three different westernmost points. The original Route finished in downtown Los Angeles, at 7<sup>th</sup>and Broadway Streets. We’d been to L.A. on that 2018 trip, so the only part of this (1926-36) alignment we took was south on Fair Oaks Avenue. There’s a 1915 corner drugstore there that’s still a working pharmacy, but alas, it was a Sunday and closed. So all I got a picture of was Pasadena’s giant “Fork in the Road.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgOZdn-FlZ-qi_azG41y7QwwLY4W10dbNkZFqJTO-uixq0UA1pJbPNMncEUwDxWnYIFsPEPu6LcWGoP0y7RuX9l6Lmv2DycJLazR9hBq3Xc04iB8aDC2lhvsS5K3NI2YYQfaJ8Cnle2McDTBGL6QOUSQ8IN6sA1aQWdzP71NUjT-G4dFQZOdCKsJbG=s2040" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2040" data-original-width="1520" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgOZdn-FlZ-qi_azG41y7QwwLY4W10dbNkZFqJTO-uixq0UA1pJbPNMncEUwDxWnYIFsPEPu6LcWGoP0y7RuX9l6Lmv2DycJLazR9hBq3Xc04iB8aDC2lhvsS5K3NI2YYQfaJ8Cnle2McDTBGL6QOUSQ8IN6sA1aQWdzP71NUjT-G4dFQZOdCKsJbG=s320" width="238" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From Pasadena, Route 66 into L.A. is the Arroyo Seco Parkway. This was the first freeway built west of the Mississippi River (1940), and for a freeway it’s quite attractive: lots of sweeping curves and overhanging concrete bridges with fetching designs. Modern freeways are built for higher speed limits so the Arroyo Seco probably has a frustrating volume of traffic now, but on a Sunday afternoon it was a decent drive. I guess “everybody” had already gone to the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">By Sunset Boulevard, my camera battery had died (first time on the trip!) and it wasn’t the kind of road it was easy to stop on. You have to take my word for it that we made it to Beverly Hills and its Art Moderne police station (I did not see Eddie Murphy there). “We’re the Beverly Hillbillies,” T. joked.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5xyGUjGpemTNvnyWO4QnX5HkUUJwpGZpCV0OZq6v_lQXCDbiYuwYwWqUXGM7B-u2BlgIEippC87IU6-4k5gbpwbpdZ7GMJlVKv9pKPPM5lsXRfhvmii8cW-4n3V6cFlP9cvompyNY1Md2y4FsFk-kLdUz7U1C3kSHP49-Jnc2XcI_6DYI-I9WFm7e=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5xyGUjGpemTNvnyWO4QnX5HkUUJwpGZpCV0OZq6v_lQXCDbiYuwYwWqUXGM7B-u2BlgIEippC87IU6-4k5gbpwbpdZ7GMJlVKv9pKPPM5lsXRfhvmii8cW-4n3V6cFlP9cvompyNY1Md2y4FsFk-kLdUz7U1C3kSHP49-Jnc2XcI_6DYI-I9WFm7e=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br /> </i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There’s an understated left turn (no light; thankfully traffic was light for L.A.) and the next thing you know, you’re on the final stretch of Route 66. “Santa Monica Boulevard </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Apple Color Emoji"; font-size: 16pt;">🎵</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">” T. sang. I could see the Hollywood sign intermittently appear on the hillside, when buildings weren’t blocking it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In Santa Monica, the post-1936 alignment turns left on Lincoln Boulevard and ends at the intersection with Olympic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-d4FSF3OzdurPnYp6G8eAeezTScH--3t3EbEcMMG5gO2kSARXobUYAjR2FclNI1RwS5_r6Ejd-emZs2Te5XH6-jMw91ymjiyCXfIYuFkknLON0Lb4cjnPRkRjGzZ3WyKNOsXIvawi1bedQln9kcYjm5L0VNzhhDGCyf2zz_Ghovxa7cAUy-eoN2tS=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-d4FSF3OzdurPnYp6G8eAeezTScH--3t3EbEcMMG5gO2kSARXobUYAjR2FclNI1RwS5_r6Ejd-emZs2Te5XH6-jMw91ymjiyCXfIYuFkknLON0Lb4cjnPRkRjGzZ3WyKNOsXIvawi1bedQln9kcYjm5L0VNzhhDGCyf2zz_Ghovxa7cAUy-eoN2tS=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The reason for this ending was that Route 66 was an actively used U.S. highway, and the rule was that every highway had to connect with another (U.S. Highway 101A, in this case). You couldn’t just end a highway driving into the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">However, as Ian at 66 to Cali (the kiosk on Santa Monica Pier) later told us, most travelers coming down Route 66 through Santa Monica had never seen the Pacific Ocean before. So on getting their first glimpse of the ocean, they ignored the left turn and just kept on going down Santa Monica Blvd. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Well. The first time I saw the Pacific, when I was fourteen, I'd never seen any ocean before. Today as navigator, I’d timed us to be there for sunset, and we were. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaH6LTWHyM_SDRtq7puQLfa8ezDQ26TckNMPaI0HbcI7vdOWuXLOTLZ7blkjWdMwufBb82an91kmd_kFhkE00IqD6Yi6mauPl2qls2I23psHQskc53TdQBVSdYdSLSIbF6HKjXq0gotz7bhbngFizWcQQ44bibwyrNkXgx9EDWiFeKszQmZL6E60gZ=s2040" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="2040" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaH6LTWHyM_SDRtq7puQLfa8ezDQ26TckNMPaI0HbcI7vdOWuXLOTLZ7blkjWdMwufBb82an91kmd_kFhkE00IqD6Yi6mauPl2qls2I23psHQskc53TdQBVSdYdSLSIbF6HKjXq0gotz7bhbngFizWcQQ44bibwyrNkXgx9EDWiFeKszQmZL6E60gZ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7xHJwpqK2B7NhNYwJS01o4DC9WqQp68OAHEsUO3PwFkgGJCrzomesY_GfBwAfw1zaXW-axm-ZYT3nZuZybQwCUWZdsvR2uUmBUzqiYh6pVhsNHHtMAgdBwj3wY5wE3yRk3DmfJXgvKtUyh_RkUlqBhecmhhtUHN_E4TLpYcxZBUOB4-DJ1wjAdSJr=s2040" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="2040" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7xHJwpqK2B7NhNYwJS01o4DC9WqQp68OAHEsUO3PwFkgGJCrzomesY_GfBwAfw1zaXW-axm-ZYT3nZuZybQwCUWZdsvR2uUmBUzqiYh6pVhsNHHtMAgdBwj3wY5wE3yRk3DmfJXgvKtUyh_RkUlqBhecmhhtUHN_E4TLpYcxZBUOB4-DJ1wjAdSJr=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">So it is picturesque and appropriate that now-decommissioned Route 66 does, indeed, dead end on the coast, at Santa Monica Pier.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWzL9ytCvYja2u9_OYrv7qQNNRqp1D5d8-7s3AmC6SE-PugV-qAjGCEySG-qwQ8oQPUqVNUS3V49Qi08z4PmjsPLvDEW2UVPzvHd3ve4jdKEiBNJ-Hyvy7zAg4BfssxIYqbzml12nU737uDtWGx_fq2IBoY5OeYuvVsXP1IfbzUXJp2mBq03TRESDM=s2040" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="2040" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWzL9ytCvYja2u9_OYrv7qQNNRqp1D5d8-7s3AmC6SE-PugV-qAjGCEySG-qwQ8oQPUqVNUS3V49Qi08z4PmjsPLvDEW2UVPzvHd3ve4jdKEiBNJ-Hyvy7zAg4BfssxIYqbzml12nU737uDtWGx_fq2IBoY5OeYuvVsXP1IfbzUXJp2mBq03TRESDM=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFLPhejBJUq1eltmV9q-vDfXwo93VvluZKbJsNb3NqFviL6f12CysxXgKPH2vD6S9mYdMCU-Gy3PcIQ9FBGV6oqwngkSz3nbjsVmFX64VIjKg2IvA46eJqxr-HcNzbYXN_NZF1yESk9CUOUPCQFdeVWCbQOwoCHMr4WCEMuMRgxXOeav1JmMgWyOd_=s1984" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1984" data-original-width="1328" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFLPhejBJUq1eltmV9q-vDfXwo93VvluZKbJsNb3NqFviL6f12CysxXgKPH2vD6S9mYdMCU-Gy3PcIQ9FBGV6oqwngkSz3nbjsVmFX64VIjKg2IvA46eJqxr-HcNzbYXN_NZF1yESk9CUOUPCQFdeVWCbQOwoCHMr4WCEMuMRgxXOeav1JmMgWyOd_=w268-h400" width="268" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This is the sign that tourists (not all of whom, I suspect, have just driven thousands of miles on Route 66) take pictures with, but neither sign is original. In fact, according to Ian, historically there was no “finish” sign at the western end of the Route. The Route 66 kiosk has reproduced the one at Lincoln and Olympic, though, placing it on the more scenic pier; and he helpfully took our picture with it.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicRx82L_b8zIGfM2leo0rqt4dD5Nt429K207hS3Ydc1_Ri--Ec-Cv6EgtJrP-k3jaROIJay53bSE_AiJWAfjSX-HQhTHvKN8aI-EHU3JcDBdN7XeUvDP7XPeRxYXfad9LNS1CmGJWyvVzZHQoATSvmfvKlIIUkSeZH2vow9F9mVJZ98BILGvwOFW4J=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicRx82L_b8zIGfM2leo0rqt4dD5Nt429K207hS3Ydc1_Ri--Ec-Cv6EgtJrP-k3jaROIJay53bSE_AiJWAfjSX-HQhTHvKN8aI-EHU3JcDBdN7XeUvDP7XPeRxYXfad9LNS1CmGJWyvVzZHQoATSvmfvKlIIUkSeZH2vow9F9mVJZ98BILGvwOFW4J=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We had to celebrate, and luckily we had friends to do so with. Konn, whom I’ve known for thirty years, and Danny came to see us in London in 2019 (B.C.), and now met up with us in their city. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjGobFe82DJ3XcYIf7uIWY7y3sH_iEAeJY5hJbo_KtLbj7cxqnDbJLPl6L6fYOGfcczafYG79yhzB30flDSe39JNQ3lQUR728AtbnThYYV6Ys3uSKZgD7Du3bmcFK4nS3L2sJ5kEJ5KziOrsRi5qRP-YjCWr0RApD1haTSoutAYO7MMIwRWGg2U9U2=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjGobFe82DJ3XcYIf7uIWY7y3sH_iEAeJY5hJbo_KtLbj7cxqnDbJLPl6L6fYOGfcczafYG79yhzB30flDSe39JNQ3lQUR728AtbnThYYV6Ys3uSKZgD7Du3bmcFK4nS3L2sJ5kEJ5KziOrsRi5qRP-YjCWr0RApD1haTSoutAYO7MMIwRWGg2U9U2=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And we didn’t have to return the car till the next afternoon, so we had the morning to ride the Ferris wheel and enjoy Santa Monica Beach.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4ZCo8zeAyQgqjUiyFl0pUdiV-_DaqXU-AFUMceWYqFFKr20AeJODUS1izsGU3KDKzgWyydzHpsRpPjVDTmGxh6y0xwYX3doJCWn_d2gkBTQ9Ep3osv16e-G4hSyp-I49cXrIeHU5rXh9y7fTAofVwQ_xU7j198Cm0SMnLuYfwmv1FHIv3CL8uiSoQ=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4ZCo8zeAyQgqjUiyFl0pUdiV-_DaqXU-AFUMceWYqFFKr20AeJODUS1izsGU3KDKzgWyydzHpsRpPjVDTmGxh6y0xwYX3doJCWn_d2gkBTQ9Ep3osv16e-G4hSyp-I49cXrIeHU5rXh9y7fTAofVwQ_xU7j198Cm0SMnLuYfwmv1FHIv3CL8uiSoQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnB8gBCtnlu5ADnO75yMLwe2vq63DozSXT5Pg5LChTJaIaF0amWbB00qoTz5yMoGWH2z58ItRB3rwAZCRfyIq7rnz5x3fYUykOk9yW7mgX0p2jYGehELEqdlQzreniggybjSmKZSxYAcdrCL74EIZjb3Mmfj-mIMBn4XIqoZHEvCiPwNGLelyVaY4a=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnB8gBCtnlu5ADnO75yMLwe2vq63DozSXT5Pg5LChTJaIaF0amWbB00qoTz5yMoGWH2z58ItRB3rwAZCRfyIq7rnz5x3fYUykOk9yW7mgX0p2jYGehELEqdlQzreniggybjSmKZSxYAcdrCL74EIZjb3Mmfj-mIMBn4XIqoZHEvCiPwNGLelyVaY4a=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Georgian Hotel and Palisades Park</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkdCvAEr--vlHQaqei2r7t2b756x8iV_QUKlygLy8YqK62w7FLLC5C7TyegIrbovBsVSRUj9Hx1Gtg0Wm7TE3pG0Xcwm68xOI_TwwYLaFX6UvujJBBWnOK0HT7_TmhBKQlT9KyHG_HEiKG98xaKkUHNx-Uy_qV9RsaGW_XCnaObDLJ1j54Nm70xM_p=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkdCvAEr--vlHQaqei2r7t2b756x8iV_QUKlygLy8YqK62w7FLLC5C7TyegIrbovBsVSRUj9Hx1Gtg0Wm7TE3pG0Xcwm68xOI_TwwYLaFX6UvujJBBWnOK0HT7_TmhBKQlT9KyHG_HEiKG98xaKkUHNx-Uy_qV9RsaGW_XCnaObDLJ1j54Nm70xM_p=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Like the last time we were in California, I had conflicted feelings about the place. Sometimes the west coast feels as if it's just trying to do the opposite of whatever other states do, whether it makes sense or not. So many rules (smoking outside or vaccinations inside), yet such intolerance of homeless people, of whom California has an appalling number. In so many instances, public restrooms just forbidden. At least this one was open. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ3Z-o_yy4L75h7ZNdj2Dl9poZFT5fNrbRzTUZrVcqnW89WXBTjfjhi8hA-Ldm2C6Zvas8THd6IwK-TCXV-T30CKfjAtIjVvOUyaX0TOBotp-_gCPzJpMC-DG2qS32XxJf2Ov-eqwD3ckjRkOwgqg2iwVNcRhn0uxg8wegqOEV7iNXudB0bcTPPj-7=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ3Z-o_yy4L75h7ZNdj2Dl9poZFT5fNrbRzTUZrVcqnW89WXBTjfjhi8hA-Ldm2C6Zvas8THd6IwK-TCXV-T30CKfjAtIjVvOUyaX0TOBotp-_gCPzJpMC-DG2qS32XxJf2Ov-eqwD3ckjRkOwgqg2iwVNcRhn0uxg8wegqOEV7iNXudB0bcTPPj-7=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">So. Three beginnings, three endings, 3,443 miles (including side trips). And countless American stories all along the way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu-D92y8VQ6abflpzmxdUvHLwYNXGzaPesbQ6GVynGWVGVvxAX0TLC2jihjnsvgRWLwOulaB0bexdpcIQ3bUmo7LO2ab8sb43oSrQ8AQtNoEpX1hy0S6GrSvtqyrj-H1WaQ2fMbmahN6e9w2mUgN9Rag6YI8qQFAdLMeGW0pXbuwecb8q0TZo-0BH0=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu-D92y8VQ6abflpzmxdUvHLwYNXGzaPesbQ6GVynGWVGVvxAX0TLC2jihjnsvgRWLwOulaB0bexdpcIQ3bUmo7LO2ab8sb43oSrQ8AQtNoEpX1hy0S6GrSvtqyrj-H1WaQ2fMbmahN6e9w2mUgN9Rag6YI8qQFAdLMeGW0pXbuwecb8q0TZo-0BH0=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Reading through Jessica Dunham’s <i>Route 66 Road Trip</i>, researching this blog, I’m struck by historical details that I’d missed when we actually saw the places. The Armory in Chandler, Oklahoma was built to withstand tornado winds, and in 1958, Reverend Burton Z. “Lee Lee” Lewis was sworn into the Oklahoma National Guard there—the first African-American so to serve. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdtO5bcuLOtv4B_E4wZNLclC51a4ZfJZW2eS2loeebHfBo8sQl1a05ZmpW_xJ7dS-WMQJ_WGZAXNI-sJbZvvFUAPSFCVmDwGTFqGwgAfjJ7cstY1i53dxdVf_YrzAkWXFlcjff4HH9rXR4dJfliOtE8hJcoQ1wtzslsw-DN9a64aIy9xOu2Wtl3Kt9=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdtO5bcuLOtv4B_E4wZNLclC51a4ZfJZW2eS2loeebHfBo8sQl1a05ZmpW_xJ7dS-WMQJ_WGZAXNI-sJbZvvFUAPSFCVmDwGTFqGwgAfjJ7cstY1i53dxdVf_YrzAkWXFlcjff4HH9rXR4dJfliOtE8hJcoQ1wtzslsw-DN9a64aIy9xOu2Wtl3Kt9=s320" width="238" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In Flagstaff, Arizona, the Museum Club was the site of Tanya Tucker’s first gig. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCE5GxmdU1F2xcgVZoDipd_8b86a4olNAqyxh9OAwJOalbXsozzICyalL-or3ag5cXANG4bXqPKvy5LZkHt_AHbJsixn0WBSGjATBMbiJXZ4EuwTICmDYSfVC-3FdGkPmrvKhbYBQ9_Q4rYwhZ4krT_PbLUbkLtjvtS9RbqIs81xfPP_Oijyg8CIJL=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCE5GxmdU1F2xcgVZoDipd_8b86a4olNAqyxh9OAwJOalbXsozzICyalL-or3ag5cXANG4bXqPKvy5LZkHt_AHbJsixn0WBSGjATBMbiJXZ4EuwTICmDYSfVC-3FdGkPmrvKhbYBQ9_Q4rYwhZ4krT_PbLUbkLtjvtS9RbqIs81xfPP_Oijyg8CIJL=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Meanwhile, Du Beau's Motel Inn, on pre-1934 Route 66 in downtown Flagstaff, was operated by the French-Canadian Albert Eugene Du Beau, who advertised in the <i>Green Book</i> this way: “Vacation & Recreation Without Humiliation.” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5LPoPBOwXSMzKRM3eYwAiP0KNNcyl7URfYhTDANYULknt_GLi5d-vPlBjx7GoWAgtliyJzTVONfxQw_tcmxWjlUJq4vVbVQnCFoFuQvsRdrGwg2Rvd0H3U2C7jW3inyK0ESZTtTwXq9EeN-tbEIDOinEyV9HwGf_n4s0lfhu2BJsCZ9MYBi7moBFT=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5LPoPBOwXSMzKRM3eYwAiP0KNNcyl7URfYhTDANYULknt_GLi5d-vPlBjx7GoWAgtliyJzTVONfxQw_tcmxWjlUJq4vVbVQnCFoFuQvsRdrGwg2Rvd0H3U2C7jW3inyK0ESZTtTwXq9EeN-tbEIDOinEyV9HwGf_n4s0lfhu2BJsCZ9MYBi7moBFT=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Also welcoming to black travelers were the ubiquitous Fred Harvey railroad hotels. From the Amtrak station (a.k.a. the museum) in Gallup, New Mexico to the Santa Fe Depot and Hotel in downtown Amarillo, Texas, more Harvey Houses remain than I had thought. And then there’s the fact that Mary Colter, of whom I’d previously never heard, designed a gazillion buildings in the Southwest (including almost every structure at the Grand Canyon).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If we made this trip again, one thing I know is that it would be very different. Not because I’d purposely change how we did it, but because Route 66 is always changing. Inevitably, some places we went would be closed; some of the places that were closed might well be open again. And even if we stuck to the same alignments of the Route and the same stops all the way across the country, the trip would never be the same, because we would meet different people.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Will Rogers, after whom the highway is also called, famously said that he never met a man he didn't like. Who can say that today? Yet I don't think Rogers was wrong about this: "You would be surprised what there is to see in this great country within 200 miles of where any of us live. I don't care what state or what town."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’ve written before that I wish the U.S. national anthem were “America The Beautiful,” written by Katharine Lee Bates with music by Samuel A. Ward. This is my new favorite version, recorded and with additional words by the great Native-Canadian-American artist, Buffy Sainte-Marie (all lyrics below). After our trip on Route 66 I feel more positive about America, and I hope you do too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="310" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/B96NVlA-GRI" width="484" youtube-src-id="B96NVlA-GRI"></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">There were Choctaws in Alabama<br />Chippewas in St. Paul<br />Mississippi mud runs like a river in me<br />America, ooh, she's like a mother to me<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">O beautiful for spacious skies<br />For amber waves of grain<br />For purple mountain majesty<br />Above the fruited plain<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">America, America<br />God shed His grace on thee<br />And crown thy good with brotherhood<br />From sea to shining sea<br />From sea to shining sea<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">There were cliff towns in Colorado<br />Pyramids in Illinois<br />Trade routes up and down the Mississippi River to see<br />America, ooh, she's like a mother to me<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">O beautiful for vision clear<br />That sees beyond the years<br />Thy night time sky<br />Our hopes that fly<br />Undimmed by human tears<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">America, America<br />God shed His grace on thee<br />'Til selfish gain no longer stain<br />The banner of the free<o:p></o:p></span></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;">And crown thy good with brotherhood<br />From sea to shining sea</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-7721786653913667262021-12-07T10:15:00.002-05:002021-12-07T10:24:27.987-05:00California Dreamin'<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">First, I’ve made a correction to my last post. Albert Okura, who bought the town of Amboy, California and restored Roy’s Café, is a U.S. businessman. (He owns the Juan Pollo chain of restaurants, which explains why the Barstow Juan Pollo location is also called “Roy’s” with a sign to match.)</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3gV0ojSZO_8EBSCrQZGRc7Z0pO8GvZNMoPdfrzW87oP-SiHGYrTK861EV5OW_c_jSmlkanS3uHjCm1OTkWaFBoyj8UWHsVX4QHoR56rZTXPrC38QN8J1sp27RHE3JiKUQ0AviROMMIArAr-SogW5xiku21jJkSPt__UUBAy1hx0ZUPPj1CiamOrf7=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3gV0ojSZO_8EBSCrQZGRc7Z0pO8GvZNMoPdfrzW87oP-SiHGYrTK861EV5OW_c_jSmlkanS3uHjCm1OTkWaFBoyj8UWHsVX4QHoR56rZTXPrC38QN8J1sp27RHE3JiKUQ0AviROMMIArAr-SogW5xiku21jJkSPt__UUBAy1hx0ZUPPj1CiamOrf7=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amboy Road northbound</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were on our way back on the Amboy Road towards the final stretch of Route 66. There was a political sign, somewhere near Noels Knoll Road, that one wouldn’t associate with as “blue” a state as California. The landscape told the same story: this stretch of desert was in total contrast to the Pacific beaches and glittering cities of the coast. It’s worth remembering that similar variety, of both people and place, exists in every state.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinYLPWQbR5tZlzQi2kCNQlaAlJ5vuefjFKq5HXD51Ya5ILIpWdWLc2AMcm7xkJym_4E1vk1sqt7HtnWOMARNCxsrVm_XIILQiFs9FXeW3g0ANKh-PUAVWY08K29R134BaGhJjn2ZwGjnDU0MWmezBX2vTwj4_knOmltO3S_WyB7ZJmDcUlpIUHGERP=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinYLPWQbR5tZlzQi2kCNQlaAlJ5vuefjFKq5HXD51Ya5ILIpWdWLc2AMcm7xkJym_4E1vk1sqt7HtnWOMARNCxsrVm_XIILQiFs9FXeW3g0ANKh-PUAVWY08K29R134BaGhJjn2ZwGjnDU0MWmezBX2vTwj4_knOmltO3S_WyB7ZJmDcUlpIUHGERP=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">For example: The town of Joshua Tree, where we’d spent the night, was crazy crowded. There’s one licensed restaurant and the wait there was over an hour. We had difficulty finding anywhere else to eat: there was a combined Indian and pizza place, never a good idea, that for reasons unexplained was doing takeout only. We didn’t want to stink up the motel room, so we ended up getting Subway sandwiches from the gas station. At breakfast restaurants were just as crowded; luckily, we were first in line at the takeout place. Lox bagels and lattes. We must be in California!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1-FkbfNxHUVbr6c6sMfyelEGMXys3Tro0gXkHeGkzfUdk3GLorC6R5rj5IeBdQJsreZPuH8JRuaqsgfLtw9rG9tE7rtGOCQTZ8erjjJYZpNXahtBdVXuzV2qj2E-P_po9qPhvR-03dHtIY-ajXS7lnvejOXd7Wdl6r5xCllrGr7D51wun5EadxjbW=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1-FkbfNxHUVbr6c6sMfyelEGMXys3Tro0gXkHeGkzfUdk3GLorC6R5rj5IeBdQJsreZPuH8JRuaqsgfLtw9rG9tE7rtGOCQTZ8erjjJYZpNXahtBdVXuzV2qj2E-P_po9qPhvR-03dHtIY-ajXS7lnvejOXd7Wdl6r5xCllrGr7D51wun5EadxjbW=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Back at Amboy, we turned left (west) and headed for the former site of Bagdad.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj50X9AmPxudpSALvhlRWNjf2h4Wx9FGWqWSOWKy9qB3OXjev0_amSrmqZbyp8zMyW6J8F_kc1a8blZ1eL5yC59rv85cHt_gSRe67tUhEGyQbVOv9NIPvQUcgUpbZQUxS3O4yxcS3PTXDkJBiP30GKdfj9chcAV_d6vnIpcN763yXXRMCGCbmJPP2gO=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj50X9AmPxudpSALvhlRWNjf2h4Wx9FGWqWSOWKy9qB3OXjev0_amSrmqZbyp8zMyW6J8F_kc1a8blZ1eL5yC59rv85cHt_gSRe67tUhEGyQbVOv9NIPvQUcgUpbZQUxS3O4yxcS3PTXDkJBiP30GKdfj9chcAV_d6vnIpcN763yXXRMCGCbmJPP2gO=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Through the 1960s, when Route 66 was in its heyday, Bagdad was a real town. There was a hotel, school, and churches, and even a Harvey House railroad hotel. Today, literally all that remains to mark the site of the town is this tree.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwopI0LkNUIz-PSw6qLPIk7Tet_1J-J_dgivP1ul04S17yMAX1RoEhgyDMDxGqo-tJSF-a86fuRL4KLjy_vtTzM_JIPLS-2264XvpRkvp-drQzuUJzrlRvM18IAwAv9O0uQENcKCsLzm-XAMA3Iqaif9_UpcJrzUYhogJxZveL1mKDHKmzUeKzbkqc=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwopI0LkNUIz-PSw6qLPIk7Tet_1J-J_dgivP1ul04S17yMAX1RoEhgyDMDxGqo-tJSF-a86fuRL4KLjy_vtTzM_JIPLS-2264XvpRkvp-drQzuUJzrlRvM18IAwAv9O0uQENcKCsLzm-XAMA3Iqaif9_UpcJrzUYhogJxZveL1mKDHKmzUeKzbkqc=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Most ghost towns along Route 66 have been allowed slowly to decompose, but in 1991 Bagdad was purposely razed to the ground. Now, what happened in ’91 to cause someone to want to destroy a place with a similarly spelled name to a city in Iraq? Just saying, there’s a Marine base squatted square across Route 66 some way west of here. (Bagdad might actually have been razed for a gas pipeline storage area, but there's not even any trace of that now.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We continued to Ludlow, where there’s been a café since the 1940s. We weren’t hungry, but stopped in anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSndJ7Hued669HCzxFqf_aDy7lrByF3gI2jR9zU_V7wYSO4HJkb0NGo3x73fS2VY1qLpuIkZBZGfwSCxuZtU9CJC4RReW9UCLcL56X_1kt42tj6cV5L34H6kQex6haedTeaejaapwxOz2OKdCTilyszbDmOplHTRsohtegts8gtzJOFwbmFMqbyNd6=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSndJ7Hued669HCzxFqf_aDy7lrByF3gI2jR9zU_V7wYSO4HJkb0NGo3x73fS2VY1qLpuIkZBZGfwSCxuZtU9CJC4RReW9UCLcL56X_1kt42tj6cV5L34H6kQex6haedTeaejaapwxOz2OKdCTilyszbDmOplHTRsohtegts8gtzJOFwbmFMqbyNd6=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One of the waitresses, who was wearing the same T-shirt as I’d bought in Tucumcari as a souvenir, asked T. if she’d been on some TV show. (Apparently T. resembles the basketball coach.) I then overheard the other waitress answer a customer who was looking for the Bagdad Café. Given that Bagdad is gone, the café is actually in Newberry Springs; but what interested me was the waitress’s advice not to take I-40, but the frontage road/National Trails Highway. I had read that this was a nice drive, but in very rough condition.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Is it drivable now?” I asked the waitress, and she said yes, it had been recently repaved! So there, it pays to sit and have a coffee at the Ludlow Café.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUGeRyz8rtBLq1OZW-HflYcr12QvHjcSILPQcLn7zIvFtS42MrR5qOXBNWFwAsiQAKLRrklevqF7ST_hapuD_w0kLqpAWwBFMn05IN2lZuUIlKqVnKMa72grjyS_xYrAqnbPgnZflgFDzFRocHFDUswhFDDl9GddbUoI6CLdykeL5akCmaYdri1oaG=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUGeRyz8rtBLq1OZW-HflYcr12QvHjcSILPQcLn7zIvFtS42MrR5qOXBNWFwAsiQAKLRrklevqF7ST_hapuD_w0kLqpAWwBFMn05IN2lZuUIlKqVnKMa72grjyS_xYrAqnbPgnZflgFDzFRocHFDUswhFDDl9GddbUoI6CLdykeL5akCmaYdri1oaG=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ludlow was a 19th-century mining town.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We took off down 27 miles of the National Trails Highway, towards Newberry Springs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioQVDfaIAQCE4crGA-oONr0F5apdmV24dS7FoSfAcIJvXqM50fOnT0O4O-1GfppJ2Tfd0zGHsHfp1Bm73uWUb0N-L70D_iQrnyDRal6xPOyHd8c50ywirBRf9QJNC10nbCX4olI4IP49yObpJEfwv2x4tlhqFHFHtSMwzNr7QkfONQbXe9xGTtrEiq=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioQVDfaIAQCE4crGA-oONr0F5apdmV24dS7FoSfAcIJvXqM50fOnT0O4O-1GfppJ2Tfd0zGHsHfp1Bm73uWUb0N-L70D_iQrnyDRal6xPOyHd8c50ywirBRf9QJNC10nbCX4olI4IP49yObpJEfwv2x4tlhqFHFHtSMwzNr7QkfONQbXe9xGTtrEiq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Bagdad Café was a film site for a cult movie that I’ve never seen. It was renamed for the movie (the original Bagdad Café having gone the way of Bagdad.) This café is supposed to still be open and selling buffalo burgers. Sadly, it was not.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS3yGDNpMV7JxPKJnFK8_2_LlMwVFifAixBw4u21U4JPaay7cWcDO_qpbAXl3MJ7qxz-tcEojbCYGu1uPT3xylcmvxlRJ-XNoPwrKxXzpZCEav6cff1hh681H5qe5o7LSRywfZ7edmb797MNHu1P26xG_AJ5wIXDczozfX2JKzsaREAaCVFQFvuOl4=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJXdVlaSAepQeT3qDRXHTyN8PJd_UPK6IUhly7R7tzqwyluTsXXinBnJPGv1ElqjQAjcaWFBvPCj9OHDgug4yxM9-9jmu6aseoxUqm6MbNWZxY0sDPpIbCbUTx8SGA04FzUN4RS_Mhf1U2ty-u-y5aO83zWZRQesBRLP_YqpMl7kunRfmzFTA1Sgk1=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 16pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJXdVlaSAepQeT3qDRXHTyN8PJd_UPK6IUhly7R7tzqwyluTsXXinBnJPGv1ElqjQAjcaWFBvPCj9OHDgug4yxM9-9jmu6aseoxUqm6MbNWZxY0sDPpIbCbUTx8SGA04FzUN4RS_Mhf1U2ty-u-y5aO83zWZRQesBRLP_YqpMl7kunRfmzFTA1Sgk1=s320" width="320" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS3yGDNpMV7JxPKJnFK8_2_LlMwVFifAixBw4u21U4JPaay7cWcDO_qpbAXl3MJ7qxz-tcEojbCYGu1uPT3xylcmvxlRJ-XNoPwrKxXzpZCEav6cff1hh681H5qe5o7LSRywfZ7edmb797MNHu1P26xG_AJ5wIXDczozfX2JKzsaREAaCVFQFvuOl4=s320" width="320" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJXdVlaSAepQeT3qDRXHTyN8PJd_UPK6IUhly7R7tzqwyluTsXXinBnJPGv1ElqjQAjcaWFBvPCj9OHDgug4yxM9-9jmu6aseoxUqm6MbNWZxY0sDPpIbCbUTx8SGA04FzUN4RS_Mhf1U2ty-u-y5aO83zWZRQesBRLP_YqpMl7kunRfmzFTA1Sgk1=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There appeared to be little more left of Daggett. Some of the buildings that do remain, though, date back to more than a century ago, when a lot of silver and borax was mined around here. Daggett is also where the Joad family faced a California inspection station in Steinbeck’s</span> <i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Grapes of Wrath</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">.</span><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As mentioned earlier, a Marine Logistics Base was built just astride Route 66 and, due to the closure of its east gate for security reasons, the old Route is now completely inaccessible at this point. We were forced onto I-40, only to exit again as if we were visiting the base, before following Main Street into downtown Barstow.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHcyqagffjfSj7kRWwDKEnOvDIivHr2HLwgdxf2G9MDQSunN5qEqXd7DsvnBZs5mtjh6OtKCcBp2yoc1G1EjrjhsW-oR_ljct0Be_2xyW4ZM1WuVnJsXlZSpjfo_42J4AkO8bG4doAi5sUCFiSkfjecnLPXJ0pB6c8pfMAUm509DK6GFNZET_toY5M=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHcyqagffjfSj7kRWwDKEnOvDIivHr2HLwgdxf2G9MDQSunN5qEqXd7DsvnBZs5mtjh6OtKCcBp2yoc1G1EjrjhsW-oR_ljct0Be_2xyW4ZM1WuVnJsXlZSpjfo_42J4AkO8bG4doAi5sUCFiSkfjecnLPXJ0pB6c8pfMAUm509DK6GFNZET_toY5M=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our original plan had been to stop in Barstow for the night. It’s been a major crossroads since the railroad days, </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaC6X8edvLut-htZJVjMN4e7h33QH4fQHX3kBL43NU3tm1Amx4jidvCfn33BV_zAEcJBAe_STcG4qglYMqXFP-PmqBcRnYQOMpDAutmAMQ2WL7Ca_EqPGbd3vNMJAXvp3CHKH5IKZJIikML3YFQEyikk-io859_FbSzuUZtBiwUmm0WdF6hIbmfTt5=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaC6X8edvLut-htZJVjMN4e7h33QH4fQHX3kBL43NU3tm1Amx4jidvCfn33BV_zAEcJBAe_STcG4qglYMqXFP-PmqBcRnYQOMpDAutmAMQ2WL7Ca_EqPGbd3vNMJAXvp3CHKH5IKZJIikML3YFQEyikk-io859_FbSzuUZtBiwUmm0WdF6hIbmfTt5=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">and we remembered a great night and day spent there ten years ago, between Yosemite National Park and Las Vegas. Memorable, not only because we got to wash our clothes, but because it was warm enough to take our clothes off and actually have showers, for the first time in days! But the laundry was done now, and we decided to press on farther so as to shorten the driving on our last day.</span><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNk1RMxPNgyIRA6J6M2Poj9EmfntmB86TQ_fY1nX8uaaSBux_S3JPAgXWYivit8rFmHCzcZ9cP7eo3NGtPY48rP3XvAFB1T61XaddRDKa9BnboG-HiK-1IabKgBfgBkc561dS_egLU8bUS_M2EmX3NOnK5TW1dq54rdHE8lZls0IGS2Dn796pSF-rD=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNk1RMxPNgyIRA6J6M2Poj9EmfntmB86TQ_fY1nX8uaaSBux_S3JPAgXWYivit8rFmHCzcZ9cP7eo3NGtPY48rP3XvAFB1T61XaddRDKa9BnboG-HiK-1IabKgBfgBkc561dS_egLU8bUS_M2EmX3NOnK5TW1dq54rdHE8lZls0IGS2Dn796pSF-rD=s320" width="238" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjL5Rg-s-wc0UyN5X5SsX51sgcw08MOoO3AeUrphVnYlCZ9jTYMI_gso_kB80b-90KvdNLPi1pqmb3eawY6-V0nDxxcfruaf3o3O1e8zJuGZlq76qA7Lky7Ch0BqDcFBrX5ktK6Dsx8Nbf-jkvgw_Nh0tAV4ISL6B-AHSQy4pul-eOVaT7UVav38leE=s2000" style="clear: right; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjL5Rg-s-wc0UyN5X5SsX51sgcw08MOoO3AeUrphVnYlCZ9jTYMI_gso_kB80b-90KvdNLPi1pqmb3eawY6-V0nDxxcfruaf3o3O1e8zJuGZlq76qA7Lky7Ch0BqDcFBrX5ktK6Dsx8Nbf-jkvgw_Nh0tAV4ISL6B-AHSQy4pul-eOVaT7UVav38leE=s320" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjL5Rg-s-wc0UyN5X5SsX51sgcw08MOoO3AeUrphVnYlCZ9jTYMI_gso_kB80b-90KvdNLPi1pqmb3eawY6-V0nDxxcfruaf3o3O1e8zJuGZlq76qA7Lky7Ch0BqDcFBrX5ktK6Dsx8Nbf-jkvgw_Nh0tAV4ISL6B-AHSQy4pul-eOVaT7UVav38leE=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Barstow is a great downtown to look around, and of course we’d missed that before, traveling on the interstate and staying in the modern part of town. You won’t be surprised by now to learn that Barstow also has one of Fred Harvey’s railroad hotels.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6TihVDWpPKmveQPAsJEKBfDFIwe_JEFl72zMbTJRzpkfiyhenc2zXAhHZi0yTwJZ3iNK80DZ8eyeTGHzRjvUI9orppk-CU1wfF7I_d4wL3ptDpzVczokm7_FR5a3bBW3Zotf6X5E3Z50QrjnExPzK4HTPi4puZawshukk8CXuieFKd6Szex0ZnNlp=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6TihVDWpPKmveQPAsJEKBfDFIwe_JEFl72zMbTJRzpkfiyhenc2zXAhHZi0yTwJZ3iNK80DZ8eyeTGHzRjvUI9orppk-CU1wfF7I_d4wL3ptDpzVczokm7_FR5a3bBW3Zotf6X5E3Z50QrjnExPzK4HTPi4puZawshukk8CXuieFKd6Szex0ZnNlp=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6YxOED4dgXj78Mc47GCjYBa-d0XPxSvL0f7oU-IdQ_VPo74mjGd3eYjvDvLs5fMbA-gy9qrjQY5zblkC7vqLrkPj9S0zNMK-D7P0Kt5poios3steIij0j9ocBBPdiaIgbO7E2uO92Xq9FQu4uwhPAR7a8_2GtGfUp4leHi73kFuB9Zw3rUvd3QSdJ=s2000" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6YxOED4dgXj78Mc47GCjYBa-d0XPxSvL0f7oU-IdQ_VPo74mjGd3eYjvDvLs5fMbA-gy9qrjQY5zblkC7vqLrkPj9S0zNMK-D7P0Kt5poios3steIij0j9ocBBPdiaIgbO7E2uO92Xq9FQu4uwhPAR7a8_2GtGfUp4leHi73kFuB9Zw3rUvd3QSdJ=s320" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’d recognize Fred and the Harvey Girls anywhere, now that we’d stayed in La Posada in Winslow. The Harvey House, Casa del Desierto, is just north of Route 66, across the First Street Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTtx9IyNVJyBp_tEizeTwPoJEyotvHIohbv1hygJrj4P-sKK_qkwC1ypnwbranSYNLxsLMQm_4fXHyZYbuBsojky3T02w--4PlfPddlNcF-e4BtrPSviFEtRJ_sM8nkjpj5KXrzTYGtuvjBY-fnTe47qKQyb09X2RBnYAAkvaw23QXZhy_TbGjF-FV=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTtx9IyNVJyBp_tEizeTwPoJEyotvHIohbv1hygJrj4P-sKK_qkwC1ypnwbranSYNLxsLMQm_4fXHyZYbuBsojky3T02w--4PlfPddlNcF-e4BtrPSviFEtRJ_sM8nkjpj5KXrzTYGtuvjBY-fnTe47qKQyb09X2RBnYAAkvaw23QXZhy_TbGjF-FV=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDsDhCFQ_JN0MD3RF1u1XwdYpBaW63p12jjlT1-iY-uJzVGJfrNKwZ3Z3VB1GieV_RVZzAETJFXEZOUCtv1v1Qmhfye_jPYX8d5aou7sz-jBnU4mmJLpenNpj8D4rMIiQNIKXnZPIYraMOZE0mVCdRt_pwcuz6x256SP7AcSiirAcXc9Nhx7_N95U5=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDsDhCFQ_JN0MD3RF1u1XwdYpBaW63p12jjlT1-iY-uJzVGJfrNKwZ3Z3VB1GieV_RVZzAETJFXEZOUCtv1v1Qmhfye_jPYX8d5aou7sz-jBnU4mmJLpenNpj8D4rMIiQNIKXnZPIYraMOZE0mVCdRt_pwcuz6x256SP7AcSiirAcXc9Nhx7_N95U5=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This historic picture of the bridge is one of many delightful exhibits we saw in the Route 66 Mother Road Museum, which is free, and housed in Casa del Desierto. The staff were very friendly. Actually, this particular exhibit might have been in the Western America Railroad Museum, located in the same building. Both were worth visiting. Casa del Desierto itself, originally built in 1885, was rebuilt in 1913 after a fire by—you guessed it—Mary Colter. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjckfLN6baju4klB_zSLmVegBCFCcnDzhJ39hpmegBdo6FXCeYphPw0SAegmfrAdfQEG0VX1CBtJVKV6n-YX9CTEywK_bOeC_DlddbkEXXqc6qD0RbhXt4WP4ab9FmHvE_18yFZzGevHNE8zoELGelEpyP7J_U93De2ru1oljSgSPqureJ6Spd1AQq=s2000" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjckfLN6baju4klB_zSLmVegBCFCcnDzhJ39hpmegBdo6FXCeYphPw0SAegmfrAdfQEG0VX1CBtJVKV6n-YX9CTEywK_bOeC_DlddbkEXXqc6qD0RbhXt4WP4ab9FmHvE_18yFZzGevHNE8zoELGelEpyP7J_U93De2ru1oljSgSPqureJ6Spd1AQq=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amtrak still stops here.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjLKyXb0uL4VrLvL40z2GI00WfdrzSprkrXLfY1ki2Arg-F58QT67hUZEWB1d49HS4vlQDIfZjKflw2KvODG1SoFQKH6t4ysCr5RGddw2T4dW1-zRqQctacBZirJC7l9G_T19bZ32Zd-xmb9gyRPV6uZg-WHAzdw1fwBIbFco1fAA4Y-kgoQ_0oBqY=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjLKyXb0uL4VrLvL40z2GI00WfdrzSprkrXLfY1ki2Arg-F58QT67hUZEWB1d49HS4vlQDIfZjKflw2KvODG1SoFQKH6t4ysCr5RGddw2T4dW1-zRqQctacBZirJC7l9G_T19bZ32Zd-xmb9gyRPV6uZg-WHAzdw1fwBIbFco1fAA4Y-kgoQ_0oBqY=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's beginning to look a lot like...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Four-lane Route 66 became I-15, and today, most traffic is on the interstate, rushing to or from Vegas. The Route west of Barstow is now peaceful two-lane. All that I glimpsed of the town of Hodge (pop. 431) was a false-front saloon. A vintage billboard advertising gas prices was a reminder of the old days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTpaJxgZXnV00sB8_wdpNJ19_zQsLO5PkamPL07FVf3snbBPhP8vUNkpJy02aHFBczEHVGHWfUyG_HkmBNVLv-lsxFsMIY3DtirUQOiP4lIpEmjWPHpPoY21v1QC_MP-CQTcMjf3rbXsPTew2yA5OBCJ4llEnzWkaFaqSIbaebYvxYiXgs-NCg4qfV=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTpaJxgZXnV00sB8_wdpNJ19_zQsLO5PkamPL07FVf3snbBPhP8vUNkpJy02aHFBczEHVGHWfUyG_HkmBNVLv-lsxFsMIY3DtirUQOiP4lIpEmjWPHpPoY21v1QC_MP-CQTcMjf3rbXsPTew2yA5OBCJ4llEnzWkaFaqSIbaebYvxYiXgs-NCg4qfV=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A little farther on from Helendale is one of Route 66’s quirkiest roadside attractions, the Bottle Tree Ranch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVfRVlaxwDKCUJ802lmVL6wCXSKrtMt8RtQLgmxQO1cfyAJsL0YLXyy0q2EwVnNJFwd0rs7f02o8iUu-pj9UmLVJhthcWDKnGF83GDLKW_NhYrUvkZHy37H3BNjYuq82TKdwTtqDebUDvQ9Ukzs27EOfm-62UUeWkpaCVSCaESjaeArwoHnuC9-X09=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVfRVlaxwDKCUJ802lmVL6wCXSKrtMt8RtQLgmxQO1cfyAJsL0YLXyy0q2EwVnNJFwd0rs7f02o8iUu-pj9UmLVJhthcWDKnGF83GDLKW_NhYrUvkZHy37H3BNjYuq82TKdwTtqDebUDvQ9Ukzs27EOfm-62UUeWkpaCVSCaESjaeArwoHnuC9-X09=s2000" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVfRVlaxwDKCUJ802lmVL6wCXSKrtMt8RtQLgmxQO1cfyAJsL0YLXyy0q2EwVnNJFwd0rs7f02o8iUu-pj9UmLVJhthcWDKnGF83GDLKW_NhYrUvkZHy37H3BNjYuq82TKdwTtqDebUDvQ9Ukzs27EOfm-62UUeWkpaCVSCaESjaeArwoHnuC9-X09=s320" width="238" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhY2zVFhnKdWzftTYtTTBlZZaMZBV7_E0SWeNibupvb_6jhC5Les_NqAPGeupUlH5GcBjHGfpBbJx3th_1ozeeVLMh410WsTVOQ5kEHd_az4UE2ZfCuroEVWoe7lfvvinfhfjlqcsUh1KCclIdWfpfvYSa9OAwrGDHsFltbSWFMs8o54R_IDLgDeHES=s2000" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhY2zVFhnKdWzftTYtTTBlZZaMZBV7_E0SWeNibupvb_6jhC5Les_NqAPGeupUlH5GcBjHGfpBbJx3th_1ozeeVLMh410WsTVOQ5kEHd_az4UE2ZfCuroEVWoe7lfvvinfhfjlqcsUh1KCclIdWfpfvYSa9OAwrGDHsFltbSWFMs8o54R_IDLgDeHES=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhY2zVFhnKdWzftTYtTTBlZZaMZBV7_E0SWeNibupvb_6jhC5Les_NqAPGeupUlH5GcBjHGfpBbJx3th_1ozeeVLMh410WsTVOQ5kEHd_az4UE2ZfCuroEVWoe7lfvvinfhfjlqcsUh1KCclIdWfpfvYSa9OAwrGDHsFltbSWFMs8o54R_IDLgDeHES=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Elmer Long created this installation of “found object” art from a bottle collection he started with his father. Sadly, Long has since passed away, but the ranch is still open and free to visit during daylight hours. It made me reminisce about my own childhood collecting bottles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLtd2R3qP9NTWT7rDEoFF8VyeTBDf3Vj07H2EKMhrrgS_KtZw4X8vzgO40IDUHc_Bdr2uxL0yKPL8lVcZF_yrka1c3mnKtTMQl3zSunmQ7aQQPJG42g1LsMi21A-_3SNTZ4AlnaC7hcRoT04j4IV0BC7LphbytJw9rV47W75zPXx32RnvVjD3t85dm=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLtd2R3qP9NTWT7rDEoFF8VyeTBDf3Vj07H2EKMhrrgS_KtZw4X8vzgO40IDUHc_Bdr2uxL0yKPL8lVcZF_yrka1c3mnKtTMQl3zSunmQ7aQQPJG42g1LsMi21A-_3SNTZ4AlnaC7hcRoT04j4IV0BC7LphbytJw9rV47W75zPXx32RnvVjD3t85dm=s320" width="238" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLPtiOyFw0TA4yzDdy4fMlAd1-fiihP-E9eAXrAWvEhqOD5WI27rmUBQLN4R_ADkCIyc4EEXJ4dGrsjWuxT2tXT4hv_um273ORkCJXUjmRxEFkjXI_9Fsg5jI72vZnxJCIH8LsOj-1vx7TWB6vjAK-wzRPsJp4gzvFnxoz_LupkpvX_eBzhy4rAW3i=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLPtiOyFw0TA4yzDdy4fMlAd1-fiihP-E9eAXrAWvEhqOD5WI27rmUBQLN4R_ADkCIyc4EEXJ4dGrsjWuxT2tXT4hv_um273ORkCJXUjmRxEFkjXI_9Fsg5jI72vZnxJCIH8LsOj-1vx7TWB6vjAK-wzRPsJp4gzvFnxoz_LupkpvX_eBzhy4rAW3i=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And typing on typewriters</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The next town, Oro Grande, has a big cement plant. At least there’s still industry, and life, in the area and its tiny downtown.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLemhJFU_P6Vn7GJiee416de28-6nt4BVj6x6VBGCQXaVYQ5skOpS-QlmFmLbM5yvbMHmFr3WybFle9Xxi3ZhcHl0EWgNQqphQshB_RFgRF0M21jv5bjLVABIrB48j0u2w6IC4ipCZYZK1gwIAjLxSL3ObMQGHFSZuai53-CEhQEBqPmf2QbPUY3Wk=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLemhJFU_P6Vn7GJiee416de28-6nt4BVj6x6VBGCQXaVYQ5skOpS-QlmFmLbM5yvbMHmFr3WybFle9Xxi3ZhcHl0EWgNQqphQshB_RFgRF0M21jv5bjLVABIrB48j0u2w6IC4ipCZYZK1gwIAjLxSL3ObMQGHFSZuai53-CEhQEBqPmf2QbPUY3Wk=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPrpISo6CL6QYJUzHXzhDU5cFuh0CpkkUXhl-iUvJcq6mdR11-KNmbBE_X_Hh9cqUH3Ggp8N4SZmQorjLs9Q3d1JeqdR8aKsMLqvCPnKGEtbBjphGMZIlZm6yBPowZPcP8DZWdLu2bldIcB5dqEEz6IFM0TXdJ0kwLvY1K6TVb8hAd0iJ0jAGrtkqT=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPrpISo6CL6QYJUzHXzhDU5cFuh0CpkkUXhl-iUvJcq6mdR11-KNmbBE_X_Hh9cqUH3Ggp8N4SZmQorjLs9Q3d1JeqdR8aKsMLqvCPnKGEtbBjphGMZIlZm6yBPowZPcP8DZWdLu2bldIcB5dqEEz6IFM0TXdJ0kwLvY1K6TVb8hAd0iJ0jAGrtkqT=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We didn’t stop long in Victorville, but the town has a role in film history. <i>It Came From Outer Space </i>was filmed here, and it’s also where Herman J. Mankiewicz wrote <i>Citizen Kane</i>. A change from <i>The Grapes of Wrath</i>, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikEMf75EzCR7qg54FpX1--vqKF0Pa_-apFlscarUW4OFILCth3Idn8ddyNIVL2bSlJSX9AY762r8YcBnIn8LEuBu74OfhtROUUyJUQ5Roes1up0uzOVh0ueKz8E6a590jxkW-kmYxRnQDnh97pG-B-dGcemLJYs432_CNLyvnQXfy41sfzYivbUymB=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikEMf75EzCR7qg54FpX1--vqKF0Pa_-apFlscarUW4OFILCth3Idn8ddyNIVL2bSlJSX9AY762r8YcBnIn8LEuBu74OfhtROUUyJUQ5Roes1up0uzOVh0ueKz8E6a590jxkW-kmYxRnQDnh97pG-B-dGcemLJYs432_CNLyvnQXfy41sfzYivbUymB=s320" width="238" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWpgCQUEtQFBtq8ig2iCuHHOrEKHHISTxoIt0y-UAhfSELHxDn3pB9XUZBIZYP2BTxI9H8_7_wkVxu_CmPEETfaChp1onSh3qrPKYuOxDf91jdafxe612kFA9iXiVusRdNLpZXl8f6TuLt2RvVHhpIKisxCzPMSEk1kO5tqQMgK3zK5LGBHteeE9Hj=s2000" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWpgCQUEtQFBtq8ig2iCuHHOrEKHHISTxoIt0y-UAhfSELHxDn3pB9XUZBIZYP2BTxI9H8_7_wkVxu_CmPEETfaChp1onSh3qrPKYuOxDf91jdafxe612kFA9iXiVusRdNLpZXl8f6TuLt2RvVHhpIKisxCzPMSEk1kO5tqQMgK3zK5LGBHteeE9Hj=s320" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWpgCQUEtQFBtq8ig2iCuHHOrEKHHISTxoIt0y-UAhfSELHxDn3pB9XUZBIZYP2BTxI9H8_7_wkVxu_CmPEETfaChp1onSh3qrPKYuOxDf91jdafxe612kFA9iXiVusRdNLpZXl8f6TuLt2RvVHhpIKisxCzPMSEk1kO5tqQMgK3zK5LGBHteeE9Hj=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At this point in the afternoon, we finally had to join I-15. There was suddenly a ton of traffic, but it wasn’t the worst road to go slowly on, as we reached Cajon Summit (4,000 feet). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF7yr5R5QO8TUVTSZ77fknXk9v1YSMB0eWv0ckfU9Fs5TSPXqtrkE1_CUs91CTuRnXU88pMTha8j2QAUSHgJ264XO_otZsyBAVmVP2CQwLW_j92q81SeNevKsNzCY-uXiA2jvUW197XWv_HL_pUZfUywYsjnO9O1PXfblMFxUyzqityX46nbwWbFXt=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF7yr5R5QO8TUVTSZ77fknXk9v1YSMB0eWv0ckfU9Fs5TSPXqtrkE1_CUs91CTuRnXU88pMTha8j2QAUSHgJ264XO_otZsyBAVmVP2CQwLW_j92q81SeNevKsNzCY-uXiA2jvUW197XWv_HL_pUZfUywYsjnO9O1PXfblMFxUyzqityX46nbwWbFXt=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Only five years ago, the iconic Summit Inn was destroyed in the Blue Cut wildfire. As a reminder of another type of disaster to which California is prone, the Cajon Pass through which the interstate winds was formed by the movements of the San Andreas Fault. More recently in geological time, but still before the railroad or Route 66, the Mormon Trail passed through here.</span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR1yaDtM26lNDUCe6hiTiWQKXIP2bASEbtyBALsBnKadV6hdKK-RDv2awlC9lXL5PZ_nWWDesUmmyxczvVVAwvisVOWRTI15OeFSMddX_JlVwROpjBk6gNQF_gmX--r9UEPwkBH9XdSsFPEJ5wLuiqe34ZDd4R-YQtqlO797lSCahjSVwVWTW5icYH=s2000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR1yaDtM26lNDUCe6hiTiWQKXIP2bASEbtyBALsBnKadV6hdKK-RDv2awlC9lXL5PZ_nWWDesUmmyxczvVVAwvisVOWRTI15OeFSMddX_JlVwROpjBk6gNQF_gmX--r9UEPwkBH9XdSsFPEJ5wLuiqe34ZDd4R-YQtqlO797lSCahjSVwVWTW5icYH=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the train</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From this most scenic of traffic jams, we exited to take the former four-lane. Its westbound lanes are now two-lane Route 66. We could see Cajon Creek—or rather, we couldn’t; it was so dry I couldn’t even make out where the creek should be. This, also, was not a good sign for California.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Dusk was starting to fall and we were glad to reach our destination for the night. “I have a bit of song in my head,” T. said, “and it goes like this: ‘San Bernardino</span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-size: 16px;">🎵</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">’” I waited for her to sing more, but that was all she remembered!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">She might have been thinking of “(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66,” by Bobby Troup (his wife, Cynthia, came up with the title on their own road trip across the country to Hollywood). Given the traffic always present in Los Angeles, which Route 66 drivers have to negotiate on the final day, San Bernardino is a natural overnight stop. Downtown had several vintage motels with neon signs, some lit up, as well as a Mexican restaurant run by the same family since 1937. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But, I’m afraid we didn’t stop at any of these. No, for our penultimate night we’d decided to book—and this is why we had to push on, close to the Rialto city limits—one of the kitschiest locations on a road that has so many of them: the Wigwam Motel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2zDRGiPvUV9xa6BloDmh24qMgqrMMt_qDqHmTyehawv5cDYZn0qq4jU4JdWj2GIPL8R4pzW3dR1A_Iv7ahMVV68HaEeR1rlW5j7aTW7XNa85xAL8rRkz_GNUCHpg4tnBBJzg3t6YQEt4EBvCV9nfiFglECgubTfnBWT19VfI7juGMtiVuy-wq_CHn=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2zDRGiPvUV9xa6BloDmh24qMgqrMMt_qDqHmTyehawv5cDYZn0qq4jU4JdWj2GIPL8R4pzW3dR1A_Iv7ahMVV68HaEeR1rlW5j7aTW7XNa85xAL8rRkz_GNUCHpg4tnBBJzg3t6YQEt4EBvCV9nfiFglECgubTfnBWT19VfI7juGMtiVuy-wq_CHn=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxkYCdteHWjKjS4oj2_8nfo6417pAEX-tA8pf5Jare5mVwK5j9LxX1Sr7Vr8lsfa2Olo_vPW4PDiE9IpkVALXClVFHUgWnpYPxrCg8C-idmlTLok5uM_fGvYyjpONE-Xqmjxn4ptqdaPN0tPA-Q5_pKemyaGOoJGQJY2ca_4jN9oS1JKjd4yJbpdND=s2000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); clear: right; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxkYCdteHWjKjS4oj2_8nfo6417pAEX-tA8pf5Jare5mVwK5j9LxX1Sr7Vr8lsfa2Olo_vPW4PDiE9IpkVALXClVFHUgWnpYPxrCg8C-idmlTLok5uM_fGvYyjpONE-Xqmjxn4ptqdaPN0tPA-Q5_pKemyaGOoJGQJY2ca_4jN9oS1JKjd4yJbpdND=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The “wigwams” (concrete tepees, actually) were built as part of a cross-country chain, but only two of the motels remain today. One is in Holbrook, Arizona, and we were booked at the other. This is a 1949 motor court, now kept in great condition and run by the award-winning Jack Patel and family (Indian Americans, not to be confused with American Indians!) I know, it's terrible, but I just loved staying here. You would not believe how roomy our place was inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6Bt0ltc3Nb6xiY7IyaaMxbn6nhvvcsSw-GxxE8131Yy3yHEqDrhPPDpL0xUss_SjkcGzZGdlaeIF0RBNWZfN9g5VbXB2M6GD-GnOpB2NDP_uUSxxzxz_W3dDe0muajuYhD1ULz0YNLvOIGiPHUplqI89Yn5L9jD5xjuNeB1EPqNortWzeKjRpZd6z=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6Bt0ltc3Nb6xiY7IyaaMxbn6nhvvcsSw-GxxE8131Yy3yHEqDrhPPDpL0xUss_SjkcGzZGdlaeIF0RBNWZfN9g5VbXB2M6GD-GnOpB2NDP_uUSxxzxz_W3dDe0muajuYhD1ULz0YNLvOIGiPHUplqI89Yn5L9jD5xjuNeB1EPqNortWzeKjRpZd6z=s320" width="320" /><br /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Tomorrow was going to be busy. We rested up for our last day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuWazXeMudj5wBVYAK3bnJEdey_Ozkrs2I7rpTjqn88QWms435c9xNbC19dYhCj-B2lMCki90A-dDDPnI0mjCYXssV8g7j-0PKDyQB7xM1UjuP8tGr3mrR7EI-YzwYnfikNY1f2Kt1rtGABY5HvXT-3i9B8LMzeEUuu1yyzpui79EA2BoGbmaMptzI=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuWazXeMudj5wBVYAK3bnJEdey_Ozkrs2I7rpTjqn88QWms435c9xNbC19dYhCj-B2lMCki90A-dDDPnI0mjCYXssV8g7j-0PKDyQB7xM1UjuP8tGr3mrR7EI-YzwYnfikNY1f2Kt1rtGABY5HvXT-3i9B8LMzeEUuu1yyzpui79EA2BoGbmaMptzI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmjGzJpZmHyArLidbE60ICm1djVPdv8k_CULxdME0JWOE6krD-z0p-PS8eTAu2uA6c0lc_rt0LenxBtVcL4bak9f7RcdXMPcwE5yGKZpsCgj394Mm1aIumcioTTWcr736sINhB6bRm147c7vVWN-jTO-HyfoZuSPvbU3JMcBWzH3n4j187yoXnio-j=s2000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmjGzJpZmHyArLidbE60ICm1djVPdv8k_CULxdME0JWOE6krD-z0p-PS8eTAu2uA6c0lc_rt0LenxBtVcL4bak9f7RcdXMPcwE5yGKZpsCgj394Mm1aIumcioTTWcr736sINhB6bRm147c7vVWN-jTO-HyfoZuSPvbU3JMcBWzH3n4j187yoXnio-j=s320" width="238" /></a><p></p></div>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-48875486092713516762021-12-03T08:36:00.001-05:002021-12-07T04:16:24.407-05:00Arizona to California<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Arizona continued to overdeliver on Historic 66. If we hadn’t wanted to stop or have a look at anything, Jane the navigation app was happy to have us continue for 85 miles without a turn!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ymRUAy4qdGo/YaoZvSpB91I/AAAAAAABcW0/4UzcKHnGqm85Mn5q9Zmo_VnOKpFB0vS4ACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/long%2Bway.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ymRUAy4qdGo/YaoZvSpB91I/AAAAAAABcW0/4UzcKHnGqm85Mn5q9Zmo_VnOKpFB0vS4ACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/long%2Bway.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iKgIhT6MQLk/YaoZ0qAucHI/AAAAAAABcW4/bsulW88LrFQo0p6tYYlNIxGn29iwiCH4gCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burma-Shave.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iKgIhT6MQLk/YaoZ0qAucHI/AAAAAAABcW4/bsulW88LrFQo0p6tYYlNIxGn29iwiCH4gCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Burma-Shave.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burma-Shave signs west of Seligman</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But of course, we did stop. First in Peach Springs, headquarters of the Hualapai Reservation, whose fish and game ministry is housed in a hundred-year-old cobblestone building. I went in the general store next door which, I was happy to discover on purchasing them, had doughnuts light and fluffy enough to rival any on Route 66.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I also saw only our second rainbow sticker in 24 hours, and of the entire trip (the first was in a shop window in Flagstaff). T. commented on how busy the railroad was. She also wondered what will happen to all the gasoline-powered cars when someday electric cars become compulsory. I think she’s underestimating Americans’ capacity to resist compulsion, but I could be wrong.</span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffZXJn_TTqE/YaoZalQgi0I/AAAAAAABcWg/FimZpjLyLCs7m9GjCvqPSfCsMZAW3NgvwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Truxton.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffZXJn_TTqE/YaoZalQgi0I/AAAAAAABcWg/FimZpjLyLCs7m9GjCvqPSfCsMZAW3NgvwCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Truxton.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Truxton</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OJcBN6xFbGY/YaoZaxfAZJI/AAAAAAABcWk/Qsh4qvduXMEObTj43dD6V4si77zhkIEPgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/between%2Btruxton%2Band%2Bhackberry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OJcBN6xFbGY/YaoZaxfAZJI/AAAAAAABcWk/Qsh4qvduXMEObTj43dD6V4si77zhkIEPgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/between%2Btruxton%2Band%2Bhackberry.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Big tumbleweeds rolled across the road. Towns were so small it was easy to roll right past them too, but I wanted to stop at Hackberry. The general store there is full of vintage Route 66 stuff, and was the base for the late Bob Waldmire, artist of the Route (whose stuff we’d been seeing since Pontiac, Illinois).<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Up9PsWy6hAo/YaoZKLLSBcI/AAAAAAABcWQ/1-HZGcOgXa0V4xnbJYP12grjtTrxl_uBwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Hackberry.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Up9PsWy6hAo/YaoZKLLSBcI/AAAAAAABcWQ/1-HZGcOgXa0V4xnbJYP12grjtTrxl_uBwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Hackberry.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hackberry General Store</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W0xtmLGv62Q/YaoZKNBlv0I/AAAAAAABcWM/P3Mv_KeOyp4idENY7-mOMjZVXCmN20sOgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Antares%2BPoint.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W0xtmLGv62Q/YaoZKNBlv0I/AAAAAAABcWM/P3Mv_KeOyp4idENY7-mOMjZVXCmN20sOgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Antares%2BPoint.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antares</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Before we knew it we caught our first sight of the interstate in days. This was the turn Jane had been telling us about, into downtown Kingman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v6Y5i8ZbGhU/YaoY2z56C6I/AAAAAAABcWA/ZSGaFfR-y8cD2N4OKLt3WMWkvr-JH-WygCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kingman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v6Y5i8ZbGhU/YaoY2z56C6I/AAAAAAABcWA/ZSGaFfR-y8cD2N4OKLt3WMWkvr-JH-WygCNcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Kingman.jpg" width="298" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r2yT1F-yeWk/YaoY-VQgrKI/AAAAAAABcWE/VZY2ueld4S4jdWDd0CDc9ZPxDSEVI1WmwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Hotel%2BBeale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r2yT1F-yeWk/YaoY-VQgrKI/AAAAAAABcWE/VZY2ueld4S4jdWDd0CDc9ZPxDSEVI1WmwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Hotel%2BBeale.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I remembered seeing signs for Historic Route 66 on previous drives through Kingman, which is why I’d mistakenly thought it had been replaced by I-40. Kingman is a railroad town and I’d known it only as an important place to stop and get gasoline. I’d never noticed historic downtown before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lxmSoFA_jBk/YaoYMYHAPcI/AAAAAAABcVs/1K8beFMI_agIe-6VIE4nfo7TwukytwUpQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/old%2Bbldg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lxmSoFA_jBk/YaoYMYHAPcI/AAAAAAABcVs/1K8beFMI_agIe-6VIE4nfo7TwukytwUpQCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/old%2Bbldg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Restored Hotel Brunswick (1870s)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4PnLB4wPmo8/YaoYMWg_ewI/AAAAAAABcVw/9g7w3l_8uo8-knduuyRkNh-U0WKnrBuwACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kingman%2Bsign.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4PnLB4wPmo8/YaoYMWg_ewI/AAAAAAABcVw/9g7w3l_8uo8-knduuyRkNh-U0WKnrBuwACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Kingman%2Bsign.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Powerhouse contains a visitor center and museum, but it was closed for Veterans Day. The building used to house the Desert Power & Light Company, which provided the power to build Hoover (Boulder) Dam.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ic_bs-LTI5M/YaoX72bc1eI/AAAAAAABcVY/kp6t9Zb-Nm8VdkKaPRhZ2jvH-ipV35HIwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T%2Bclosed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ic_bs-LTI5M/YaoX72bc1eI/AAAAAAABcVY/kp6t9Zb-Nm8VdkKaPRhZ2jvH-ipV35HIwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/T%2Bclosed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tapUEYUpC7A/YaoYFo3SoLI/AAAAAAABcVg/jnlomLOtLnAMACgvVWXq8N3woxD0LDVKgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bpowerhouse.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tapUEYUpC7A/YaoYFo3SoLI/AAAAAAABcVg/jnlomLOtLnAMACgvVWXq8N3woxD0LDVKgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/T%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bpowerhouse.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We decided to stop for lunch instead. I’d learned by now that diners are really hit and miss with the pink lemonade and Mr. D'z was a miss—tasted like cleanser—but the food was good.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cwDjCRXfGF0/YaoXXG2HkEI/AAAAAAABcU4/HZH5fsODJs0IkV1GSwbw38boh3i6OZGKACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Mr%2BD%2527s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cwDjCRXfGF0/YaoXXG2HkEI/AAAAAAABcU4/HZH5fsODJs0IkV1GSwbw38boh3i6OZGKACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Mr%2BD%2527s.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JtRDzlo3tx0/YaoXXCVYU8I/AAAAAAABcU8/SdYf2qw63r4dH3eRsSEE9-0smgDMUUz5wCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kingman%2Bseals.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JtRDzlo3tx0/YaoXXCVYU8I/AAAAAAABcU8/SdYf2qw63r4dH3eRsSEE9-0smgDMUUz5wCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Kingman%2Bseals.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I-40 does follow the post-1952 alignment of Route 66 west of Kingman. But we turned out of downtown on the earlier alignment, to take us across the Sacramento Wash to the historic Back Country Byway. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">That morning, still parked at the Historic Route 66 Motel in Seligman, I’d ventured to show something to T. “I know you’re not used to automatic cars,” I said, “but let me show you how to manually change gears in this one.” I then showed her the “paddles” on the steering wheel for shifting up or down, which even I recognize is not an interesting or satisfying way to shift gears. But today’s stretch of old Route 66 was one of the most interesting—the Oatman Highway—and, while I knew T. would want to drive it, it has some pretty steep grades.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VgJ25-M-5UM/YaoW8xhpSmI/AAAAAAABcUw/FG9VTMfcWtgVV64UBABWAkihqoTZjMHVQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Map%2Bblack%2Bmtns.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VgJ25-M-5UM/YaoW8xhpSmI/AAAAAAABcUw/FG9VTMfcWtgVV64UBABWAkihqoTZjMHVQCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Map%2Bblack%2Bmtns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Prior to 1952, this was Route 66 across the Black Mountains. Hard to believe today, with warnings signs about not taking an RV and watching out for bighorn sheep and burros in the road. We first stopped at Cool Springs, a 1926 stone store and camp that was abandoned after the 1950s realignment. After being destroyed as a set in a Jean-Claude Van Damme action movie, it was lovingly restored in the twenty-first century.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gsb9C1S1Rbk/YaoW2CUVZ4I/AAAAAAABcUk/G9qLadYdXEE5om75hwfNXvO4TzLawItHgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cool%2BSprings.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gsb9C1S1Rbk/YaoW2CUVZ4I/AAAAAAABcUk/G9qLadYdXEE5om75hwfNXvO4TzLawItHgCNcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Cool%2BSprings.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Then we started up the hairy switchbacks. There was a viewing spot where we pulled over carefully and walked up. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QeIjjdy4Z3Q/YaoWrmXNoMI/AAAAAAABcUg/fqIn-Ctvpt8JjN8mKhSORZpb7D-V_CWfACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QeIjjdy4Z3Q/YaoWrmXNoMI/AAAAAAABcUg/fqIn-Ctvpt8JjN8mKhSORZpb7D-V_CWfACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/T.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvfVcAly4vc/YaoWpajB1oI/AAAAAAABcUc/RlAZuxScizo8xB9ICbJgH5Gbf3_YvrtZgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burros.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvfVcAly4vc/YaoWpajB1oI/AAAAAAABcUc/RlAZuxScizo8xB9ICbJgH5Gbf3_YvrtZgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Burros.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The burros are here because their ancestors were brought by miners to Oatman when it was a mining camp. They continue to roam freely today, although I wouldn’t join in the feeding of them as they might bite.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3CPHOzKJIxY/YaoWWweWPKI/AAAAAAABcT8/HVd1-bdqRjYLNSErnCJ8a3XDxp87bfzQACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sitgreaves%2Bpass.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="2000" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3CPHOzKJIxY/YaoWWweWPKI/AAAAAAABcT8/HVd1-bdqRjYLNSErnCJ8a3XDxp87bfzQACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/Sitgreaves%2Bpass.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">We pressed on towards the highest point, Sitgreaves Pass.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LSmCXCFDeVA/YaoWW2H-X6I/AAAAAAABcUA/Bfjm56fO1CwaH7Bh5hfRbKi8Ny99xj1HwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/down.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LSmCXCFDeVA/YaoWW2H-X6I/AAAAAAABcUA/Bfjm56fO1CwaH7Bh5hfRbKi8Ny99xj1HwCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/down.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4_ZU67eC2g/YaoWXPFFL3I/AAAAAAABcUE/JBBNqlxc5BoNhX5J3TGtZaGY1dWDDxSMgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Looking%2Bdown.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4_ZU67eC2g/YaoWXPFFL3I/AAAAAAABcUE/JBBNqlxc5BoNhX5J3TGtZaGY1dWDDxSMgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Looking%2Bdown.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KQHXUvejSck/YaoWXprsbPI/AAAAAAABcUI/xliKK-8Zb6U2MYDMauD9wvaStCvCX5Q5QCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/view.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KQHXUvejSck/YaoWXprsbPI/AAAAAAABcUI/xliKK-8Zb6U2MYDMauD9wvaStCvCX5Q5QCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">After the summit, the curves led down to Oatman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZomdOHZIEcs/YaoWDlvUdhI/AAAAAAABcT0/SvYSXmuPsFwZyutlsGC2-1zVataXDMYUgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Olive%2BOatman.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZomdOHZIEcs/YaoWDlvUdhI/AAAAAAABcT0/SvYSXmuPsFwZyutlsGC2-1zVataXDMYUgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Olive%2BOatman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The name comes from Olive Oatman, a young girl who was captured and possibly sold (the legend, and the tribe, depend on who’s telling the story). She certainly ended up with a tattoo on her chin, like Mojave women, and was ultimately bought back in a trade with fort authorities. Oatman was never a town and today it’s a literal tourist trap, as you can get stuck on the main street between burros and gunfights for show. There was plenty here to entertain while we walked around and rested T’s braking foot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfNCP7sppxc/YaoVki_I1nI/AAAAAAABcTk/1SJnSVAIsesYhagzYAEgg4qcCmIzz9TCACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Oatman%2Bscene.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfNCP7sppxc/YaoVki_I1nI/AAAAAAABcTk/1SJnSVAIsesYhagzYAEgg4qcCmIzz9TCACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Oatman%2Bscene.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xX8rww2clGE/YaoVkuZ40PI/AAAAAAABcTg/8WcpN70pknwVeueh7xLYqNHk27iGTv2RgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Oatman%2Bst.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xX8rww2clGE/YaoVkuZ40PI/AAAAAAABcTg/8WcpN70pknwVeueh7xLYqNHk27iGTv2RgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Oatman%2Bst.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><o:p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Following the 1952 realignment, people didn’t have to drive the tight curves of the Oatman Highway anymore, and hardly anyone was left here until the revival of Historic Route 66. But from 1908 to 1915, Oatman was a gold rush town, with twenty saloons and mining operations worth $25 million (meanwhile, only 300 people lived in Kingman). World War II demanded metals other than gold so the U.S. government shifted mining priorities from 1941. Some people are still mad about that. </span><br /></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bOZSIqOoHM0/YaoVbnVznBI/AAAAAAABcTY/olGiLqTp6uMnysvG9JC-UJO43tnoEfWwgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/apostrophe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bOZSIqOoHM0/YaoVbnVznBI/AAAAAAABcTY/olGiLqTp6uMnysvG9JC-UJO43tnoEfWwgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/apostrophe.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">All along Route 66 are these ghosts of people and ways of life that were once very vibrant. In other cases, Route 66 is a reminder of people and ways of life that continue going along just fine, despite being invisible or ignored from the outside mass-media world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Eventually, the Oatman-Topock Highway took us to water! We stopped for a glimpse of the Colorado River before crossing it into the final state of our journey.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXPLckNc4Xs/YaoVTw9Tl3I/AAAAAAABcTU/mMkhhlNUoHIJNL1tHYkta6cGPT4-spWEgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Water%2521.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXPLckNc4Xs/YaoVTw9Tl3I/AAAAAAABcTU/mMkhhlNUoHIJNL1tHYkta6cGPT4-spWEgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Water%2521.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Just before we got to California, we saw a blur of speed cross the road. “That’s a roadrunner,” I said, imitating the cartoon sound. T. had never seen one. Of course it was too fast to get a picture of, so here's a motel sign from Tucumcari, NM instead.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IEg4lrGlIqE/YaoVCZFfSII/AAAAAAABcTE/sbsvE5QDh1MBcMTYVhe-iY3NOxTnDrI_QCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Roadrunner%2Bsign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IEg4lrGlIqE/YaoVCZFfSII/AAAAAAABcTE/sbsvE5QDh1MBcMTYVhe-iY3NOxTnDrI_QCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Roadrunner%2Bsign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At the state line, everyone has to join the interstate go through California’s agriculture inspection, not that anyone looked in our car. We then turned off once again onto the U.S. highway, which became Broadway into Needles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JZNkHmguA-Q/YaoU5xrVqGI/AAAAAAABcTA/QV0IIu7xns4aWw80L4-EZEwb0lCQYa9wACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Needles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JZNkHmguA-Q/YaoU5xrVqGI/AAAAAAABcTA/QV0IIu7xns4aWw80L4-EZEwb0lCQYa9wACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Needles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Needles's former Masonic temple is now a theatre and was welcoming the class of 1961 to its reunion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gv7mkwLWsKo/YaoU0FN3hiI/AAAAAAABcS8/9OxcsU21_dsBWNr4VUaC1F_xCQXzbBf3ACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Needles%2Bbldg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gv7mkwLWsKo/YaoU0FN3hiI/AAAAAAABcS8/9OxcsU21_dsBWNr4VUaC1F_xCQXzbBf3ACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Needles%2Bbldg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Needles also has a former Harvey House (the El Garces, built by Frances Wilson and now closed) and probably other features, but we were preoccupied with finding a motel. Ideally I wanted to do laundry, as we had plenty of time, but everywhere we went either didn’t have laundry facilities or said they didn’t (advertised that they did, but the machines were locked up or all said “out of order” on them). I think this was to do with California’s longstanding drought but it might have been blamed on COVID/social distancing; who knows? No explanations were offered. One motel we left because the guy tried to get T. to give him her PIN, since he also couldn’t bring the card reader over to the plate glass window (despite which he also refused to lower his mask). And, of course, gas had doubled in price. We were already finding California hard work.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-38TLdLOuwR4/YaoUa5un5OI/AAAAAAABcSw/VcAp4D2ZU9stXKcOHGUskmZuk-zjHSO8QCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Peanuts.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-38TLdLOuwR4/YaoUa5un5OI/AAAAAAABcSw/VcAp4D2ZU9stXKcOHGUskmZuk-zjHSO8QCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Peanuts.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Schulz once lived and created the character of Spike in Needles.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Finally, we agreed not to do laundry and go back to the Motel 6, which had welcomed us in a friendly manner and was a short walk from a Chinese restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upstuLqyadY/YaoUR0acXJI/AAAAAAABcSo/uu2xLodHcvg4bfUizXCFkX1XMn1_U2HOwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Budget%2BInn.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upstuLqyadY/YaoUR0acXJI/AAAAAAABcSo/uu2xLodHcvg4bfUizXCFkX1XMn1_U2HOwCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Budget%2BInn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We passed a peaceful night, other than the people next door getting up at 5:30 A.M.—to party, not to leave. There was a pot dispensary next door so maybe that had something to do with it. When we checked out, the proprietor apologized to me; he and his wife were personally cleaning the rooms. I had not, in fact, slept badly--being a tour director is exhausting! Where to stay, when to do laundry, which alignment to take, which places of interest to stop. Mostly fun, of course, and it had all gone remarkably well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Just past the Chinese place was the Wagon Wheel restaurant, with menus illustrated by Bob Waldmire. We stopped for breakfast. There was a poster advertising your friendly neighborhood “coffee with a cop.” T. said “the cops won’t be impressed with this coffee!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Billboards advertised an “Indian & Mexican Restaurant” and, in a sign of the valley agriculture that used Needles as an icing station, “Fresh Pistachios.” Forgetting to stop for gas, we began our crossing of the Mojave Desert.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JZat8h5juEo/YaoUKmTYEFI/AAAAAAABcSg/7uShENEt1Co8Xioju14IfFiUwHHLFlfEgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Mojave.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JZat8h5juEo/YaoUKmTYEFI/AAAAAAABcSg/7uShENEt1Co8Xioju14IfFiUwHHLFlfEgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Mojave.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Pre-1931 Route 66 took us to the ghost town of Goffs. Needles residents used to go to this elevation to escape the heat, until the Route was realigned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MoWwvN_XyrU/YaoT-S3UipI/AAAAAAABcSY/UJE7CoMhn8w2Nlyla7_2iXM-LFwRdCtIQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Goffs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MoWwvN_XyrU/YaoT-S3UipI/AAAAAAABcSY/UJE7CoMhn8w2Nlyla7_2iXM-LFwRdCtIQCNcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Goffs.jpg" width="477" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ghost town</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s not, thank goodness, that we were close to running out of gas. It’s that what looked expensive in Needles looked positively cheap by Fenner! But we had to stop there, as there is nowhere else for 55 miles. In the nineteenth century and railroad days, Fenner was a popular watering stop, which is more or less how the Hi Desert Oasis still functions today.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Pre-1931 Route 66 is to be preferred here, as it avoids I-40 (which also climbs a steep grade through the South Pass of the Sacramento Mountains). Unfortunately, we could not take the pre-'31 Route to Cadiz Summit, so we had to take the Kelbaker Road detour described in Jerry McClanahan’s <i>EZ66 Guide</i>. I mention this detail because McClanahan estimated the road (closed due to washouts) would reopen in 2016-17, but instead, it’s remained closed for six years and counting. We could have backtracked to Cadiz from the west—it was signed only “no through road”—but instead, we pressed on to Amboy. Amboy is the first of a number of towns that were named alphabetically from west to east (Cadiz, Fenner, Goffs). There is not much left of any of them today—the school at Amboy appeared to be closed, though there is a post office. From miles away, one can see the Amboy Crater. It’s only six thousand years old, but at least it was free to view.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFC2O_PGCOg/YaoTx-POIfI/AAAAAAABcSQ/JRKLpYopOC4PDhUp0EF4b1dTRoW_SEZUgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Amboy%2Bcrater.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFC2O_PGCOg/YaoTx-POIfI/AAAAAAABcSQ/JRKLpYopOC4PDhUp0EF4b1dTRoW_SEZUgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Amboy%2Bcrater.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amboy Crater with train in foreground</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The star of Amboy is Roy’s Motel & Café, from 1938 the only travelers’ stop for miles. A businessman bought the whole town and today, while the motel is no longer operating, you can go in and buy gas, etc. As would become a trend in California, the plumbing wasn’t up for visitors and we had to use portable toilets.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIDtUmTZIz0/YaoTk9MOyyI/AAAAAAABcSI/_XJikRs5gLQZrtgRPOCagTtPe6Piq5UiwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Roy%2527s.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIDtUmTZIz0/YaoTk9MOyyI/AAAAAAABcSI/_XJikRs5gLQZrtgRPOCagTtPe6Piq5UiwCNcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Roy%2527s.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The water problem, the failure to repair roads (California has, I understand, been broke for a while now), the obvious fact that, while the climate crisis still seems abstract to some people in other places, it’s already arrived here. All of it added up to a very poor impression of Route 66’s eighth and final state. Is this the future, born of those golden years of mining and burning through fossil fuels like there was no tomorrow? (The irony of being on a nostalgic road trip is not lost on me.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The iconic Roy’s sign is in the mid-century Googie style, a futuristic design inspired by the Space Age. But in <i>The Grapes of Wrath</i>, written earlier, John Steinbeck described the Dust Bowl travelers’ disappointment when they finally reached the promised land of California. Was this it? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Route 66 in Amboy actually goes through the Mojave Trails National Monument. As we learned in the last U.S. administration, national monuments can come and go at the stroke of a president’s pen. Not so national parks, and the side trip on our itinerary here was to Joshua Tree, which we reached by turning south on the desert Amboy Road and driving 42 miles to Twentynine Palms.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Joshua Tree National Park was the first crowded place we’d been on our entire trip, Chicago included. It was outdoors, at least, and I guess November must be high season, since in summer the desert gets too hot. Los Angeles residents can reach the park’s southern entrance via I-10 to Palm Springs, but most of them appeared to be where we were, at the western entrance in the town of Joshua Tree. There was a line for the portable toilets at the visitors’ center—no water again—and a long wait to actually enter the park, which was also priced 50% higher than the other national parks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-geQFR3T21IM/YaoTWRkPGqI/AAAAAAABcSA/DK-tqbULg_otyLO9zXnygAEpHizSLkflgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joshua%2BTree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-geQFR3T21IM/YaoTWRkPGqI/AAAAAAABcSA/DK-tqbULg_otyLO9zXnygAEpHizSLkflgCNcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/Joshua%2BTree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5PnzQRDDjU/YaoS9bxQdoI/AAAAAAABcRk/6S9GKhfHWI41KpJuN4QDeGA1N7UUTnIGgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1716/Panorma.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="1716" height="120" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5PnzQRDDjU/YaoS9bxQdoI/AAAAAAABcRk/6S9GKhfHWI41KpJuN4QDeGA1N7UUTnIGgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h120/Panorma.jpg" width="640" /></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Once we finally got in, it was a perfect day for exploring. The weather was a nice temperature, ranging down to the 60s Fahrenheit depending on elevation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FF44ByCjh8w/YaoS9UbCEqI/AAAAAAABcRg/l9N1aFqtgFoGbiFd131qPD3Lx9tv-0RfACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/panorma%2B3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="2048" height="98" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FF44ByCjh8w/YaoS9UbCEqI/AAAAAAABcRg/l9N1aFqtgFoGbiFd131qPD3Lx9tv-0RfACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h98/panorma%2B3.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zw5Lvd9y-28/YaoTPGSbk9I/AAAAAAABcR8/1GsDtC33WyEZ3_4u724iqjZeDICY7cDfwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T%2BJT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zw5Lvd9y-28/YaoTPGSbk9I/AAAAAAABcR8/1GsDtC33WyEZ3_4u724iqjZeDICY7cDfwCNcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/T%2BJT.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We took the popular Hidden Valley hiking trail. Hidden Valley was formed when someone blasted through the rocks to reveal a kind of meadow micro-habitat. It’s also popular with rock climbers, some of whom, including a young boy, we saw roped up high on the boulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2cybq5jK4k/YaoS9SsiwJI/AAAAAAABcRo/07hpJ1Nl96AMPjtupmvIS0Hxd0z1IYlLQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1692/panprma%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="1692" height="122" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2cybq5jK4k/YaoS9SsiwJI/AAAAAAABcRo/07hpJ1Nl96AMPjtupmvIS0Hxd0z1IYlLQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h122/panprma%2B2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From Keys View (5,000 feet) you can see as far as Palm Springs. Everyone else was there, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KoFJzdZ4L0k/YaoSlTmcx4I/AAAAAAABcRM/0NhKxykpyx802idXubre7uAnFvKaAWbHACNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/lookout%2B2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KoFJzdZ4L0k/YaoSlTmcx4I/AAAAAAABcRM/0NhKxykpyx802idXubre7uAnFvKaAWbHACNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/lookout%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6o3q0sMdLkU/YaoSld1vyVI/AAAAAAABcRQ/BsB77DfYMRAp_LFwEjJsaq4V1JrqlceDgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/lookout.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6o3q0sMdLkU/YaoSld1vyVI/AAAAAAABcRQ/BsB77DfYMRAp_LFwEjJsaq4V1JrqlceDgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/lookout.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We didn’t hike far, but at least I’d gotten my boots dusty on a proper trail. After the obligatory photo op at Skull Rock, </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EHdbH65UzNk/YaociS2YpVI/AAAAAAABcXI/an3QYZZGh_EY9VJj-j2DtUrrrzE8NqX6wCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Skull%2BRock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EHdbH65UzNk/YaociS2YpVI/AAAAAAABcXI/an3QYZZGh_EY9VJj-j2DtUrrrzE8NqX6wCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Skull%2BRock.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">we made our way down to the cholla cactus garden.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PFzh9Pu-G0E/YaoScZl2M_I/AAAAAAABcRI/_WKxPhv-_nsTJ7_QI7RFVrYl1-EMo10hgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/cholla%2Bdetail.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PFzh9Pu-G0E/YaoScZl2M_I/AAAAAAABcRI/_WKxPhv-_nsTJ7_QI7RFVrYl1-EMo10hgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/cholla%2Bdetail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3qYEwoJZr_o/YaoScV0pCXI/AAAAAAABcRE/AfKrdePkQs8x_fJTP7ea-IlC4E-NGaLwwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/cholla%2Bgarden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3qYEwoJZr_o/YaoScV0pCXI/AAAAAAABcRE/AfKrdePkQs8x_fJTP7ea-IlC4E-NGaLwwCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/cholla%2Bgarden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In one of the parking lots we saw a wedding party emerge. The bride smiled for photographs, heedless of the dust, and we waved congratulations. “I have seen everything now,” T. said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RkLwpYYwX0w/YaoSUwtSKFI/AAAAAAABcRA/CeyVpmF3v-QVA-XNHvaNHJUnlYD-iWXKwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/photographer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RkLwpYYwX0w/YaoSUwtSKFI/AAAAAAABcRA/CeyVpmF3v-QVA-XNHvaNHJUnlYD-iWXKwCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/photographer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The changing light on the landscape of Joshua Tree was truly special. By sunset we were at the High Desert Motel, waiting for nightfall. From there I could not see as many stars as we had in Seligman, Arizona. But at least this place let me use the washing machine!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LAKaBvvNNBY/YaoSB6BRAfI/AAAAAAABcQw/ruIeEzILYSsgwVCryOqE6efT5ZWEVZeMgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/hanging%2Blight.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LAKaBvvNNBY/YaoSB6BRAfI/AAAAAAABcQw/ruIeEzILYSsgwVCryOqE6efT5ZWEVZeMgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/hanging%2Blight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHLpFF8PGj0/YaoSCCngmaI/AAAAAAABcQ0/WKChm7LD7-EaKjUDaebK2aS6cygiSf3VgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2000/High%2BDesert.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHLpFF8PGj0/YaoSCCngmaI/AAAAAAABcQ0/WKChm7LD7-EaKjUDaebK2aS6cygiSf3VgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/High%2BDesert.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least you can see the moon...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-71210106972601505792021-11-26T15:24:00.000-05:002021-11-26T15:24:19.671-05:00Route 66 in Arizona<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our last few miles of Route 66 in New Mexico were scenic, winding up the sheer side of Devil’s Cliff. The state line at Lupton, Arizona has long been home to colorful trading posts.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WisF66N2QBI/YaExnGvacYI/AAAAAAABcIQ/Gq9IUaI8KxIYA4YSZPLu1fXYw58KXflewCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lupton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WisF66N2QBI/YaExnGvacYI/AAAAAAABcIQ/Gq9IUaI8KxIYA4YSZPLu1fXYw58KXflewCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Lupton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On our detour north we’d seen billboards for McDonald’s 80 miles apart. We therefore knew that McDonald’s was the modern scale for judging the size of a town. But for much of this day we saw tacky billboards from the old Route 66 days, as we followed the Little Colorado River—and, inevitably, I-40.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One section of the 1926-31 highway remains that was worth doing: a dirt county road over the Querino Canyon Bridge. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4OU8ZBlm6c/YaExx0O7GrI/AAAAAAABcIY/wVfbvZdjjX0jqDW_-Q_Wi41uFNirOdk7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/dirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4OU8ZBlm6c/YaExx0O7GrI/AAAAAAABcIY/wVfbvZdjjX0jqDW_-Q_Wi41uFNirOdk7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YrCuufey1bc/YaExxkhJv6I/AAAAAAABcIU/EsLpIdnP-RoEGlfcmjnc4NJzg-m9CJTPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YrCuufey1bc/YaExxkhJv6I/AAAAAAABcIU/EsLpIdnP-RoEGlfcmjnc4NJzg-m9CJTPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Petrified Forest is the one national park that Route 66 actually crossed. Today it’s crossed by the interstate, too, though there’s no access at that point. We exited I-40 north of the park and entered via the Painted Desert, an area of badlands. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3gsmLhD5kE/YaEx_wA9xUI/AAAAAAABcIc/6pIBoabR3JEml2Uj4KJykHDCF6o1EQGFACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/ptd%2Bdesert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3gsmLhD5kE/YaEx_wA9xUI/AAAAAAABcIc/6pIBoabR3JEml2Uj4KJykHDCF6o1EQGFACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/ptd%2Bdesert.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Perhaps because it was a cloudy day, T. was less impressed by the Painted Desert than I remembered being in 1987. She compared it to a slag heap. The sun does help to bring out the colors. Fortunately, in the parking lot, we happened to be in time for the U.S. Capitol Christmas Tree, which was making lots of stops in its big truck en route to Washington, D.C.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vOYxnux_cfQ/YaEyGDRDs0I/AAAAAAABcIo/4mrhxzT4HwM2NPN68izgT_MPDxS2CXRGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/capitol%2Btree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vOYxnux_cfQ/YaEyGDRDs0I/AAAAAAABcIo/4mrhxzT4HwM2NPN68izgT_MPDxS2CXRGgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/capitol%2Btree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Painted Desert Inn is now a museum and, like many other attractions along our route, was closed that day. Most of my interest was in the outside of the building though. It dates from 1924 and was built in Pueblo Revival style, and before it closed in 1942, it was managed by Fred Harvey’s company as a hotel for passengers on the Santa Fe Railroad, which we’d been following for some days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_3EhJ2D0yZc/YaEyc5NQosI/AAAAAAABcI0/9cUzfkxsgb0DYs3XZxbtrUYW0ToVwr6OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Painted%2BDesert%2BInn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_3EhJ2D0yZc/YaEyc5NQosI/AAAAAAABcI0/9cUzfkxsgb0DYs3XZxbtrUYW0ToVwr6OQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Painted%2BDesert%2BInn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Painted Desert Inn was also our first look at the work of Mary Jane Colter, an important architect of the Southwest who, among other things, put in the glass to connect the building with the landscape. There are other interesting details such as the use of petrified wood.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tn_nIo_c32U/YaEyk9oUT1I/AAAAAAABcI4/PLCEpupX-BMbJWX3NS0AofNG4iXPmqn2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/pet%2Bwood%2Bdetail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tn_nIo_c32U/YaEyk9oUT1I/AAAAAAABcI4/PLCEpupX-BMbJWX3NS0AofNG4iXPmqn2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pet%2Bwood%2Bdetail.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A line of telephone poles indicates where Route 66 once passed right through, delivering travelers their first sight of the national park. The old alignment is marked by a 1932 Studebaker.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ASMPXb4VjI/YaEyt1yQHXI/AAAAAAABcJE/tn7SEAkmeXcxO0zwRFlu7yr_10ckwKfYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/telephone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ASMPXb4VjI/YaEyt1yQHXI/AAAAAAABcJE/tn7SEAkmeXcxO0zwRFlu7yr_10ckwKfYwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/telephone.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0RQWlReT4Bk/YaEytqWb-9I/AAAAAAABcJA/hs8a7S_ntoII_q37YEq_f6zyWNftaOtBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Studebaker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0RQWlReT4Bk/YaEytqWb-9I/AAAAAAABcJA/hs8a7S_ntoII_q37YEq_f6zyWNftaOtBgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Studebaker.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Having been through the “quarry” that T. called the Painted Desert, we entered the Petrified Forest. The view of “Newspaper Rock” showed us more impressive relics of an ancient civilization.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H9AsWqXG6D8/YaEy3yiDpgI/AAAAAAABcJM/byuNnC2iO4Q8Z5ieKtQI2ElvRDQtmtaxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Newspaper%2BRock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H9AsWqXG6D8/YaEy3yiDpgI/AAAAAAABcJM/byuNnC2iO4Q8Z5ieKtQI2ElvRDQtmtaxgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Newspaper%2BRock.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1XMcFXaVgJk/YaEy4IzJR9I/AAAAAAABcJQ/FgxwraQPnsEAnGWTvQAB06NpK0FL1mVoACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/pioneer%2Bof%2Bpaleontology.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1XMcFXaVgJk/YaEy4IzJR9I/AAAAAAABcJQ/FgxwraQPnsEAnGWTvQAB06NpK0FL1mVoACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/pioneer%2Bof%2Bpaleontology.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>Annie Alexander, pioneer paleontologist, 1921<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I was relieved to see the sun come out for our walk on the Blue Mesa Trail. It’s only a mile loop and paved with asphalt, but descends dramatically in among the petrified wood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lmTnoUsO98Q/YaEzGgaSRgI/AAAAAAABcJg/akYMA-Fj2IArkEtyj4a_ryJjbOuCnvizwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Blue%2BMesa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lmTnoUsO98Q/YaEzGgaSRgI/AAAAAAABcJg/akYMA-Fj2IArkEtyj4a_ryJjbOuCnvizwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Blue%2BMesa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_KdvnjQat-o/YaEzIVm42fI/AAAAAAABcJs/_V_21k_B5awVggZpew2BD8hSZQV2iM3bwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/elephant%2Bskin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_KdvnjQat-o/YaEzIVm42fI/AAAAAAABcJs/_V_21k_B5awVggZpew2BD8hSZQV2iM3bwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/elephant%2Bskin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Elephant skin" surface</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a8ANediVXqc/YaEzExg3wMI/AAAAAAABcJc/4QmtS36Zpyw_9m6ePaJj9UtFzOJAsvtPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/petrified.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a8ANediVXqc/YaEzExg3wMI/AAAAAAABcJc/4QmtS36Zpyw_9m6ePaJj9UtFzOJAsvtPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/petrified.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVjh49X0MuM/YaEzIHC37VI/AAAAAAABcJo/iTA4kQ4gzPMwslYkNpuq4K5JryJCZNLLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVjh49X0MuM/YaEzIHC37VI/AAAAAAABcJo/iTA4kQ4gzPMwslYkNpuq4K5JryJCZNLLQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/train.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mesa with train</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcHeb43Fjz8/YaEzIZKpq1I/AAAAAAABcJw/0WoQOnbMuYgSqq0s-Qyb2NA39pcW8C_RACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/wood%2Band%2Blookout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcHeb43Fjz8/YaEzIZKpq1I/AAAAAAABcJw/0WoQOnbMuYgSqq0s-Qyb2NA39pcW8C_RACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/wood%2Band%2Blookout.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nvanQGcilSQ/YaEzJbjiW5I/AAAAAAABcJ0/m6x1WZnxHWMT8mVJ6kmSUeLaoF1W3vtdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/wood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nvanQGcilSQ/YaEzJbjiW5I/AAAAAAABcJ0/m6x1WZnxHWMT8mVJ6kmSUeLaoF1W3vtdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/wood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At the park exit stands one of the oldest national park buildings. We got a taste of what’s to come when we learned the plumbing wasn’t up to visitors. Lots of port-o-pots in our future.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVn8lAUgHXQ/YaEzVnszyeI/AAAAAAABcJ4/kmQ1ElMs3CAivCgQElwip3oo8Qzr0y7cQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rainbow%2BForest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVn8lAUgHXQ/YaEzVnszyeI/AAAAAAABcJ4/kmQ1ElMs3CAivCgQElwip3oo8Qzr0y7cQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Rainbow%2BForest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were now south of the park, and rather than backtrack 28 miles merely to get back on the interstate, elected to turn on U.S. 180 and rejoin Route 66 at Holbrook.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zNIEogMA5PI/YaEzb7yIdZI/AAAAAAABcKI/w63e1BKAPSwWquZ0W6KOi2OSJUlrpzDnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Holbrook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zNIEogMA5PI/YaEzb7yIdZI/AAAAAAABcKI/w63e1BKAPSwWquZ0W6KOi2OSJUlrpzDnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Holbrook.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AqDvqQVsX9w/YaEzp-K8ASI/AAAAAAABcKU/N53yTZzFtBgodALBkpVasqlpPsIxdZw4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/aggie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AqDvqQVsX9w/YaEzp-K8ASI/AAAAAAABcKU/N53yTZzFtBgodALBkpVasqlpPsIxdZw4ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/aggie.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe and Aggie's, also closed</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">West of Holbrook, the Geronimo Trading Post advertised the “World’s Largest Petrified Tree.” It’s in pieces and T. was less than impressed. A more interesting use of petrified wood was in the welcome sign to Joseph City, named after Joseph Smith, the founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4kx1kOdq5CI/YaEz8_AmfCI/AAAAAAABcKk/ULGA0-kaYa0hKFBwXjOe-ClNzJFG3VhawCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joseph%2BCity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4kx1kOdq5CI/YaEz8_AmfCI/AAAAAAABcKk/ULGA0-kaYa0hKFBwXjOe-ClNzJFG3VhawCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Joseph%2BCity.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our destination for the night was Winslow, of which people of many nationalities have sung along to the Eagles’ “Take It Easy.” However, there were still a number of old signs to follow, culminating in a rough section of frontage road with grass growing on it. This led to the Jackrabbit Trading Post.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0av2WbRT3BA/YaE0HFHmllI/AAAAAAABcKo/gu98-m0jZWoRBnC9SdVcP8vE6Z9FW706QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Jack%2BRabbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0av2WbRT3BA/YaE0HFHmllI/AAAAAAABcKo/gu98-m0jZWoRBnC9SdVcP8vE6Z9FW706QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Jack%2BRabbit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In its heyday, Route 66 had more than a <i>thousand miles</i> of signs telling people how far it was to the Jackrabbit—starting at Springfield, Missouri! Heaven knows how the owner afforded it, but the Jackrabbit Trading Post became a must-visit destination by the time people finally arrived, and it’s still there, and it was open.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TRJlwsVS6xs/YaE0ZwFQvII/AAAAAAABcKw/i1Ui_v4jXQYFTKO3z9uBMqI0z6AlX1B6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Jack%2BRabbit%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TRJlwsVS6xs/YaE0ZwFQvII/AAAAAAABcKw/i1Ui_v4jXQYFTKO3z9uBMqI0z6AlX1B6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Jack%2BRabbit%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note little jackrabbits all along the top!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvsjOKk0u8g/YaE1PKmC1II/AAAAAAABcLA/A9NSSL9KKeclwEkW2t3KFV_4CBzeHwOdACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/remembrance%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvsjOKk0u8g/YaE1PKmC1II/AAAAAAABcLA/A9NSSL9KKeclwEkW2t3KFV_4CBzeHwOdACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/remembrance%2B.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And so to Winslow, where we first stopped at the town’s September 11 Remembrance Garden. There are girders from the World Trade Center and a flag that was flown at the Pentagon. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">T’s highlight, though, which she’d been talking about for days, was Standin’ on the Corner in Winslow, Arizona, a statue of Glenn Frey by Ron Adamson. And a mural, and a park, and the biggest Route 66 shield ever painted on the intersection.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-101GEutkG0E/YaE1W9KrgqI/AAAAAAABcLE/B0nXU1jANwUhnVtkkXX7oHhkrG7VQ7ioQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/corner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="2000" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-101GEutkG0E/YaE1W9KrgqI/AAAAAAABcLE/B0nXU1jANwUhnVtkkXX7oHhkrG7VQ7ioQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/corner.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Frey and Jackson Browne wrote the song following Browne’s trip on Route 66:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #202122; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">"Well, I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #202122; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Such a fine sight to see. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #202122; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">It's a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #202122; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">slowin' down to take a look at me."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4JSmgVAewuc/YaE1o2O7fSI/AAAAAAABcLM/B1XtN_g8lw0cRzGcGxhOlAk59SkLd2ymwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/corner%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4JSmgVAewuc/YaE1o2O7fSI/AAAAAAABcLM/B1XtN_g8lw0cRzGcGxhOlAk59SkLd2ymwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/corner%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was all buildup to our resting place for the night: La Posada. The last of the Fred Harvey hotels that once welcomed train passengers from Cleveland to California, and the masterpiece of Mary Jane Colter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7kFgJL5mLiA/YaE3-utZ1lI/AAAAAAABcLU/-1jdLVK4bX8V00cFbOErzol8rNX9BgKzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1992/La%2BPosada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="1992" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7kFgJL5mLiA/YaE3-utZ1lI/AAAAAAABcLU/-1jdLVK4bX8V00cFbOErzol8rNX9BgKzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/La%2BPosada.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7kYHMk2Exkc/YaE4HK50O4I/AAAAAAABcLY/EwWdF-Sm1Dc6ikIutSqcGA9wYbu610PsACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/La%2BPosada%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7kYHMk2Exkc/YaE4HK50O4I/AAAAAAABcLY/EwWdF-Sm1Dc6ikIutSqcGA9wYbu610PsACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/La%2BPosada%2B2.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Unlike other Harvey Houses which are either closed or demolished, La Posada (1928) is beautifully restored. You can still board Amtrak trains behind the hotel. We stayed in the “Douglas Fairbanks” room, and it had a library!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dBUqewEl_k/YaFA_DqKDvI/AAAAAAABcQE/P2AltGEqF3U-gbSUzShj_vltNQRQHh83wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dBUqewEl_k/YaFA_DqKDvI/AAAAAAABcQE/P2AltGEqF3U-gbSUzShj_vltNQRQHh83wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/detail.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Harvey Houses have a special place in history because of the Harvey Girls, as the young hostesses who worked in the hotels were called (also a Judy Garland film). Young women, many of them immigrants, traveled across the country to work as waitresses, an unusually independent thing to do at the time. Harvey Houses also had the distinction of never being segregated, so La Posada is one of the few places in Arizona still open today that welcomed black travelers in the era of the <i>Green Book.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">I was kind of reluctant to leave the next morning. Everything about the hotel and grounds was beautiful.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cmym0x1ut64/YaE4HrePfpI/AAAAAAABcLg/R4rWJdaLdEYVCY6eo8ofEd-QKOVKwRL_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cmym0x1ut64/YaE4HrePfpI/AAAAAAABcLg/R4rWJdaLdEYVCY6eo8ofEd-QKOVKwRL_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pollinator garden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UMDOTcAK2Pw/YaE4HXxmu1I/AAAAAAABcLc/AyVNPhxk3jY7jZxMWUYxMff4JJmYEseDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UMDOTcAK2Pw/YaE4HXxmu1I/AAAAAAABcLc/AyVNPhxk3jY7jZxMWUYxMff4JJmYEseDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset, train stop behind La Posada</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But, we’d heard that west of Winslow and just a few miles off Route 66 was the Meteor Crater. You had to see the Meteor Crater (as my grandpa told us in 1987 about Lake Havasu). So, we ignored the navigation app’s warnings not to deviate from the Route. “Jane, you’re </span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">*!@?$! barking mad,” T. told her genially.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MN3NEX18tTk/YaE4pPrHSkI/AAAAAAABcL0/CupBrRGg-pcyLfXD4Gt2dGVnFnv_BgV6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/meteor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MN3NEX18tTk/YaE4pPrHSkI/AAAAAAABcL0/CupBrRGg-pcyLfXD4Gt2dGVnFnv_BgV6wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/meteor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mciXmC-_rcU/YaE45_YSW6I/AAAAAAABcL8/rm8WBX6O-24cS5--_0KDXQ7jNEBfw9VcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/meteor%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mciXmC-_rcU/YaE45_YSW6I/AAAAAAABcL8/rm8WBX6O-24cS5--_0KDXQ7jNEBfw9VcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/meteor%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At last, we were there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4bYB7i5hLUw/YaE450-vvpI/AAAAAAABcMA/0djSrefU0s0BoWBtvlKSYWge5Svd6D3lwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/crater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4bYB7i5hLUw/YaE450-vvpI/AAAAAAABcMA/0djSrefU0s0BoWBtvlKSYWge5Svd6D3lwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/crater.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The impact of 150 atomic bombs’ worth of energy is an impressive fact. If this collision had happened more recently than 50,000 years ago, a whole city could have been destroyed. (“There probably were people living there 50,000 years ago,” T. said, “and that’s probably why they started living in </span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">*!@?$! caves!”) What was not impressive was the $20 (for a senior!) per person charge to go in the museum, which no doubt told more about the use of the crater for moon landing practice. What if you had a family of kids who were really interested in the museum? Who could afford this? For $20, your whole carload could visit the national parks for an entire day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We could have turned around and not seen the meteor crater, but I knew, even as we paid, that I’d get much more pleasure out of telling everyone what a ripoff it was.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Back on Route 66 were some ruins along dead-end frontage road. Two Guns was once a Wild West theme park with one of Route 66’s dubious roadside zoos.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0e4GFTCrUI8/YaE5F7wfSqI/AAAAAAABcME/saenAkMb8LglMleY4lxsmYsx35i2wkRuACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Two%2BGuns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0e4GFTCrUI8/YaE5F7wfSqI/AAAAAAABcME/saenAkMb8LglMleY4lxsmYsx35i2wkRuACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Two%2BGuns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Twin Arrows, an old trading post made iconic by these two telephone poles in 1955, is also abandoned and otherwise covered with graffiti. The arrows themselves have been repainted by the Hopi tribe, whose land this is.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VcdPmrCNjtQ/YaE5MpeXsxI/AAAAAAABcMQ/4xJEdfsM2UMlR-FFWXjRWMRWgir82SoSwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Twin%2BArrows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VcdPmrCNjtQ/YaE5MpeXsxI/AAAAAAABcMQ/4xJEdfsM2UMlR-FFWXjRWMRWgir82SoSwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Twin%2BArrows.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Route 66 song says “Don’t forget Winona,” rhyming it with Flagstaff, Arizona. It would be almost as easy to miss Winona today as Two Guns or Twin Arrows, but we didn’t, taking the Townsend-Winona Road which was the pre-1947 alignment. Winona still has a truss bridge closed to motor traffic, and we saw a jackrabbit cross the road (a real one!) </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GmZdAFNrRg4/YaE5Xg-bQGI/AAAAAAABcMY/gYEP45TJpeEGXdgLOO9H0YUmDcRQBrTkgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Winona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GmZdAFNrRg4/YaE5Xg-bQGI/AAAAAAABcMY/gYEP45TJpeEGXdgLOO9H0YUmDcRQBrTkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Winona.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">To the north of us, a train climbed up a steep grade. Flagstaff is much livelier than Winona and presented us with many historic reminders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JsuQHiWcWb0/YaE5q2x9ghI/AAAAAAABcNE/g4j7KPmvhfkIQgvgGJpi_nujIx1qzE2bQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/flagstaff%2Bsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JsuQHiWcWb0/YaE5q2x9ghI/AAAAAAABcNE/g4j7KPmvhfkIQgvgGJpi_nujIx1qzE2bQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/flagstaff%2Bsign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FPFxndoO_YM/YaE5q72SZ3I/AAAAAAABcNA/Da1HX1eOtxkc4laWfCAe9nMK5NAmXGNWgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Museum%2BClub%2B1931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FPFxndoO_YM/YaE5q72SZ3I/AAAAAAABcNA/Da1HX1eOtxkc4laWfCAe9nMK5NAmXGNWgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Museum%2BClub%2B1931.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ponderosa pine frames the doorway of the Museum Club (1931)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5S_Wbf8lHdI/YaE5q-FZjNI/AAAAAAABcNI/ZEyb4I2lX6AvbCqi4yF2c78J9tTjNxmWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/old%2Bsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5S_Wbf8lHdI/YaE5q-FZjNI/AAAAAAABcNI/ZEyb4I2lX6AvbCqi4yF2c78J9tTjNxmWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/old%2Bsign.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Downtown Flagstaff is compact and provided us with a delightful self-guided walking tour.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6dY4jvpQnAw/YaE63sYL6xI/AAAAAAABcNk/reRYWCleg8U3E-yFxU3fswKI3c0OYsJYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Babbitt%2Bbros%2Bdetail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6dY4jvpQnAw/YaE63sYL6xI/AAAAAAABcNk/reRYWCleg8U3E-yFxU3fswKI3c0OYsJYwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Babbitt%2Bbros%2Bdetail.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CPDOqbf2Ugo/YaE63xjQIyI/AAAAAAABcNo/vU3ErvlN7TQBnSibyL8cz1D45R4IE4_RQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Babbitt%2BBros%2Bbldg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CPDOqbf2Ugo/YaE63xjQIyI/AAAAAAABcNo/vU3ErvlN7TQBnSibyL8cz1D45R4IE4_RQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Babbitt%2BBros%2Bbldg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuHOkDnckYA/YaE64nyd0EI/AAAAAAABcNs/5lCjBGN01d80ygCophC4jPZzUWUN7ptzACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Orpheum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuHOkDnckYA/YaE64nyd0EI/AAAAAAABcNs/5lCjBGN01d80ygCophC4jPZzUWUN7ptzACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Orpheum.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orpheum Theater, 1917</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ogo6yx56WQk/YaE63j9bpfI/AAAAAAABcNg/U_5ovZWlfBUVJdOUfmhm0C2aMSW-e8RUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Flagstaff%2Bmotel%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ogo6yx56WQk/YaE63j9bpfI/AAAAAAABcNg/U_5ovZWlfBUVJdOUfmhm0C2aMSW-e8RUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Flagstaff%2Bmotel%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Further west, a pre-1941 gravel detour took us to Parks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HUk7EDmqDfU/YaE8cKxpKDI/AAAAAAABcN8/N5KqwECYj3Ym8fEKC2Z0q3qU-Swf7jKzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Parks%2Bstore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HUk7EDmqDfU/YaE8cKxpKDI/AAAAAAABcN8/N5KqwECYj3Ym8fEKC2Z0q3qU-Swf7jKzwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Parks%2Bstore.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Parks in the Pines General Store and Post Office is still lively and operating. The original (1926-31) alignment of Route 66 was one block south, on the other side of the building. According to Jessica Dunham, the store kept up with the realignment by moving the front entrance to what had been the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Williams, Arizona was the last town bypassed by Route 66 on October 13, 1984. There’s still a mural in the town commemorating this dark day. The citizens fought hard to preserve downtown Williams’s heritage as a Route 66 stop.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uhg6O8X7kwc/YaE8pMHqxSI/AAAAAAABcOA/bfOzIH99WVYPI57c0zqaKIZlwxxE9h4jwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Wms%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uhg6O8X7kwc/YaE8pMHqxSI/AAAAAAABcOA/bfOzIH99WVYPI57c0zqaKIZlwxxE9h4jwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Wms%2B2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T8sQSsnuNFY/YaE8pIkUTMI/AAAAAAABcOE/ekmOk80EgCsCTDutL3a4PPl-o2gxY_cDACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Wms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T8sQSsnuNFY/YaE8pIkUTMI/AAAAAAABcOE/ekmOk80EgCsCTDutL3a4PPl-o2gxY_cDACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Wms.jpg" width="400" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fUTbs6gD2fo/YaE853or48I/AAAAAAABcOY/mrGBElTVe0oNKRPfA5fRkKlyUogX0zc7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1929%2Bstore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fUTbs6gD2fo/YaE853or48I/AAAAAAABcOY/mrGBElTVe0oNKRPfA5fRkKlyUogX0zc7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1929%2Bstore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were starving, so we stopped, as you do, in an 1897 bordello. The Red Garter Inn isn’t so much a saloon today as a nice diner.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nxmGgCYOiDU/YaE8x-QjjiI/AAAAAAABcOQ/sb8TLIEP-0YBkXE3Bpycya54RswPenFmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Red%2BGarter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nxmGgCYOiDU/YaE8x-QjjiI/AAAAAAABcOQ/sb8TLIEP-0YBkXE3Bpycya54RswPenFmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Red%2BGarter.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajHSiRtskks/YaE8x3ZS_ZI/AAAAAAABcOM/uEUKCfN7pcQNNhFZ39Jm2oiDBxkXuqInACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/GC%2BHotel%2B1892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajHSiRtskks/YaE8x3ZS_ZI/AAAAAAABcOM/uEUKCfN7pcQNNhFZ39Jm2oiDBxkXuqInACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/GC%2BHotel%2B1892.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The scenic (and expensive!) thing to do from Williams is to take a special train to the Grand Canyon. We’ve been to the Grand Canyon multiple times and were not doing this, but as we walked towards the railroad, I heard a woman say to T., “You’re in shorts and a T-shirt and I’m freezing in a jacket!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">She sure sounded familiar to me, and I wasn’t surprised when she said, “We’re from Tennessee.” I asked her where and she said near Knoxville. When I told her where I grew up, she said “Oh—we’re from Kingsport! I just didn’t know if you’d know where that was.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This was what I always thought when I used to tell people where I was from too. The couple was in Williams for a five-day trip, and if they were taking the Grand Canyon Railway, it must have been a memorable one.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--N-6nFTiVkE/YaE9B_JsWdI/AAAAAAABcOg/zIyLmj623mw92NVa4tIcdEfFzLT6Zh9FgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/GC%2Btrain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--N-6nFTiVkE/YaE9B_JsWdI/AAAAAAABcOg/zIyLmj623mw92NVa4tIcdEfFzLT6Zh9FgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/GC%2Btrain.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From there we had to get back on the interstate for what T. termed “a rapid descent, not as rapid as the meteor!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The town of Ash Fork, the flagstone capital of America, was cut off by I-40. One man trying to change that is an Airbnb owner who stopped to talk to us while we were taking pictures of his place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qj_AK2l7TwU/YaE9IvualxI/AAAAAAABcOk/Oap2O1RAPtoXiFDYP-scrG1qiHKaX-lqwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/DeSotos%2BAirbnb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qj_AK2l7TwU/YaE9IvualxI/AAAAAAABcOk/Oap2O1RAPtoXiFDYP-scrG1qiHKaX-lqwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/DeSotos%2BAirbnb.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">He told us that this old gas station is now his Airbnb, and they’re trying to restore more properties along the main drag of Ash Fork, so that it’s a worthy Route 66 stop like Williams.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Route 66 still exists as a historic and beloved route because of people like this man. Perhaps no one, though, deserves more credit than the founders of the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona, which led to the foundation of other state organizations and made much of our trip possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kPsXRNd5GA4/YaE9ZBXkW8I/AAAAAAABcO0/ddUt9wSnqWsGsNHQiMmrxnXVCtbMaAEowCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kPsXRNd5GA4/YaE9ZBXkW8I/AAAAAAABcO0/ddUt9wSnqWsGsNHQiMmrxnXVCtbMaAEowCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Angel.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cutout of Angel Delgadillo with his barber chair!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Angel Delgadillo and his family, in the next town of Seligman, didn’t want their town to die. Thanks to their hard work and inspiration for others, there are now 159 miles of non-interstate Route 66 that you can drive through northern Arizona, beautiful and in good shape. There are series of replica Burma-Shave signs along the Crookton Road all the way to Seligman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Km-5dFWJMvU/YaE9nuwV6cI/AAAAAAABcO8/87giaKxX5Ow6b3iPD2MMjSFlYTjX4K3bACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burma-Shave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Km-5dFWJMvU/YaE9nuwV6cI/AAAAAAABcO8/87giaKxX5Ow6b3iPD2MMjSFlYTjX4K3bACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Burma-Shave.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qlYzWMHNRDo/YaE9nvamPiI/AAAAAAABcPA/OzRygqQ7zakKvpmEY7Cu3sEzIlNZCcfYACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Crookton%2Bhwy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qlYzWMHNRDo/YaE9nvamPiI/AAAAAAABcPA/OzRygqQ7zakKvpmEY7Cu3sEzIlNZCcfYACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Crookton%2Bhwy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We didn’t actually meet Angel Delgadillo, but we did visit his barbershop, now a visitor center. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ckb2-rxNnTE/YaE9xxBrWmI/AAAAAAABcPI/fCEYa-Vr4_gouHuasdYgLxyEAbWwCrqVACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Angel%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ckb2-rxNnTE/YaE9xxBrWmI/AAAAAAABcPI/fCEYa-Vr4_gouHuasdYgLxyEAbWwCrqVACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Angel%2527s.jpg" width="400" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I47IEX-98Zc/YaE-ovym_NI/AAAAAAABcPw/ElD_sNJLa7UucQj-amefo6KEqSJKUMaKwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Supai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I47IEX-98Zc/YaE-ovym_NI/AAAAAAABcPw/ElD_sNJLa7UucQj-amefo6KEqSJKUMaKwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Supai.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Still following recommendations from Lile in Amarillo, we had dinner at the Roadkill Café (we had salad, so as to avoid roadkill, and leave room for pie!) There was a discount because we were staying next door at the Historic Route 66 Motel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XVcnxXwMLWE/YaE-AqAfqcI/AAAAAAABcPQ/z_ng3RdBn30_Y3TomTnzFck4Z6U6u-pkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/hotel%2Bsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XVcnxXwMLWE/YaE-AqAfqcI/AAAAAAABcPQ/z_ng3RdBn30_Y3TomTnzFck4Z6U6u-pkACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/hotel%2Bsign.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nFGir2LjWB8/YaE-AwppCpI/AAAAAAABcPU/y3647zCG6_A0ncAreVQVGnwA75NCoj9kQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/roadkill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nFGir2LjWB8/YaE-AwppCpI/AAAAAAABcPU/y3647zCG6_A0ncAreVQVGnwA75NCoj9kQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/roadkill.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Seligman’s main street has lots of good businesses and some old neon too. The Stagecoach motel is run by Norwegians and has a big Norwegian flag out front. There’s another place run by Germans and advertising good hamburgers (naturally). Seligman is a favorite place of Route 66 travelers from all over the world.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGa3Qwmd88Q/YaE-R4rJaYI/AAAAAAABcPc/sVfabedSGvAKKzeXvDFoev_scHa6xACFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/not%2Bquite%2Bdouglas%2Bfairbanks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGa3Qwmd88Q/YaE-R4rJaYI/AAAAAAABcPc/sVfabedSGvAKKzeXvDFoev_scHa6xACFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/not%2Bquite%2Bdouglas%2Bfairbanks.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not quite Douglas Fairbanks</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ECUqO41jToo/YaE-SSp7X_I/AAAAAAABcPg/O58kiGtWHRspx97VS27PTFjTWJtDwVrLgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ECUqO41jToo/YaE-SSp7X_I/AAAAAAABcPg/O58kiGtWHRspx97VS27PTFjTWJtDwVrLgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/hotel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I got to talking to our next door neighbor at the motel, which is a Route 66 thing to do. I couldn’t guess her age, but I wouldn’t have thought, had she not told us, that she’d restored her own vintage Porsche and was now driving it all over the country by herself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L_JQ-tculw8/YaE-eGWTgcI/AAAAAAABcPk/Pu__qlS-oA8hDox5jtAD7sQ5WJpFYvRPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Supai%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L_JQ-tculw8/YaE-eGWTgcI/AAAAAAABcPk/Pu__qlS-oA8hDox5jtAD7sQ5WJpFYvRPgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Supai%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And I don’t have a picture, but the starry sky at night over Seligman was better than I saw anywhere else on the trip—even the national parks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kdX_xABdLWk/YaE_GXZisaI/AAAAAAABcP8/uhSVyBgIA80VundSWcgnXPnP6K3lYy7IQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Song.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kdX_xABdLWk/YaE_GXZisaI/AAAAAAABcP8/uhSVyBgIA80VundSWcgnXPnP6K3lYy7IQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Song.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-38847959961645788442021-11-24T16:18:00.000-05:002021-11-24T16:18:29.882-05:00Four Corners side trip<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If you look up the Four Corners Monument on travel advice sites, people say don’t go out of your way to visit there. They charge you $5 each to line up and take a picture, and it’s really hot, and there are vendors hawking stuff all around.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Well. We were on our way to Monument Valley and literally passing the turnoff for the Four Corners Monument, and it wasn’t hot, and in November 2021 not remotely crowded. Indeed, I was worried no one would be around to take our picture! The only oddities were the mask mandate and the use of cards only (no cash) to pay the $5.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKYfB0T-0sU/YZ6HY8ukvSI/AAAAAAABcDA/unqrumpfd8Ml9HFz9t22lWphwEKl0UCgACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Chicken%2BDuck%2BFour%2BCorners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKYfB0T-0sU/YZ6HY8ukvSI/AAAAAAABcDA/unqrumpfd8Ml9HFz9t22lWphwEKl0UCgACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Chicken%2BDuck%2BFour%2BCorners.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The duck is in New Mexico, T. is in Colorado, I'm in Utah and the chick is in Arizona.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOBh5lolgz0/YZ6H3Q1vtgI/AAAAAAABcDQ/zUUgl1XRMe8EZ7NTIB6jgNqvfiepiCnBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Teec%2BNos%2BPos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOBh5lolgz0/YZ6H3Q1vtgI/AAAAAAABcDQ/zUUgl1XRMe8EZ7NTIB6jgNqvfiepiCnBgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Teec%2BNos%2BPos.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teec Nos Pos. Every village had a welcome sign.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Colorado had the least restrictive mask-wearing and the Navajo Nation the most, with indoor businesses in New Mexico seeming to vary by city. It was all very confusing, and Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park appears to be partly in Utah and mostly in Arizona, with both states claiming it. I guess it didn’t matter because it was Navajo land. The park had recently reopened but what with washouts this summer, the normally drivable dirt loop was deemed out of bounds to regular cars, and T. didn’t like the look of it anyway. So we hired a guide, after agreeing that it was okay to lower masks when speaking to T. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvAefDOZnm0/YZ6HmbKepJI/AAAAAAABcDE/92Uh9-3ylL0jxTMYHzw8hNWC2AGaiS8rgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Useful%2Bmasks%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvAefDOZnm0/YZ6HmbKepJI/AAAAAAABcDE/92Uh9-3ylL0jxTMYHzw8hNWC2AGaiS8rgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Useful%2Bmasks%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Masks proved useful with all the dust flying around in the open vehicle!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Navajo guides can take you to places you can’t go on your own anyway. It wasn’t a cheap tour, but it was good value, as our guide actually lives and herds sheep in Monument Valley. He took us to see a hogan (a Navajo dwelling; a woman of his acquaintance took us inside the female hogan) and played his flute in one of Monument Valley’s awesome rock formations, which made it feel like I was being transported back many hundreds of years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9TwYkBZzcsA/YZ6IJCLzNEI/AAAAAAABcDc/Dqb1C2VroGICR8sZaIsStirLnDdv81GTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Monument%2BValley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9TwYkBZzcsA/YZ6IJCLzNEI/AAAAAAABcDc/Dqb1C2VroGICR8sZaIsStirLnDdv81GTQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Monument%2BValley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><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;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04lAztSmEP0/YZ6IJxyRtSI/AAAAAAABcDg/nzQzqJRrfe8WdimSywU0sD-tkfcOPggiACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Three%2BSisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04lAztSmEP0/YZ6IJxyRtSI/AAAAAAABcDg/nzQzqJRrfe8WdimSywU0sD-tkfcOPggiACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Three%2BSisters.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three Sisters</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QF20O60-1I/YZ6IJ4uNsuI/AAAAAAABcDk/EHaKipTiVH8HkIO4NwnpkafM96F5vLfeACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/West%2BMitten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QF20O60-1I/YZ6IJ4uNsuI/AAAAAAABcDk/EHaKipTiVH8HkIO4NwnpkafM96F5vLfeACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/West%2BMitten.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Mitten</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">He also wore a cap from the now-renamed Cleveland Indians baseball team. And not just any logo, but the defunct Chief Wahoo.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWhiyj1u72s/YZ6IAbUE4yI/AAAAAAABcDU/ULKG9hU65F4NoS_aRrVYBgQCaUyOfga8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Wahoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWhiyj1u72s/YZ6IAbUE4yI/AAAAAAABcDU/ULKG9hU65F4NoS_aRrVYBgQCaUyOfga8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Wahoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As he clearly wasn’t from Cleveland, I asked if he was a fan. He laughed and said yes. I understand that the “Indians” nickname for the then-Cleveland Spiders originated when Louis Sockalexis, Native himself, was actually playing for the team. I guess if anyone can unselfconsciously root for the Tribe, it ought to be a tribal member.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTqheZlmTjY/YZ6IWID_46I/AAAAAAABcDw/EoNps13pN-wvaRyBw9WDRthCtN0dxskrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/MV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTqheZlmTjY/YZ6IWID_46I/AAAAAAABcDw/EoNps13pN-wvaRyBw9WDRthCtN0dxskrQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/MV.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cigBzCtI05w/YZ6IWJrn1jI/AAAAAAABcDs/G2yAzBZAM1wdKGqQSSACYXRUYCxbgRN2gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1566/panborma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="1566" height="132" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cigBzCtI05w/YZ6IWJrn1jI/AAAAAAABcDs/G2yAzBZAM1wdKGqQSSACYXRUYCxbgRN2gCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h132/panborma.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The geological formations in the Tribal Park are astounding, and the changing light of the afternoon played over them beautifully. My pictures don’t really do justice to them but here are some more anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B0nJl6sQD8w/YZ6IkBsT4wI/AAAAAAABcEA/7wORebUsgSY57YLlNO3sK0z-OpYvE0FcACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Big%2BHogan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B0nJl6sQD8w/YZ6IkBsT4wI/AAAAAAABcEA/7wORebUsgSY57YLlNO3sK0z-OpYvE0FcACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Big%2BHogan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><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;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-whA2QlLe9PQ/YZ6Ijc7BgBI/AAAAAAABcD8/1bmookidf44AUy-BY2QixGWLMUM0CSaIACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Moccasin%2BArch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-whA2QlLe9PQ/YZ6Ijc7BgBI/AAAAAAABcD8/1bmookidf44AUy-BY2QixGWLMUM0CSaIACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Moccasin%2BArch.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moccasin Arch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0PXS378f2o/YZ6IlY185QI/AAAAAAABcEI/cL0IRUtOpJoL3BwX1jvUcwBS8GmMnZPaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0PXS378f2o/YZ6IlY185QI/AAAAAAABcEI/cL0IRUtOpJoL3BwX1jvUcwBS8GmMnZPaQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/sky.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9MBALb1t4kw/YZ6IkexefWI/AAAAAAABcEE/Gw3f2fxMQZUkzRefo6my_fw-OrTIfNOXACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sun%2527s%2BEye%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9MBALb1t4kw/YZ6IkexefWI/AAAAAAABcEE/Gw3f2fxMQZUkzRefo6my_fw-OrTIfNOXACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Sun%2527s%2BEye%2B.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sun's Eye</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Possibly even more astounding were the ancient petroglyphs drawn by Ancestral Pueblo (the same people who built the dwellings at Mesa Verde). The guide showed us these with pride, as these people were his own ancestors.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iu_lDdXhZjM/YZ6JHw-pWOI/AAAAAAABcEo/cVMyHpID5hwk3GUqYKU5B5ZBmAo7UxMYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/hand%2Bprints.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iu_lDdXhZjM/YZ6JHw-pWOI/AAAAAAABcEo/cVMyHpID5hwk3GUqYKU5B5ZBmAo7UxMYQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/hand%2Bprints.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgkzcdzM3hs/YZ6JHZ251kI/AAAAAAABcEg/GisKw57UKMohCc-A5BWZxHRDGaofS1BIwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/petroglyphs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgkzcdzM3hs/YZ6JHZ251kI/AAAAAAABcEg/GisKw57UKMohCc-A5BWZxHRDGaofS1BIwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/petroglyphs.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8jzEAyeGvU/YZ6JIGLTuxI/AAAAAAABcEs/5px5SJFhwgkTK5itQ3XoE4H882JW1cUdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/petroglyps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LnCV_aS1H9s/YZ6JHpvN7bI/AAAAAAABcEk/weO8wOzc-OcVD64L3YdQ4qcayc9ePRfLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Petroglyph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LnCV_aS1H9s/YZ6JHpvN7bI/AAAAAAABcEk/weO8wOzc-OcVD64L3YdQ4qcayc9ePRfLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Petroglyph.jpg" width="238" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8jzEAyeGvU/YZ6JIGLTuxI/AAAAAAABcEs/5px5SJFhwgkTK5itQ3XoE4H882JW1cUdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/petroglyps.jpg" width="400" /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">He asked about our trip, and whether we would be seeing my family in time for Thanksgiving. I wondered about an American Indian’s thoughts on Thanksgiving, but this was one of the most easygoing people I’d ever met. When he showed us “John Ford Point,” where the filmmaker shot some famous scenes, he said, “You know, when the Indians were chasing John Wayne…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u6TTIbfT7bE/YZ6JVVOthLI/AAAAAAABcEw/KqiwQuLTy_Q_P7FucveDBA42CCM-pADQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/West%2BMitten%252C%2Bfilm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u6TTIbfT7bE/YZ6JVVOthLI/AAAAAAABcEw/KqiwQuLTy_Q_P7FucveDBA42CCM-pADQgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/West%2BMitten%252C%2Bfilm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Mitten in film</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Very politically correct,” I said. He laughed again, asked us what religion we were, then pointed out another formation that some people say looks like a figure of Jesus. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">What a relaxed and relaxing presence this guy was.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNtUk3O3p84/YZ6Jid6G_pI/AAAAAAABcFA/Rnp3ahpLL0IXbiSqMUGJSqEBMigNZoMMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/John%2BFord%2BPoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNtUk3O3p84/YZ6Jid6G_pI/AAAAAAABcFA/Rnp3ahpLL0IXbiSqMUGJSqEBMigNZoMMQCLcBGAsYHQ/w476-h640/John%2BFord%2BPoint.jpg" width="476" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Ford Point</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P00VHPtirHc/YZ6JvU8rmBI/AAAAAAABcFU/3Vv8H9RX-W8crOlRWStSsVNIoHU8r_y2ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P00VHPtirHc/YZ6JvU8rmBI/AAAAAAABcFU/3Vv8H9RX-W8crOlRWStSsVNIoHU8r_y2ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/sheep.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MxpE-OtBTRY/YZ6JuiAgupI/AAAAAAABcFM/9E3u6C7Zltkrjg8WfSaYDEDc3FtC-f8FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1890/panorama%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="1890" height="182" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MxpE-OtBTRY/YZ6JuiAgupI/AAAAAAABcFM/9E3u6C7Zltkrjg8WfSaYDEDc3FtC-f8FwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h182/panorama%2B.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XdVskoMsGo/YZ6JtV2U5NI/AAAAAAABcFI/omf64mz4Vwok6cemAxH9zb3DsxwVas6TgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Ear%2Bof%2Bthe%2BWind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XdVskoMsGo/YZ6JtV2U5NI/AAAAAAABcFI/omf64mz4Vwok6cemAxH9zb3DsxwVas6TgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Ear%2Bof%2Bthe%2BWind.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ear of the Wind</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nR4_Xh8v3EM/YZ6Ju01Pe1I/AAAAAAABcFQ/ffzT-0ejqQo-L6tpGEaGe98-61sVO-WNACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Antelope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nR4_Xh8v3EM/YZ6Ju01Pe1I/AAAAAAABcFQ/ffzT-0ejqQo-L6tpGEaGe98-61sVO-WNACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Antelope.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Western movie theme continued at Goulding’s Lodge, just outside the Park in Utah. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfah0KU6vsM/YZ6KJbJWteI/AAAAAAABcFw/PFpO5c2OpBsdukJBIKXFGD14dh1xoJkvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Utah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfah0KU6vsM/YZ6KJbJWteI/AAAAAAABcFw/PFpO5c2OpBsdukJBIKXFGD14dh1xoJkvgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Utah.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Harry Goulding and his wife, who went by the name of Mike, founded this trading post and lodge and worked out a partnership with the local Navajo. During the 1930s, the Gouldings brought filming to the area and much-needed income to the people, who were really suffering from the Great Depression. We raise our eyebrows at some of the movie things now, but for its time, this was a fairly progressive endeavour.</span><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WExMt9pmXkM/YZ6J6Iq4_RI/AAAAAAABcFc/i-22aT8HzIQKSm4nLU-Bf7KBJztttqpqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Harry%2Band%2BMike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WExMt9pmXkM/YZ6J6Iq4_RI/AAAAAAABcFc/i-22aT8HzIQKSm4nLU-Bf7KBJztttqpqgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Harry%2Band%2BMike.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCLIbnqRmGo/YZ6J6l-_UWI/AAAAAAABcFg/k5f6mKDinQI9uOP5BZ166PlHhUNXeMT5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/She%2BWore%2BA%2BYellow%2BRibbon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCLIbnqRmGo/YZ6J6l-_UWI/AAAAAAABcFg/k5f6mKDinQI9uOP5BZ166PlHhUNXeMT5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/She%2BWore%2BA%2BYellow%2BRibbon.jpg" width="477" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In <i>She Wore a Yellow Ribbon</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One thing’s for sure: the views from Goulding’s can’t be beat. Every room has a private patio or balcony.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ilTR9NDibpc/YZ6KSeKrpfI/AAAAAAABcGA/pOXcHo5WkbYtdoILhtHpnyJWmwJM2fCAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/balcony%2Bview%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ilTR9NDibpc/YZ6KSeKrpfI/AAAAAAABcGA/pOXcHo5WkbYtdoILhtHpnyJWmwJM2fCAwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/balcony%2Bview%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uxExWu4Lk4Q/YZ6KSSPqZDI/AAAAAAABcF8/Urv0lpGjUoI1NYwgeSlG3JZlTevdCKWbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/balcony%2Bview%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uxExWu4Lk4Q/YZ6KSSPqZDI/AAAAAAABcF8/Urv0lpGjUoI1NYwgeSlG3JZlTevdCKWbgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/balcony%2Bview%2B3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tiQwULHsN3g/YZ6KSmqKgJI/AAAAAAABcGE/KEcqKcUBFfIxh20nSyiTKDkldJWNUqlUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/balcony%2Bview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tiQwULHsN3g/YZ6KSmqKgJI/AAAAAAABcGE/KEcqKcUBFfIxh20nSyiTKDkldJWNUqlUQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/balcony%2Bview.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JwlBuizTF4I/YZ6KTXar1dI/AAAAAAABcGI/v6jmDvZ8SrwU0MQfn5_OijM3nC_rzZj0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/changing%2Blight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JwlBuizTF4I/YZ6KTXar1dI/AAAAAAABcGI/v6jmDvZ8SrwU0MQfn5_OijM3nC_rzZj0gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/changing%2Blight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NNEuRHY_L6I/YZ6KTygUVKI/AAAAAAABcGM/GejU-dFCBSQWvgC1_QZyroUqdPhJu7KuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/dusk%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NNEuRHY_L6I/YZ6KTygUVKI/AAAAAAABcGM/GejU-dFCBSQWvgC1_QZyroUqdPhJu7KuwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/dusk%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t46-B_hxV2o/YZ6KT7DEx1I/AAAAAAABcGQ/lSg-IAjQTOswbb5sxXljHamDRJHd5EhlACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/dusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t46-B_hxV2o/YZ6KT7DEx1I/AAAAAAABcGQ/lSg-IAjQTOswbb5sxXljHamDRJHd5EhlACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/dusk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There’s only one restaurant and, like everywhere on the reservation, it’s alcohol free. T. would also say it’s hot-food free. It was too bad that the food was so hit and miss. My green chili chicken and bean stew special was delicious, served with Navajo fry bread, which is like a funnel cake where you add your own powdered sugar/honey.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tKrcyBzNW1M/YZ6Kg49fFZI/AAAAAAABcGY/5yfc1nK2MWcolwRYyr1rRU52Calv3R_nwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/fry%2Bbread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tKrcyBzNW1M/YZ6Kg49fFZI/AAAAAAABcGY/5yfc1nK2MWcolwRYyr1rRU52Calv3R_nwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fry%2Bbread.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The sunrise before we left Monument Valley was unforgettable.<o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsyAWSl0-oM/YZ6KnbdjzhI/AAAAAAABcGs/0RwsbhLMAAUuoVUGmY20KYC93nTv1RsywCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsyAWSl0-oM/YZ6KnbdjzhI/AAAAAAABcGs/0RwsbhLMAAUuoVUGmY20KYC93nTv1RsywCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E77K-Am3U08/YZ6Knz6mKrI/AAAAAAABcG0/EcYolHp-JMoqfZUEehDBKZrq5XUsv7iqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E77K-Am3U08/YZ6Knz6mKrI/AAAAAAABcG0/EcYolHp-JMoqfZUEehDBKZrq5XUsv7iqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bird.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-589__fs2Kjg/YZ6KnaYJTXI/AAAAAAABcGw/RnSs8ENt8bAw8RXoW3GuycBuKf10NMC6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/stagecoach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-589__fs2Kjg/YZ6KnaYJTXI/AAAAAAABcGw/RnSs8ENt8bAw8RXoW3GuycBuKf10NMC6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/stagecoach.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There’s a lot of pride in heritage around these parts. “We Are Family,” signs proclaimed in both English and Navajo. Even a Burger King billboard advertised a Navajo Code Talkers exhibit. Having said that, there were no Burger Kings or much else for long distances. We took Indian Route 59 down through Arizona.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bDhICryFHPA/YZ6KvN4uKGI/AAAAAAABcG4/N0MXI7HHq0AHcxyeBkRDG0TCwHlzOfd4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Indian%2BHighway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bDhICryFHPA/YZ6KvN4uKGI/AAAAAAABcG4/N0MXI7HHq0AHcxyeBkRDG0TCwHlzOfd4wCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Indian%2BHighway.jpg" width="477" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note arrowhead shape on Indian highway sign.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The community of Chilchinbito advertised “Home of the World’s Largest Rug.” The only other place names on that road were Rough Rock and Many Farms. “I haven’t seen any farms,” said T., “never mind many farms.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Back on the U.S. highway at Chinle, Arizona, we were passing Canyon de Chelly National Monument. We had time for a rim drive, though T. expressed concern at the “No Wood Cutting” sign: “Damn, I’ll have to put my ax away.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-CJ-8He0Tk/YZ6LEYT-brI/AAAAAAABcHM/6EJcc-k7KPgoPQ9v7piY-zypR2OBo63hACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Canyon%2Bde%2BChelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-CJ-8He0Tk/YZ6LEYT-brI/AAAAAAABcHM/6EJcc-k7KPgoPQ9v7piY-zypR2OBo63hACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Canyon%2Bde%2BChelly.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WJIJ26EyqbU/YZ6LC6O_TKI/AAAAAAABcHI/N7tn5jcxBy0aeAhMHSbzRZUkB6GYsFHNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/flags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WJIJ26EyqbU/YZ6LC6O_TKI/AAAAAAABcHI/N7tn5jcxBy0aeAhMHSbzRZUkB6GYsFHNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/flags.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s not Canyon de Chelly’s fault that its ruins of ancient civilization aren’t quite as spectacular as Mesa Verde’s, nor the views as spectacular as Monument Valley’s. Had we not just been to both places, we’d probably have been more impressed. To its credit, Canyon de Chelly is free.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8vqZszIKns/YZ6LNHjKDvI/AAAAAAABcHY/KdUWLdCWu0Y_qH47A-Wr3zjKK02mtUlMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Canyon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8vqZszIKns/YZ6LNHjKDvI/AAAAAAABcHY/KdUWLdCWu0Y_qH47A-Wr3zjKK02mtUlMgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Canyon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5ms5LMoe8o/YZ6LM1gzscI/AAAAAAABcHQ/USc4gTcMePozzCTWzeVd3MU3z6tbW2RtACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T%2Bcliff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5ms5LMoe8o/YZ6LM1gzscI/AAAAAAABcHQ/USc4gTcMePozzCTWzeVd3MU3z6tbW2RtACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/T%2Bcliff.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1c9GyvyZUQY/YZ6LNGKsSTI/AAAAAAABcHU/me6J0_qkrygqHb-G-MbjkISW6BLpNnJEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tseyi%2BOverlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1c9GyvyZUQY/YZ6LNGKsSTI/AAAAAAABcHU/me6J0_qkrygqHb-G-MbjkISW6BLpNnJEQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Tseyi%2BOverlook.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tseyi Overlook</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Speaking of views, at one of the overlooks we saw a car with a Virginia license plate, adorned with “Trump Won” stickers. We did not get out to chat with the “</span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">*!@?$! half-wit.” There’s a difference in views, and then there’s accepting reality. (It’s worth noting that this was the only such encounter we had the entire trip.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtM5LdwF8zY/YZ6LcVu83SI/AAAAAAABcH0/3QRql9wMGaYm6eZqG5NAP1eBWJtl_7ddgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtM5LdwF8zY/YZ6LcVu83SI/AAAAAAABcH0/3QRql9wMGaYm6eZqG5NAP1eBWJtl_7ddgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><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;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DsvLB-re0rw/YZ6LZKkGm7I/AAAAAAABcHo/gadUbq8tW8s4dxhnABmTvbatqs51TbvHACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Spider%2BRock%2BOverlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DsvLB-re0rw/YZ6LZKkGm7I/AAAAAAABcHo/gadUbq8tW8s4dxhnABmTvbatqs51TbvHACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Spider%2BRock%2BOverlook.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spider Rock Overlook</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2N7_8avABE/YZ6LbGHWt5I/AAAAAAABcHw/t0Ir_cPOwUoEylIDYJZypeF4HUV4vzSuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/ruins%253F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2N7_8avABE/YZ6LbGHWt5I/AAAAAAABcHw/t0Ir_cPOwUoEylIDYJZypeF4HUV4vzSuQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/ruins%253F.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vp087lMXkv8/YZ6LYB-IBiI/AAAAAAABcHk/HAGRvtUuHroRZsJKrBd60pcnpUkbrN9YACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/canyon%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vp087lMXkv8/YZ6LYB-IBiI/AAAAAAABcHk/HAGRvtUuHroRZsJKrBd60pcnpUkbrN9YACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/canyon%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kx7ZgsX0kw4/YZ6LZ1aQxxI/AAAAAAABcHs/y1Nteo0eZRoG6a2XxRG5kTa8LyCOmRhngCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/bid%2Btracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kx7ZgsX0kw4/YZ6LZ1aQxxI/AAAAAAABcHs/y1Nteo0eZRoG6a2XxRG5kTa8LyCOmRhngCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/bid%2Btracks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Other signs as we made our way back to New Mexico: “Donations for Thomas Hardy” ? and “Fireworks 50% off all year.” Now, how does that work? If there’s never a regular price, my advertising background taught me, you can’t have 50% off. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We’d used my atlas and, for the duration of our detour, not used the Route 66 navigation app at all. So T. said Jane (the navigation voice) had a long weekend off. “She’s probably having a fag and a cup of coffee, looking at her watch. Or on the phone to Marta in Spain.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Defiance Plateau. Trail of the Ancients Scenic Byway…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When we returned to Gallup, we had a look round the old alignment of Route 66 through downtown (Coal Street). <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rW-T859LHbQ/YZ6Gj96gihI/AAAAAAABcCY/uvoFvB63sYYHZLQPbImAZ1a5mlpDD5XuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BMorro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rW-T859LHbQ/YZ6Gj96gihI/AAAAAAABcCY/uvoFvB63sYYHZLQPbImAZ1a5mlpDD5XuwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/El%2BMorro.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Morro Theatre, Spanish colonial style (1928)</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EubYD4rR9t8/YZ6GkJ9eVWI/AAAAAAABcCg/mPFbUy0j7U4Te9smDpCu-BbVa41FcMmjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Jerry%2527s%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EubYD4rR9t8/YZ6GkJ9eVWI/AAAAAAABcCg/mPFbUy0j7U4Te9smDpCu-BbVa41FcMmjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jerry%2527s%2B.jpg" width="238" /></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wFnQVMdtHJY/YZ6HCUIS9rI/AAAAAAABcC0/qhkHBacF9P8ThsPOmZ-UZPPvhpV3RWtewCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Muffler%2BMan%2BCowboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wFnQVMdtHJY/YZ6HCUIS9rI/AAAAAAABcC0/qhkHBacF9P8ThsPOmZ-UZPPvhpV3RWtewCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Muffler%2BMan%2BCowboy.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Muffler Man--the cowboy atop John's Used Cars<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">We (eventually) found ourselves at the Red Roof Inn. Ten or twenty dollars above our usual motel price range, and boy did it feel swish: even had a fitness room, and it was open! Not that it made up for weeks of road snacks, diners, and sitting in the car…</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xpWexvP3lKM/YZ6G2ExT7rI/AAAAAAABcCs/noln8K-M-KYncvMC-qSTTLm_woutUb77QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rex%2Bclosed%2Bmuseum%253F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xpWexvP3lKM/YZ6G2ExT7rI/AAAAAAABcCs/noln8K-M-KYncvMC-qSTTLm_woutUb77QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Rex%2Bclosed%2Bmuseum%253F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ywtHMAnI654/YZ6G2OAolNI/AAAAAAABcCw/XGF3dXC2ktEnl3504AzSLkeenDuZJ-OSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gallup%2Btrash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ywtHMAnI654/YZ6G2OAolNI/AAAAAAABcCw/XGF3dXC2ktEnl3504AzSLkeenDuZJ-OSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Gallup%2Btrash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the "bins" have art in Gallup!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I couldn’t wait to get back to Route 66!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKJU0S1ahG0/YZ6GURXnHMI/AAAAAAABcCU/CEtEEwBXWvwZaCmzwyj9EAQv-1a9nStnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/THANKSGIVING.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKJU0S1ahG0/YZ6GURXnHMI/AAAAAAABcCU/CEtEEwBXWvwZaCmzwyj9EAQv-1a9nStnwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/THANKSGIVING.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-4213692493335161542021-11-23T17:19:00.001-05:002021-11-23T17:22:40.104-05:00Really, really old civilization<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2bqfp5f_aws/YZ1UQ5TlCYI/AAAAAAABb84/tcBieA1AQysmrhqwC2zQHq-NdjFEb_hcACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rio%2BPuerco%2BBridge%2B1933.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2bqfp5f_aws/YZ1UQ5TlCYI/AAAAAAABb84/tcBieA1AQysmrhqwC2zQHq-NdjFEb_hcACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Rio%2BPuerco%2BBridge%2B1933.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1933 bridge, closed to traffic. This "camelback arch" could handle the Rio Puerco's notorious flooding.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If you are planning a Route 66 trip and want to do any side trips, you need to build them into your itinerary in advance. What looks like “only” 30 miles—or 30 minutes!—out of your way when you’re sitting looking at the map at home, could take an entire day or else not be worth doing. We planned not to miss a mile of the Route (given the various alignments already discussed), but there were certain national parks which, while not “on the way,” were as close to Route 66 as we were ever likely to pass on a road trip. Therefore, I planned a three-day detour from Gallup, New Mexico, a giant loop that would then rejoin the Route at Gallup.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">To get there, we left Albuquerque via post-1937 Route 66. Central Avenue has “rapid transit” platforms running down the middle of it, and the use of buses to play the role that probably should be played by a subway reminded me of Lima, Peru. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A faded RV park sign hopefully advertised “Paradise Acres.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The city petered out up on “Nine Mile Hill,” and then the frontage road led to a dead end on Laguna land, so we had to get on I-40 again. Outside the Laguna Pueblo is the ghost of Budville, whose Trading Co. dates from 1928.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PMu4DIwy-2o/YZ1Uou5jmCI/AAAAAAABb9A/Nrlcvvmj7D47K_ngwk4AMobMb-9dR8DGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Budville.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PMu4DIwy-2o/YZ1Uou5jmCI/AAAAAAABb9A/Nrlcvvmj7D47K_ngwk4AMobMb-9dR8DGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Budville.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Much of that day we were traveling on the Laguna and Acoma Pueblos. Many people assume that unlike Europe, North America doesn’t have really old cities or buildings, but the Acoma “Sky City” is the oldest continuously inhabited settlement in what is now the U.S., dating to A.D. 1150! A tumultuous period in Acoma history was Spanish rule; several of the colonial mission churches are from the 17<sup>th</sup> century.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgWl9SZfz3c/YZ1U2o2uXBI/AAAAAAABb9E/e74pEmJzyM4BAQ6rOpljSIREbB1XcXlMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Church%2Bon%2Bpueblo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgWl9SZfz3c/YZ1U2o2uXBI/AAAAAAABb9E/e74pEmJzyM4BAQ6rOpljSIREbB1XcXlMgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Church%2Bon%2Bpueblo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The road was lonely across the Acoma Reservation. People mostly live way back from the road, leaving the once-charming town of San Fidel now mostly remnants. The only one that still looked in decent shape was St. Joseph’s Church. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gBUyteTtJ44/YZ1U99gn_1I/AAAAAAABb9M/zIUJYQ5KrOYM5YMLC4vFDIp1eJrxkdg-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/San%2BFidel.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gBUyteTtJ44/YZ1U99gn_1I/AAAAAAABb9M/zIUJYQ5KrOYM5YMLC4vFDIp1eJrxkdg-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/San%2BFidel.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Fidel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nHjkZRbCwg/YZ1U_vf2i4I/AAAAAAABb9Q/QQm-dHDi238DVJPmBgbFFAQH1yJ5cEpQQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Whiting%2BBros.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nHjkZRbCwg/YZ1U_vf2i4I/AAAAAAABb9Q/QQm-dHDi238DVJPmBgbFFAQH1yJ5cEpQQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Whiting%2BBros.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whiting Bros., old gas station chain</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">All along western Route 66 we’d become more aware of the railroad, and how continually it’s used (almost all for freight trains). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cnK8zYaAfho/YZ1VOafUG5I/AAAAAAABb9c/BDHunNbepv4fqGFeDc9fBoOkluc4NxH4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tracks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cnK8zYaAfho/YZ1VOafUG5I/AAAAAAABb9c/BDHunNbepv4fqGFeDc9fBoOkluc4NxH4QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Tracks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Often we were following along beside it. Sometimes we would see a building perched high above. And then, in Grants, New Mexico, we could see the tracks running higher than the motel roofs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XQfsW5GC94o/YZ1VUHVF1lI/AAAAAAABb9k/2VG_iggaXBUd2EctBjNiGLB6IMmppG7EwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sands%2BMotel.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XQfsW5GC94o/YZ1VUHVF1lI/AAAAAAABb9k/2VG_iggaXBUd2EctBjNiGLB6IMmppG7EwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Sands%2BMotel.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note hiring sign</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In 1950, a Navajo shepherd discovered what turned out to be one of the world’s largest uranium reserves in this area (another of the natural resources that suddenly made Indian lands of interest to the government after all). During the Cold War, a lot of uranium was mined, but it all closed down with a recession in 1983. Now, all that’s left is a mining museum, next to a lovely park where we stopped for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h38WG3ObWRk/YZ1VcAm2odI/AAAAAAABb9o/pBHCcbpDeuU1fRQNuj_A3D338vr7vhAGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Riverwalk%2BPark%2Buranium.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h38WG3ObWRk/YZ1VcAm2odI/AAAAAAABb9o/pBHCcbpDeuU1fRQNuj_A3D338vr7vhAGwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Riverwalk%2BPark%2Buranium.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riverwalk Park</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are still a number of cool neon signs in Grants, plus the Route 66 Neon Drive-Thru (free)!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_lz1Jupwrag/YZ1VmBjpT1I/AAAAAAABb94/RYeuZ6AbKQUX9myo34Q_A4OlTLbsRggdACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Roarin%2527%2B20s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_lz1Jupwrag/YZ1VmBjpT1I/AAAAAAABb94/RYeuZ6AbKQUX9myo34Q_A4OlTLbsRggdACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Roarin%2527%2B20s.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZ9aEaU1ex4/YZ1VoujQtfI/AAAAAAABb98/0XmH-jZGZAQ1nFaaEMg6xCqtObezTvAoACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/West%2Bcinema.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZ9aEaU1ex4/YZ1VoujQtfI/AAAAAAABb98/0XmH-jZGZAQ1nFaaEMg6xCqtObezTvAoACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/West%2Bcinema.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GokJYI3tMp0/YZ1VkgAx18I/AAAAAAABb90/SPc0vDZAsXg8H3oC1enucvZvvQbn8r4NgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Grants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GokJYI3tMp0/YZ1VkgAx18I/AAAAAAABb90/SPc0vDZAsXg8H3oC1enucvZvvQbn8r4NgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Grants.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Further on, at Thoreau, sits one of the oldest remaining service stations on the Route. Originally in Grants, this gas station was moved following the 1937 realignment of Route 66. Roy Herman bought it in 1950, and Herman’s Garage continues to make sales (at least of Coke) to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7k-N748YS6c/YZ1V5MLaEEI/AAAAAAABb-M/2eKJM3t_mG8XGAxGS4uLZ1zYpOJkFk1DwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Thoreau.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7k-N748YS6c/YZ1V5MLaEEI/AAAAAAABb-M/2eKJM3t_mG8XGAxGS4uLZ1zYpOJkFk1DwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Thoreau.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVgiZxOxt-g/YZ1V5McVFYI/AAAAAAABb-I/EXphEwVFUWU5swcchK9Pf0NLRtYLZKCdACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Coke.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVgiZxOxt-g/YZ1V5McVFYI/AAAAAAABb-I/EXphEwVFUWU5swcchK9Pf0NLRtYLZKCdACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Coke.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At last we reached the Continental Divide. At 7,275 feet, this is not the highest point on Route 66, but it does mark where the waters drain on the east side towards the Gulf of Mexico and on the other to the Pacific Ocean. It is also the location of one of the many garish trading posts on this part of the Route, whose billboards we’d been seeing for miles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CU5X_5IOSJU/YZ1WAFfpdDI/AAAAAAABb-Q/3CiRcplOYGYDYclgyuEkz6Luli85PW-1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Continental%2BDivide.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CU5X_5IOSJU/YZ1WAFfpdDI/AAAAAAABb-Q/3CiRcplOYGYDYclgyuEkz6Luli85PW-1wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Continental%2BDivide.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ed1dFRoFFI/YZ1WAWbWnaI/AAAAAAABb-U/8tiaZ75N4AYMuwKFqdu9FiUGXtvd724oACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Continental%2BDivide%2Bmarket.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ed1dFRoFFI/YZ1WAWbWnaI/AAAAAAABb-U/8tiaZ75N4AYMuwKFqdu9FiUGXtvd724oACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Continental%2BDivide%2Bmarket.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Just before Gallup, we took a slight detour (less than a mile) to reach Red Rock State Park. The woman in the museum provided a friendly welcome, the bathrooms were clean, and the views along (part of) the Pyramid Trail were spectacular.<o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mm1afhrG9lk/YZ1WMvxiDlI/AAAAAAABb-g/mc4Uj8jcWCs8aNg1xsZq8dN9JZBxePU6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Red%2BRock%2Bwomen%2Bsign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mm1afhrG9lk/YZ1WMvxiDlI/AAAAAAABb-g/mc4Uj8jcWCs8aNg1xsZq8dN9JZBxePU6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Red%2BRock%2Bwomen%2Bsign.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MN5_P8HxASQ/YZ1WMrqwnAI/AAAAAAABb-c/smr7YTAHl7s9mm6ZjMZ45_RdtRbnovrCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1872/Pyramid%2Btrail%2Bpanorma.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="1872" height="108" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MN5_P8HxASQ/YZ1WMrqwnAI/AAAAAAABb-c/smr7YTAHl7s9mm6ZjMZ45_RdtRbnovrCACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h108/Pyramid%2Btrail%2Bpanorma.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZTYO5rbOoa4/YZ1WM_zHTGI/AAAAAAABb-k/AihTMHyb9LkqDYGpCU_7hGg-9Or0eEMmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Pyramid%2BTrail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZTYO5rbOoa4/YZ1WM_zHTGI/AAAAAAABb-k/AihTMHyb9LkqDYGpCU_7hGg-9Or0eEMmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Pyramid%2BTrail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P37uBy5WRc4/YZ1WNw5KztI/AAAAAAABb-o/8M2zMZMwCz8HcdP-LBWodeeNYjWPyh7fQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Red%2BRock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P37uBy5WRc4/YZ1WNw5KztI/AAAAAAABb-o/8M2zMZMwCz8HcdP-LBWodeeNYjWPyh7fQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Red%2BRock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Gallup welcomed us with a profusion of public art. Even the trash receptacles in Gallup have murals on them, and many old motel signs remain.<o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qw3vhg_bjKM/YZ1WcaoW9KI/AAAAAAABb-4/c9XOfuxNOUAVSwbJ8AOYbqxY5sVgHIh-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Welcome%2Bto%2BGallup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qw3vhg_bjKM/YZ1WcaoW9KI/AAAAAAABb-4/c9XOfuxNOUAVSwbJ8AOYbqxY5sVgHIh-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Welcome%2Bto%2BGallup.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWwRCO1-BaI/YZ1WcU1MUeI/AAAAAAABb-0/Jk9mBrl04TI7HqoqLHqMj0LMhD6D5-pUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Desert%2BSkies%2Bmotel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWwRCO1-BaI/YZ1WcU1MUeI/AAAAAAABb-0/Jk9mBrl04TI7HqoqLHqMj0LMhD6D5-pUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Desert%2BSkies%2Bmotel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A72EymyekpQ/YZ1Wb8R3i7I/AAAAAAABb-s/t8eTvKz-MHwe4Jb8ZoeiIeo2NSb17zItwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gallup%2Bneon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A72EymyekpQ/YZ1Wb8R3i7I/AAAAAAABb-s/t8eTvKz-MHwe4Jb8ZoeiIeo2NSb17zItwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Gallup%2Bneon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Jerry McClanahan, auhor of <i>EZ Route 66</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I knew there was a small museum I wanted to see in downtown Gallup. It used to be in the Chamber of Commerce building, which handily has free parking, but the helpful woman there pointed us across the parking lot to the Cultural Center, which is also the Amtrak station. Good thing, too, because it was almost 3:00 and about to close (despite the advertised closing time of 5:00).</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7qra0oI8JI/YZ1Wmm_XGMI/AAAAAAABb_I/E0BTWJluk7cK_qKRF5Khke2eKZ_Pfa4_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gallup%2Bcultural%2Bcenter%2BAmtrak%2Bstb.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7qra0oI8JI/YZ1Wmm_XGMI/AAAAAAABb_I/E0BTWJluk7cK_qKRF5Khke2eKZ_Pfa4_gCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Gallup%2Bcultural%2Bcenter%2BAmtrak%2Bstb.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Navajo Marine statue, Gallup Cultural Center</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Upstairs from the station and café is Gallup’s free museum.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dB3wQ632Lcc/YZ1W0CFjGTI/AAAAAAABb_U/YbXs3vGFrwcRGpmbZNfgsyc7RRNWQh5mACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gallup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dB3wQ632Lcc/YZ1W0CFjGTI/AAAAAAABb_U/YbXs3vGFrwcRGpmbZNfgsyc7RRNWQh5mACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Gallup.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’d noticed this latest turn of multiculturalism on the way into town, when we spotted what must surely be the only <i>mosque </i>along Route 66. <o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u_CKo-KXa90/YZ1XCtsXK1I/AAAAAAABb_c/kgof1YKmEecY3uI0ya73gPZdADBsfuofgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Oasis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u_CKo-KXa90/YZ1XCtsXK1I/AAAAAAABb_c/kgof1YKmEecY3uI0ya73gPZdADBsfuofgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Oasis.jpg" width="238" /></a></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GdPTHLPSgDo/YZ1XCtblfqI/AAAAAAABb_g/Rvk2wq5kPksd7eRm27zZ4IH_NrQTxBVPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Medicine%2BMen%2Bblessing%2B1923.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GdPTHLPSgDo/YZ1XCtblfqI/AAAAAAABb_g/Rvk2wq5kPksd7eRm27zZ4IH_NrQTxBVPQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Medicine%2BMen%2Bblessing%2B1923.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medicine men who blessed the building, 1923</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">The unmissable part of this was the exhibit about the Navajo Code Talkers. These men, all but one of them Navajo, were recruited into the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. The idea was that they could use their language as an unbreakable code in the theatre of war. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XaVZsTzECek/YZ1XnPGsXOI/AAAAAAABb_s/H0VchewnTVojlXvvClL4riwnfrDK86wVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Navajo%2B1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XaVZsTzECek/YZ1XnPGsXOI/AAAAAAABb_s/H0VchewnTVojlXvvClL4riwnfrDK86wVQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Navajo%2B1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y1Is4Q990R8/YZ1YPYpVykI/AAAAAAABcAA/RHshTd7L_mYmoirE-q38H9RtwnJJaDrPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Navajo%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y1Is4Q990R8/YZ1YPYpVykI/AAAAAAABcAA/RHshTd7L_mYmoirE-q38H9RtwnJJaDrPwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Navajo%2B2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Despite having been recognized as U.S. citizens for fewer than 20 years, many indigenous people were proud warriors, and they rose to America’s defense. The museum has a copy of a Navajo Nation resolution, passed unanimously on June 4, 1940, which asserted: “There exists no purer concentration of Americanism than among the First Americans.” Young men, some carrying their rifles or shotguns, lined up to volunteer for the U.S. armed forces. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Uh9N4xhWTTk/YZ1X11Fmb_I/AAAAAAABb_w/wlS-jkMWkLAb1id6Shd9Xu1TYPInyztfACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Navajo%2BINFO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Uh9N4xhWTTk/YZ1X11Fmb_I/AAAAAAABb_w/wlS-jkMWkLAb1id6Shd9Xu1TYPInyztfACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Navajo%2BINFO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-21DjL8Hk2eI/YZ1YVIAxk-I/AAAAAAABcAE/M6bCzB8k87E0Q0SWE7XVXfnDp8tJ65b5wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Navajo%2B3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-21DjL8Hk2eI/YZ1YVIAxk-I/AAAAAAABcAE/M6bCzB8k87E0Q0SWE7XVXfnDp8tJ65b5wCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Navajo%2B3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">My own grandfather served in Guadalcanal, Saipan, and some of those other campaigns. Who knows if his life, or his buddies’ lives, might have been saved by one of the Code Talkers’ messages? I could conceivably owe them my own life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington, Virginia, is famously based on a photograph of Marines raising the American flag after the battle of Iwo Jima. One of the Marines in that picture, who was present at the memorial’s dedication, was Ira Hayes, a member of the Gila River Indian Community located in Maricopa and Pinal Counties, Arizona. Hayes’s life and tragic death are the subject of a song recorded by Johnny Cash; the song says Ira Hayes “forgot the white man’s greed.” I am struck by the fact that after everything they’d gone through, proportional to their percentage of the population, more American Indians fought in defense of the United States than members of any other ethnic group.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HMN2yYdz5Xw/YZ1YID2eEAI/AAAAAAABb_8/FDUiFQoGZTkwVsr1jwtB9GbAb2RuXs_0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Iwo%2BJima%2Bpic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HMN2yYdz5Xw/YZ1YID2eEAI/AAAAAAABb_8/FDUiFQoGZTkwVsr1jwtB9GbAb2RuXs_0QCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Iwo%2BJima%2Bpic.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rbm_lqd_S80/YZ1YlBr454I/AAAAAAABcAU/I46Ur3ZlRzYl7FWBFHTqJQGtm_2122hOACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kit%2BCarson%2521.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rbm_lqd_S80/YZ1YlBr454I/AAAAAAABcAU/I46Ur3ZlRzYl7FWBFHTqJQGtm_2122hOACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Kit%2BCarson%2521.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The museum has other cool paraphernalia. Note the kitschy book about Christopher “Kit” Carson, of whom statues, including the recently removed one in Santa Fe, were erected due to his reputation as a frontier hero. If you want to know the other side of Carson’s reputation, read Dee Brown’s groundbreaking 1970 book, <i>Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West</i>. (Read it anyway, if you haven’t already.) Here we were, in the same state of New Mexico, with two different sides of the Kit Carson story. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rbm_lqd_S80/YZ1YlBr454I/AAAAAAABcAU/I46Ur3ZlRzYl7FWBFHTqJQGtm_2122hOACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kit%2BCarson%2521.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Lord, this is a complicated country.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I think it was that day that it struck me what was <i>different </i>about Route 66’s heyday. Commercialism and branding were rampant in the 1950s and ’60s—not so much “roadside beautification” yet—but everything was <i>different</i>. Each motel sign, each mom-and-pop business tried to be its own unique brand. Whereas today, a motel franchise or the Golden Arches advertise the same experience, no matter which town you’re passing through.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As we learned in Gallup, that advertising is not always accurate. While we’d had superior motel experiences at Super 8s before, such as in Clinton, Oklahoma, the one in Gallup was kind of a dump.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtoLdZWjJ6o/YZ1Y2qwtEII/AAAAAAABcAc/hoibRjIqd5MZMD8bJM0Yf1ByCBzs6jYPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/pool.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtoLdZWjJ6o/YZ1Y2qwtEII/AAAAAAABcAc/hoibRjIqd5MZMD8bJM0Yf1ByCBzs6jYPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pool.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Not that we expected to use the pool, but if something’s advertised on your sign and you don’t have it, some kind of explanation might be nice. COVID, I suppose. Did that also account for the “ice available at the office” not being available, or the breakfast, or indeed, for the first hours after we checked in, even a room key?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Owner just didn’t care enough to be there. We should never have booked the place, just turned up, seen that it was between two abandoned buildings, and moved on. Plus, when you turn up without a reservation you can ask for a senior (or other) discount. At least the train whistles were evocative. All motels are near the tracks in Gallup.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We somewhat relieved our disappointment with margaritas and a “Patti Page Burger” at El Rancho (although T. was perturbed to discover that the burger was a Patti melt!) El Rancho has a gorgeous lobby, a neon “Hotel/Motel” sign, and boasts many, many pictures of celebrities who once stayed there, during the Western movie filming days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5qTt3zbA7YI/YZ1ZFf45hxI/AAAAAAABcAg/90OUq0Sf8ggcVuTqrm87mOoLvLfZSMrBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BRancho.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5qTt3zbA7YI/YZ1ZFf45hxI/AAAAAAABcAg/90OUq0Sf8ggcVuTqrm87mOoLvLfZSMrBQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/El%2BRancho.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vx1G-tZJiVc/YZ1ZGoJeEaI/AAAAAAABcAo/hCeIuqPFkh08qJjc9rTwHOJq_Zfwz76GACLcBGAsYHQ/s414/lucy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="308" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vx1G-tZJiVc/YZ1ZGoJeEaI/AAAAAAABcAo/hCeIuqPFkh08qJjc9rTwHOJq_Zfwz76GACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/lucy.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Before leaving Gallup for the first time, we did two things. We resolved to stay anywhere but the Super 8 next time, and we had breakfast at Earl’s. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lr74I04E1NU/YZ1ZTXeVLmI/AAAAAAABcAs/qzKi0VuALXkShh-zankGiJfo0Rkl5MGtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Earl%2527s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lr74I04E1NU/YZ1ZTXeVLmI/AAAAAAABcAs/qzKi0VuALXkShh-zankGiJfo0Rkl5MGtgCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/Earl%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This restaurant has been run by the Richards family since 1943. We were waited on by the lovely Tyrone, who loved T’s accent (of course) and told us he’d been to London when he was eighteen, probably only a few years ago. When he came to refill our coffee cups, T. said to him, “I was just saying that the right to good coffee must be in the Constitution!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">For the first day of our detour, we passed the giant yellow kachina north of I-40, a hay market, and Sandra’s, which said it was open and looked like a bordello! Highway 491 north took us into the Navajo Nation and past some interesting billboards: “Stay Home. Diné [“the people” in Navajo] Lives Matter.” And “Day of Pentecost, Inc.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpnx-G6d3dw/YZ1b72GUcHI/AAAAAAABcA8/SA0poKMd4QgTMNaxZEJfUknRNUjODCmoACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Highway%2Bnorth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpnx-G6d3dw/YZ1b72GUcHI/AAAAAAABcA8/SA0poKMd4QgTMNaxZEJfUknRNUjODCmoACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Highway%2Bnorth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I remember during the early days of COVID-19 seeing an interview with a Navajo coroner that could just make you cry. Many indigenous nations were hit very, very hard by the pandemic, as they’ve been by other imported diseases throughout history. As a result, the Navajo Nation remains super strict about COVID control measures, as well as about alcohol (which killed Ira Hayes along with many of his compatriots). When we briefly stopped in a Navajo-staffed casino outside Gallup so T. could have a spin on the roulette wheel, I noticed that no one was drinking (except possibly inside the licensed restaurant). And everywhere, indoors or outdoors, on Navajo land requires the wearing of masks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Towns along the way were very small, but every one welcomed us with a sign. We crossed into another new state. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VPbLITdqvF8/YZ1cPwCVX8I/AAAAAAABcBE/pEAnbnQ2GucV1iscPMyCfwZmrL3kSgk5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Colorado.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VPbLITdqvF8/YZ1cPwCVX8I/AAAAAAABcBE/pEAnbnQ2GucV1iscPMyCfwZmrL3kSgk5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Colorado.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Immediately, we noticed another culture change. Colorado’s mask mandate was rescinded in May, and the Doobie Sisters were advertising with a billboard of a VW bus. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B4Ve5riKK7I/YZ1cZri_PuI/AAAAAAABcBI/yJ13LLMTbyck5cD5tIblHvrpzyDPgmgPACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Snow%252C%2BCortez.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B4Ve5riKK7I/YZ1cZri_PuI/AAAAAAABcBI/yJ13LLMTbyck5cD5tIblHvrpzyDPgmgPACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Snow%252C%2BCortez.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cortez, Colorado</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We could not have had a more perfectly beautiful day at Mesa Verde National Park. I’d feared we might have cold or even snow closures due to the elevation, but the weather was perfect. We drove to a number of lookouts, including Park Point where the fire lookout is. A woman walking downhill from there (very slowly because of a bum knee) was from Kansas, and I enjoyed chatting to her, having just been in her state.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ui4c2Yk6XJw/YZ1ckxB2-HI/AAAAAAABcBQ/S39exl2Gld8NlDEnKSKevJTSoCoQFlJxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Park%2BPoint.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ui4c2Yk6XJw/YZ1ckxB2-HI/AAAAAAABcBQ/S39exl2Gld8NlDEnKSKevJTSoCoQFlJxwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Park%2BPoint.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mesa Verde is unusual among U.S. national parks in preserving, not so much natural beauty (although it has that in spades), but the history of a civilization. Excavation by excavation, the park walked us through the different kinds of dwellings built by the Ancestral Pueblo starting in the year 600 of the Common Era. [C.E. is a nod to the mosque and to the probably Jewish lady who helps us in a few paragraphs.]<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3MNdcGZLtZ8/YZ1c-fghc7I/AAAAAAABcBc/vQXGCVpBhAo943WnXLJOm-GZvzEyF2xUACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Far%2BView%2Breservoir.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3MNdcGZLtZ8/YZ1c-fghc7I/AAAAAAABcBc/vQXGCVpBhAo943WnXLJOm-GZvzEyF2xUACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Far%2BView%2Breservoir.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5g8wzXgF3TA/YZ1c-Rzna_I/AAAAAAABcBg/oouxsbq4-Dkg7g-s-HVRf1-YtuqncDt6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Reservoir%2BINFO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5g8wzXgF3TA/YZ1c-Rzna_I/AAAAAAABcBg/oouxsbq4-Dkg7g-s-HVRf1-YtuqncDt6QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Reservoir%2BINFO.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">All of this buildup was to the spectacular views of the cliff dwellings, some with well over 100 buildings. Sometime after 1190 C.E., the Pueblo people moved down from the tops of the mesas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j2dypAnZS48/YZ1dIoKFxGI/AAAAAAABcBk/-KdWKDnijl4RNt7A0DclGIc_n3LQIAksACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Spruce%2BTree%2Bhouse.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j2dypAnZS48/YZ1dIoKFxGI/AAAAAAABcBk/-KdWKDnijl4RNt7A0DclGIc_n3LQIAksACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Spruce%2BTree%2Bhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ngmcj0bDp0/YZ1dI-N8FII/AAAAAAABcBo/HhB0adrpwfEBUUTwGGiRYAwh5JyWuoS9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sun%2BPoint%2Bcliff%2Bdwelling.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ngmcj0bDp0/YZ1dI-N8FII/AAAAAAABcBo/HhB0adrpwfEBUUTwGGiRYAwh5JyWuoS9wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Sun%2BPoint%2Bcliff%2Bdwelling.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We had great accommodation in Cortez, Colorado at the Retro Inn. We got a discount for great food across the street, too. Even the sobering plea of a drought-ridden area could not dry out our mood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pyau9jo4C_Q/YZ1dT9cDUkI/AAAAAAABcB0/pil0Ayo6qBIxi8nwlJn1spr_boCuwReCACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sobering%2Bimage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pyau9jo4C_Q/YZ1dT9cDUkI/AAAAAAABcB0/pil0Ayo6qBIxi8nwlJn1spr_boCuwReCACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/sobering%2Bimage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Before leaving Cortez, we stopped by the visitors’ center and a very helpful woman offered us paper maps; I assured her I already had an atlas. “As long as you aren’t relying on your phone,” she said. She used to work for people who do the global positioning whatever and, she said, she would not rely on those maps!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V1XlQMrHxlw/YZ1oA0pJxLI/AAAAAAABcCE/N7f6Z0XO_DIdlDDI04lv4GWlIRJqrJ-qACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Dusk.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V1XlQMrHxlw/YZ1oA0pJxLI/AAAAAAABcCE/N7f6Z0XO_DIdlDDI04lv4GWlIRJqrJ-qACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Dusk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPPvgrTf5y8/YZ1oA_u-RKI/AAAAAAABcCI/R-vPK2hzzOAwtxsAfu_zckuzbBScvf5_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Retro%2BInn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPPvgrTf5y8/YZ1oA_u-RKI/AAAAAAABcCI/R-vPK2hzzOAwtxsAfu_zckuzbBScvf5_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Retro%2BInn.jpg" width="238" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-87322332233913674382021-11-22T17:05:00.001-05:002021-11-22T17:07:47.935-05:00New Mexico Tale of 2 Cities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rdSMyNZBXpQ/YZwS0bIVG7I/AAAAAAABb8o/5zLmyGAP350Bmsr2MtapzCUf4yrUQzuYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/SF%2BTrail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rdSMyNZBXpQ/YZwS0bIVG7I/AAAAAAABb8o/5zLmyGAP350Bmsr2MtapzCUf4yrUQzuYgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/SF%2BTrail.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Santa Fe, in particular, was sending different signals than we’d been used to in a while. I’m not just talking about being required to wear a mask to walk from the door of a restaurant to a table (something we had to do in England, too, months ago). Santa Fe’s historic Plaza was having a statue problem.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mMQ4N-OPl60/YZwSvZLrWTI/AAAAAAABb8k/oq2bTUJHCAwWrwTfxvxHaCh2cC-yKWvZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Obelisk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mMQ4N-OPl60/YZwSvZLrWTI/AAAAAAABb8k/oq2bTUJHCAwWrwTfxvxHaCh2cC-yKWvZQCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Obelisk.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The boards hiding the obelisk, or whichever statue was behind them, had a sign with a QR code inviting visitors to read about why they’d been hidden or destroyed. But when I visited the website, it didn’t tell me what had been so objectionable about the Soldiers' Monument, never mind who destroyed it, or why someone else after whom a road is named in downtown Santa Fe couldn’t have a statue anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I totally understand why a memorial that refers to the “savage Indians” is not something a population including American Indians wants to honor in a public square. But that was one side of the Soldiers' Monument, the other three of which memorialized Union soldiers who died in the Civil War; and in any case none of that information is visible on the boards, or on the website. What I don’t find helpful is boarding up a statue without putting anything educative there, to help bewildered visitors understand what happened. I suspect that it’s difficult to come to an agreement about what to put instead—much more difficult than just removing something or covering it up. It seems like a copout, a missed opportunity to try to educate people and make some type of progress. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The rest of the Plaza was looking historic and Southwestern. The Palace of the Governors is the oldest continuously occupied public building in the United States (17<sup>th</sup> century Spanish).<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lc8WrJcXw_I/YZwSoUy-cmI/AAAAAAABb8c/p8idYBWGZ5IV8fqcyXRBREstBcrXIoyeACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/palace.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lc8WrJcXw_I/YZwSoUy-cmI/AAAAAAABb8c/p8idYBWGZ5IV8fqcyXRBREstBcrXIoyeACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/palace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJ_Ey4XlW-c/YZwSocb_h5I/AAAAAAABb8Y/vRFRu85S7IgWgCyX7ksUripx05od-d9lACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Plaza.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJ_Ey4XlW-c/YZwSocb_h5I/AAAAAAABb8Y/vRFRu85S7IgWgCyX7ksUripx05od-d9lACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Plaza.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Outside the Palace of the Governors there are always Native vendors selling arts and crafts. There was also a guy in the Plaza playing Christmas carols on a saxophone, which would have been fine had it been after Thanksgiving instead of early November. I heard one of the vendors huff to his buddy: “It isn’t Christmas yet!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Santa Fe’s Cathedral is dedicated to St. Francis, and also has a statue of the first Native person from the Americas to be made a saint of the Catholic Church: Kateri Tekakwitha. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dSVUTpcMw_k/YZwSZq9ycXI/AAAAAAABb8M/v1k11QkJAv0tNiZXPH_SyRvrw1RcpUtUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cathedral.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dSVUTpcMw_k/YZwSZq9ycXI/AAAAAAABb8M/v1k11QkJAv0tNiZXPH_SyRvrw1RcpUtUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Cathedral.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GDui378A1SE/YZwSZ09mhII/AAAAAAABb8Q/VINnVVcHEss_TflGH23i0W98Kx0GB810QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Keteri%2BTakathwitha.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GDui378A1SE/YZwSZ09mhII/AAAAAAABb8Q/VINnVVcHEss_TflGH23i0W98Kx0GB810QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Keteri%2BTakathwitha.jpg" width="238" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Santa Fe also has the oldest church and the oldest (European-style) house in America. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLRS3PR1nvM/YZwSOxCWTwI/AAAAAAABb78/n-4QrROUX9IlY-SQTTWSDqb3jzWsAfe6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/San%2BMiguel%2Bchurch%2B1610.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLRS3PR1nvM/YZwSOxCWTwI/AAAAAAABb78/n-4QrROUX9IlY-SQTTWSDqb3jzWsAfe6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/San%2BMiguel%2Bchurch%2B1610.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Miguel Church, 1610</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcsELjPhDjc/YZwSPFoJuKI/AAAAAAABb8A/jSTHEl-UCOcNGvGHoTslneKVr5aSlo5OACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1646%2Bhouse.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcsELjPhDjc/YZwSPFoJuKI/AAAAAAABb8A/jSTHEl-UCOcNGvGHoTslneKVr5aSlo5OACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/1646%2Bhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1646 house</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was also our third state capital and, like so many other buildings on the Route, the New Mexico Capitol displayed the “P.O.W.-M.I.A.” flag.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z1833mfzOso/YZwSEVM_hMI/AAAAAAABb7w/ITZRunQyD4El-dVl_8KkWYPC6rWL0VjyACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Capitol.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z1833mfzOso/YZwSEVM_hMI/AAAAAAABb7w/ITZRunQyD4El-dVl_8KkWYPC6rWL0VjyACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Capitol.jpg" width="238" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSvCmWZcHKY/YZwSEaIBsQI/AAAAAAABb70/uVdp6d0y_jQZxfKd4_CqNsjBo-l-Imu3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/MIA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSvCmWZcHKY/YZwSEaIBsQI/AAAAAAABb70/uVdp6d0y_jQZxfKd4_CqNsjBo-l-Imu3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/MIA.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Santa Fe would be an expensive city to shop for souvenirs in, and we ate out of our normal price range too, but it was worth it. Once we got to our table at Radish & Rye, the rye and “small plates” together with our super attentive waiter made for a fine dining experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxqY0W_fdzs/YZwR8InAH9I/AAAAAAABb7o/xsbFYIjPupswmUGbubIo-JumBOuvKz53QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/RYE.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxqY0W_fdzs/YZwR8InAH9I/AAAAAAABb7o/xsbFYIjPupswmUGbubIo-JumBOuvKz53QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/RYE.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From Santa Fe we were forced onto I-25 for our longest interstate section yet—20 miles. We passed the “Mormon Battalion Monument” and the Santo Domingo Pueblo. Towns alternated with reservations. Of the town signs, T. observed: “They don’t list population but elevation!” I was sobered by the length of Bernalillo’s list of war dead on its memorial, considering the size of the town.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We took the scenic route along the railroad (signed “El Camino Real,” now Highway 313) to reach Albuquerque from the north. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1HpuOpll0hw/YZwRyhxLDsI/AAAAAAABb7k/VdUFd2COiBEwNko9e1v22u7uFF1zYsxggCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/La%2BAngostura.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1HpuOpll0hw/YZwRyhxLDsI/AAAAAAABb7k/VdUFd2COiBEwNko9e1v22u7uFF1zYsxggCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/La%2BAngostura.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_hov_lKgEOE/YZwRyVIU4aI/AAAAAAABb7g/-vHAHUvYWFEQYGo32r2rkmhKqLJ6H8sMACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/LA%2BANGOSTURA%2BINFO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_hov_lKgEOE/YZwRyVIU4aI/AAAAAAABb7g/-vHAHUvYWFEQYGo32r2rkmhKqLJ6H8sMACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/LA%2BANGOSTURA%2BINFO.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The post-1937 alignment of Route 66 approaches Albuquerque from the east, along Central Avenue. We took time to explore both sections. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jm_HSNyrMyA/YZwQ0bYv-SI/AAAAAAABb6o/3Zmh0BMETzsAtXoGo7ztQt3bhrpJX9EhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/KIMO%2B1927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jm_HSNyrMyA/YZwQ0bYv-SI/AAAAAAABb6o/3Zmh0BMETzsAtXoGo7ztQt3bhrpJX9EhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/KIMO%2B1927.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The KiMo Theatre (1927) was a landmark combination of Art Deco and Southwest/Indian architectural influences. It does not appear to be showing anything now, but the entryway is still impressive.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-erAmyfOFjjk/YZwRDCv--OI/AAAAAAABb68/U6yg-H444C4FRcAduUyQtHMD25SVCL2fACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/doors.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-erAmyfOFjjk/YZwRDCv--OI/AAAAAAABb68/U6yg-H444C4FRcAduUyQtHMD25SVCL2fACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/doors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYk7_E_3_qQ/YZwRDAlH5sI/AAAAAAABb64/eRCpVMzdwyIosqyGuoLWKvsgAdF0MxX1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/lobby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYk7_E_3_qQ/YZwRDAlH5sI/AAAAAAABb64/eRCpVMzdwyIosqyGuoLWKvsgAdF0MxX1QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/lobby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kcdlEVJ8fpw/YZwRdOOjV0I/AAAAAAABb7Y/6cAF9v6tFTonN9WiKeGv2l7B6QF1EiiggCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Detail-%2Bswastika.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kcdlEVJ8fpw/YZwRdOOjV0I/AAAAAAABb7Y/6cAF9v6tFTonN9WiKeGv2l7B6QF1EiiggCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Detail-%2Bswastika.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This detail shows the theatre definitely pre-dated the 1930s.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Further to the east, Central Avenue has lots of interesting sights.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6oCreQJXqrQ/YZwQt_jMtYI/AAAAAAABb6g/tYKwwi04SS4DcEBO7X9KMsYPs5BhbMLdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/albuq%2Bmural.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6oCreQJXqrQ/YZwQt_jMtYI/AAAAAAABb6g/tYKwwi04SS4DcEBO7X9KMsYPs5BhbMLdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/albuq%2Bmural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mF21Whx2rOk/YZwQt_ftHGI/AAAAAAABb6k/4zFW6GnZfGI-yGE3PkGyilYt_zu0slWOACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/motel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mF21Whx2rOk/YZwQt_ftHGI/AAAAAAABb6k/4zFW6GnZfGI-yGE3PkGyilYt_zu0slWOACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/motel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEAMQ2gYESc/YZwQtnm84CI/AAAAAAABb6c/6_HViS3iRnUHuvbeTMC4lb1klAEa3l_tgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/The%2BLibrary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEAMQ2gYESc/YZwQtnm84CI/AAAAAAABb6c/6_HViS3iRnUHuvbeTMC4lb1klAEa3l_tgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/The%2BLibrary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Unfortunately, Kelly’s Brew Pub was also closed. In the ’30s this was the Jones Motor Company, a modern service station and sight for sore Route 66-traveling eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sU2tS9eeYlM/YZwQnzVCFTI/AAAAAAABb6U/CcvvcG2hO-YiD7XN-ziWH5Z0K0koYyjSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kellys%2Bclosed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sU2tS9eeYlM/YZwQnzVCFTI/AAAAAAABb6U/CcvvcG2hO-YiD7XN-ziWH5Z0K0koYyjSgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Kellys%2Bclosed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DlK3S0ajy8Y/YZwQoHwKn7I/AAAAAAABb6Y/8yHQY8YM-rQnEJANqlwP7nziss7QUWrdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kellys.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DlK3S0ajy8Y/YZwQoHwKn7I/AAAAAAABb6Y/8yHQY8YM-rQnEJANqlwP7nziss7QUWrdQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Kellys.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I don’t think anyone traveling Route 66 to Albuquerque should miss the triangle of Central and Monte Vista Boulevard. The former Little House Diner is now the Triangle Police Substation, probably the cutest little police station in the world.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0WiAd3RcBK0/YZwQg9JmX0I/AAAAAAABb6M/CWzs1Hgjw3EdAXO-eu606MIsI8dy4KEjACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/police%2Bstn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0WiAd3RcBK0/YZwQg9JmX0I/AAAAAAABb6M/CWzs1Hgjw3EdAXO-eu606MIsI8dy4KEjACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/police%2Bstn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWJBfAne0SI/YZwQJVoUAvI/AAAAAAABb5s/9UUYsghs5qEtuBqrHS_1EPnARmhHYS13ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BDon.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWJBfAne0SI/YZwQJVoUAvI/AAAAAAABb5s/9UUYsghs5qEtuBqrHS_1EPnARmhHYS13ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/El%2BDon.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">Further west, near Old Town, we found some more classic motel signs, some even with motels attached. We lucked into the Monterey Motel. It’s all modern and newly renovated inside, but outside, the Monterey and El Vado are classic twins, almost side by side.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfBV3Ik30Vc/YZwQJYsE5xI/AAAAAAABb50/ZxOWx1apgCEl4g-hIZaEcjN0YQtBTtyiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BVado.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfBV3Ik30Vc/YZwQJYsE5xI/AAAAAAABb50/ZxOWx1apgCEl4g-hIZaEcjN0YQtBTtyiQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/El%2BVado.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqFlmrqlC7U/YZwQJbxMm9I/AAAAAAABb5w/iiSr8ZtCxswokxcBaDJSgAJGkRkqtLECACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Monterye.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqFlmrqlC7U/YZwQJbxMm9I/AAAAAAABb5w/iiSr8ZtCxswokxcBaDJSgAJGkRkqtLECACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Monterye.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was dark by the time we made the ten-minute walk to Old Town. Tucked beside San Felipe de Neri church, another Spanish colonial building, is the Church Street Café, which looks much small from the outside but inside, is room after room of an old house serving outstanding Mexican food.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Monterey Motel reception desk is actually in the bar, and everybody checking in got free cocktails. The washing machine was free (although very, very slow), and we even got to town early enough to sit around the pool. There was a d.j. there that night for people who wanted music and dancing, yet I didn’t hear a sound when we were trying to sleep. A perfect combination of old and new.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Highly recommend Albuquerque.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KN_v_8Mo97c/YZwQS0iUtqI/AAAAAAABb58/iJaYShJrScoBklLRU8ZPAq0IfEFrzFyVACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BVado%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KN_v_8Mo97c/YZwQS0iUtqI/AAAAAAABb58/iJaYShJrScoBklLRU8ZPAq0IfEFrzFyVACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/El%2BVado%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95p-Er0wANY/YZwQAFzWHKI/AAAAAAABb5o/kqYiFvKhRIIPNpO_W32l-HrPTzZoWxyGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Westward%2BHo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95p-Er0wANY/YZwQAFzWHKI/AAAAAAABb5o/kqYiFvKhRIIPNpO_W32l-HrPTzZoWxyGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Westward%2BHo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-71567501878991242572021-11-19T16:14:00.001-05:002021-11-19T16:18:36.310-05:00New Mexico 1<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were on the Glenrio to San Jon dirt road, and weren’t sure we’d passed into New Mexico till we saw the ruins of Endee. Believe it or not, there used to be motel cabins here; only the “modern restroom” remains.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--lJM35iW_-c/YZgIdjqXWQI/AAAAAAABbyo/du0BLufA8440GMDggkZPZZXexNUIddArwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Endee.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--lJM35iW_-c/YZgIdjqXWQI/AAAAAAABbyo/du0BLufA8440GMDggkZPZZXexNUIddArwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Endee.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JpejMJ969c/YZgIdbzo6vI/AAAAAAABbyk/yWEYR-xOMKgoVvLEo0OmvbWuqIrSUyBUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Endee%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JpejMJ969c/YZgIdbzo6vI/AAAAAAABbyk/yWEYR-xOMKgoVvLEo0OmvbWuqIrSUyBUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Endee%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once labeled "Modern Restrooms"! (They flushed.)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Old Route 66 here follows the abandoned Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtD_8ZeswCE/YZgNNCV_bfI/AAAAAAABb2Y/e1b3WJs-P8ouaTrJ-g0ZN44NG_5PHxVXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/By%2Bthe%2BRR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtD_8ZeswCE/YZgNNCV_bfI/AAAAAAABb2Y/e1b3WJs-P8ouaTrJ-g0ZN44NG_5PHxVXQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/By%2Bthe%2BRR.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HfsFXLGYqQA/YZgIq_0wfmI/AAAAAAABbys/E4SUUSk9gWMa3BfvyJBnLLq6_09_FHczgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/dirt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HfsFXLGYqQA/YZgIq_0wfmI/AAAAAAABbys/E4SUUSk9gWMa3BfvyJBnLLq6_09_FHczgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/dirt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">San Jon once had a broad main street, but the town was devastated by a one-exit bypass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wOkFma6NLHY/YZgIwQd0H0I/AAAAAAABby4/oM50x2B03SoDbxz1nm8W-fSC7uXLxVZ1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/San%2BJon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wOkFma6NLHY/YZgIwQd0H0I/AAAAAAABby4/oM50x2B03SoDbxz1nm8W-fSC7uXLxVZ1gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/San%2BJon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We continued to avoid I-40 and passed through scenic red hills. Ahead of us lay Tucumcari Mountain and the town of Tucumcari.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9X0b3in2u-A/YZgI8SAAMOI/AAAAAAABbzA/quWJJwZYOCg9z99EfAj6JTvY9dtlFvteQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tucumcari%2Bmtn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9X0b3in2u-A/YZgI8SAAMOI/AAAAAAABbzA/quWJJwZYOCg9z99EfAj6JTvY9dtlFvteQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Tucumcari%2Bmtn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Tucumcari (rhymes with “carry”) was incorporated in 1908, after the coming of the railroad. When Route 66 was at its peak, Tucumcari advertised with many miles of “TUCUMCARI TONITE!” billboards, as the town boasted 2,000 motel rooms. Before researching this trip I’d never heard of Tucumcari, but now I understand why so many people stopped there, as there’s no place along the road for many miles afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are still some motels with neon signs, such as the Buckaroo (“Every time you sit down it bucks you out of your seat,” T. said). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgQK69p_p-4/YZgJFGmfDxI/AAAAAAABbzI/NZ5UKTUOt9AMWR1JbjMuiTtKFOKcWWzpwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Buckaoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgQK69p_p-4/YZgJFGmfDxI/AAAAAAABbzI/NZ5UKTUOt9AMWR1JbjMuiTtKFOKcWWzpwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Buckaoo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are also a ton of murals, most by artist Doug Quarles, so that a brochure proclaims Tucumari “City of Murals.” We picked up a map of them from Flora May, who runs a Route 66 welcome center and gift shop on the main street. Lile had sent us to her. We told her that the road had mostly been empty all the way along from Chicago; “not good for us!” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dcbpL6orgs/YZgJQR22yII/AAAAAAABbzU/zeAilEfS8I4gDiPurSUmwnU9CZqnEChKACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Kiva.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dcbpL6orgs/YZgJQR22yII/AAAAAAABbzU/zeAilEfS8I4gDiPurSUmwnU9CZqnEChKACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Kiva.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-swCth9Np4Hs/YZgJPa25uEI/AAAAAAABbzQ/GQGDSnoF6hsjy1jh3s6xnBfsJtNOwhYvACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/mural.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-swCth9Np4Hs/YZgJPa25uEI/AAAAAAABbzQ/GQGDSnoF6hsjy1jh3s6xnBfsJtNOwhYvACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/mural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are so many things worth taking pictures of in Tucumcari; even some of the old neon signs are still working. But surely the gem of them all, which T. had had the foresight to book in advance, is the Blue Swallow Motel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JTNieUiKeMI/YZgJiQZyFBI/AAAAAAABbzg/QR9pM-7ZpmE9f6bHyDE6sBJCAjASD7mgACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Blue%2BSwallow%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JTNieUiKeMI/YZgJiQZyFBI/AAAAAAABbzg/QR9pM-7ZpmE9f6bHyDE6sBJCAjASD7mgACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Blue%2BSwallow%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The slogan "100% Refrigerated Air" is in the Smithsonian as a great example of '50s advertising.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WBfroqSVcA/YZgJ82ixKwI/AAAAAAABbz0/3ESgUU1tVW4ZliDaNEOAAvVsS1kBSLIjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/us%2Bgarage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WBfroqSVcA/YZgJ82ixKwI/AAAAAAABbz0/3ESgUU1tVW4ZliDaNEOAAvVsS1kBSLIjQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/us%2Bgarage.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This photo was taken by our neighbor, who told me this was her and her husband's favorite place to stay. Of course, at the Blue Swallow one chats to one's neighbors. The late Lillian Redman kept this historic motor court intact, rather than turning the individual garages into more rooms like at other motels. It has new owners now who are doing a fabulous job. All the décor and even the music playing in the courtyard is vintage, though they also have WiFi and made us very comfortable. As soon as Robert realized T. had trouble hearing him, he said “I will look directly at you when I’m talking”—and he did, never forgetting throughout our tour of the place and the next morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zrru24iiZlM/YZgKRhrURPI/AAAAAAABb0E/0PFsMoSASpcEnRJ8rMwKgcG3sIb1_t5jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Blue%2BSwallow%2Bradio.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zrru24iiZlM/YZgKRhrURPI/AAAAAAABb0E/0PFsMoSASpcEnRJ8rMwKgcG3sIb1_t5jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Blue%2BSwallow%2Bradio.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Radio in our room</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhQv-slqJqQ/YZgKRokuxAI/AAAAAAABb0A/eh1Qi4n0y_Ead_gWpnHqvQeuW8IIqHXXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/phone.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhQv-slqJqQ/YZgKRokuxAI/AAAAAAABb0A/eh1Qi4n0y_Ead_gWpnHqvQeuW8IIqHXXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/phone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rooms have rotary phones, and they work!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I loved the Blue Swallow and enjoyed getting there early and just relaxing. I also tried to see as many of the Quarles murals as I could. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUg7mfHTd_I/YZgL-kQZ4XI/AAAAAAABb00/Yo4JB5TqAUQ8bZLkchYadu6bCQOu3pfMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Truck%2Bwith%2Bmural.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUg7mfHTd_I/YZgL-kQZ4XI/AAAAAAABb00/Yo4JB5TqAUQ8bZLkchYadu6bCQOu3pfMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Truck%2Bwith%2Bmural.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where truck ends and mural begins</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AOKXINvPc8/YZgMAIvF5WI/AAAAAAABb1Q/rX6S7iEhW6Q5MnytBmwnGZ-MNP70pgHUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/train%2Bmural.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AOKXINvPc8/YZgMAIvF5WI/AAAAAAABb1Q/rX6S7iEhW6Q5MnytBmwnGZ-MNP70pgHUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/train%2Bmural.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBy5MJw7k08/YZgL_9HPObI/AAAAAAABb1M/01C8YV0GE8IH_ReBr1UkkNo5RXN6cmW_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/tiger%2Bmural.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBy5MJw7k08/YZgL_9HPObI/AAAAAAABb1M/01C8YV0GE8IH_ReBr1UkkNo5RXN6cmW_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/tiger%2Bmural.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0nzBAUl-hMc/YZgL_oFV4qI/AAAAAAABb1I/l6qdKEOAsUYoBrv9CyjVnHzDyq-RRKTmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/scorpion%2Bmural.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0nzBAUl-hMc/YZgL_oFV4qI/AAAAAAABb1I/l6qdKEOAsUYoBrv9CyjVnHzDyq-RRKTmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/scorpion%2Bmural.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WtRPHjdSvuA/YZgL_MO--_I/AAAAAAABb1A/AmnrIKd4vuEUJ6Xx2VOGYh1AF4kT5gKGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/mural%2B6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WtRPHjdSvuA/YZgL_MO--_I/AAAAAAABb1A/AmnrIKd4vuEUJ6Xx2VOGYh1AF4kT5gKGwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/mural%2B6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_xfLQzHFkrs/YZgL-39CYBI/AAAAAAABb08/gYuPeF2zlXwNWwcVqsSStsvzSW4iG042wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/mural%2B3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_xfLQzHFkrs/YZgL-39CYBI/AAAAAAABb08/gYuPeF2zlXwNWwcVqsSStsvzSW4iG042wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/mural%2B3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Msqnwcg5cqY/YZgL-gsYI8I/AAAAAAABb04/958TdUJB_2INo5i2LfsjlaLAsAGbvIxQACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/mural%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Msqnwcg5cqY/YZgL-gsYI8I/AAAAAAABb04/958TdUJB_2INo5i2LfsjlaLAsAGbvIxQACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/mural%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patriotic mural, Veterans of Foreign Wars</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">T. seemed to enjoy it too. </span><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P_gP9O4rzho/YZgKeVX8VdI/AAAAAAABb0I/y6z059j63nw_ugoSYHtdmPO9JkuOitR2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/T%252C%2Brelaxing.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P_gP9O4rzho/YZgKeVX8VdI/AAAAAAABb0I/y6z059j63nw_ugoSYHtdmPO9JkuOitR2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/T%252C%2Brelaxing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UmzXdO3hqGQ/YZgKo1oBjXI/AAAAAAABb0U/j51H0tjCf_k8KmBvyaFQJe_6sSxu1J49wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/ice%2Bbucket.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UmzXdO3hqGQ/YZgKo1oBjXI/AAAAAAABb0U/j51H0tjCf_k8KmBvyaFQJe_6sSxu1J49wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ice%2Bbucket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JqLrk29VFfM/YZgKorIT70I/AAAAAAABb0Q/HjwPJSsG_rcFTfJzMQiphXr06coarxbTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lois%2Bthe%2Bfridge.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JqLrk29VFfM/YZgKorIT70I/AAAAAAABb0Q/HjwPJSsG_rcFTfJzMQiphXr06coarxbTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Lois%2Bthe%2Bfridge.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lois the fridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I really feel like Tucumcari, and in particular staying at the Blue Swallow, was a Route 66 highlight. Even the Motel Safari has taken down its camel (there were camels used in the West, believe it or not) and put it indoors, which kind of ruins its sign. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z2wS_rWAepg/YZgLliKS3VI/AAAAAAABb0k/wmgfKlvGORQpKNegM8s6PePYepRJfOJuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Safari.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z2wS_rWAepg/YZgLliKS3VI/AAAAAAABb0k/wmgfKlvGORQpKNegM8s6PePYepRJfOJuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Safari.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79IwMVni4Uc/YZgMhFGkfGI/AAAAAAABb1o/sGy-Qp0WZBAHazF2KbrXkWv6ndVJi7jWgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/safari%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79IwMVni4Uc/YZgMhFGkfGI/AAAAAAABb1o/sGy-Qp0WZBAHazF2KbrXkWv6ndVJi7jWgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/safari%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic cigarette ad: "More Doctors Smoke Camels"</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br />I’m not sure T. was as in love with Tucumcari as I was but we did get a good dinner at Del’s. The hickory chicken T. ordered was about the best thing I tasted the entire trip.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eXo1M5-DteI/YZgLtpjH1vI/AAAAAAABb0o/jK-dO1IfpKYd4ui0flBUV-1xvCX3i_8nQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Del%2527s%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eXo1M5-DteI/YZgLtpjH1vI/AAAAAAABb0o/jK-dO1IfpKYd4ui0flBUV-1xvCX3i_8nQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Del%2527s%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RnAxUw8jcqk/YZgMx6nfSQI/AAAAAAABb1w/R9NJud1gqcsBshGpO4gzhrd9JyNNEN76wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Palomino%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RnAxUw8jcqk/YZgMx6nfSQI/AAAAAAABb1w/R9NJud1gqcsBshGpO4gzhrd9JyNNEN76wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Palomino%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ninf19KFqP4/YZgMx9hs36I/AAAAAAABb10/x5V2NLaf-nISTTsz6w7HcDFjj5g4dsS-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tepee%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ninf19KFqP4/YZgMx9hs36I/AAAAAAABb10/x5V2NLaf-nISTTsz6w7HcDFjj5g4dsS-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Tepee%2Blit%2Bup.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The next day, Robert’s buddy Antonio (and Antonio’s dog) brought doughnuts, so we enjoyed those too. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZHg2VJMIuFM/YZgM6udRPxI/AAAAAAABb18/6Q7soPt5caE8DzjuaLbcekJYa5ql9OJLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/ashtray.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZHg2VJMIuFM/YZgM6udRPxI/AAAAAAABb18/6Q7soPt5caE8DzjuaLbcekJYa5ql9OJLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ashtray.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the ashtrays were classic.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">Reluctantly, we moved on towards Santa Rosa, quickly realizing Tucumcari was </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">the </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">stop between here and there. “This is beautiful, in a desolate way,” I said.</span><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MD58f31tYR4/YZgNfUjSGoI/AAAAAAABb2s/vbW44ynExkYE2xfiAT8hD7j_iXoWs4WTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Newkirk.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MD58f31tYR4/YZgNfUjSGoI/AAAAAAABb2s/vbW44ynExkYE2xfiAT8hD7j_iXoWs4WTwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Newkirk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9H2dmk1x8o8/YZgNfFiI4cI/AAAAAAABb2o/DF4FC99qk6ENl4DYLX5Ny5Hs0GAODnwzgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cattle%2Bguard%2Bfrontage%2Broad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9H2dmk1x8o8/YZgNfFiI4cI/AAAAAAABb2o/DF4FC99qk6ENl4DYLX5Ny5Hs0GAODnwzgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Cattle%2Bguard%2Bfrontage%2Broad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Or desolate in a beautiful way,” T. said.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mb30cuunCVU/YZgOB3GaRXI/AAAAAAABb24/Leaasx8ypSsSVmtXLV2kf3ivIhktWzmHACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tight%2Btunnel%2BMontoya.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mb30cuunCVU/YZgOB3GaRXI/AAAAAAABb24/Leaasx8ypSsSVmtXLV2kf3ivIhktWzmHACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Tight%2Btunnel%2BMontoya.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tight tunnel under I-40 at Montoya</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8SIg5iv3DSk/YZgNEqbA66I/AAAAAAABb2Q/RSqmVBHvdmcYQ5G8UpKUx4AKoSZ8fFXKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/newkirk%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8SIg5iv3DSk/YZgNEqbA66I/AAAAAAABb2Q/RSqmVBHvdmcYQ5G8UpKUx4AKoSZ8fFXKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/newkirk%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank goodness for Newkirk. Portable toilets!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Of course, it partly looked this way because after Cuervo, another town wrecked by the interstate, we took the “Cuervo cut-off,” pre-1950s Route 66. It’s a dogleg of about another eighteen miles, but paved, which didn’t feel like a rough road at all compared with the dirt alignments. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BD_3mHa8xO0/YZgQ5Gp47JI/AAAAAAABb5Q/DNuyWzcQJqsLfGG8qg8za8T-87sl-XzAACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Dust%2Bin%2Bour%2Bwheel.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BD_3mHa8xO0/YZgQ5Gp47JI/AAAAAAABb5Q/DNuyWzcQJqsLfGG8qg8za8T-87sl-XzAACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Dust%2Bin%2Bour%2Bwheel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dust on our wheels</td></tr></tbody></table><br />This took us over to Santa Rosa. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sFLPzub1O2Y/YZgOjf5sUuI/AAAAAAABb3E/UNbmVlGGkA82W2__IGSB8_z81bmVHqQlACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/The%2BRoad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sFLPzub1O2Y/YZgOjf5sUuI/AAAAAAABb3E/UNbmVlGGkA82W2__IGSB8_z81bmVHqQlACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/The%2BRoad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VouqEv5Skt4/YZgOjOxbbTI/AAAAAAABb3A/R_nTgrXmsB4jQZf18qJWW0YbXGG3EcMCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Santa%2BRosa%2B1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VouqEv5Skt4/YZgOjOxbbTI/AAAAAAABb3A/R_nTgrXmsB4jQZf18qJWW0YbXGG3EcMCgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Santa%2BRosa%2B1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are still some good signs in Santa Rosa, including neon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ooyMN8B8GNc/YZgOrkUgxNI/AAAAAAABb3Q/jOtZ8qtxv-YkXTM5jD1aRm6zueXKoM46ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Santa%2BRosa%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ooyMN8B8GNc/YZgOrkUgxNI/AAAAAAABb3Q/jOtZ8qtxv-YkXTM5jD1aRm6zueXKoM46ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Santa%2BRosa%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6TPP6OZIHls/YZgO0lLDWRI/AAAAAAABb3U/VlfgIeW_r5Q5Q-Ml-ez_nfMlgt1BDzKjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Josephs%2B1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6TPP6OZIHls/YZgO0lLDWRI/AAAAAAABb3U/VlfgIeW_r5Q5Q-Ml-ez_nfMlgt1BDzKjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Josephs%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rn5BEm9rwDk/YZgOrYcteXI/AAAAAAABb3M/UbNhZhsS00ETcbkE-monIdgwGD93iEtmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Josephs%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="2000" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rn5BEm9rwDk/YZgOrYcteXI/AAAAAAABb3M/UbNhZhsS00ETcbkE-monIdgwGD93iEtmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Josephs%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Also there is an underground lake known as the Blue Hole. There were only a handful of scuba tanks there when we visited, but Jessica Dunham notes it’s the diving capital of the Southwest.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-z6lrQyx5Y/YZgO-HFoe2I/AAAAAAABb3c/9hwS98JyRAM1jvqOv9mbydSJXWzqWu6OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Blue%2BHole.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-z6lrQyx5Y/YZgO-HFoe2I/AAAAAAABb3c/9hwS98JyRAM1jvqOv9mbydSJXWzqWu6OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Blue%2BHole.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Almost as soon as we'd gotten to New Mexico we started noticing fall colors on some deciduous trees. All yellow, reportedly aspens or cottonwoods.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5LUjSUfXNX8/YZgPIxbBUuI/AAAAAAABb3k/lujjOY__hWcHlnjaKk1HirtUWUExFUKLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lake%2Bpark.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5LUjSUfXNX8/YZgPIxbBUuI/AAAAAAABb3k/lujjOY__hWcHlnjaKk1HirtUWUExFUKLwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Lake%2Bpark.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We’d made a few important planning decisions before the trip. One of them was the Blue Swallow, and another was to take the pre-1937 alignment of Route 66 after Santa Rosa. This much longer option loops up to Santa Fe, which neither of us had ever visited. (Later Route 66, now mostly I-40, goes straight west to Albuquerque.) The original dirt alignment as far as Dilia is now impassable, but we took U.S. 84 with which Route 66 is mostly overlaid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlKlh55tU8s/YZgPV2Cu5LI/AAAAAAABb3w/WB1D-4wMH98mM0mCjKKtPX4kurn4G9qpACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/The%2BRoad%2B3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlKlh55tU8s/YZgPV2Cu5LI/AAAAAAABb3w/WB1D-4wMH98mM0mCjKKtPX4kurn4G9qpACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2BRoad%2B3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIhIXUNzy58/YZgPVzswRGI/AAAAAAABb30/Hl2CVA-ceEsMgMHYibX9x0NJNIPP_q_sACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/The%2BRoad%2Bgets%2Bbusier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIhIXUNzy58/YZgPVzswRGI/AAAAAAABb30/Hl2CVA-ceEsMgMHYibX9x0NJNIPP_q_sACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/The%2BRoad%2Bgets%2Bbusier.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We also took a short side trip to Las Vegas (New Mexico, not Nevada). Before 1937, this was an important stop for Route 66 travelers. The main street was closed for road works, but we could still access the plaza and its historic hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jm3y2OclTN8/YZgPojxoTNI/AAAAAAABb4E/Cyd_cXNXAGYhd99UiJuqpGvYbmQnW5KiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/El%2BCampesino.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jm3y2OclTN8/YZgPojxoTNI/AAAAAAABb4E/Cyd_cXNXAGYhd99UiJuqpGvYbmQnW5KiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/El%2BCampesino.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>El Campesino</i>, Peter E. Lopez, dedicated to farm workers</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pyr5jyNV144/YZgPpNTuE4I/AAAAAAABb4I/DBFbsPP0H30OMtq8bAyNL2oXB7qveTaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Las%2BVegas%2B3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pyr5jyNV144/YZgPpNTuE4I/AAAAAAABb4I/DBFbsPP0H30OMtq8bAyNL2oXB7qveTaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Las%2BVegas%2B3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza Hotel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E8SIR-e0NKU/YZgPpUGIbqI/AAAAAAABb4Q/M-5gSQ_falkKFwfH97IElF-DxYR3ryHRACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Las%2BVegas%2BNM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E8SIR-e0NKU/YZgPpUGIbqI/AAAAAAABb4Q/M-5gSQ_falkKFwfH97IElF-DxYR3ryHRACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Las%2BVegas%2BNM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The road then led to Pecos, where we stopped at the historic park. The volunteer there was extremely enthusiastic, although she never took off her mask to speak to us, which was odd considering we were all outdoors the entire time. It was a real culture shock after the states we’d been traveling through.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Pecos National Historic Park has excavated ruins of a pueblo dating from A.D. 800. There’s also a mission church that was built and rebuilt by the Spanish before and after a revolt of the Pueblo people.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r6fK5PjdBwM/YZgQH0VPf6I/AAAAAAABb4w/Epzsr-GMzqsr09eRuRavfbbVb-OTc05MACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Pecos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r6fK5PjdBwM/YZgQH0VPf6I/AAAAAAABb4w/Epzsr-GMzqsr09eRuRavfbbVb-OTc05MACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Pecos.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yd6j3EHbmtM/YZgQNvB15DI/AAAAAAABb40/QA6juCFpQkEd0yR52nzgZesE7EJiTr73QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Mission%2Bchurch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yd6j3EHbmtM/YZgQNvB15DI/AAAAAAABb40/QA6juCFpQkEd0yR52nzgZesE7EJiTr73QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Mission%2Bchurch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One area was closed due to snakes. “I won’t hear them!” T. pointed out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R7I8JZbBbLw/YZgQf8a3QgI/AAAAAAABb5A/UaVlACCIxQwXdJObDPhSiLgsFntXMdBigCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/snakes.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R7I8JZbBbLw/YZgQf8a3QgI/AAAAAAABb5A/UaVlACCIxQwXdJObDPhSiLgsFntXMdBigCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/snakes.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I learned one more interesting thing just before Santa Fe, when we reached Glorieta Pass (over 7,500 feet). The historic marker, of which New Mexico has many, informed us that this was the westernmost battle of the Civil War in 1862. After three days of fighting to take Santa Fe, the Confederates retreated, and the State of New Mexico remained in the Union. Did you know any of that was happening this far west? I’d had no idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acR1E09yQ_Y/YZgQmqDkP3I/AAAAAAABb5E/_ZhZ9MU74Ls9AIcWQWRhnFAycwx7R4OHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Glorieta%2BPass.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acR1E09yQ_Y/YZgQmqDkP3I/AAAAAAABb5E/_ZhZ9MU74Ls9AIcWQWRhnFAycwx7R4OHgCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Glorieta%2BPass.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1e580vPkTzU/YZgTOwmOTHI/AAAAAAABb5Y/AC2M7XGDTLMQrJbA-tZzSx4R635IX6w5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/route.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1e580vPkTzU/YZgTOwmOTHI/AAAAAAABb5Y/AC2M7XGDTLMQrJbA-tZzSx4R635IX6w5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/route.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The most spectacular sight of the day, though, was another of which I have a picture only in my mind. As Route 66 followed the Santa Fe Railroad, suddenly we caught sight of a beautiful silver train with windows. Not one of the many, many freight trains, but a passenger train, climbing east. Probably back towards Chicago, where we had started.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-52845559966378521392021-11-18T16:57:00.005-05:002021-11-18T18:12:19.060-05:00 Oklahoma to Texas<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VRAIMBfQo80/YZa-7hL9hQI/AAAAAAABbt4/wFp8IaS44mojsxax8l0QslUe2oVQkwkSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/tubmleweed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VRAIMBfQo80/YZa-7hL9hQI/AAAAAAABbt4/wFp8IaS44mojsxax8l0QslUe2oVQkwkSgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/tubmleweed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Near Canute, Oklahoma, T. caught sight of something unfamiliar in the fields beside the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">frontage road. “That’s cotton!” I said. Just as it had been the right time of year to see the fall leaves in Illinois and Missouri, so down here the cottonfields were ripe. They were beautiful in the chilly dawn.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zTrR7c-f5tI/YZa_L0af4ZI/AAAAAAABbuA/KWeLq6xrCGQ9Nkc7jJtTXDjrKqvtSTKCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/me%2Band%2Bcotton%252C%2BCanute.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zTrR7c-f5tI/YZa_L0af4ZI/AAAAAAABbuA/KWeLq6xrCGQ9Nkc7jJtTXDjrKqvtSTKCQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/me%2Band%2Bcotton%252C%2BCanute.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">T. compared the frontage road to the interstate thusly: “Suppose you’re offered two coffee cups, and one is a shiny new cup from John Lewis, and the other’s an old, chipped cup used by your grandma.” We crossed back and forth over Interstate 40 many times, but it was worth it to stay on the original Portland concrete of Route 66. Canute showed signs (literally) of livelier days gone by.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLcohfhBRu8/YZa_Ywh2MYI/AAAAAAABbuE/brW0TEHIjz0s15UQvvfpJOcBmvSuCGQDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cotton%2BBoll%252C%2BCanute%2B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLcohfhBRu8/YZa_Ywh2MYI/AAAAAAABbuE/brW0TEHIjz0s15UQvvfpJOcBmvSuCGQDgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Cotton%2BBoll%252C%2BCanute%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There was another Route 66 museum in Elk City, this one “National.” We’d just been in the Oklahoma one in Clinton, but we did stop and talk to the woman in the gift shop. “How’d you get in [to the U.S.]?” she asked. “We’ve missed our Englanders!” Outside, T. took a picture of a family visiting from West Virginia. They were the first, but by no means the last, people we saw unselfconsciously wearing cowboy hats. For my part, my own Southernness (<i>y’all</i>, etc.) had been coming out ever since we’d been in Oklahoma.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“We’re from Hatfield and McCoy country,” the man from West Virginia said. “Mining country.” I said I’d been through it many times, which made me realize that must be how people in so many parts of the States feel. Normally, to me, West Virginia is just a turnpike, which you go over as quickly as possible. Now we were all taking the time to stop and see places like Elk City.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bq5Qy-1pJqU/YZa_jmKj7SI/AAAAAAABbuM/1nzLli_KT3AiYDG47m9E4Pms1bsJKQhpgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Elk%2BCity.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bq5Qy-1pJqU/YZa_jmKj7SI/AAAAAAABbuM/1nzLli_KT3AiYDG47m9E4Pms1bsJKQhpgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Elk%2BCity.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A bit further west, we took a short stretch of Route 66 south of I-40 so we could cross another endangered through-truss bridge, the Timber Creek Bridge from 1928.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlroPEdyY5E/YZa_rHy88EI/AAAAAAABbuU/t9nCVhCO96IgRgQsWQP-_Ip_F19laJLwQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Timber%2BCreek%2BBridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlroPEdyY5E/YZa_rHy88EI/AAAAAAABbuU/t9nCVhCO96IgRgQsWQP-_Ip_F19laJLwQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Timber%2BCreek%2BBridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Sayre had another great neon sign, as well as the Beckham County Courthouse, which appeared briefly in (you guessed it) <i>The Grapes of Wrath.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SRW0Lbo0aYk/YZa_xhOad3I/AAAAAAABbuc/qN6RpwThLZs_IDAsYaACIyfIHm1nR8BLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sayre%2B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SRW0Lbo0aYk/YZa_xhOad3I/AAAAAAABbuc/qN6RpwThLZs_IDAsYaACIyfIHm1nR8BLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Sayre%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JrJC3rmRRI8/YZa_xNJyN_I/AAAAAAABbuY/UxsjxKfVkGk62ZkcpjiHZa_PIGTcwFEDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Sayre%252C%2Bin%2Bthe%2BGrapes%2Bof%2BWrath%2Btoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JrJC3rmRRI8/YZa_xNJyN_I/AAAAAAABbuY/UxsjxKfVkGk62ZkcpjiHZa_PIGTcwFEDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Sayre%252C%2Bin%2Bthe%2BGrapes%2Bof%2BWrath%2Btoo.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I was impressed with the number of independent banks we kept seeing, including one called Happy State Bank! I think it was parked outside one of these to get cash that we finally noticed the license plate on our rental car spelled “kix,” as in “Get your kicks on Route 66.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XeNAw_cXsQ4/YZa___CX9zI/AAAAAAABbuo/X1YAWWyxSeQUNsLzTqKrdHhc8U-yFUCQACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/license%2Bplate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XeNAw_cXsQ4/YZa___CX9zI/AAAAAAABbuo/X1YAWWyxSeQUNsLzTqKrdHhc8U-yFUCQACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/license%2Bplate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In the town of Erick, a mural paid tribute to its most famous son: Roger Miller, who sang “King Of The Road.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GGCe8y-4TYE/YZbAEb1TvtI/AAAAAAABbu0/cKm9Ahh85XoO7C78NZeXzqj9hyy3R6WQwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Erick%2Bmural.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GGCe8y-4TYE/YZbAEb1TvtI/AAAAAAABbu0/cKm9Ahh85XoO7C78NZeXzqj9hyy3R6WQwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Erick%2Bmural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Erick was also home to the writer of “Purple People Eater.” Something in the water? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The last town before Texas is Texola, and there are very few people there. In fact, we saw no one. The tiny Territorial Jail is there, as is the Tumbleweeds Grill and Country Store.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7dAm12bxzak/YZbANEhzbCI/AAAAAAABbu4/ZdGfiQXbWxAOPpy6KbANQ1o-AXXapdZ0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/territorial%2Bjail%252C%2BTexola.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7dAm12bxzak/YZbANEhzbCI/AAAAAAABbu4/ZdGfiQXbWxAOPpy6KbANQ1o-AXXapdZ0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/territorial%2Bjail%252C%2BTexola.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Alas, the Grill was closed that day. Behind its fence, a dog was too lazy to even get up, let alone welcome us, but the turkey hurried over to do so. “Your days are numbered, mate,” T. said cheerfully.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PazFb79BLe0/YZbAYsLS6rI/AAAAAAABbvM/w9lWXvhPtcAV4Szd8oZrGkqiralrHrGOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/turkey%2Btexola.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PazFb79BLe0/YZbAYsLS6rI/AAAAAAABbvM/w9lWXvhPtcAV4Szd8oZrGkqiralrHrGOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/turkey%2Btexola.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GhySgVj_Ogc/YZbAih9eIgI/AAAAAAABbvU/44U_8MOV8F0Muja50s7DxNDBQGaD061XACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/state%2Bline%2B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GhySgVj_Ogc/YZbAih9eIgI/AAAAAAABbvU/44U_8MOV8F0Muja50s7DxNDBQGaD061XACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/state%2Bline%2B.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br />And so to Texas, with its farm roads, cattle ranches, and big everything. We kept seeing a hawk soaring overhead, and cotton bolls instead of fallen leaves.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-stn8xp3PhiY/YZbAoHjKMNI/AAAAAAABbvg/xohctxpn_V4RFJBxNMpu5M2kXSAEq2LXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/cotton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-stn8xp3PhiY/YZbAoHjKMNI/AAAAAAABbvg/xohctxpn_V4RFJBxNMpu5M2kXSAEq2LXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/cotton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Shamrock, Texas is on land where Kiowa and Comanche people once herded bison. There followed a town named by an Irishman, the paving of Route 66, and in 1936, the Art Deco Tower Conoco, which now houses the U Drop Inn.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tA2VtZ2RCUg/YZbAuLBmjvI/AAAAAAABbvo/ryXnhfCyQ7ghFubVcXUWajyUbtL_EnxQACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/U%2BDrop%2BInn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tA2VtZ2RCUg/YZbAuLBmjvI/AAAAAAABbvo/ryXnhfCyQ7ghFubVcXUWajyUbtL_EnxQACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/U%2BDrop%2BInn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were pleased to find the U Drop Inn open, chiefly because we needed the bathroom. As soon as T. was in there, a woman named Hazel came racing out to tell me there was another restroom inside. Then she looked curiously at my earring: “Is that a bomb?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I explained to her that I’d gotten it in Laos, and that it’s made of leftover debris from the bombings during the Vietnam war. We got to talking and she and her colleague, Patsy, made us very welcome in the gift shop-cum-museum. As usual, we were the only visitors there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DL3Z5lYMgkE/YZbA4Lub0SI/AAAAAAABbv0/gGUEdZ-07bcoRRP4dw329s521kuOOKthACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/U%2BDrop%2BInn%2B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DL3Z5lYMgkE/YZbA4Lub0SI/AAAAAAABbv0/gGUEdZ-07bcoRRP4dw329s521kuOOKthACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/U%2BDrop%2BInn%2B.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">These women were two of the most delightful people we met on Route 66. I told Hazel that we were planning to take the dirt alignment between McLean (the last Texas town bypassed by I-40) and Alanreed. She didn’t even know about it, but did urge us to stop in Groom, which claims to have the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. “They’ve got the stations of the cross and everything. You have to see it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TZkuroxm09A/YZbJ-27wtMI/AAAAAAABbyc/n4Z1Er8014o3usjesvihMYVWk-o_D2c4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5359%2Bcopy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TZkuroxm09A/YZbJ-27wtMI/AAAAAAABbyc/n4Z1Er8014o3usjesvihMYVWk-o_D2c4ACLcBGAsYHQ/w426-h640/IMG_5359%2Bcopy.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patsy and Hazel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Between Shamrock and McLean stands a mostly-intact series of what there used to be tons of along Route 66: signs advertising Burma-Shave. Someone stole the “WEST”!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD0V0xHLwkU/YZbA_UKAAiI/AAAAAAABbv4/TNxB42EUM2US4ozVi_tg4tF8fzefnE_rQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burma%2B1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD0V0xHLwkU/YZbA_UKAAiI/AAAAAAABbv4/TNxB42EUM2US4ozVi_tg4tF8fzefnE_rQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Burma%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72y-xmyeUTU/YZbA_mWQnpI/AAAAAAABbwA/S7A60omeqnE7RcezhoCt-Uj_g74osQM9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burma%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72y-xmyeUTU/YZbA_mWQnpI/AAAAAAABbwA/S7A60omeqnE7RcezhoCt-Uj_g74osQM9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Burma%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JEzWC9-DXCw/YZbA_huEp7I/AAAAAAABbv8/iHeGWZsxuAc6qQdIfPrxtdc-TqRvnhLXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Burma%2B3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JEzWC9-DXCw/YZbA_huEp7I/AAAAAAABbv8/iHeGWZsxuAc6qQdIfPrxtdc-TqRvnhLXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Burma%2B3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">According to Jessica Dunham's <i>Route 66 Road Trip</i>, McLean was once known as “Uplift City” because of its bra factory. The town was founded by Alfred Rowe, who later lost his life aboard the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Titanic</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">, and sadly McLean isn’t doing much better today. There are a few reminders of the good old Route 66 days though. Not to mention the “Devil’s Rope” (barbed wire) museum.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7rtwvJHAe4/YZbBLn18BeI/AAAAAAABbwI/XwIpU5QGNt0bdcpO1yM4g3OfBkGHZRerQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cactus%2BInn%252C%2BMcLean.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7rtwvJHAe4/YZbBLn18BeI/AAAAAAABbwI/XwIpU5QGNt0bdcpO1yM4g3OfBkGHZRerQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Cactus%2BInn%252C%2BMcLean.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cWTPSCKKH-4/YZbBL5WaxoI/AAAAAAABbwM/cKUICnYU-Rw71i54CWiNOFHHJlz6WqKrACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/McLean%2Bmural.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="2000" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cWTPSCKKH-4/YZbBL5WaxoI/AAAAAAABbwM/cKUICnYU-Rw71i54CWiNOFHHJlz6WqKrACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/McLean%2Bmural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From McLean, we took pre-1932 Route 66, about eight miles on dirt, sand, and gravel. We were lucky to have a nice dry day to drive this.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6gzi2N0Csfw/YZbBWVYqEbI/AAAAAAABbwY/NUfWI6iIAJMt6PcuED5sBnXcj_XUlFhTACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/McLean%2Bto%2BAlanreed%2B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6gzi2N0Csfw/YZbBWVYqEbI/AAAAAAABbwY/NUfWI6iIAJMt6PcuED5sBnXcj_XUlFhTACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/McLean%2Bto%2BAlanreed%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Soon after Alanreed, we were forced onto I-40 for about a mile. I think it was only our third foray onto the interstate since we began the trip. It was worth it for a surprisingly nice view from the Donley County Safety Rest Area, which from its westbound location has a great view. Also, the bathrooms were tornado shelters.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F0QfZzRYdGA/YZbBzbun2CI/AAAAAAABbwo/bM_--LmxJOsrNilgCL8XS5GNNTh5NcNjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/view.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F0QfZzRYdGA/YZbBzbun2CI/AAAAAAABbwo/bM_--LmxJOsrNilgCL8XS5GNNTh5NcNjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Then there was another pre-’30s dirt alignment that led to the Jericho Gap. This was infamous in the old days as a place where, after a rain, the mud was so black and deep that motorists got stuck there for days. The same soil was great for agriculture. Today most of the old road is abandoned or private, but a short dogleg took us to Jericho. It is a complete ghost town, with only a cemetery to memorialize the residents who died of smallpox, influenza, war, or just old age.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9riF_klmvEw/YZbB4ymmQII/AAAAAAABbws/P18ipJ_PR3s-9TjTrsls2MeMFK_Ku20VACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Jericho%2B.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9riF_klmvEw/YZbB4ymmQII/AAAAAAABbws/P18ipJ_PR3s-9TjTrsls2MeMFK_Ku20VACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Jericho%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of a tourist court/houses, Jericho</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At Hazel’s urging, we did stop by the giant cross in Groom. I have to say it made a nice picture framed by the cottonfields.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qU_r8gwFLkY/YZbCB4yonII/AAAAAAABbww/H8UcJt5ZXUQSiBGjhgxGpSSy6_L5yaZawCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cross%252C%2BGroom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qU_r8gwFLkY/YZbCB4yonII/AAAAAAABbww/H8UcJt5ZXUQSiBGjhgxGpSSy6_L5yaZawCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Cross%252C%2BGroom.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">At last, we approached the only big </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px;">Texas </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">city in the panhandle (and on Route 66): Amarillo. T. had been singing to show her the way there for days. Just outside Amarillo is a small “peace park” with some poignant signage in rainbow colors.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NXq-znpRaFo/YZbCKDOiKmI/AAAAAAABbw8/-OMcNiF5IVgrAm83vK6IGiOsSL35Z1wMACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Peace%2BPark%2BBEFOREAMARILLO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NXq-znpRaFo/YZbCKDOiKmI/AAAAAAABbw8/-OMcNiF5IVgrAm83vK6IGiOsSL35Z1wMACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Peace%2BPark%2BBEFOREAMARILLO.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The historic district of Amarillo, which I had no idea of when I came through here on interstate trips, is all on the National Register of Historic Places. You can wander into any building and see something neat. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6EZoKqTtKTA/YZbCZ_kVKVI/AAAAAAABbxM/if5ma3W631YYI9m-oxQ6VYGNJwzVkshYACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/oldest%2Bresaurant.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6EZoKqTtKTA/YZbCZ_kVKVI/AAAAAAABbxM/if5ma3W631YYI9m-oxQ6VYGNJwzVkshYACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/oldest%2Bresaurant.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amarillo's oldest restaurant</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We happened into Lile’s art gallery. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Lile, who described himself as an 81-year-old teenager, makes art out of the spray paint that builds up on the Cadillac Ranch (an art installation outside Amarillo). We had an hour’s free parking and I thought we’d spend it all talking to him. When T. explained her hearing difficulty, Lile said, “You read lips, I know. I didn’t realize how much I read lips until we started wearing masks!”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">He told us about his friend Bob Waldmire, the legendary hippie artist of Route 66 whose work is in the Pontiac, Illinois museum (and many other places), and who died too soon at the age of 64. Lile also gave us more stuff than we bought from him. Postcards of where we had to go on our westbound journey, an article he wrote, a bottle of water for free (I’d left mine in the motel). But it wasn’t just Lile. Everyone in this enclave of Texas seemed super friendly. Some random man we passed on the street said, “hey, how y’all doing? Have a great evening!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Apparently in Amarillo, one place you have to go is the Big Texan.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHNUGZR3-oY/YZbCRROVNgI/AAAAAAABbxA/gqbFX_h8ITovSfnOMNLgTwRcTH9O3rSqwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Big%2BTexan%2B.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHNUGZR3-oY/YZbCRROVNgI/AAAAAAABbxA/gqbFX_h8ITovSfnOMNLgTwRcTH9O3rSqwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Big%2BTexan%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Big Texan used to greet visitors on Amarillo Boulevard, which is Route 66 into the city. When the route was bypassed, the savvy owners moved him out to the frontage road of the interstate, so the place is just as popular as ever. T. thought the steak was great. I’m not sure about the serenading cowboys, but they did their best to adapt “Take Me Home, Country Roads” for us: “West Virginia, or maybe London!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From the Route 66 Inn, I heard trains whistling evocatively. This would become familiar over the coming days. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s841Zq94YLQ/YZbCk5JHPII/AAAAAAABbxU/u-FLCxKIVIM1wQoIbd7puaYzRTBzZjm0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sunset%2B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s841Zq94YLQ/YZbCk5JHPII/AAAAAAABbxU/u-FLCxKIVIM1wQoIbd7puaYzRTBzZjm0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/sunset%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On the outskirts of Amarillo, we had to visit the Cadillac Ranch from which Lile peels layers of graffiti and makes them into jewelry.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7CHpm38UQRE/YZbCrIBZkzI/AAAAAAABbxc/7R55dybyeP8F5nGe0L48uDkulovTmkY5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/CADILLAC%2BRANCH.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7CHpm38UQRE/YZbCrIBZkzI/AAAAAAABbxc/7R55dybyeP8F5nGe0L48uDkulovTmkY5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/CADILLAC%2BRANCH.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm saying nothing!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This work of art by the Ant Farm Collective was never on Route 66. It did used to be somewhere else, which I remember flying past in 1987, and then was moved to its current location in 1997. Now a nearby RV park/gift shop tries to make money from it. It’s adorned with the Big Texan’s twin, the “2<sup>nd</sup> Amendment Cowboy.” Bizarrely, his label attributes a gun rights quotation to George Washington. (It’s one of those many misattributions that float around on the Internet.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Between the 2<sup>nd</sup> Amendment Cowboy and the fact that people had spray painted everything near the Cadillac Ranch, including corn plants and dog poop, I was in one of my “what is wrong with people?” moods. Then the road opened up to emptiness, and my perspective changed, once again. We saw more billboards of note: “Barricades Unlimited” (“You’d only need one, wouldn’t you?” T. said) and “Shoot Full Auto.” Crazy, right? Yet if for some reason I found myself living way out here, with nobody around, I can’t be certain I wouldn’t force myself to get a gun (and learn how to use it). I just don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">T. was feeling thoughtful too. “Old-time travelers must have thought this was a great road, after all the turns in Missouri and Illinois.” Then she mused, “I wouldn’t think these people could feel any further away from Washington. And not just distance.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I thought, once more, of Mrs. L. She seemed to think that she, and more importantly her great-grandchildren, were being told they should feel bad just for being who they are. I don't think she is being told that, but it's not a feeling anybody likes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I imagined what it must have been like for people who lived their whole lives in some of these towns, now buried and forgotten (carefully tended graveyards in ghost towns). And if that seemed desolate to us, imagine how the indigenous people must feel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“I kind of feel like I should be on a horse, not in a car,” T. said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were happy to get into Vega.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afeCgiSo61k/YZbC6j_ZlSI/AAAAAAABbxk/AaUJ-3X9_go5rUBJfelMO7EXKL3kWrJ_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/restored%2BMagnolia%2Bstation%252C%2BVega%252C%2B1920s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afeCgiSo61k/YZbC6j_ZlSI/AAAAAAABbxk/AaUJ-3X9_go5rUBJfelMO7EXKL3kWrJ_QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/restored%2BMagnolia%2Bstation%252C%2BVega%252C%2B1920s.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The 1920s Magnolia gas station on Main Street is on older Route 66 and has been beautifully restored. A short distance away is the Vega Motel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xRg8z3141Rg/YZbDC2YGSiI/AAAAAAABbxs/p1fXpGwLFFEo0MQf9Rcz7wkbsHnfscB9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Vega%2Bmotor%2Bcourt%2B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xRg8z3141Rg/YZbDC2YGSiI/AAAAAAABbxs/p1fXpGwLFFEo0MQf9Rcz7wkbsHnfscB9ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Vega%2Bmotor%2Bcourt%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--H76_Pbnpvg/YZbDC3-5ijI/AAAAAAABbxw/NBmcHp2Nw3AqAWucT-sjogscXZbhYjvzgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/vega%2Bmotor%2Bcourt.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--H76_Pbnpvg/YZbDC3-5ijI/AAAAAAABbxw/NBmcHp2Nw3AqAWucT-sjogscXZbhYjvzgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/vega%2Bmotor%2Bcourt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This vintage motor court, three-sided with a garage next to each room, has been preserved too, though all that’s in there now appeared to be a hairdresser’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We crossed the street to the Hickory Inn Café.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a1ulnvIjR-U/YZbDOQ1cSNI/AAAAAAABbx4/i6CXTMZ2DZs2lj-X1XtvhacAb_yQXWk4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/HIckory%2BInn%2Bcafe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a1ulnvIjR-U/YZbDOQ1cSNI/AAAAAAABbx4/i6CXTMZ2DZs2lj-X1XtvhacAb_yQXWk4QCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/HIckory%2BInn%2Bcafe.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It looked old from the outside, though inside it looked pretty new. The waitress said her boyfriend’s family had run it for only a few years. Everyone else there seemed to be part of the family (a man with a baby on his lap told us to “sit anywhere,” which is how all seating hosts had been greeting us since we got to “y’all” country). They also had homemade chocolate chip cookies in a Ziploc bag. Unlike those in Bourbon, Missouri, these lacked the infusion of cigarette smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Adrian, Texas marks the geographic midpoint of Route 66. We’d already been warned that the Midpoint Café, at which we’d otherwise have stopped for pie, was closed on Tuesdays (“She can’t get any help,” Lile told us). But there was a Spanish-speaking couple there and we took turns taking pictures for each other.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AgA-f_5zmlY/YZbDWKPMnhI/AAAAAAABbyA/r6UF2eOjfYoSePnNs_0PgMiQ35o-tMUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Adrian.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AgA-f_5zmlY/YZbDWKPMnhI/AAAAAAABbyA/r6UF2eOjfYoSePnNs_0PgMiQ35o-tMUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Adrian.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As we approached Cap Rock, where old Route 66 took off down the escarpment towards New Mexico, we saw some trucks that appeared to be sweeping up dust in a field. What a futile task. Though something must grow around there; the “World’s Largest Pistachio” was advertised on the latest billboard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were surrounded by modern wind turbines, as well as these older windmills with blades. There must have been a lot of energy generated by them, but T. said, “I can’t see anyone converting them into houses in 100 years,” like the wooden kind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We took the dead end of Route 66, knowing that we’d thereafter be forced onto I-40 for the longest stretch yet. T. being T., she did not bother to backtrack to the exit, but carefully entered the shoulder and then the interstate from the literal end of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hIq64xNUpoM/YZbDnVFqrrI/AAAAAAABbyM/V9dumQjc_U8_NJjncBH78CcMdxP4DTdQwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Cap%2BRock%2Bdead%2Bend.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hIq64xNUpoM/YZbDnVFqrrI/AAAAAAABbyM/V9dumQjc_U8_NJjncBH78CcMdxP4DTdQwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Cap%2BRock%2Bdead%2Bend.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s miles to Glenrio, which straddles the Texas/New Mexico state line. But we got off the interstate as soon as we could, to drive those eighteen miles on the scenic, pre-1950s Route. Good dirt and gravel, past wooden-post bridges. We weren’t even sure when we'd reached our sixth state.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sqda-WMQAsQ/YZbDwuHqzQI/AAAAAAABbyQ/g_s47ipWE4Uz-Hh5QtvicKMmNLQKpaOhACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Glenrio.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sqda-WMQAsQ/YZbDwuHqzQI/AAAAAAABbyQ/g_s47ipWE4Uz-Hh5QtvicKMmNLQKpaOhACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Glenrio.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-81264683194245092062021-11-17T22:58:00.000-05:002021-11-17T22:58:07.503-05:00More Oklahoma<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2eJ7fMOw2Q/YZXGzuIVS0I/AAAAAAABbqE/XTlLtjnQ0JoDH3Si8NbBOkPEBHnKyDhfACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Frisco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2eJ7fMOw2Q/YZXGzuIVS0I/AAAAAAABbqE/XTlLtjnQ0JoDH3Si8NbBOkPEBHnKyDhfACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Frisco.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Fork. What became the San Francisco Railway ran first to Sapulpa and later to Oklahoma City.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The good side of Route 66 is that it’s little used and therefore, very clean. We rarely saw litter. On the other hand, if you’re not careful, you can end up with a lot of waste, Styrofoam, and other throwbacks to a time when little attention was paid to the environment. Here are a few hints to mitigate the messiness of Route 66: take a reusable water bottle (I advise this anywhere in the world). Tap water in the U.S. is drinkable; there is no reason to buy water in plastic bottles. Some people don’t like the taste of water but if you can’t get it filtered, there are always lemonade or similar packets you can mix with it. Motels have ice machines to keep things cool. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Not every place has recycling so ideally, take any cans, bottles, etc. along in a separate bag until you get to a place that does recycle. I had the most success at the national parks, which were actually side trips, but some Airbnbs had recycling too. Like everything else in America, it depends on the locality or state. On a car trip, you can spread out easily and not worry about having extra stuff like this—only when it’s time to pack to go home! But that was still two weeks away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">West of Tulsa, we had an opportunity to take a road even less traveled. This remnant of the Ozark Trail, which became part of Route 66’s original alignment, includes a brick-decked iron bridge (1925) over Rock Creek.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MCnTmbdJy-E/YZXHDE9mVxI/AAAAAAABbqI/TB3SzYjKK-gPBs30P7afj7UGFMm5PNU-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Our%2Bfirst%2BOzark%2BTrail%2Bremnant.%2BCrossing%2Bthe%2Bbrick-decked%2B1925%2Biron%2Bbridge%2Bover%2BRock%2BCr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MCnTmbdJy-E/YZXHDE9mVxI/AAAAAAABbqI/TB3SzYjKK-gPBs30P7afj7UGFMm5PNU-QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Our%2Bfirst%2BOzark%2BTrail%2Bremnant.%2BCrossing%2Bthe%2Bbrick-decked%2B1925%2Biron%2Bbridge%2Bover%2BRock%2BCr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-ihpG3jrFE/YZXHNKE9tWI/AAAAAAABbqQ/r4u4mqBUIuMy_8Gy8OrrmJg76N0J_l9AwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Drive-in%2BOzark%2BTrail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-ihpG3jrFE/YZXHNKE9tWI/AAAAAAABbqQ/r4u4mqBUIuMy_8Gy8OrrmJg76N0J_l9AwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Drive-in%2BOzark%2BTrail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Defunct drive-in theatre, Ozark Trail</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loPYXSbYxVo/YZXHVSRNrWI/AAAAAAABbqY/RDEBJ6zeQKILFjnO_OnF33O4_PKbMKxWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Donut%2BPalace%2B%2522where%2Bthe%2Bcustomer%2Bis%2Bking%2522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loPYXSbYxVo/YZXHVSRNrWI/AAAAAAABbqY/RDEBJ6zeQKILFjnO_OnF33O4_PKbMKxWwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Donut%2BPalace%2B%2522where%2Bthe%2Bcustomer%2Bis%2Bking%2522.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Bristow was a Creek trading post that later became a railroad town. We hadn’t really had breakfast so when we got to Bristow, I was glad to see the Donut Palace, “where the customer is king.” The young man at the counter asked where we were from and said he had cousins in England. There were two women working in the back, and the one who definitely wasn’t his mother said to me, “This family are the doughnut whisperers.” Mom shouted excitedly from the kitchen in another language. We guessed that they were Laotian because we remember the heritage of French baking in Laos, and these were about the lightest, fluffiest doughnuts I ever remember eating.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I continued to collect amusing place names (Little Polecat Creek), along with museums we <i>weren’t</i> visiting. I’d never realized how many little towns, and it seems most of the towns on Route 66, have some museum or other. We could not go into even every Route 66 museum, still less all the other museums, but each and every one must have a town that’s proud of it. Here are just a few museums we didn’t stop at—and I promise I am not making any of these up: grain elevator, vacuum cleaner, barbed wire, rattlesnake, and cookie cutter!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We did take the loop through downtown Depew, which was on Route 66 only from 1926 to 1928. Believe it or not, it was a busy city then, and Route 66 was its first paved road. Like so many other places in America, it was devastated by the Great Depression of the 1930s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2DFrAbMxvY/YZXHeQr3gOI/AAAAAAABbqg/wTU39MqFaG4j1NeQlpB_20tZT9FZCTVowCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Depew%2B1926-28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2DFrAbMxvY/YZXHeQr3gOI/AAAAAAABbqg/wTU39MqFaG4j1NeQlpB_20tZT9FZCTVowCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Depew%2B1926-28.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Depew</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Stroud had two barber shops on the same street, which seemed impressive given the size of the downtown. Chandler had the Lincoln Motel from 1939, as well as a Route 66 interpretive center in the 1937 Armory, built by the Works Progress Administration. WPA projects employed over eight million people during the nadir of the Depression. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4NKyLlnRdmw/YZXHq2m_ZtI/AAAAAAABbqs/3Vrz6nSukrkNUeIQ6BKQ3YDnYxwQEgIlACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1939%252C%2BChandler%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4NKyLlnRdmw/YZXHq2m_ZtI/AAAAAAABbqs/3Vrz6nSukrkNUeIQ6BKQ3YDnYxwQEgIlACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1939%252C%2BChandler%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8s6dxpVw4dM/YZXHqiwSItI/AAAAAAABbqo/XBJVd3_eCEc6tgNo96TD0r2qShYgMwvyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Detail%2BWPA%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8s6dxpVw4dM/YZXHqiwSItI/AAAAAAABbqo/XBJVd3_eCEc6tgNo96TD0r2qShYgMwvyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Detail%2BWPA%2B.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail, Chandler Armory</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">They’re lovely structures, and we saw almost as many of them on our trip as buildings on the National Register of Historic Places. For example, the Arcadia loop of vintage Route 66 that preserves 1928 Portland concrete, where reportedly Paul McCartney once stopped for directions.</span><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2DmTP1CteyM/YZXIMb88nQI/AAAAAAABbq8/_XyTNHR1eHcFYeliULvthlZweEEL4gAPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Historic%2BArcadia%2Bloop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2DmTP1CteyM/YZXIMb88nQI/AAAAAAABbq8/_XyTNHR1eHcFYeliULvthlZweEEL4gAPgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Historic%2BArcadia%2Bloop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Arcadia also has the Round Barn, built by William H. Odor to prove it could be done.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOVxLHHXLHk/YZXImvWVjuI/AAAAAAABbrE/tI6RW1rEnf8bcSey7Skb1gNwDsWknlF5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Round%2BBarn%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOVxLHHXLHk/YZXImvWVjuI/AAAAAAABbrE/tI6RW1rEnf8bcSey7Skb1gNwDsWknlF5gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Round%2BBarn%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Only a hundred-mile trip had brought us to our second of three state capitals on Route 66: Oklahoma City. Oklahoma City is a great example of the multiple conflicting stories of America. After indigenous peoples were forcibly relocated here to “Indian Territory,” agricultural techniques were developed that made this land valuable to the U.S. government after all. So it was opened up in 1887 to white settlement, and the “land rush” ensued. This stampede of pioneer spirit, as it appeared to some, also meant a second dispossession of the indigenous tribes. What had been their reservations would soon become the State of Oklahoma, and their way of life was largely lost to assimilation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We took the 1926-54 alignment of Route 66 on Lincoln Boulevard, so that we could take in the approach view of the Capitol.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQQt2GTLenM/YZXJIc-qC8I/AAAAAAABbrU/XX5nLp3PR7kNWvJOR0g7GFh96SGtYysVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Old%2Broute%2Bto%2Bcapitol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQQt2GTLenM/YZXJIc-qC8I/AAAAAAABbrU/XX5nLp3PR7kNWvJOR0g7GFh96SGtYysVQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Old%2Broute%2Bto%2Bcapitol.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Unlike Tulsa, OKC was a city I’d been to before, on two family trips in 1987 and ’97. On that first trip, we’d visited the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. It’s now called the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum, and this was one T. wanted to visit. I was curious to see what differences there now were in the presentation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The young woman who sold us our tickets asked where we were from. “I love your accent” is what Americans usually say to T., but this gal said she’d done graduate work in Putney, a short distance from where we live! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This imposing [copy of] a sculpture by James Earle Fraser is supposed to depict a weary American Indian warrior at the end of the struggle for the west. I remember this being the centerpiece of the main hall in 1987 too, but I was interested now to read some commentary on it from a Cherokee scholar. Dr. R. David Edmunds pointed out that the west was not straightforwardly won or lost, and that even after all the history of indigenous people who were not even considered U.S. citizens until 1924, “modern warriors” have been overrepresented serving in America’s wars.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--roXGdOgLp4/YZXJYkQTMfI/AAAAAAABbrc/BKPRFvGi2mATSP9Sm__S7xhOL7oouYXBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/End%2Bof%2Bthe%2BTrail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--roXGdOgLp4/YZXJYkQTMfI/AAAAAAABbrc/BKPRFvGi2mATSP9Sm__S7xhOL7oouYXBwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/End%2Bof%2Bthe%2BTrail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The End of the Trail</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s an enormous museum and we didn’t see all of it, but I very much liked their approach of adding to, rather than removing, items in their collection. Once again, we were seeing more than one American story from more than one point of view.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gwPIrvplppc/YZXJgKoa7FI/AAAAAAABbrk/2J1cBFCaato6u5IYhwUJkRlXMJTwNwLnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Bettina%2BSteinke%252C%2B1978%252C%2BFather%2Band%2BDaughter%2Bat%2Bthe%2BCrow%2BFair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gwPIrvplppc/YZXJgKoa7FI/AAAAAAABbrk/2J1cBFCaato6u5IYhwUJkRlXMJTwNwLnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bettina%2BSteinke%252C%2B1978%252C%2BFather%2Band%2BDaughter%2Bat%2Bthe%2BCrow%2BFair.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Father and Daughter at the Crow Fair</i>, Bettina Steinke, 1978</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXKIGgDy9qg/YZXJgJFJrMI/AAAAAAABbrg/2jyP8t05-Lg-6QMTfqq-YFXFxQG2QJfMwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Buffalo%2BSoldiers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXKIGgDy9qg/YZXJgJFJrMI/AAAAAAABbrg/2jyP8t05-Lg-6QMTfqq-YFXFxQG2QJfMwCLcBGAsYHQ/w477-h640/Buffalo%2BSoldiers.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On my family’s 1997 trip, we visited the site of the Alfred P. Murrah federal office building. Just two years previously, it had been destroyed in a terrorist attack. Unlike the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center, this attack was by a white American, in fact a veteran of the U.S. armed forces; and at the time, this was an unprecedentedly deadly terrorist attack in America, killing 168 men, women, and children. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lT1TeikbXLk/YZXJzRDedJI/AAAAAAABbr0/MZ5BTuptqrAcf8cpmPDezSLdXCpCTpt6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Walls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lT1TeikbXLk/YZXJzRDedJI/AAAAAAABbr0/MZ5BTuptqrAcf8cpmPDezSLdXCpCTpt6wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Walls.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The remaining walls of the Alfred P. Murrah building</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When we saw the site in ’97, it was just surrounded by a chain link fence, with what seemed like thousands of note cards, flowers, and teddy bears. Today, the Oklahoma City memorial is beautifully designed, with a museum (of course) and chairs representing every person who lost their life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ka9bWw9LzZ8/YZXKAQ8BfUI/AAAAAAABbr4/VviyJeWz9LwnILZIwhmrMWv1K4cwPtYVACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ka9bWw9LzZ8/YZXKAQ8BfUI/AAAAAAABbr4/VviyJeWz9LwnILZIwhmrMWv1K4cwPtYVACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Memorial.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Many traces of Route 66 through OKC have disappeared, even in the past few years. T. did spot this giant milk bottle, as big as the building it adorns on Classen Boulevard. This was a grocery store dating from 1930 and, although the once successful business is long gone, the milk bottle remains.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-98S5NtwTDUo/YZXKHiM8T1I/AAAAAAABbsA/TaoeAhV51DMREoISTcZoa22ex8Q0lPmRwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Milk%2Bbottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-98S5NtwTDUo/YZXKHiM8T1I/AAAAAAABbsA/TaoeAhV51DMREoISTcZoa22ex8Q0lPmRwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Milk%2Bbottle.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In Bethany, the Lake Overholser Bridge has not only been restored, but opened to traffic. Until the 1950s and the four-lane, this was a critical crossing on Route 66.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aVg1nDmPFYY/YZXKTMK83MI/AAAAAAABbsI/nrFCycztlB457p7WThRZfSvZvbR8Nl2DQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lake%2BOverholser%2BBridge%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aVg1nDmPFYY/YZXKTMK83MI/AAAAAAABbsI/nrFCycztlB457p7WThRZfSvZvbR8Nl2DQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Lake%2BOverholser%2BBridge%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We heard church bells ringing when we stopped inYukon, Oklahoma, reminding us it was Sunday. Yukon is proud of its heritage, including its huge grain elevator and Chisholm Trail mural. The Chisholm Trail was the cattle-drive trail between ranches in Texas and the railroad in Kansas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3gx-t3wOlJM/YZXKfh2m9TI/AAAAAAABbsY/BMmUympUZxQU8wuGEwSatCps6mue6zoXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/YUkon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3gx-t3wOlJM/YZXKfh2m9TI/AAAAAAABbsY/BMmUympUZxQU8wuGEwSatCps6mue6zoXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/YUkon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note neon sign</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iiC6Fy3k-g4/YZXKmlZWA4I/AAAAAAABbsc/I_v27cuu4nUPsDp1AN9LC37oyciNujTUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Standard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iiC6Fy3k-g4/YZXKmlZWA4I/AAAAAAABbsc/I_v27cuu4nUPsDp1AN9LC37oyciNujTUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Standard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rare Standard Gasoline sign, Yukon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">El Reno was a town made by the railroad and Route 66. Unfortunately, the railroad went bust in 1980. The current route through El Reno passes a rare twin-engine bomber from World War II.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ghb_31tpE2k/YZXKzorF61I/AAAAAAABbsk/gTMDcR8GKTUQ3NGibjLlFSPJGLtNrXojwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Plane%252C%2BEl%2BReno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ghb_31tpE2k/YZXKzorF61I/AAAAAAABbsk/gTMDcR8GKTUQ3NGibjLlFSPJGLtNrXojwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Plane%252C%2BEl%2BReno.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Chisholm Trail is also commemorated in Geary. The Arapaho and Cheyenne lived here before the land rush, and not much land was grabbed in Geary due to a horrific drought that lasted until 1896. We took the pre-1933 alignment of Route 66 north through Calumet to reach Geary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fD-I5SSiZb0/YZXK6ajjDRI/AAAAAAABbss/eCTf3UdTWhMq05mdEDiHocwPNs9B00t6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Chilsholm%252C%2BGeary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fD-I5SSiZb0/YZXK6ajjDRI/AAAAAAABbss/eCTf3UdTWhMq05mdEDiHocwPNs9B00t6wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Chilsholm%252C%2BGeary.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mural, Geary</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tbhKhs0mS0c/YZXLNG5qrYI/AAAAAAABbtE/4hSoQ-EJbBwCQx2UWmYgoSL24f2QPaYjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Trough%252C%2BGeary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tbhKhs0mS0c/YZXLNG5qrYI/AAAAAAABbtE/4hSoQ-EJbBwCQx2UWmYgoSL24f2QPaYjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Trough%252C%2BGeary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From there, the pre-’33 route continues on dirt. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qc6w5feOvGU/YZXLmZe4bUI/AAAAAAABbtQ/BvQNseNc5VIx7Bt3CS0VS0TLQf2k-mGwQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Dirt%2Bpre-1933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qc6w5feOvGU/YZXLmZe4bUI/AAAAAAABbtQ/BvQNseNc5VIx7Bt3CS0VS0TLQf2k-mGwQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Dirt%2Bpre-1933.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Although we normally avoided dead ends and backtracking, we made an exception to reach the site of the 1921 Key Suspension Bridge which once reached Bridgeport. All that remains now are the anchor piers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kdQ-ncbicKQ/YZXLs-un7ZI/AAAAAAABbtU/66s3qGcdDh84Jq90DjcPdMpbgJ-ILjjsACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Key%2BSuspension%2Bdetour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kdQ-ncbicKQ/YZXLs-un7ZI/AAAAAAABbtU/66s3qGcdDh84Jq90DjcPdMpbgJ-ILjjsACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Key%2BSuspension%2Bdetour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The “temp route” (1932!) led us back to paved, post-’33 Route 66. And that took us over this ¾-mile bridge across the South Canadian River. It gives an optical illusion because from the beginning, you can’t see the end of it. It uses thirty-eight small or “pony” trusses, and is called the Pony Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8hypy9yP31I/YZXL25VwnDI/AAAAAAABbtc/5VOrZSQ9F1cnLmK_4lyMo3UK4LkZs1K5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Pony%2Btruss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8hypy9yP31I/YZXL25VwnDI/AAAAAAABbtc/5VOrZSQ9F1cnLmK_4lyMo3UK4LkZs1K5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Pony%2Btruss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Jerry McClanahan enthuses that the road between El Reno and Hydro, dating from the 1930s, is one of the best drives on all of Route 66. Jessica Dunham urges drivers to cross the 1933 Pony Bridge (actually the William H. Murray Bridge) while we still can, because like other historic bridges on Route 66, it’s in danger of destruction. It’s one of many spots on our journey that featured in the film of <i>The Grapes of Wrath</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We detoured just north of Route 66 to visit the town of Hydro, specifically the site of Lucille’s Service Station. There’s a modern roadhouse named after Lucille Hamons in town, and its owners have kept the original Lucille’s, now closed, preserved. She ran this station from 1941 until her passing in 2000, more out of love than for profit, which earned her the nickname “Mother of the Mother Road.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffmiGZGOb-0/YZXMDl0uLsI/AAAAAAABbtk/oYNyrblESSo6P-JB_PltoFMYBKdG1ur8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lucille%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffmiGZGOb-0/YZXMDl0uLsI/AAAAAAABbtk/oYNyrblESSo6P-JB_PltoFMYBKdG1ur8ACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/Lucille%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Route 66 is not like driving from point A to point B. You’re always looking for something interesting. We didn’t always find it, but we were always looking for it. Amidst the farming towns and ghost towns we passed a gated community with huge houses, and T. sniffed, “They’re no better than they ought to be.” As we took the last bit of “local traffic” 66 to Clinton, Oklahoma, a tree drooping into our path almost completely blocked the way. T. negotiated around it, and the red wall of earth and rocks struck me as brilliantly Oklahoma. “We should have taken a picture really,” T. said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Clinton, our stop for that night, is home to McLain Rogers Park, another project of the Works Progress Administration. That meant stone structures and another Art Deco neon sign.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DPevbuvYz5s/YZXMN-mTlJI/AAAAAAABbts/gWcRQ7nGTP0gs24do7OgKpIjDatOARULQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/McClain%2BRogers%2BPark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DPevbuvYz5s/YZXMN-mTlJI/AAAAAAABbts/gWcRQ7nGTP0gs24do7OgKpIjDatOARULQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/McClain%2BRogers%2BPark.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Clinton also has the Oklahoma Route 66 Museum, and this, we’d been advised, was a must-see. There were many pictures of places we’d seen or were going to visit, objects of interest, and background information on each decade of Route 66. I knew that Dwight Eisenhower was the president whose interstate highway project had been the downfall of Route 66, but I hadn’t realized that he got the idea from the German Autobahn. Apparently, while leading Allied troops in the defeat of Nazi Germany, Eisenhower was simultaneously enamored of this engineering project, and thought the U.S. should have a more efficient system of highways. Fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We ate at a Chinese restaurant with just us and some Mexican families. In Oklahoma City, we’d stayed next door to the Woodridge Restaurant, where staff were Mexican, but not the food. Some of the best fried chicken of my life for dinner (we split the meal so we’d have room for cobbler), and we came back the next morning for breakfast. I’d enjoyed the biscuits and gravy, but I was glad to see some vegetables at Clinton’s Chinese Buffet. T. kept ordering salad but could not get used to the concept that in America, salad is served first, rather than as an accompaniment to the meal.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There was also a truck full of cattle parked outside our other choice, the Mexican restaurant. “You don’t get that in the U.K.,” as Alan used to say.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-945333597054318242021-11-16T19:25:00.000-05:002021-11-16T19:25:43.173-05:00To Tulsa<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I never thought you’d hear me say this, but I can’t think of a nicer way to arrive in a big city than Route 66 westbound into Tulsa, Oklahoma.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We weren’t actually sure when we crossed into Oklahoma. All we saw was a sign welcoming us to the Quapaw Nation. As mentioned earlier, there are a number of indigenous nations whose headquarters are now in Oklahoma, and of course these people were in America long before there were state lines. So T. and I weren’t certain when we should turn to one another and say, “We’re not in Kansas anymore!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I feel like I write this wherever we go in the world, but most people, most of the time, are friendly and try to help us. I keep beating this drum because I can tell the expectation from some of my friends is the opposite. “Is there anything in Kansas or Oklahoma?” or “Why would you go there?” Some would say the same about a major city like Chicago, but I love it. We had a bit of a struggle getting transit cards when we first arrived there (it’s always touch and go with a foreign credit card in the U.S.), but a woman who worked on the El tried hard to help us work the machine, and then ended up letting us ride for free downtown, where we could get things sorted out at a station. When we saw her the next day, she asked where we’d been and what we’d seen, and dusted off a tourists’ transit map she’d been waiting to give someone since 2019. “You [visitors] are like gold,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Anyway, around Commerce, Oklahoma, we eventually realized we were in our fourth state.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E0-g5IL-IW0/YZRFxUKHIVI/AAAAAAABbno/wNkA3lZ2AVA_7SQtOmNStDPRpHbTiCLVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Allen%2527s%2BFillin%2527%2BStation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E0-g5IL-IW0/YZRFxUKHIVI/AAAAAAABbno/wNkA3lZ2AVA_7SQtOmNStDPRpHbTiCLVgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Allen%2527s%2BFillin%2527%2BStation.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allen's Fillin' Station, Commerce</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The original 1926 alignment of Route 66 across Oklahoma was more than 400 miles. There are still 383 miles of what Jerry McClanahan calls “first generation paving”: sometimes crossing the interstate back and forth to stay on the frontage road, other times upgraded four-lane. In general, as I may have mentioned, when there’s a four-lane or a two-lane, we choose the two-lane. When there’s a dirt or gravel option, we choose that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tP8to8Tjc-c/YZRF-Tbh3cI/AAAAAAABbns/LAhBbLnyzIII6qs3O17yTpXyrvcBtjM1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Ok%2Bpointer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tP8to8Tjc-c/YZRF-Tbh3cI/AAAAAAABbns/LAhBbLnyzIII6qs3O17yTpXyrvcBtjM1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Ok%2Bpointer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beware of state highway signs with the shape of Oklahoma on them. That's not a finger pointing left!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBy_FSlDvfY/YZRGLKgD5NI/AAAAAAABbn0/w8vgo6kwjyIeIA2pep-27DKNoa-3geUrACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Coleman%2BTheatre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBy_FSlDvfY/YZRGLKgD5NI/AAAAAAABbn0/w8vgo6kwjyIeIA2pep-27DKNoa-3geUrACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Coleman%2BTheatre.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Next in Oklahoma was a town called Miami. The last syllable is pronounced “uh,” which is also what people in Missouri do with the name of their state. Miami is the home of the Coleman Theatre Beautiful, an aptly named restored (1929) theatre in the Spanish mission style.</span><p></p><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It is also the home of the “Ku Ku,” whose neon sign was lit up for us!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yw50psBgfrE/YZRGZrNjzUI/AAAAAAABbn8/6TgsIMe9_egaBOf5nxpRbDfS-3nC4fNdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Ku%2BKu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yw50psBgfrE/YZRGZrNjzUI/AAAAAAABbn8/6TgsIMe9_egaBOf5nxpRbDfS-3nC4fNdwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Ku%2BKu.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From Miami we took “that ribbon of highway”: the only remaining 9-foot sections of original Route 66.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awyw3RlGoCI/YZRGiqk-qFI/AAAAAAABboE/qNUoAu3hTrYoy3430bOXDlE1Io9dOg5QACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/9-foot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awyw3RlGoCI/YZRGiqk-qFI/AAAAAAABboE/qNUoAu3hTrYoy3430bOXDlE1Io9dOg5QACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/9-foot.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sidewalk Highway" between Miami and Afton</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was our longest day of the trip in terms of driving, and rained pretty much all day. Not every place we saw had been as well kept-up as in Miami. Passing yet another closed business, T. remarked, “There wasn’t much to it when it was open!” She also misheard “there isn’t any interstate on this part of the trip” as “there isn’t anything interesting,” which could possibly have been a point. Although Claremore did have Will Rogers Boulevard, followed by Patti Page Boulevard. There was even an “Americanized Irish Pub,” though we did not choose to go in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Finally, we arrived in Catoosa. This is technically where the “Tulsa” Hard Rock Café (Casino) is located, and T. always has to stop and at least buy a souvenir pin from every Hard Rock. Catoosa is also the home of one of Route 66’s iconic roadside giants, the Blue Whale.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJEkYpyrQv8/YZRGtcp_BtI/AAAAAAABboM/a7bSRAa_Y98bQx6Evp4EViL_iauIsaSTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Catoosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJEkYpyrQv8/YZRGtcp_BtI/AAAAAAABboM/a7bSRAa_Y98bQx6Evp4EViL_iauIsaSTQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Catoosa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And this was where I was so pleasantly surprised by our approach to the city. From this eastern suburb, Route 66 is just a two-lane country road. Sunset was approaching and there seemed to be no sign of urban sprawl anywhere. Then, gradually, the road became 11<sup>th</sup> Street right into downtown Tulsa. I saw that the former “Rose Bowl” had since become a church. There were many neon and other signs of Route 66 vintage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jybZ3ysP0Zc/YZRG1VX-FII/AAAAAAABboU/xPVchuMHEK8T27DNnkceJb4plrXXvP9agCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rancho%2BGrande.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jybZ3ysP0Zc/YZRG1VX-FII/AAAAAAABboU/xPVchuMHEK8T27DNnkceJb4plrXXvP9agCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Rancho%2BGrande.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Because we’d traveled so far that day, we were staying in Tulsa for two nights. This would give us time to explore the city and also catch our breath (and do laundry). We really landed on our feet, as our Airbnb was in a restored Victorian family home in the Heights (formerly known as Brady Heights, after someone whose name was recently dropped due to his association with the Ku Klux Klan. You didn’t expect that from Oklahoma, did you?)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Tulsa became a boom town early in the twentieth century, when "black gold" was discovered. One good thing about the oil boom is that it happened at a time when Art Deco was the prevailing style in architecture, so Tulsa is studded with interesting buildings. There is much to see and admire downtown, as almost all these structures are intact.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qrRBSyYgdSw/YZRJ9Tt7K5I/AAAAAAABbp0/Z2mJXXqJKIs23uA-O9WTP83PPQ8aO6vOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/BUILDING.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qrRBSyYgdSw/YZRJ9Tt7K5I/AAAAAAABbp0/Z2mJXXqJKIs23uA-O9WTP83PPQ8aO6vOQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/BUILDING.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Philtower Building</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Tulsa is also scarred by the interstate highway system. Someone thought it would be a good idea to just slice Tulsa apart, so even though our beautiful street—once connected to downtown by a streetcar route—was only a ten-minute walk away, we had to walk through an ugly underpass to get there. Another neighborhood that was chopped in two by an interstate, another short walk from downtown, was the historic district of Greenwood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Like many people, and probably most white Americans, I’d never heard of Greenwood before about a year ago. Then I started hearing about it because this year, 2021, marks the centennial of a terrible event of racial violence in Tulsa, when many people were killed and the homes and businesses of black Greenwood residents destroyed. What this event was and should be called—riot, massacre, other terms—is one of the provocative questions asked by the excellent, and brand new, Greenwood Rising museum, which for this inaugural year is free to all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8tugtkipTpw/YZRH47P0yzI/AAAAAAABbo0/ziFIG61UpH8mhYEZAvOS-23OuDyxF8wPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Mt%2BZion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8tugtkipTpw/YZRH47P0yzI/AAAAAAABbo0/ziFIG61UpH8mhYEZAvOS-23OuDyxF8wPwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Mt%2BZion.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Zion Baptist Church. The original church on this site was burned in 1921. </td></tr></tbody></table> <br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I highly recommend Greenwood Rising. The staff are excellent, and the exhibits are moving and thought-provoking. Instead of telling people what to think, like all too many sources do (well-intentioned or not), this museum tries to share personal reminiscences and experiences. Its suggestions for dialogue could be a useful primer for our interactions in general.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eJtDhPUCyCQ/YZRHNVZs3RI/AAAAAAABbok/sLWi3lGS7vkLoo1bHCpO2j3DiYz3Dak5wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/dialogue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eJtDhPUCyCQ/YZRHNVZs3RI/AAAAAAABbok/sLWi3lGS7vkLoo1bHCpO2j3DiYz3Dak5wCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/dialogue.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I learned a ton here, and not just about Tulsa. I knew that the aforementioned KKK was formed in my native state of Tennessee, but was not aware that it was also the home of the first “Jim Crow” laws, in 1881. (Jim Crow, the general term for laws that segregated black and white Americans after slavery was ended, was named for a character in a minstrel show. We learned that at Greenwood Rising too.) Nor did I know that Ida B. Wells, after whom Congress Parkway in Chicago was recently renamed, had begun her campaign against lynching in Memphis in 1892.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The events of 1921 started when a black teenage boy and a white teenage girl were in an elevator together. There is no one alive who can tell what really happened, although the girl later recanted her claim that Dick Roland’s touching her had been an assault. Long before then, a white mob had gathered at the courthouse, potentially to lynch Roland, while a group of black men armed themselves and went there with the goal of protecting him. Because these men were armed for defense, for many years black Tulsans were blamed for the violence, even though most of the victims were black themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sizw_RI8Enc/YZRIcRMUOMI/AAAAAAABbpc/4cGL839ni9YlRyygrbxPEpN6txvHaMZMACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Greenwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sizw_RI8Enc/YZRIcRMUOMI/AAAAAAABbpc/4cGL839ni9YlRyygrbxPEpN6txvHaMZMACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Greenwood.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Where I learned most at Greenwood Rising, though, was in the lobby. I was wearing a Route 66 T-shirt (I only brought two T-shirts from England, knowing that I would buy more), and I heard a woman say, “Hey, she’s wearing Route 66!” She and her friends, all black ladies from Chicago, came up and started talking to me about our trip. Then T. joined us and, after she explained that she needs to see people’s lips to understand what they’re saying, the first woman, whom I shall call B., lowered her mask to speak. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was T. who put into words what I had been thinking and feeling, particularly since traveling through Missouri. “I’m in two minds about Route 66,” she said, “because it reflects a simpler time, that was a good time for people like us.” She gestured to me. “But, I’m aware that it wasn’t the same for your families.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One of the other women, who’d told me she had relatives in Tennessee, nodded. B. spoke up and said, “Yes, absolutely. But at the same time, there were good times. We had family, and the church. We sometimes lived in all-black neighborhoods, but then we didn’t have to deal with systemic racism. Until we went to a shop, or applied for something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Uh-huh,” the third woman said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that,” T. said. I was too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“And indigenous people,” B. went on. “I mean, Oklahoma is the state with the second-biggest indigenous population, but it’s between 2% of the people in America. And you know, we’re 13% of the population, we have a voice. But they don’t have a voice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“This is what I’ve been finding,” I said. “There’s not just one story.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Exactly,” B. said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’d be surprised if B. were older than I am. She used language, and certainly spoke from experience, that was vastly different from that of Mrs. L. from Lebanon, Missouri. Yet I feel as certain as I can be that if these women ever met, they would not dislike each other. In fact, they’d have a lot of values in common. Greenwood Rising is right about dialogue; there is no substitute for actually talking to people, face to face as individuals, instead of labeling or just interacting through a computer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">B. and her friends hadn’t come to Tulsa for a convention or a meeting; they were there just to visit the city. As she’d alluded to, Tulsa began due to the Indian Removal Act (Trail of Tears). Choctaw, Cherokee, Muscogee (Creek), Chickasaw, Cheyenne, Comanche, Apache, Seminole, and other peoples were moved to this land because the U.S. government thought it wasn’t worth as much as their old lands, east of the Mississippi. Oil changed that, but as Greenwood Rising made clear, the history of Oklahoma is one of black, white, and Native Americans mixing cultures, sometimes more successfully than other times.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdL2OIMErMg/YZRIWcApPEI/AAAAAAABbpQ/JDfI7ic1OXITOF95pnKe_j_IeOKP1CaQwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Greenwood%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdL2OIMErMg/YZRIWcApPEI/AAAAAAABbpQ/JDfI7ic1OXITOF95pnKe_j_IeOKP1CaQwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Greenwood%2B2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was Booker T. Washington who described the Greenwood District as “Black Wall Street.” The black (segregated) high school in Tulsa was named after him, and the class of 1921, 100 years ago, had this motto: “Climb tho’ the rocks be rugged.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zgX6AzBqPTQ/YZRFY03mapI/AAAAAAABbnU/NAb-4w7UxvgNb8spLSAhGkF3X1kDABX-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/black%2Bwall%2Bst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zgX6AzBqPTQ/YZRFY03mapI/AAAAAAABbnU/NAb-4w7UxvgNb8spLSAhGkF3X1kDABX-wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/black%2Bwall%2Bst.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From Greenwood, we crossed the “urban renewal” divide again to reach the original, pre-1932 alignment of Route 66. A 1925 gas station along this route is so distinctive it’s given its name to the entire district: Blue Dome.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YAk3T9Zshd0/YZRFThtqOLI/AAAAAAABbnQ/hz04MOfDRgQtWlq8umzTkIFN8Vfz1NiIACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Blue%2BDome%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YAk3T9Zshd0/YZRFThtqOLI/AAAAAAABbnQ/hz04MOfDRgQtWlq8umzTkIFN8Vfz1NiIACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Blue%2BDome%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Then we continued downtown to admire the many Art Deco buildings. T. was looking for a memory card and thought she’d found the address of a computer store. We couldn’t find it, but when we went into a beautiful old building to ask, the woman at reception couldn’t have been more helpful. She insisted on looking the supposed store’s number up and telephoning herself: “I’m curious now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DHZciV15fPs/YZRHkI8kY-I/AAAAAAABbos/s_oXyUPD1KoyJ4idlZ-uXYyfIkbrc--9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Atlas%2BLife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DHZciV15fPs/YZRHkI8kY-I/AAAAAAABbos/s_oXyUPD1KoyJ4idlZ-uXYyfIkbrc--9ACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Atlas%2BLife.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p>We eventually had to drive to Wal-Mart for the memory card, and that was the closest we’d come to a place with a lot of people since we left Chicago. Afterwards, back downtown, T. found a hole in the wall with Japanese food, and we sat outside and drank hot sake. Tulsa was setting up for a race the following morning, and there were street closures. While I tried to take a picture of T. at what would be the finish line, one of the workmen asked if she was running the next day. “No,” she said, “we’re doing Route 66.”</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“Oh, I’m so jealous!” he said, and asked all about where we’d been so far. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4seRzc0CQY/YZRKHffzCCI/AAAAAAABbp4/wrk2IiaQd7IIzA1Wi_cWRBh3xCVRERYagCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/golden%2Bdriller%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4seRzc0CQY/YZRKHffzCCI/AAAAAAABbp4/wrk2IiaQd7IIzA1Wi_cWRBh3xCVRERYagCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/golden%2Bdriller%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><span style="text-align: center;">The 76-foot "Golden Driller," tribute to Tulsa's oil heritage</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In my previous post, I mentioned Cyrus Avery, who though born in Pennsylvania came to call Oklahoma home. While a more direct route for 66 would have gone through the center of Kansas, Avery convinced his colleagues that it should instead follow the existing trade route between Chicago and Tulsa. The 11<sup>th</sup> Street Bridge was named for him, and although it’s long been considered unsafe for traffic, this Art Deco masterpiece still spans the Arkansas River.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M15TXgPAV54/YZREeC0H9WI/AAAAAAABbnA/Zx2ajq_TElAucym_QW2R26yl0bdJ_j3rACLcBGAsYHQ/s900/cyrus-avery-centennial-plaza-along-route-66-tulsa-oklahoma-janette-boyd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="900" height="220" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M15TXgPAV54/YZREeC0H9WI/AAAAAAABbnA/Zx2ajq_TElAucym_QW2R26yl0bdJ_j3rACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h220/cyrus-avery-centennial-plaza-along-route-66-tulsa-oklahoma-janette-boyd.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 1916 bridge at its eastern end, Centennial Plaza. Photo by Janette Boyd</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I really enjoyed our time in Tulsa. It was beautiful and diverse. We had Japanese food one night and Caribbean (the restaurant was run by a family from Dominica) the night before, and we could walk to everything we wanted to see. Our Airbnb had a hot tub in the backyard and a lovely dog who greeted us every time we came “home.” I highly recommend it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Just skip the interstate if you’re driving from the east. And watch out: T. saw what she thought (and by now, expected) was a statue of a chicken, but then it started to cross the road!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ROf30N4dGM8/YZRFe3oFv8I/AAAAAAABbnY/EsFW6VVDKPgVgNT1ulb3VPx29eQBuk6AQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tulsa%2Bmural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ROf30N4dGM8/YZRFe3oFv8I/AAAAAAABbnY/EsFW6VVDKPgVgNT1ulb3VPx29eQBuk6AQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Tulsa%2Bmural.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mural</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Thanks to Jessica Dunham’s <i>Route 66 Road Trip </i>for background on this post.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4fAC2XMDeU0/YZRIuHwGnAI/AAAAAAABbpo/752A4g2-SpwvpYkoS1Yhm-b90pDe_oJQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/JH%2BFranklin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4fAC2XMDeU0/YZRIuHwGnAI/AAAAAAABbpo/752A4g2-SpwvpYkoS1Yhm-b90pDe_oJQgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/JH%2BFranklin.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-54949674223615716632021-11-11T00:49:00.000-05:002021-11-11T00:49:35.978-05:00Missouri to Kansas<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6MyptjhJmGU/YYyruKXS3tI/AAAAAAABbmg/SmDB_ry33VEg3iIMPsm4emyfSoujOd98ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Missoura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6MyptjhJmGU/YYyruKXS3tI/AAAAAAABbmg/SmDB_ry33VEg3iIMPsm4emyfSoujOd98ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Missoura.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The shower at the Munger Moss Motel made a sound like a jet engine was taking off. Not unlike the sound of the kerosene-fired car that an eager docent at the Transportation Museum had demonstrated to me (recorded on his phone, of course). The Munger Moss's painted bathtub reminded me of my childhood home, and the bathroom sink was the deepest I’d ever seen. I could easily refill my insulated water bottle in it.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There was a bowling alley, Starlite Lanes, across the road. We’d thought about having a game after supper, but it had started to rain really hard by then, and we were too fatigued! The rain would continue all night and throughout the next day’s drive, though fortunately with not nearly the same intensity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Bowling alleys, functioning or “ghost,” are another thing you see regularly along Route 66. Bowling was the kind of activity that brought people together a lot in the days when this was the Main Street of America. In fact, twenty years ago Robert D. Putnam published a book called <i>Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community</i>. People's disconnection from their neighbors surely fed divisions and is part of the reason many Americans don’t know or trust one another today.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qiXWuic-qwU/YYyrfQZ-CiI/AAAAAAABbmc/-iUAYiNvYDsT1zTOR1qZsfDGBItUyoY3wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/%2522The%2BSubway%2522%2Bwest%2Bof%2Bthe%2BFrisco%2BRR%2Boverpass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qiXWuic-qwU/YYyrfQZ-CiI/AAAAAAABbmc/-iUAYiNvYDsT1zTOR1qZsfDGBItUyoY3wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/%2522The%2BSubway%2522%2Bwest%2Bof%2Bthe%2BFrisco%2BRR%2Boverpass.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The restored, though defunct, "Subway" west of the <i>Frisco </i>railroad underpass</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">For our evening meal, Mrs. L. had recommended Dowd’s Catfish down the road. We figured she would know, so a short time later we were dining on hush puppies (“what are these?” –T.), fried okra, and of course catfish. You could eat a lot of fried food on Route 66, and the main vegetable is coleslaw—when they aren’t selling macaroni as a salad or side dish. For lunch at the Town Tavern, I’d had a cheesy brat with tater tots. It was like a glorified school lunch. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">By contrast, in St. Louis we’d had a good Indian meal, although we had to take it back to the Airbnb and eat it there. Whereas in small-town Missouri masks were a thing of the past, in the big city they were still required in indoor businesses, and the Indian restaurant was still doing takeout only. It is probably worth mentioning here that if it weren’t for Indian Americans you’d rarely get a bed for the night along Route 66, never mind dinner. (A very high proportion of American motels are run by Gujarati families—although Mrs. L. was from Iowa.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Maybe it’s worth talking about masks now, because while U.S. COVID-19 cases have fallen by half since September!, that doesn’t mean the pandemic is over. States and other jurisdictions have their own rules about these things, and because we are good guests, we follow mask requirements wherever they’re in place. If they’re not required, we wouldn’t wear them outdoors. Indoors, I expected to wear a face covering if the place was crowded or I was in close proximity to other people. In the event, I can’t think of one place that's been crowded on Route 66. For the most part, we have the road to ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As T. is hearing impaired, it makes a big difference in communication if someone is wearing a mask. Essentially, there isn’t any, unless the person lowers their mask to speak to her. It’s much more rewarding when she can have conversations with people we meet directly, rather than waiting for me to repeat something they said. (I’m ashamed to say I didn’t realize how little the world accommodates people with a disability until we were dealing with one.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Back on the road in Missouri, I started seeing more colorful billboards: “Lowest cigarette taxes in America” (and you could tell). A Confederate flag, followed by a sign that read “Fascism=Privilege [sic] Oligarchy.” A Trump sign and another that said “Biden/Dump Trump/Vote Democrat/Support the Working Class/Support Education.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Y-dA12wodo/YYyrTo48J3I/AAAAAAABbmU/Up-xF3yNy0cVsuG4C4mI9AjkjXeSE3cnACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rest%2BHaven%2B%2B1936%2BWest%2BBypass%2Bof%2BSpringfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Y-dA12wodo/YYyrTo48J3I/AAAAAAABbmU/Up-xF3yNy0cVsuG4C4mI9AjkjXeSE3cnACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Rest%2BHaven%2B%2B1936%2BWest%2BBypass%2Bof%2BSpringfield.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neon sign, Rest Haven, 1936 West Bypass route, Springfield</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Bobby Troup sang about getting your kicks on Route 66. I was getting a kick out of the contrasts. In Springfield, the neon sign for Danny’s Service Center was actually lit up in the middle of the (rainy) day—neat! Then there was another defunct gas station, but this one had its pump made up into a free little library. Not a bad selection, either: one was <i>The Age of Reason </i>by Thomas Paine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYZnAlL5mVE/YYyrOW75WRI/AAAAAAABbmI/njTAk56nNP8u9DcWoYRJtFqoisWGnMLSACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Free%2Bbooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYZnAlL5mVE/YYyrOW75WRI/AAAAAAABbmI/njTAk56nNP8u9DcWoYRJtFqoisWGnMLSACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Free%2Bbooks.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As we sailed past old barns, many buildings made of stone, in the Ozarks, T. said “In my head I’m singing ‘This Land Is Your Land.’ You can sing it if you want.” So I did. Woody Guthrie seems to me to encapsulate Route 66. He wrote from the 1930s to the ’60s, and his songs range from the tragedy of the Dust Bowl to America’s ultimate road trip (and most biting patriotic) anthem.<o:p></o:p></span></p><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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PzYYrX6Am54/YYyq_vAuskI/AAAAAAABbl8/IPKcArFe_ew4vo6laRAqDZ9nb6JZqTQsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Modern%2BCabins%2Bbetween%2Bspringfield%2Band%2Bcarthage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PzYYrX6Am54/YYyq_vAuskI/AAAAAAABbl8/IPKcArFe_ew4vo6laRAqDZ9nb6JZqTQsQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Modern%2BCabins%2Bbetween%2Bspringfield%2Band%2Bcarthage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Restored Modern Cabins, Greystone Heights</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AulXOhEFcI/YYyq_nemTLI/AAAAAAABbmA/e_BDdQpXWK0Qk5ZRI6jEQgTrjU0u7kiQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/modern%2Bcabins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AulXOhEFcI/YYyq_nemTLI/AAAAAAABbmA/e_BDdQpXWK0Qk5ZRI6jEQgTrjU0u7kiQgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/modern%2Bcabins.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Because Route 66 was America’s Main Street, it connects the main streets of small towns with those of major cities. To the interstate, a town like Bourbon or Lebanon is reduced to an exit, if it’s lucky. But on Route 66 we simply followed the main street all the way to Tulsa, Oklahoma. And here we come to another road, older even than the railroad, that Route 66 followed for a time. Segments from Rolla to Springfield, Missouri are the same path as the 1838 "Trail of Tears." <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This refers to the 1,200-mile march along which the U.S. Army forced tens of thousands of Cherokee, Choctaw, Seminole, Chickasaw, and Creek people from their ancestral homelands to reservations in “Indian Territory,” at the cost of at least 4,000 lives. The Trail of Tears is the reason the Cherokee, who used to live where I was born and grew up in what is now Tennessee, reconstituted their Nation in Oklahoma. As a matter of fact, thirty-nine American Indian tribes now call Oklahoma home, and you can learn more about them at the First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City. But that was still two states away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C9gq0y77zpk/YYyq23Sz8RI/AAAAAAABblw/UNXu3lLfmwMJ11hphPndtgM9kY7Xn12_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/fall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C9gq0y77zpk/YYyq23Sz8RI/AAAAAAABblw/UNXu3lLfmwMJ11hphPndtgM9kY7Xn12_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Route 66 from Springfield to Carthage is a special drive away from Interstate 44. There was a slight detour due to a road closure at Halltown, but we were back on the Route by Paris Springs. Unfortunately, the late Gary and Lena Turner’s labor of love, the “Gay Parita” 1934 Sinclair Station, was closed. We had to admire this paean to Route 66 from the outside.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs60TkHZJPI/YYyqpckIOsI/AAAAAAABblo/jGif_W9MAokrCSIkbrhujk7b3WadZMrRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gay%2BParita%2B1934%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs60TkHZJPI/YYyqpckIOsI/AAAAAAABblo/jGif_W9MAokrCSIkbrhujk7b3WadZMrRgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Gay%2BParita%2B1934%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--DNJe-9r80o/YYyqpp6xtPI/AAAAAAABbls/cDC205TpRTkerT2ZeAs3kfoQ_nZnYWIXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Paris%2BSprings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--DNJe-9r80o/YYyqpp6xtPI/AAAAAAABbls/cDC205TpRTkerT2ZeAs3kfoQ_nZnYWIXwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Paris%2BSprings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Winding west, we crossed a 1926 through-truss bridge over Johnson Creek to reach our first ghost town, Spencer. Luckily, someone has taken the trouble to restore Spencer and it’s quite picturesque.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PfAd9HxCV8A/YYyqk3JaE_I/AAAAAAABblk/7XQPQCfn8UII_Z1rDZvPa0gxn35KXh2twCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1926%2Bbridge%2Bover%2Bjohnson%2Bcreek%2Bspencer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PfAd9HxCV8A/YYyqk3JaE_I/AAAAAAABblk/7XQPQCfn8UII_Z1rDZvPa0gxn35KXh2twCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/1926%2Bbridge%2Bover%2Bjohnson%2Bcreek%2Bspencer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7QBO69Lo9HY/YYyqguK95UI/AAAAAAABblg/aMdHap4bPwkOn8BSm6BLaLb24ti-2p0ywCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/spencer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7QBO69Lo9HY/YYyqguK95UI/AAAAAAABblg/aMdHap4bPwkOn8BSm6BLaLb24ti-2p0ywCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/spencer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We entered Carthage over the viaduct and were greeted by more public art.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BOYrESW_CMg/YYyqY3Ra7CI/AAAAAAABblY/zKbJXoaWcLQPFqCNT1qfz-T3EP1OuomdACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tire%2Bchanging%2Bwoman%2Bcarthage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BOYrESW_CMg/YYyqY3Ra7CI/AAAAAAABblY/zKbJXoaWcLQPFqCNT1qfz-T3EP1OuomdACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Tire%2Bchanging%2Bwoman%2Bcarthage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fhA9nzzaXPk/YYyqTzkFHLI/AAAAAAABblU/9IoFcZBhjCoL19yErUp5glUPc5gh85oVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Boots%2BCourt%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fhA9nzzaXPk/YYyqTzkFHLI/AAAAAAABblU/9IoFcZBhjCoL19yErUp5glUPc5gh85oVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Boots%2BCourt%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Boots Motel, a classic motor court, has also been lovingly restored.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGq79USZS1w/YYyqM8K9xWI/AAAAAAABblM/svl1y_TsSekioIV4wgazPh_cU70d0j9OwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Boots%2Bcourt%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGq79USZS1w/YYyqM8K9xWI/AAAAAAABblM/svl1y_TsSekioIV4wgazPh_cU70d0j9OwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Boots%2Bcourt%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> Carthage also has a drive-in movie theatre, and this one is still in operation.<o:p></o:p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vhTar02FnNY/YYyp5XsCa_I/AAAAAAABbk4/xdMYqjcONOAWjjr6QGHFuFek5jFhvXM3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Drive%2Bin%2Bhalloween%2Bblock%2Bglass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vhTar02FnNY/YYyp5XsCa_I/AAAAAAABbk4/xdMYqjcONOAWjjr6QGHFuFek5jFhvXM3gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Drive%2Bin%2Bhalloween%2Bblock%2Bglass.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halloween movie--and more glass blocks!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If you’ve been following the song “Route 66,” you’ll know that we couldn’t leave Missouri without going through Joplin. Before leaving England, I’d been under the impression that I’d be offered pie in a diner every day of this trip. But Granny Shaffer’s in Joplin was actually my first slice of pie.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rnz0bKtrxMg/YYyqEJG6vaI/AAAAAAABblE/BZGmHN6DGakHVoaGeghtjCY6UQ2jlvX8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Granny%2BShaffers%2Bpie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rnz0bKtrxMg/YYyqEJG6vaI/AAAAAAABblE/BZGmHN6DGakHVoaGeghtjCY6UQ2jlvX8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Granny%2BShaffers%2Bpie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1RfVkHU0VQk/YYyprfyyr3I/AAAAAAABbks/qyp8nfp__54gypUfr3hq9_DYiw4bhTU1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joplin%2Bmural%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1RfVkHU0VQk/YYyprfyyr3I/AAAAAAABbks/qyp8nfp__54gypUfr3hq9_DYiw4bhTU1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Joplin%2Bmural%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original 66 goes through downtown Joplin.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_UkyzhTt2WI/YYyprWLxZlI/AAAAAAABbkw/6kK9uZCMATomyvifNPk2b-la-ca3mF7hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Original%2B66%2Bgoes%2Bthrough%2Bdowntown%2BJoplin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_UkyzhTt2WI/YYyprWLxZlI/AAAAAAABbkw/6kK9uZCMATomyvifNPk2b-la-ca3mF7hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Original%2B66%2Bgoes%2Bthrough%2Bdowntown%2BJoplin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were ready for our third state. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eeYFLpQMYfY/YYypTREOidI/AAAAAAABbkc/SqMDZGGJzgIoUoQy6PJP5KWu_tFf3emlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Big%2Bcoke%2Bbottle%2BWoody%2527s%2BJoplin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eeYFLpQMYfY/YYypTREOidI/AAAAAAABbkc/SqMDZGGJzgIoUoQy6PJP5KWu_tFf3emlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Big%2Bcoke%2Bbottle%2BWoody%2527s%2BJoplin.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another big Coke bottle, Joplin, Missouri</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When people on the east or west coast use the insulting term “flyover country,” they mean Kansas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tDGhZxllhKw/YYypdW5XZ1I/AAAAAAABbkk/3eBiDlNx8ZAws_nJgXfnI-ziXBAPcshbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Photo%2Bwith%2Bduck%2Band%2Bchick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tDGhZxllhKw/YYypdW5XZ1I/AAAAAAABbkk/3eBiDlNx8ZAws_nJgXfnI-ziXBAPcshbQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Photo%2Bwith%2Bduck%2Band%2Bchick.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There are only thirteen miles of Route 66 in Kansas, and it’s the only one of the eight states whose section of the Route was completely bypassed by the interstate. In other words, Kansas Highway 66 is still the main road across that corner of the state. The reason it only cuts across the southeastern corner, instead of crossing Kansas horizontally, is Cyrus Avery, whose home state was Oklahoma. Avery, sometimes claimed as the father of Route 66, was a member of the federal highway board and persuaded his colleagues that the road should have more mileage in his state. Indeed, there are more drivable miles of the Mother Road in Oklahoma than in any of the other states. But we didn’t want to rush through Kansas, so we made several stops.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bz39BCvRd0o/YYypIet2t-I/AAAAAAABbkQ/vkJUTNlBKhEEwJ63jAgHODwECZhMhQlDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/kansas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bz39BCvRd0o/YYypIet2t-I/AAAAAAABbkQ/vkJUTNlBKhEEwJ63jAgHODwECZhMhQlDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/kansas.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our first sign that we were in Kansas was the State Line Bar. That, and the strip of yellow brick that lay across the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZDD9ZxUoc8/YYypBtJDm8I/AAAAAAABbkM/V_jeyOdLEAMQpKwEYhjnP5pKuFb1vQWogCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/yellow%2Bbrick%2Broad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZDD9ZxUoc8/YYypBtJDm8I/AAAAAAABbkM/V_jeyOdLEAMQpKwEYhjnP5pKuFb1vQWogCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/yellow%2Bbrick%2Broad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I loved the yellow brick road, and you know why? There was no marker or sign indicating “Kansas” anywhere. Nothing saying “Look out for the yellow brick road!” as any other Route 66 state would have. No. Kansas just has the yellow brick road, because everyone knows its most famous story: <i>The Wonderful Wizard of Oz</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2F3R99PTSI/YYyo6F-UX5I/AAAAAAABbkI/a_HkJsEf3EwZpguonub0hvYlmFz3qTymgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Galena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2F3R99PTSI/YYyo6F-UX5I/AAAAAAABbkI/a_HkJsEf3EwZpguonub0hvYlmFz3qTymgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Galena.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And now we have to talk about L. Frank Baum. Because in addition to the Wizard of Oz stories, Baum also published <i>The Saturday Pioneer </i>(in South Dakota, of all places), and some of his editorials frankly called for a final solution to what might be called “the Indian problem”:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The <i>Pioneer</i> has before declared that our only safety depends upon the total extermination of the Indians. Having wronged them for centuries we had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up by one more wrong and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth. In this lies future safety for our settlers and the soldiers who are under incompetent commands. Otherwise, we may expect future years to be as full of trouble with the redskins as those have been in the past.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I quote this editorial not because I think we should stop reading books by L. Frank Baum. In my view, if we must shun artists with whom we lack moral synchronicity, there will be precious little art left to enjoy. What interests me is the clause “<i>having wronged them for centuries</i>.” Even as he ghoulishly proposes genocide, Baum is perfectly well aware that the way the native people have been dispossessed is wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We are often tempted to excuse people in the past on the grounds that they didn’t know any better. But Baum did. He could not imagine white settlers and American Indians coexisting peacefully in the same country, yet he knew where the blame for the problem lay. Nor was he alone. In 1881—ten years <i>before </i>Baum’s editorial quoted above—H.H., a pseudonym for Helen Hunt Jackson, wrote the first serious study of U.S. federal Indian policy. It was entitled <i>A Century of Dishonor</i>. Jackson wished for her book to be as illuminating as <i>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</i> had been about slavery, and she mailed a copy to every member of Congress with this provocative note:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Look upon your hands: they are stained with the blood of your relations.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Not knowing any better isn’t one of the deadly sins. Greed is.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NeFDkQ2mZ7g/YYyoK34Bf0I/AAAAAAABbjw/rIr7FGaaBUsEGbPbKguSzh2IV21IaZOfgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Nelson%2527s%2BOld%2BRiverton%2BStore%252C%2B1925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NeFDkQ2mZ7g/YYyoK34Bf0I/AAAAAAABbjw/rIr7FGaaBUsEGbPbKguSzh2IV21IaZOfgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Nelson%2527s%2BOld%2BRiverton%2BStore%252C%2B1925.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Riverton Store (1925), still delightful even after the passing of Mr. Nelson in his hundredth year</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">To make the most of our few miles in Kansas, we took a couple of loops. One was over the 1923 Rainbow Bridge at Brush Creek. There were once three “Marsh Arch” bridges just on the Kansas section of U.S. 66, but this is the only one that remains.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mExVlCF4n34/YYyohQwM1XI/AAAAAAABbkA/geDI0r1JKwE6hVKyIEbpAiIxzfSFMMbAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Rainbow%2BBridge%2Bover%2BBrush%2BCreek%2B1923%2Bonly%2Bremaining%2Bmarsh%2Barch%2Bbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mExVlCF4n34/YYyohQwM1XI/AAAAAAABbkA/geDI0r1JKwE6hVKyIEbpAiIxzfSFMMbAwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Rainbow%2BBridge%2Bover%2BBrush%2BCreek%2B1923%2Bonly%2Bremaining%2Bmarsh%2Barch%2Bbridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And then there was a short stretch on the south side of Baxter Springs, that loops behind a shopping center. It was so short that we missed our turn, so T. doubled back. And I’m glad she did, because on that quiet road, which we had all to ourselves, a deer walked right out in front of us. It stopped and looked at us, as deer are wont to do, and we were going slowly so we just stopped and looked back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Some of our best pictures are the ones we didn’t take with a camera.<o:p></o:p></span></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-30403803543712864222021-11-07T22:42:00.002-05:002021-11-07T22:42:59.773-05:00Missouri: Friends old and new<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We entered our second state via “City 66” in St. Louis. Route 66 wends its way westward through neighborhoods that were probably thriving when the route was new, but show clear signs of decay now. (This would happen in lots of communities along the Route.) There were also about a million stop signs. For this reason, St. Louis was the one place we chose to briefly jump off Route 66 and onto the interstate to leave the city. There are points where travelers on Route 66 are forced onto the interstate, for a mile or several miles—this is what’s meant by 85% (not 100%) of the Route being still drivable today. But otherwise, we avoided the interstate, and indeed tried the oldest alignments whenever possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There was another reason for our hurrying out of St. Louis (after a night spent in the walkable Central West End). We were meeting friend of the blog, Dr. Roy Lawson, at the National Museum of Transportation in the western suburb of Kirkwood. First, we did take Route 66 far enough to get some legendary “donuts” on Chippewa Avenue. (Jane, as we affectionately call the British voice of our navigation, pronounced it “Chip-PE-wa.”)<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QbbXFJBdTeA/YYiaEzKkNoI/AAAAAAABbjU/Myv3glUrgIg3Jl6jSvX1PJQQFO1xHzLUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/donut%2Bdrive-in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QbbXFJBdTeA/YYiaEzKkNoI/AAAAAAABbjU/Myv3glUrgIg3Jl6jSvX1PJQQFO1xHzLUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/donut%2Bdrive-in.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Lawsons have settled down (for now!) in Missouri, and I wanted to go to this museum, chiefly because it features a preserved court of the sadly demolished Coral Court Motel (1941). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1czXzZ2Knbo/YYiZ8GdD-mI/AAAAAAABbjQ/2HQGc0nGIEgFPmYeQ2ocsVpgwuzQfcCLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/coral%2Bcourt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1200" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1czXzZ2Knbo/YYiZ8GdD-mI/AAAAAAABbjQ/2HQGc0nGIEgFPmYeQ2ocsVpgwuzQfcCLwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h258/coral%2Bcourt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Robert Cohen, <i>St. Louis Post-Dispatch</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Coral Court in Marlborough, nearby, was a premier motor court of its time, but unlike some of the classic motels from Route 66’s heyday, it was not preserved. It featured glass block, like other buildings of Streamline Moderne or Art Deco design. Readers will already have figured out that I love these types of buildings, even though I really don’t know about architecture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Little did we know how enthusiastically Roy would embrace the opportunity to take us to this museum! You see, they have trains. Rows and rows of trains. I did not even know there was so much to know about trains.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">One thing I learned, and had always wondered about, was why passenger train service in the U.S. basically collapsed. When my parents were growing up, the train was still a normal way to travel, and Route 66 follows the railroad through much of the country. A reminder that there was a road there before the Mother Road. Well, it turns out passenger service thrived as long as the mail trains ran. When the postal service started using road and air transportation instead, there was not enough money from passenger fares to support the service. All Americans have now is Amtrak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HAyXVbkZ7Qk/YYiZIMaOFII/AAAAAAABbi8/taG0t4slNJk6o3ha1mcpLufNYSuhTup_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HAyXVbkZ7Qk/YYiZIMaOFII/AAAAAAABbi8/taG0t4slNJk6o3ha1mcpLufNYSuhTup_wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/train.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note hook to scoop up sacks of mail en route.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">After bidding a fond farewell to our old friend (and that is not an ageist remark), we took post-1932 Route 66 as far as Eureka. Then I navigated north on another highway to pick up the scenic western portion of the pre-’32 Route.<o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-umQ7_Aa40JQ/YYiZCKa1fRI/AAAAAAABbi4/iWPiIHktZvUHJKSjkPQ6-Iqqn41sTcY0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/along%2Bthe%2Brr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-umQ7_Aa40JQ/YYiZCKa1fRI/AAAAAAABbi4/iWPiIHktZvUHJKSjkPQ6-Iqqn41sTcY0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/along%2Bthe%2Brr.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d2BWJ3Oh2YQ/YYiYysvQMNI/AAAAAAABbis/g2sm0V3qx_gLoCgzo0SJRAHKwNceX2CcwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gardenway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d2BWJ3Oh2YQ/YYiYysvQMNI/AAAAAAABbis/g2sm0V3qx_gLoCgzo0SJRAHKwNceX2CcwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Gardenway.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.333333015441895px; text-align: left;">The pre-1932 Route leads to Gray Summit, with one of many "ghost signs" of now-closed businesses.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">What were we starting to notice on our trip? Hiring signs, for one. Every restaurant, shop, business that has made it through the pandemic, in every city or town we’ve been to, is “Now Hiring.” Another thing I notice everywhere is the “P.O.W. – M.I.A.” flag, for members of the armed forces missing in action or who were made prisoners of war.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">By the time we reached this tempting water tower, </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mQT8qV2GaOk/YYiYjRfQznI/AAAAAAABbik/X6OMv1bfksks8_m2_Jm4Jag41dp7RF_pwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Bourbon%2Bwater%2Btower%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mQT8qV2GaOk/YYiYjRfQznI/AAAAAAABbik/X6OMv1bfksks8_m2_Jm4Jag41dp7RF_pwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bourbon%2Bwater%2Btower%2B.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">we were ready for lunch.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Luckily, the Town Tavern is still in business, and has been continuously since 1933. That’s what the young woman running the tavern told us, and she should know, because running it has been her dream ever since she got her first job there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oUCkieP2brQ/YYiYcHM5LkI/AAAAAAABbig/y1Bz38-4-7o1AyC2eUeEDjQVQU76iuIegCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Town%2BTavern%2B1933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oUCkieP2brQ/YYiYcHM5LkI/AAAAAAABbig/y1Bz38-4-7o1AyC2eUeEDjQVQU76iuIegCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Town%2BTavern%2B1933.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“One week before COVID” they bought it, and then they had to close. Fortunately for the business, the lockdown forced by the pandemic only lasted one month, “because,” she laughed, “this is a hillbilly county.” Anyway, they made it and now claim to have “the best damn BBQ sauce,” which of course T. had to try. The proprietor even gave us homemade chocolate chip cookies in a Ziploc bag. They were good, too. They kind of reminded me of the “bakies” my friend Fritz used to make. Probably the flavor of smoke imparted by his cigarettes, like those being smoked by this woman and the other customers in her bar.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I loved stepping into her world. I love that someone in little Bourbon is living her dream. I like it that she can make fun of her hometown, even though she’s clearly happy there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Back on the road, original concrete curbs were sometimes visible along Route 66. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CwQP-iDkqSo/YYiYPTWYWOI/AAAAAAABbiY/MgjtKvcktgMY7iaJjTJcd1x5tAuYN6xaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/concrete%2Bcurbs%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CwQP-iDkqSo/YYiYPTWYWOI/AAAAAAABbiY/MgjtKvcktgMY7iaJjTJcd1x5tAuYN6xaQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/concrete%2Bcurbs%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Many towns along the way try to claim attention from the roadside. One that tries especially hard is Cuba, Missouri, originally named for those who fought for Cuban independence from Spain. The town features murals, like this one of soldiers setting off for war aboard the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Frisco</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">. Trains again.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pPELFsukvvw/YYiYIDmT22I/AAAAAAABbiQ/1-hap156sWgGmKcVKcN6P2QjLw_2O6ZQQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Frisco%2BCuba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pPELFsukvvw/YYiYIDmT22I/AAAAAAABbiQ/1-hap156sWgGmKcVKcN6P2QjLw_2O6ZQQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Frisco%2BCuba.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Fanning claims to have the world’s second largest rocking chair. There is something poignant about the world’s <i>second </i>largest. We’d paused for a look when the woman at the gift shop came running out and offered to take our picture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JSyjfld45w8/YYiX9l1sinI/AAAAAAABbiM/hjPpdU3Lo7ARxNdhWWcBU2XJX2Ui0ewSwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Fanning%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JSyjfld45w8/YYiX9l1sinI/AAAAAAABbiM/hjPpdU3Lo7ARxNdhWWcBU2XJX2Ui0ewSwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Fanning%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Another thing we kept seeing along Route 66 were truss bridges. Trusses, structured of triangular elements and bearing the load of the bridge, were the height of bridge design in the 1920s and ’30s. Many of these bridges are now considered unsound or have been demolished in the name of progress, but this 1923 example, over the Big Piney River, was simply bypassed by the four-lane. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lK2BIVOTuzI/YYiXyzJlCuI/AAAAAAABbiE/Hat6Jd7ZMSYbJllQBxQEMZeolIMVluJvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1923%2Bbridge%2BBig%2BPiney%2BRiver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lK2BIVOTuzI/YYiXyzJlCuI/AAAAAAABbiE/Hat6Jd7ZMSYbJllQBxQEMZeolIMVluJvgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/1923%2Bbridge%2BBig%2BPiney%2BRiver.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We drove over it to Devil’s Elbow.<o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2S_wPtrNxQ4/YYiXp1ac_aI/AAAAAAABbiA/HWx60SYBLSEp6oCGhH9FSjTSe0UMo_z3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Devils%2BElbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2S_wPtrNxQ4/YYiXp1ac_aI/AAAAAAABbiA/HWx60SYBLSEp6oCGhH9FSjTSe0UMo_z3gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Devils%2BElbow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I started noting interesting juxtapositions out the window. One of a thousand Meramec Caverns billboards depicting a “CAVEMAN”! alongside another for the loser of the 2020 presidential election. Then the smell of roadkill, which turned out to be a skunk, followed immediately by the road sign: “Bouquet Road.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was another beautiful day and we’d been enjoying the sun roof, kind of a throwback feature of our otherwise modern rental car. Interstate speeds are too fast to open a sun roof. It only started raining just as we reached Lebanon, Missouri, our destination for the night. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kg2FUbD3rgc/YYiXfDPR-WI/AAAAAAABbh8/aA_1DoYgVL08ERosPawShDnueG8IHQXqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Munger%2Bday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kg2FUbD3rgc/YYiXfDPR-WI/AAAAAAABbh8/aA_1DoYgVL08ERosPawShDnueG8IHQXqgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Munger%2Bday.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And here is where we met Mrs. L. With her husband (recently deceased, as she told me) she bought the Munger Moss (1946) from its original owners, and this year is her 50th running the motel. When we got in, two of her great-grandchildren were playing in the office. She put out her hands to T. as if she were seeing a vision: “They let you out of England? Oh, I have to hug someone from England!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mrs. L. hugged each of us, explaining that they’d had no foreign visitors since before COVID, when usually they depend on us. Then she said, “Two beds, I presume.” Well, was I supposed to come out to her? Even my closest family and friends don’t know that T. and I had to be married in order to overcome America’s ban; why should I tell Mrs. L.?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">After all, she meant it as the offer of an upgrade. “Room 66,” she said, “because you’re special.” The room was decorated with Route 66 stuff, plus the 1970s furniture that had been new when they bought the place. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I spent a lot of time in the office with Mrs. L. --couldn't help it. COVID had taken away so much, not only her business, but people to talk to. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“I just think,” she told me more than once, “that if the government would just get out of everybody’s way.” She thought that everything had started to go wrong when Madalyn Murray O’Hair had sued to stop prayer in schools (I was raised with this belief too). She hated gun violence: what were things coming to, when someone got angry at another member of their family and would just shoot them? So much anger. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">That’s what she thought Black Lives Matter was about. Somehow to her “Black Lives Matter” had ceased to be a statement of humanity--because she surely believed black lives <i>do </i>matter--and started to mean a movement, in opposition to other things she believed in. Such as her “We Support Our Local Police” sticker (T. thanked her for this; you don’t see this type of support shown in Britain). And underneath, a smaller, modest sticker in support of the aforementioned former president.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I do not know if, in the days of <i>The Negro Motorist Green Book</i>, the Munger Moss Motel was included as one of the places that would welcome black travelers. In any case, that was before Mrs. L.’s time. I do know that she’d had no one from overseas until a Turkish couple the week before, and boy had she been glad to see them. I saw a lot of memorabilia and it was all we could do to prevent her from giving it to us for free. There was a picture of her, a young woman in 1971, and the original owner with the phone switchboard that was then in use in the motel. She proudly told us that it was now in the Lebanon museum, in the Laclede County Library, which we visited the next morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WMRDre8IQF8/YYiXFQCbGGI/AAAAAAABbh0/TrQv0e6fNE84Re-bNLYVCQ4Bpwgjk2E3wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Ramona%2527s%2Bphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WMRDre8IQF8/YYiXFQCbGGI/AAAAAAABbh0/TrQv0e6fNE84Re-bNLYVCQ4Bpwgjk2E3wCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Ramona%2527s%2Bphone.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">No doubt, there are areas in which Mrs. L. and I would profoundly disagree. Yet I do not believe that she’s stayed in business for so long by mistreating anybody. The Munger Moss Motel is what keeps her going, exactly as it is. She showed us keepsakes from visitors from many other countries; “you’re like my grandma” one young Dutchman had told her. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“I was going to say you remind me of my grandma,” I said. (I should have said “Mam-ma.” She would have known that name.) “But I didn’t want to offend you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">“I’m not offended by anything,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Mrs. L. stayed in my mind for a long time, even after our final round of hugs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V8hMQRTHfL0/YYiWzVhIcOI/AAAAAAABbhs/j0f9PDNDbYkX7aq1Io71MWPsLZg8BrSbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Munger%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V8hMQRTHfL0/YYiWzVhIcOI/AAAAAAABbhs/j0f9PDNDbYkX7aq1Io71MWPsLZg8BrSbgCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Munger%2B.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-13621302310932352602021-11-02T22:17:00.003-05:002021-11-02T22:17:49.012-05:00Illinois 2<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yd0r_7rhXgU/YYH1wGnIOpI/AAAAAAABbdk/P3sfoyT_3YQb0WKr8NUP1zsk9K3dhmAPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/J%2526%2527b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yd0r_7rhXgU/YYH1wGnIOpI/AAAAAAABbdk/P3sfoyT_3YQb0WKr8NUP1zsk9K3dhmAPwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/J%2526%2527b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With our hosts in Chicago's Greektown</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When you last heard from me, I was writing about our chat with the man who welcomed us to the Launching Pad in Wilmington: “In a typical year, we have people from 90 countries visiting!” I also mentioned that I am one of those people, as well as having been born in the U.S.A. This means I am frequently an interpreter of American culture. For example: The U.S., at least along a road route like Route 66, is set up for cars, not people walking places. So even though the restaurant’s address may be a number on one street, walking up to it may not reveal the front door. The entrance (and a huge sign indicating the restaurant) may instead be on the other side of the building, where the parking lot is.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In other words, I am the navigator of a culture, not just a road trip. In each new place we stay, I figure out how the shower works, because there are so many different designs even in one country. I also figure out how to turn keys, open various forms of packaging, and operate the remote control (on the rare occasions we’ve turned on a motel TV). It’s a division of labor that seems to be working for both of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Anyway, our new friend in Wilmington was just the first of many people who, in addition to making us feel welcome along Route 66, recommended others down the road in the direction we were going. We had to stop at the Route 66 museum in Pontiac, housed in a historic firehouse. On the way there, “America’s Main Street,” true to its name, took us through several more towns, including Gardner and Dwight. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3qS1BwkoamE/YYH2BnLBDpI/AAAAAAABbds/fttxxeOu6QEAOfrPN3qNPd_4w6mFabYdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gardner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3qS1BwkoamE/YYH2BnLBDpI/AAAAAAABbds/fttxxeOu6QEAOfrPN3qNPd_4w6mFabYdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Gardner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The early route through Gardner takes you to the 1906 two-cell jail.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BGOuh6J9esA/YYH2TqZNF1I/AAAAAAABbd0/Zvm-8KroDeUlZSx0pnVuWLEmPkmrAgYAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Dwight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BGOuh6J9esA/YYH2TqZNF1I/AAAAAAABbd0/Zvm-8KroDeUlZSx0pnVuWLEmPkmrAgYAwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Dwight.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Restored cottage-style gas station, Ambler's Texaco in Dwight</td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p>South of Odell, T. pulled over on an abandoned stretch of even-older 66 to admire a restored barn sign. These signs, advertising a “world famous” tourist trap in Missouri, once adorned barns for hundreds of miles along the Route.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WNvc3iMgVM/YYH2juQMbbI/AAAAAAABbd8/Ps8Ckvm9YXsvasNx2ZWOCGJC6Huuo8YHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Meramec%2BCaverns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WNvc3iMgVM/YYH2juQMbbI/AAAAAAABbd8/Ps8Ckvm9YXsvasNx2ZWOCGJC6Huuo8YHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Meramec%2BCaverns.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtPam-N_Lb0/YYH2lY06arI/AAAAAAABbeA/6KngRyHGNlwESZGP1OwXQ-F8RyT6zmHjACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Desolate%2Bgrain%2Belevator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtPam-N_Lb0/YYH2lY06arI/AAAAAAABbeA/6KngRyHGNlwESZGP1OwXQ-F8RyT6zmHjACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/Desolate%2Bgrain%2Belevator.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grain elevator at Cayuga</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When we got to Pontiac, we were warmly greeted by the woman running the museum. Already, we realized that there was more to see on Route 66 than even three weeks would ever allow us. We could easily have stopped in Pontiac, because our late start meant that we wouldn’t finish the day’s driving until after sunset. We would not make that mistake again!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sad9YP81j1k/YYH28-a-AmI/AAAAAAABbeM/UJ5n8n0oC58UD-KYyg2kUPtf_qXE_gaPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/T%2BPontiac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sad9YP81j1k/YYH28-a-AmI/AAAAAAABbeM/UJ5n8n0oC58UD-KYyg2kUPtf_qXE_gaPgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/T%2BPontiac.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pontiac, and the Route, also have lots of murals.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Pontiac was named for Chief Pontiac of the Ottawa (1720-69). He united several tribal nations in resistance to the British military occupation, although he (and his French allies) eventually lost. Pontiac's strategic efforts are sometimes credited with the British decision not to underestimate the indigenous peoples of the Americas; they had much better luck with the British Empire than they ultimately had with the independent United States.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In most, though not all cases, Route 66 was aligned through the downtown of each community. In Illinois, especially, this means lots of angled turns. I relied on recommendations from McClanahan’s</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">EZ66 </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">and others to ensure we checked out as many downtowns as possible, even if that meant a detour of a block or two. One that was definitely worth stopping at was Atlanta, IL.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwKqk031bPQ/YYH3PDQjbmI/AAAAAAABbeY/_A1yGyVo_Vo7ZvPcK6-ekXMnMpXvAXQmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Atlanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwKqk031bPQ/YYH3PDQjbmI/AAAAAAABbeY/_A1yGyVo_Vo7ZvPcK6-ekXMnMpXvAXQmQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Atlanta.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Seth Thomas Clock (hand-wound!) and octagonal public library</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1v3K3zJOZU/YYH3PM6rvGI/AAAAAAABbeU/7gDIkyEJQTAcKisaDDg3SB_kHug2XxPewCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/smiley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1v3K3zJOZU/YYH3PM6rvGI/AAAAAAABbeU/7gDIkyEJQTAcKisaDDg3SB_kHug2XxPewCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/smiley.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every town has a water tower, but only Atlanta's is a yellow smiley face!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The afternoon sun on one side and cornfields on the other were truly beautiful, especially on the two-lane country highway, which we had virtually to ourselves. But the sun was setting over the grain elevators by the time we got to Elkhart, and it’s no fun driving on an unlit road. Besides, there’s nothing to see on Route 66 in the dark. We were glad to get to our pre-booked hotel, which appeared to be the only tall building in Springfield. Fortunately T. had researched places to eat in advance. Walking the downtown streets, everything appeared to be shut up tight at 7:00 P.M., but the one place that was open was Jerk Shop Go, a wonderful jerk chicken place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was also a stop on the 1908 Race Riot Walking Tour, which is marked at a number of places in Springfield. These events led to the founding of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). It’s good to have this more recent recognition of history side by side with plaques celebrating the pioneer past. Like Route 66, America is more than one story and has many alignments. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWyNwdcUQnw/YYH4nSkC-KI/AAAAAAABbeo/5P1XYhYwdMAdmWK9mCjvnAr7h_0k-w1FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Springfield%2Bcapitol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWyNwdcUQnw/YYH4nSkC-KI/AAAAAAABbeo/5P1XYhYwdMAdmWK9mCjvnAr7h_0k-w1FwCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Springfield%2Bcapitol.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illinois State Capitol with statue of Abraham Lincoln</td></tr></tbody></table><br />In the night I could hear long, lonely train whistles from the 23<sup>rd</sup> floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Bright and early in the morning, we toured some of the Lincoln sites. It was at the old state capitol in Springfield that Lincoln, who practiced law in the town from 1843 to 1852, first gave his major antislavery speech. <br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uivkboqGxII/YYH5Pw_uW1I/AAAAAAABbe0/XvjGdVDqNyAqIkievYPHHpWegI6X37tBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lincoln.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uivkboqGxII/YYH5Pw_uW1I/AAAAAAABbe0/XvjGdVDqNyAqIkievYPHHpWegI6X37tBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Lincoln.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only home Lincoln ever owned</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F78Mj63lnnE/YYH5PwBTwmI/AAAAAAABbe4/WJK8p1I7xQgfrqxMmfBJkiyGmyZyPlzHACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F78Mj63lnnE/YYH5PwBTwmI/AAAAAAABbe4/WJK8p1I7xQgfrqxMmfBJkiyGmyZyPlzHACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Tomb.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 21.33333396911621px; text-align: left;">We then had our first major alignment choice to make. I'd selected early Route 66 south of Springfield.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz2dvd_Pdt0/YYH5g7_dHkI/AAAAAAABbfE/80B31kTGjPUYOZajDu396IgNMSf35-byACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/1926-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz2dvd_Pdt0/YYH5g7_dHkI/AAAAAAABbfE/80B31kTGjPUYOZajDu396IgNMSf35-byACLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/1926-30.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Breakfast was at Charlie Parker’s Diner, another T. find that is housed in a Quonset hut! I have been unable to determine any connection to Charlie Parker the jazzman. Despite its kitschy interior, the restaurant is only 30 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ODSRpfr33x0/YYH5rdR3X_I/AAAAAAABbfI/7dIa4bnLkfQVE_NOhpFFMlvZpruJHHwFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Charlie%2BParker%2527s%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ODSRpfr33x0/YYH5rdR3X_I/AAAAAAABbfI/7dIa4bnLkfQVE_NOhpFFMlvZpruJHHwFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Charlie%2BParker%2527s%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I got an education by ordering something called the “country fried shoe.” About a million pounds of hash browns and a gallon of gravy on top of what I grew up calling chicken fried steak. With eggs and toast it was too much. I would not make that mistake again either!</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The highlights of day 2, for me, were the great stretches of old road that the 1926-30 routing permitted us. Much of the time, we were the only people on the road, and could pull over or simply stop whenever we wanted to take a picture. Many sections of the two-lane are historic “dog-legs,” right-angle turns that both cars and trucks had to take before the interstate came to town.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">For about a mile and a half between Chatham and Auburn are Snell and Curran Roads, still paved with brick and beautifully maintained. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-czlg9tzE7D4/YYH55f6Te_I/AAAAAAABbfQ/8sLWdCSPvr0olW-CLdpdV7T4frOkynQUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Brick%2Broad%2BSnell%2Band%2BCurran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-czlg9tzE7D4/YYH55f6Te_I/AAAAAAABbfQ/8sLWdCSPvr0olW-CLdpdV7T4frOkynQUQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Brick%2Broad%2BSnell%2Band%2BCurran.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j8fYWV68Tc8/YYH5-sxcNOI/AAAAAAABbfY/dbObHwNjTzAN8nbL7Wzmooi_tL4w15nBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Halloween%2BThayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j8fYWV68Tc8/YYH5-sxcNOI/AAAAAAABbfY/dbObHwNjTzAN8nbL7Wzmooi_tL4w15nBQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Halloween%2BThayer.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many yards really went to town on the Halloween decorations. This was in Thayer.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bwdK2RiIydk/YYH6J9ncWlI/AAAAAAABbfg/TCdN92KwVDgdDQCIsaMj3Ak9SXNez9q2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Fall%2Bcolors%2BGirard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bwdK2RiIydk/YYH6J9ncWlI/AAAAAAABbfg/TCdN92KwVDgdDQCIsaMj3Ak9SXNez9q2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Fall%2Bcolors%2BGirard.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fall is a great time to travel!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Between Girard and Nilwood, the road is original 1920s concrete, often with an evocative crack snaking along the middle instead of a line.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ai0hfSSM8w/YYH6RfzugbI/AAAAAAABbfo/jFTVf1mxduAFjr7Xs-wknLR6GD8he8uiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Donaldson%2BRoad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ai0hfSSM8w/YYH6RfzugbI/AAAAAAABbfo/jFTVf1mxduAFjr7Xs-wknLR6GD8he8uiwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Donaldson%2BRoad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u11X4B3fGLk/YYH6UFr1zbI/AAAAAAABbfs/HCV0eKgFKIIOCtp9GQVBX6VS3k3RjyJ-gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Turkey%2BTracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u11X4B3fGLk/YYH6UFr1zbI/AAAAAAABbfs/HCV0eKgFKIIOCtp9GQVBX6VS3k3RjyJ-gCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Turkey%2BTracks.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tracks of a 1926 turkey, immortalized in concrete</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Carlinville has a brick-lined town square and the stunning Macoupin County Courthouse.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8GB9nr_ZQA/YYH7QpuQE_I/AAAAAAABbgI/20SQu6343wwUq5Wkdk74K9s6lWlKoGsFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Carlinville%2B%2528Macoupin%2BCounty%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8GB9nr_ZQA/YYH7QpuQE_I/AAAAAAABbgI/20SQu6343wwUq5Wkdk74K9s6lWlKoGsFgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Carlinville%2B%2528Macoupin%2BCounty%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loac2kPlCXk/YYH64DMzbVI/AAAAAAABbf8/4kkX60bL_o8B3bj7CaPd0fb8KuOWEN32QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5142%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loac2kPlCXk/YYH64DMzbVI/AAAAAAABbf8/4kkX60bL_o8B3bj7CaPd0fb8KuOWEN32QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5142%2Bcopy.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard;"><span style="font-size: large;">We needed cash, so I went into a bank. There I discovered that the only ATM was a drive-through.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We also needed the bathroom. Rest areas are not a thing on Route 66; you have to go at the gas station or some other business, or else a park (I became expert at looking out for port-a-pots, some of which are helpfully unlocked for members of the public). <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This was as nostalgic for me as neon signs and vintage diners are to Baby Boomers traveling on Route 66. I didn’t even know rest areas existed in the 1970s and ’80s; perhaps they did, but my dad would only stop when he had to. So the only restrooms I knew of between home and Ohio were in gas stations (and not those indoor restrooms many service stations have now, but the nasty metal ones out back). To this day, the smell of gasoline in the cold reminds me of Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Anyway, not much was open in Carlinville so we went into a <i>real </i>local bar. There were only two other customers, men discussing their vaccination booster shots. I didn’t hear any conspiracy theories against the vaccine, though one man did seem confused as to whether he’d be charged for something that was supposed to be free.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">After our Cokes, T. went into the Mother Road Antiques shop. It’s a woman-owned business, but the person working there was a guy (who am I to judge? Maybe his business identifies as woman-owned!) He told T. she was only the second visitor from abroad for 18 months, “and the first one didn’t speak English!” Again, we felt like pioneers traveling west.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">North of Gillespie, the Deerfield Drive loop took us across what McClanahan calls “a stout (but endangered) little concrete bridge from 1920.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aYOQUTO99Uc/YYH7LuirM5I/AAAAAAABbgE/lQBwrbWazUII0k7wrtpePTcDxgeZ1xl7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Deerfield%2BDrive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aYOQUTO99Uc/YYH7LuirM5I/AAAAAAABbgE/lQBwrbWazUII0k7wrtpePTcDxgeZ1xl7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Deerfield%2BDrive.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We did, eventually, need gas, and it’s always a crapshoot whether an American pump will recognize a foreign card. So I went in to pay with the cash I’d successfully obtained in Carlinville. I asked the woman for it; she paused for a second and said, “And how are you doing?” I’d forgotten myself. I should have said hi first! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Already, Chicago felt far behind. All this friendliness and people taking the time to say hello, even if you’re not spending any money. We also saw, and would see, more on Route 66 than we could ever hope to take pictures of, let alone stop and visit. More giant objects (big crayon, bottles, bowling pin, boot, buffalo), more old motel signs and auto shops or gas stations, whether restored or decaying into the earth. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mwBHpsXOLVk/YYH8LoZwSjI/AAAAAAABbg4/bTlZJhOAgP8yPK1BrpqHoboPXJw7uJ-lACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Luna%2BCafe%252C%2BChain%2Bof%2BRocks%2Brd%252C%2BMitchell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mwBHpsXOLVk/YYH8LoZwSjI/AAAAAAABbg4/bTlZJhOAgP8yPK1BrpqHoboPXJw7uJ-lACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Luna%2BCafe%252C%2BChain%2Bof%2BRocks%2Brd%252C%2BMitchell.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luna Cafe, Chain of Rocks Road, Mitchell</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">More old bridges, some closed, others still part of the Route but in danger of being torn down, so we crossed them while we could. We even took a dead end before leaving Illinois, to walk towards Missouri on the (now closed to motor vehicles) old Chain of Rocks Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e7zrpCBIG4o/YYH7ZH-IoUI/AAAAAAABbgM/7fPBV4XXN0g7-YBglEBDpiHHCuN0PAQwACLcBGAsYHQ/s1902/Chain%2Bof%2BRocks%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="1902" height="109" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e7zrpCBIG4o/YYH7ZH-IoUI/AAAAAAABbgM/7fPBV4XXN0g7-YBglEBDpiHHCuN0PAQwACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h109/Chain%2Bof%2BRocks%2B2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ETQXvYIIdzg/YYH7Z_S_cYI/AAAAAAABbgQ/U7VageemkPIYETnTKhkh1tIFVXBuh9gGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Chain%2Bof%2BRocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ETQXvYIIdzg/YYH7Z_S_cYI/AAAAAAABbgQ/U7VageemkPIYETnTKhkh1tIFVXBuh9gGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Chain%2Bof%2BRocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Chain of Rocks Bridge was built 1927-29 and in 1936 became the Route 66 crossing of the Mississippi River. During the three decades of its use, there were hundreds of elm trees lining the Illinois side, and even a Chain of Rocks amusement park. River users complained about the placement of the bridge, so it was built with a 30-degree angle in the middle of it. This, in turn, caused bottlenecks on the bridge. It would have been demolished in the mid-’70s, but was saved by the plummeting value of steel, which made it too expensive to tear down. A nonprofit group preserved the bridge for pedestrians and cyclists, one of whom stopped to take this picture of us.</span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qUpsdn0siPA/YYH7kz9C_yI/AAAAAAABbgc/ecxLFOixFwoJ1y0ReXWFQszOAPqWGjvlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/us%2Bon%2Bchain%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qUpsdn0siPA/YYH7kz9C_yI/AAAAAAABbgc/ecxLFOixFwoJ1y0ReXWFQszOAPqWGjvlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/us%2Bon%2Bchain%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New (1967) Chain of Rocks bridge in the background</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We then took the McKinley Bridge, Route 66’s original route across the Mississippi. See you on the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xk2hE4RZaeg/YYH8AaIHr0I/AAAAAAABbg0/npeGP05-TQEhVYgpi6SWPKYyi76O6897ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Through%2Bthe%2Bsun%2Broof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xk2hE4RZaeg/YYH8AaIHr0I/AAAAAAABbg0/npeGP05-TQEhVYgpi6SWPKYyi76O6897ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Through%2Bthe%2Bsun%2Broof.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through the sun roof</td></tr></tbody></table><br />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-83186320716503680502021-10-30T21:11:00.000-05:002021-10-30T21:11:11.445-05:00Illinois 1
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I had imagined that I would start at the beginning of Route 66 and blog along in order. Here is a map showing just a sample of the towns it goes through.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i8jv6Zg_qw/YX3knh0uS5I/AAAAAAABbac/VpiC6xrzgLA3WRZIju2eRd03Zx4GdKCHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1043/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-10-30%2Bat%2B7.33.41%2BPM.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="1043" height="292" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i8jv6Zg_qw/YX3knh0uS5I/AAAAAAABbac/VpiC6xrzgLA3WRZIju2eRd03Zx4GdKCHgCLcBGAsYHQ/w774-h292/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-10-30%2Bat%2B7.33.41%2BPM.png" width="774" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It turns out the experience is more impressionistic than that. Like America itself, Route 66 is not monolithic. The route was re-aligned over the decades that it was an official highway, and there are many options along the way, some rougher than others. Doing this road trip involves many choices. If you drove literally every mile that was ever part of Route 66, including dead ends and barely drivable surfaces, you would cover nearly double the mileage of simply getting from Chicago, Illinois, to Santa Monica, California.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As the principal navigator (guess who’s the principal driver?) I took responsibility for researching options and suggesting what I thought would be the most interesting ones. Of course, we both did research and participate in making the choices. But generally speaking, things work best when Trish concentrates on the right side of the road and that terror to Europeans, the all-way stop, while I keep an eye on the turn-by-turn directions and all the interesting things that we might want to stop or just keep an eye out for.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tisB6xo0Nis/YX3zbEAWkSI/AAAAAAABbak/HooCn_mGNL0tUT_ypeLuLzsClIjoV4MkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/trish%2Bmich%2Bave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tisB6xo0Nis/YX3zbEAWkSI/AAAAAAABbak/HooCn_mGNL0tUT_ypeLuLzsClIjoV4MkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/trish%2Bmich%2Bave.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T. on Michigan Ave. It was empty because the Chicago Sky (WNBA champions) were coming along on parade.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In my arsenal, by which I mean my lap, I have three tools for navigation. The first is a standard road atlas of the United States. This in fact rarely leaves the glove compartment, as it mostly covers freeways and is not designed to faithfully follow Route 66. It is handy, though, when we’re in a big city or if I want to see where the Route connects to another highway, crosses an interstate, etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The second tool, which almost everyone doing this road trip must have, is Jerry McClanahan’s <i>EZ66 Guide for Travelers</i>. This mentions virtually everything that anyone traveling the Route might be interested in, including side trips off the main route, plus options whenever the Route diverged historically, as is frequently the case. “McJerry” also provides “EZ” turn-by-turn directions and maps for all of these. A person could certainly navigate the whole trip just with <i>EZ66</i>, and that’s what I thought I was going to have to do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But it turns out that just a year or two ago, a couple of Slovakian enthusiasts who had traveled Route 66 repeatedly (by motorcycle and car) invented a phone app. Their reasoning was that it’s difficult in a car, and I would think impossible on a motorcycle, to drive while following instructions in a spiral-bound book. It also involves the navigator keeping her head in said book, when it would be more fun to look out for the next giant Coke bottle (Route 66 has a lot of these). Jerry McClanahan reckons his book of directions has saved marriages. I am sure the Route 66 Navigation app has saved ours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJXBhVhl-JI/YX3znIGY5XI/AAAAAAABbao/bkHVVAtvO04B-1Fy7VGxP6xcSqry55j6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Berghoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJXBhVhl-JI/YX3znIGY5XI/AAAAAAABbao/bkHVVAtvO04B-1Fy7VGxP6xcSqry55j6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Berghoff.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Berghoff on Adams still has its classic neon sign, of which there are lots on the Route.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Trish likes the app because she can glance at the moving map and see exactly where the turn is coming up, without relying on hearing the directions. I like it because it confirms what I’ve already marked in the book. Before we set out, I downloaded all the maps and set it up to navigate from each place that we expected to stay, to each next place. Now, all these directions are available to us offline, without spending money on data (not that many parts of Route 66 have service anyway). The app even flags up many places of interest, though it’s not always obvious what those are. And some of the most interesting are places we find ourselves anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">To do this trip, you have to accept that you are not going to see everything. You will not make every interesting turn or option; even if you never miss a turn, there could be an equally interesting bit on an earlier or later alignment of the Route. Even more important is accepting that Route 66 navigation is not like following your phone’s regular Google Maps or whatever. There is no telling what time you’re going to get there. The number of miles means very little. If you wanted to get from Chicago to Los Angeles quickly, after all, you would just fly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We did, of course, have to fly to start the trip in Chicago. We had a wonderful week at Auntie Janet and Uncle Bob’s, catching up with old friends and seeing my favorite American city.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nlPQR78qQn8/YX30hnVdKMI/AAAAAAABbbg/C9PZLxKYm-oYp2fxuQkKoOv4WF1afisFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/The%2B606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nlPQR78qQn8/YX30hnVdKMI/AAAAAAABbbg/C9PZLxKYm-oYp2fxuQkKoOv4WF1afisFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2B606.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "L" above the 606, a walkable trail along Bloomingdale Avenue</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H-YAWCn92YY/YX3z81YosUI/AAAAAAABba4/acynKLA9zowgSni05wb5gPQm48ip9DWzACLcBGAsYHQ/s417/football.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="417" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H-YAWCn92YY/YX3z81YosUI/AAAAAAABba4/acynKLA9zowgSni05wb5gPQm48ip9DWzACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/football.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">University of Chicago football homecoming</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vLKXirNbcbY/YX3z9dFbuRI/AAAAAAABba8/gyiI_htM9Ro0USWpvP2KJIj_RskQ3P_LwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/ann%2Bsather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vLKXirNbcbY/YX3z9dFbuRI/AAAAAAABba8/gyiI_htM9Ro0USWpvP2KJIj_RskQ3P_LwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ann%2Bsather.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ann Sather's cinnamon rolls. Stretching our stomachs for the road trip to come</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Then we picked up our car at the airport. When the woman who assisted us, Lucy, saw that we were dropping the car off in LA, she said, “Are you doing Route 66? You’re my first Route 66 since before COVID!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3js-PAtq6JE/YX30qFZdV9I/AAAAAAABbbk/pzg4Zc3LLDMnIUi8qHJrMRXG-cQ5DwO0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/sears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3js-PAtq6JE/YX30qFZdV9I/AAAAAAABbbk/pzg4Zc3LLDMnIUi8qHJrMRXG-cQ5DwO0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/sears.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willis (Sears) Tower. When I went to the top, it was the tallest building in the world.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Before we even left downtown Chicago, I was confronted with the multifariousness of Route 66. Where does it begin? There is not even one sign marking the start, on Adams Street between Michigan and Wabash Avenues; there are two!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CbcufPmAV0w/YX30GOrFlgI/AAAAAAABbbI/Lv-Vm44kg54DD6acYVsDQAdXOgxy2QGOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Begin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CbcufPmAV0w/YX30GOrFlgI/AAAAAAABbbI/Lv-Vm44kg54DD6acYVsDQAdXOgxy2QGOQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Begin.jpg" width="298" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nc1q_F9NPyg/YX30JgwtJmI/AAAAAAABbbM/DFzcpYTFSlMgR3iyVYCzMLFZ4ZasLxB0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nc1q_F9NPyg/YX30JgwtJmI/AAAAAAABbbM/DFzcpYTFSlMgR3iyVYCzMLFZ4ZasLxB0QCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Start.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And neither of these marks the original beginning of Route 66, because in 1926, it started at Michigan Avenue and Jackson Street. But since the 1950s, Jackson has been part of a one-way system of downtown streets. You can only drive eastbound on it now, so westbound travel starts at Adams.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We turned onto Ogden Avenue and made our first stop on Route 66: Lulu’s Hot Dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YW391dmH0AI/YX30RtcfSeI/AAAAAAABbbU/_0Bljvqc9ucY7HQpxPF1ajM0vyuNynarQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Lulu%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YW391dmH0AI/YX30RtcfSeI/AAAAAAABbbU/_0Bljvqc9ucY7HQpxPF1ajM0vyuNynarQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Lulu%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As the Chicago skyline receded behind us, <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W5ld-hCijKo/YX302avNkLI/AAAAAAABbbw/76gCAmOhX4Qi_62bZgdfqS7aK6rIFd9zgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/point.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W5ld-hCijKo/YX302avNkLI/AAAAAAABbbw/76gCAmOhX4Qi_62bZgdfqS7aK6rIFd9zgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/point.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicago viewed from Promontory Point, Hyde Park</td></tr></tbody></table><br />we entered the western suburb of Cicero. Like many towns in Illinois, Cicero was once a “sundown town,” where black Americans were not welcome after sundown (or any other time, for that matter). Plans by Martin Luther King, Jr., to lead a march for fair housing in Cicero in 1966 were met with plans to call out the National Guard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><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;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GGor3Y8Nnps/YX307mq7lxI/AAAAAAABbb4/9lj7AQ9-J3A-4vLq_RxM_t7VEQjvS0XcACLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Berwyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GGor3Y8Nnps/YX307mq7lxI/AAAAAAABbb4/9lj7AQ9-J3A-4vLq_RxM_t7VEQjvS0XcACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Berwyn.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where my late grandmother-in-law, Millie, used to live</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The many alignments of Route 66 parallel the many stories of America, which run on different tracks. Depending on where you were, the hot dogs and neon signs were not for everybody. Sometimes the different stories meet, and sometimes they collide.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Joliet, Illinois is supposed to be a good welcome point to the Route experience, but the only place we could find open was an ice cream stand. The 1926 Rialto Square Theatre, diner, and museum were all closed that day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgzxiKkFNoE/YX31Q5JwKbI/AAAAAAABbcQ/_kxhPgNpB2oype74sNuscAvgI8NcwGXHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joliet%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgzxiKkFNoE/YX31Q5JwKbI/AAAAAAABbcQ/_kxhPgNpB2oype74sNuscAvgI8NcwGXHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Joliet%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aV8ACBiWETk/YX31EfIHF9I/AAAAAAABbcA/4b-I12sQEG477bAdR3AtO-58dtACA24jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joliet%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aV8ACBiWETk/YX31EfIHF9I/AAAAAAABbcA/4b-I12sQEG477bAdR3AtO-58dtACA24jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Joliet%2B2.jpg" width="238" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otbB4C1nILc/YX31GSws34I/AAAAAAABbcI/SEi7tSjQwJE3RUoiVZXIFBs3j1JPK5SvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Joliet%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otbB4C1nILc/YX31GSws34I/AAAAAAABbcI/SEi7tSjQwJE3RUoiVZXIFBs3j1JPK5SvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Joliet%2B3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our sense that we were really on Route 66 came down the road in Wilmington, where T. spotted the first of the Muffler Men that once adorned the roadside along many parts of the Route. This is the Gemini Giant at the Launching Pad Drive In, once closed, now (since 2017) under new management. The proprietor was so glad to see us! He asked where we were from, and when I said we lived in England, marveled that T. had been allowed to come. “I’m not sure they’ll let me back in,” she joked. Normally, they have many visitors each year and most are from outside the U.S.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8FAO868ltc/YX31XtpXdsI/AAAAAAABbcg/wlriVRwz5NkVVJYql7EWLkGoC9I-AVtCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Gemini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8FAO868ltc/YX31XtpXdsI/AAAAAAABbcg/wlriVRwz5NkVVJYql7EWLkGoC9I-AVtCQCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/Gemini.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We were to hear this a lot on the road. Travel, and the people whose livelihoods depend on it, has been devastated by the pandemic, and they have been so excited to see us back. We tell them that international travel is opening up again from next month, that there should be many more people coming up behind us. I feel like we’re out here spreading the good news.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-blhu63naY0k/YX333vq_QII/AAAAAAABbcs/WfFN3okC00Y8bBbo7_YwYm-o1o6AH_i8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_1038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-blhu63naY0k/YX333vq_QII/AAAAAAABbcs/WfFN3okC00Y8bBbo7_YwYm-o1o6AH_i8ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_1038.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map 1 from Jerry McClanahan's EZ66</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p></div>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-42265598475695958182021-10-29T20:22:00.000-05:002021-10-29T20:22:43.998-05:00We've come to look for America<p> <span> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-indent: 36pt;">What is Route (“root”) 66 and why do people want to travel on it?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From 1926, there was a U.S. highway numbered 66. Early alignments were dirt roads—sometimes mud, sometimes dust, as when the Joad family in John Steinbeck’s</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Grapes of Wrath </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">drove them to California. Many people fled the Dust Bowl of Oklahoma for dreams of out west on the “Mother Road.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> Later, in the 1950s and ’60s, Route 66 and its many roadside attractions became a vacation destination in itself. Americans, at least a lot of them, were in love with the automobile and wanted to do everything in their cars, even eat at restaurants and go to the movies. Route 66 catered to this dream, too. There was also a television show based on the Route, and of course, a famous song.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-chP2Md-zf3A/YXyb68D_t7I/AAAAAAABbZY/lpxSj9WOAKYR1k5gNlrEEfNeaJB9s-o3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/FOR%2BBLOG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-chP2Md-zf3A/YXyb68D_t7I/AAAAAAABbZY/lpxSj9WOAKYR1k5gNlrEEfNeaJB9s-o3QCLcBGAsYHQ/w298-h400/FOR%2BBLOG.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> This very popularity led to the Route’s demise. The interstate highway system is often touted as a good example of federal government money spent on a big project that's widely popular. At the same time, the interstates bypassed towns, whereas Route 66 in many cases went right down their main streets. Suddenly, all those mom-and-pop businesses were endangered. The last section of Route 66 to be bypassed by an interstate was around Kingman, Arizona, a few years before I first traveled out west. By 1985, the Route was officially decommissioned as a U.S. highway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> Yet almost immediately, Americans started forming associations to preserve this unique road and the places it goes through. Because Route 66 is unique. Unlike interstates that run east to west or north to south, the Route runs diagonally, from Chicago southwest to Los Angeles. It crosses eight states. In some areas, such as in Missouri, it follows the frontage or “outer road,” sometimes right alongside the interstate, then veers off into farmland or woods. In others, as in Illinois, it goes through seemingly every town—the places that, if they are lucky, are marked at “exits” on the interstate highway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvTrl8vT74k/YXyc2TUaBrI/AAAAAAABbZ4/9h9ByoaRaQ8RzQmsFoKXpqwFKpwIPivPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/amber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvTrl8vT74k/YXyc2TUaBrI/AAAAAAABbZ4/9h9ByoaRaQ8RzQmsFoKXpqwFKpwIPivPgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/amber.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amber waves of grain</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> When we started meeting people along Route 66, they told us that most who travel the Route today are foreign visitors. This road trip is legendary around the world, and people come here to discover the real America, perhaps even to dispel their prejudices. Because of COVID-19 and its associated travel bans, those visitors all but disappeared in the past two years. But T. thinks that every American should travel Route 66. It is our birthright.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> She’s wanted to take this ultimate road trip since before she met me. For my part, I’m both American by birth and an international visitor. I was intrigued by this slice of Americana that, it is fair to say, many of my fellow citizens know little or nothing about. To see the States in a different way from blocks of red or blue on an election map. Most pertinently, to slow down, stopping at the places other people pass, driving through the places others fly over.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6R9dx0_7xDY/YXycacWekmI/AAAAAAABbZk/QC4_WvhnSmgDnCpqlJ6A4RmgIUTpowK5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/P1030117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6R9dx0_7xDY/YXycacWekmI/AAAAAAABbZk/QC4_WvhnSmgDnCpqlJ6A4RmgIUTpowK5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1030117.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bathtub complete with chipped paint, just like growing up</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> Route 66 is a road of contrasts, and in that way, it truly represents the U.S.A. It is the Route 66 of motels with pools, drive-in movie theatres, and TV shows, and it is Steinbeck’s Mother Road of Dust Bowl desperation. It has two of the three biggest cities in the U.S. and towns with populations in the hundreds, even ghost towns. It is the white stripe snaking through states both red and blue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> Like many international travelers, our demand to get moving again has been pent up. It has been an ugly past few years and for Americans especially, that ugliness has meant ceasing to talk to each other, to even try to understand. We see each other through social media memes and news stories slanted in both directions. The country seems to be divided rather than united, and as Frankie Goes to Hollywood sang: “When two tribes go to war, one is all that you can score.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> I have no illusions that a Route 66 road trip can solve America or the world’s problems. It does, however, give a different perspective. It is easy for humans to be contemptuous of one another in groups, or as labeled movements. It is different when you meet individuals and they smile (if the smile isn’t masked), or look you in the eye.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V69IL6ozfVw/YXydGOJ6QBI/AAAAAAABbaI/DFCZ4UD3Pak2qj-2eC5ED4-SFT-GOc9rQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/P1030249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V69IL6ozfVw/YXydGOJ6QBI/AAAAAAABbaI/DFCZ4UD3Pak2qj-2eC5ED4-SFT-GOc9rQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/P1030249.JPG" title="That ribbon of highway" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That ribbon of highway</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As in the song by John Mellencamp, I grew up in a small town. There are values with which I was raised there that I treasure, as well as things I now think are wrong and have moved away from (as have many other people from small towns). I understand why people living in those places feel forgotten. I refuse to believe that we have to throw away the values of friendliness in order to confront the parts of our nation that are still in desperate need of healing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> And people are friendly. I cannot speak to everyone’s experience but everywhere we have gone in the world, never mind this country, people are happy to see us. They are welcoming. They want to help.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> Come with us and see.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A5m-oecpmqs/YXycsaPNQII/AAAAAAABbZ0/peZ8NKV35EMvbeBbd8d9U5b0Muq15cd5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/P1030297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A5m-oecpmqs/YXycsaPNQII/AAAAAAABbZ0/peZ8NKV35EMvbeBbd8d9U5b0Muq15cd5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/P1030297.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-79494787205591730202021-07-21T15:18:00.004-05:002021-07-22T10:15:12.873-05:00No way out except through<p><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Something strange is happening here in England, watched anxiously by many of my friends in North America. Despite rising numbers of cases of COVID-19—largely, but not completely, disassociated from numbers of hospitalizations and deaths—the Conservative government has finally removed all</span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">legal</span><i style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </i><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">restrictions that, to one degree or another, have imposed on residents’ lives for almost a year and a half. Many people are anxious, not yet ready to board a train or enter a shop where they fear they will be the only people wearing masks (although, anecdotally, people’s actual behavior is changing only gradually, if at all). This in a country where all adults have had the opportunity for at least a first dose of vaccination and, in the over-50s (the age group in which <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-57678942">99% of U.K deaths</a> have occurred</span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">)</span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><a href="https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/england-government-nhs-england-boris-johnson-london-b941224.html">more than 90% </a></span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">have been fully vaccinated.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The government’s logic is that infections are going to peak sometime—hopefully in mid-August, though as with all models, no one knows for sure—and that the longer a full reopening of society is delayed, the longer that peak will simply be put off, rather than squashed. If we don’t do it now, when schools are out for the summer (and thus children not spreading infection through schools) and many social activities can be done outdoors where the risk of infection is minimal, what is the alternative? Push it into colder weather and the dreaded “flu season”? But it is a gamble, some are saying a reckless experiment. There is another alternative: to live with restrictions forever, wear masks out of habit, and allow an unprecedented taking of government power in an emergency to lapse into permanence, as previous attempts to increase our safety and “security” have done. (<i>See</i> U.S.A., “Patriot Act.”)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I think the strangeness is due to a crucial preposition. We, that is to say I too, have long been in the habit of saying that vaccines would be our way out of the pandemic. I said this before the vaccines were invented, and I’ve been saying it since, jubilant with the (still remarkable) degree of effectiveness the vaccines show and the speed with which they were developed. But I am finally grasping something which, for all its failings, the British government seems to have grasped too. As Isabel Miller wrote in <i>Patience and Sarah</i>, there will be no way <i>out</i> except <i>through</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">As far as I can determine, no country and no locality has gotten everything right during this pandemic, nor am I aware of any that has gotten everything wrong. There has been authoritarianism, the weaponizing of science as a belief rather than educated guesswork, the inappropriate use of scientific experts to make decisions that elected politicians should be making, or blaming them when things go bad. Meanwhile, SARS-CoV-2 goes on mutating into new variants and spreading more easily, as viruses have always done. There is no way out of the COVID-19 pandemic. There is only how we will get through it, and how soon, and at what cost.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Around a disease which, exceptionally (compared to influenza, for example) affects the oldest people in society while leaving the youngest members almost completely unscathed, much of the rhetoric has revolved around protecting the lives of the old and otherwise vulnerable members of society. While it is true that the life of an older person is no less valuable than the life of a child, nor should it be seen as more valuable. Yet the uncomfortable truth is that such calculations have to be, and have been, made. </span><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The U.S. National Bureau of Economic Research estimates that "in poor countries, where the population is relatively young, the economic contraction associated with lockdowns could potentially lead to <a href="https://www.economist.com/finance-and-economics/2021/07/01/how-to-assess-the-costs-and-benefits-of-lockdowns">1.76 children’s lives being lost</a> for every COVID-19 fatality averted, probably because wellbeing suffers as incomes decline." </span><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">It may not be possible ever to prove such a sobering statistic, but it would not surprise me: these costs—in contrast to the harm caused by COVID-19 directly</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(13, 13, 13); color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24px;">—</span><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">are disproportionately borne by other people in other places, whereas in rich countries, we have been focused almost exclusively on ourselves.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Accusations of selfishness? How many of those I have heard in the course of this pandemic. In the debate over mask-wearing, fierce in the U.S. and, now that masks are no longer a legally enforced requirement in the U.K., threatening to spill over here, sometimes I wonder if face coverings have become more a signal of where one stands in a political debate than a rational choice. If I don’t wear a mask, I am selfish and want to kill Grandma. If I do wear a mask, I am a member of a cowed population that no longer has to be told what to do, as fear has been so deeply instilled that I will voluntarily give up my personal freedoms. Both of these stereotypes contain grains of truth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I can adhere to mandates in my locality, or bow to the will of a place I want to do business with, without necessarily agreeing with them. I can and do care about personal liberties—hard fought liberties that are supposed to be basic to societies like America’s, Canada’s, and Britain’s—and I will not accept that such a position is unique to the right. Indeed, in this country it is the only position that has been truly critical of government incursions throughout; the official opposition, the Labour party, has seen fit to criticize the government only for not mandating more restrictions, and for longer, possibly forever. In a <a href="https://www.economist.com/britain/2021/07/10/some-britons-crave-permanent-pandemic-lockdown">recent poll</a>, a majority of Britons responded—perhaps exaggerating, in the grip of pandemic fear—that they would be happy for many restrictions to go on until COVID-19 is controlled worldwide. In other words, for years. Almost 20% said they would support the astonishing (and wholly unscientific) measure of an evening curfew, while a quarter said that some businesses, such as nightclubs and casinos, should <i>never </i>reopen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">What is going on here? Leaving aside whether it is a matter of vice for someone to celebrate at a nightclub or casino, the people responding to this survey are, I presume, just not interested in going to casinos or nightclubs themselves. But it is a big leap from that to say that no one else should do so—or, rather more pertinently, that no one should make a living working there. This looking down at activities that tempt or employ people, in many cases, younger than ourselves is uncomfortably close to the age-old scapegoating of homosexual people. Most people are not attracted to their own sex, so it costs them nothing to condemn behavior they don’t happen to find tempting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The vaccines were supposed to be the good news. And it is utterly absurd that anyone, for political reasons, is now refusing vaccines that the Trump administration did as much as anyone to develop swiftly and successfully.* (Despite all the other things the previous U.S. administration got wrong, this was not one of them.) Vaccines mean <i>freedom</i>. Vaccines enable, or should enable, people to dispense with mask wearing and social distancing and being unable to make a living or, indeed, enjoy most of the things that make live worth living. Yet sometimes, I feel I am living in a funhouse-mirror world, in which vaccinated people fear the virus as much as they did in 2020, while the foolishly unvaccinated skip merrily on their way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">While all approved vaccines are excellent at reducing the risk of hospitalization or death, they are slightly less effective at preventing people from being infected altogether. And logically, the higher percentage of people in a population are fully vaccinated, the greater the percentage of those who are hospitalized <i>will </i>have been vaccinated. (If the percentage of the population vaccinated ever reached 100%, for example, by definition <i>everyone </i>who was nonetheless hospitalized would be a vaccinated person.) The difference from 2020 is that even people unfortunate enough to be hospitalized are usually spending less time in hospital, and are much less likely to be ill enough to be put on a ventilator. There are treatments to mitigate the effects of severe COVID that we did not have a year ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">All of this is what the U.K. health secretary meant when he, correctly, compared COVID-19 to the flu. Labour opponents quickly pounced on the health minister for “thinking COVID is the flu” but this is a willful misunderstanding, which totally ignores the changed landscape that the vaccines have given us in 2021. Those who thought COVID was like the flu last year were tragically wrong, but it is entirely reasonable to make the comparison now. Influenza can cause and has caused deadly pandemics. Tens of thousands of people die with the flu every winter in this country alone (I don’t say “of the flu” because, <a href="https://www.wsj.com/articles/cdc-covid-19-coronavirus-vaccine-side-effects-hospitalization-kids-11626706868?reflink=desktopwebshare_twitter">as with COVID</a>, we only know that people have died within a certain period of being positively diagnosed with the disease; we cannot know, in every case, if the disease caused their death). Some would argue that there are many worse ways to die than flu. When, earlier this year, COVID-19 ceased to be the leading cause of death in England, news reporters jubilantly stated that the leading cause was once again dementia. Hardly a reason for rejoicing. But the point is that, as much as none of us want to catch flu, we do not shut down society every flu season, destroying livelihoods and preventing people from attending their parents’ funerals or hugging their kids. We give booster shots to the most vulnerable, wash our hands, don’t commute into work sick. We can even cover our faces if we think it will keep us from touching them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">It is unfair that, as with COVID-19, some people are more vulnerable to flu than others. Flu is a real danger to the very young as well as the very old members of society, in stark contrast to COVID, which <a href="https://twitter.com/ShamezLadhani/status/1417765913198223366">almost never affects children badly</a>. As with everything about COVID, the risk is not zero, but it is worth bearing in mind when people start to panic about children too young to be vaccinated. Children are much more likely to be badly affected by disruption to their education, the inability to socialize with others, and even mask wearing than they are to get seriously ill with the disease. It has become a confession of faith that mask wearing costs little or nothing, but this ignores the importance of seeing others’ faces, not only for anyone who has a hearing impairment, but for the emotional cues that all sighted people rely on and that children need to learn. The fact that children have responded with such resilience to all we have imposed upon them should make us all the more determined to bring such impositions to an end.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Our little goddaughter’s daddy and I used to enjoy taking her to church; she doesn’t even remember church now. With churches’ reluctance to open up fully to in-person participation, how many children will never get back into the habit of Sunday school? A year and a half is not a big proportion of a middle-aged person’s life, but to children, it is colossal. The mental and spiritual costs will last much longer for them than for someone whom interventions have saved a year of life. That calculation sounds harsh, but there are no harm-free interventions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I feel more optimistic than many other people who, like me, are fully vaccinated now. We were never going to get everyone in the population to be vaccinated, but we don’t need to. “Herd immunity” is not only elusive, but an arbitrary number. What we needed was a substantial reduction in the chances of getting severe illness, and we’ve got that. When we say we have to learn to “live with COVID,” we are not talking about 2020’s COVID, but a coronavirus that will <a href="https://inews.co.uk/news/politics/covid-cases-uk-fall-august-hybrid-immunity-plan-government-1091247">run out of people to infect</a>, because such a high proportion of the population has antibodies (<a href="https://news.sky.com/story/covid-19-around-nine-in-10-adults-in-most-parts-of-uk-likely-to-have-virus-antibodies-ons-data-says-12350776">9 in 10 adults</a> in the U.K.) Obviously, it would be better if most of the population got antibodies through vaccination, rather than infection. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">“</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Vaccination,” <a href="https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2021/07/19/freedom-day-yet-another-false-dawn">wrote Jonathan Sumption</a>, “is an impressive achievement. It represents the best that humanity can do about COVID.” I do not go as far as Lord Sumption in my skepticism of what lockdowns have accomplished, but it is time for them to end, and never to return. Disposable masks litter the streets, the blue cigarette butts of our time. Society has taken a step back in terms of plastic trash, while record heat waves and deadly floods worldwide make clear the vast emergency of the climate. If humanity keeps abusing the planet in this way, one more coronavirus will hardly matter.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Mutating is what viruses do; we will never be free of this pathogen, as we have never conquered any other, with the single exception of smallpox. We have feared COVID rationally because it was new and not much was known about it. Now we know, and while there is a healthy place for caution around this disease, so is there around not using a cellphone while driving, or other things that are far more likely to kill us and, for that matter, other people. Yet how many people still do such dangerous things, routinely and thoughtlessly, purely because they are used to them?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">I didn’t get vaccinated because of the (vanishingly small, though still existent) chance that I would become seriously ill if I contracted COVID. I still might test positive at some point. I got vaccinated so that I could be free of this fear. So that I could be part of a society in which, while not everybody is vaccinated, everyone vulnerable has had the opportunity to get vaccinated. So that I would not be afraid of catching the disease or communicating it to those people. So that I could travel, attend events, sing in a congregation, and do any number of other things which, frankly, I never imagined a free country could deny my right to do, even temporarily. That does not make me a conservative or a liberal (except in the classical sense). It makes me human.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzdQg66wEOUW0U2FXocY1GMPglj_v2sTmQepjSomi5hmJebLUZwyQcNOLw81-t5xmaHCWdRt5C5aBBTjEjwOg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">*If you live in the U.S. and happen to know anyone who is, for whatever reason, reluctant to get vaccinated, you may be encouraged to know that people in their lives talking to them is a bigger <a href="https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/peer-pressure-not-politics-may-matter-most-when-it-comes-to-getting-the-covid-19-vaccine/">factor in getting vaccinated</a> than political affiliation. It may be tempting to be angry at vaccine-hesitant people or write them off as stupid, but it doesn’t actually help them get vaccinated.</span></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-14131916420158293912021-04-10T04:06:00.002-05:002021-04-10T05:57:53.906-05:00What a character<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been thinking about what I liked about the unique character who was the Duke of Edinburgh, the late consort of the Queen. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">People have different views of the monarchy, but at their best, the royals represent something larger than themselves. The Duke of Edinburgh was an old-fashioned character in some ways, but his life was dedicated to an enterprise in which he personally was never #1. And he did it with a sense of humor. Both those things are something younger people could learn from--and most of us are younger than 99.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vpG4O_3i7ys/YHFpf4ShxQI/AAAAAAABavw/1EvO2NHbdN84hW9NgdO6F7WfN3PwoWm7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s460/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-04-10%2Bat%2B10.01.09%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="460" height="251" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vpG4O_3i7ys/YHFpf4ShxQI/AAAAAAABavw/1EvO2NHbdN84hW9NgdO6F7WfN3PwoWm7wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h251/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-04-10%2Bat%2B10.01.09%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="5gl0n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5gl0n-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="5gl0n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="6togg-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6togg-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="6togg-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Like the Queen, he's from the World War II generation; he served in the Royal Navy. What must it have been like to take on a different career, supporting his wife's unique role, for the rest of his life? What she called "his forthright manner" was not always appreciated, but you could always count on him being there, and not just supporting Her Majesty. The Duke of Edinburgh awards are not much known in America, where he was always called Prince Philip, but young people in over 140 countries have participated; he was also an early supporter of conservation, the Commonwealth, and interfaith dialogue, despite--or rather because of--what appears to have been a deep Christian faith of his own. </span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="a0hu6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a0hu6-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="a0hu6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="9usuu-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9usuu-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="9usuu-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I will never forget that when his young grandsons had to attend their mother's funeral, it was their grandfather who said "I'll walk if you walk." There he was again, walking behind the casket, following a beloved woman.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9usuu-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="9usuu-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">In our time, one's own personal happiness is supposed to be the greatest good. We may sacrifice everything for this, but it is not at all clear that we thereby avoid misery. Certainly the Duke of Edinburgh seems to have enjoyed being himself.</span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="sad6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="sad6-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="sad6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="563aa-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="563aa-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="563aa-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">When they celebrated their golden wedding anniversary, he said, "The main lesson that we've learnt is that tolerance is the main ingredient of any happy marriage. It may not be quite so important when things are going well, but it is absolutely vital when they get difficult. And you can take it from me that the Queen has the quality of tolerance in abundance."</span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="1496n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1496n-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="1496n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="488oq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="488oq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="488oq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">We can learn from that too.</span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="3d98a" data-offset-key="99k58-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-58239741674026726512021-02-19T04:01:00.003-05:002021-02-19T11:50:46.189-05:00Rush to judgment<p> <span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: justify;">I have to admit, I rarely feel much emotion when I see an obituary for someone I didn’t know.</span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: justify;"> Even people I liked. When I read that Christopher Plummer had died, for instance, I didn't feel sadness that a 91-year-old actor had passed away peacefully. I thought about the movies he'd been in and that I'd liked. An obituary is an opportunity to reflect on someone's life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">So I can’t say I felt sad when I heard that Rush Limbaugh had died, but did I feel anything else?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Rush Limbaugh was a man known for hateful and vitriolic comments, the kind that diminish people. </span><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Limbaugh caused immense pain to gay people, ruptures within families, much of the coarsening of America’s discourse. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">His leaving the world does not undo any of that damage. Only we can decide whether his legacy is a less kind world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In the past several years I have seen a lot of evaluating of the souls of other people, most notably when they die. There was a certain amount of “dancing on the grave” when Osama bin Laden was killed, but I also saw it for a number of public figures. Margaret Thatcher. Antonin Scalia. George Bush. John McCain. Each of these people did things that other people found revolting, but where does it stop? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I see something very corrosive happening in our righteousness. Left or right, we are all human and we could be wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The way we react to human beings’ suffering says more about us than it says about them. In the Christian tradition, we are responsible for evaluating the state of our own souls.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">That is the moral place reached by people I admire most, in my own and in other traditions. Is that where I am? Not by any stretch, and nor am I to judge anyone else for not being there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But what if each of us is to be judged by the best thing we have ever done or said, rather than the worst?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">What if we are to be judged by the repentance of our hearts?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #353535; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We don’t know these things. For myself, I can only hope.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253411084606676420.post-63269615448024037982020-11-23T15:54:00.000-05:002020-11-23T15:54:15.760-05:00Ain't that good news?
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKR9zd6wwc0/X7ewrAzndpI/AAAAAAABano/vXJLbKxJ4A4VA7IxbZQaek6LEJXZLQdIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s828/126216214_3933105586713592_612148580618412691_n.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="828" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKR9zd6wwc0/X7ewrAzndpI/AAAAAAABano/vXJLbKxJ4A4VA7IxbZQaek6LEJXZLQdIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/126216214_3933105586713592_612148580618412691_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a year that’s been filled and continues to be filled with much death and destruction, we are starting to get the best news the world could hope for. In the past couple of weeks, results have been announced from the phase 3 trials of two novel coronavirus vaccines, and from the phase 2 trial of a third vaccine. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">And what are too many people tweeting and fussing about? Who paid for the vaccines, who does or does not deserve credit for them. WHO CARES? This is the best news the world has had all year—yes, more important than the U.S. election. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">But of course, the whole world cares about both. And I’ve been trying to talk friends, from more than one country, off the ledge about all the terrible things that have been going on since the election, and what it means for democracy. So I’m here to tell you why, despite the pandemic getting worse and not better, this really is the beginning of the end, for a whole host of good reasons. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">First: vaccines. The efficacy rates reported, >90%, are far higher than needed to gain herd immunity in a population, if we are able to vaccinate at scale. Importantly, these vaccines have also been shown to be safe in older people, who of course are among those who need protection from COVID-19 the most. We should all be thankful to the thousands of volunteers, many of them in their sixties and seventies, without whom we could never have these findings on safety and efficacy. As I write, the first of these vaccines is being considered for approval by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration and the UK's MHRA. </span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Second: The election. You know who won? The process. This was impressive. In the midst of a pandemic, where it was a challenge to enable people to vote and where many thought turnout would be driven way down, a far larger percentage of people voted than in the previous <i>120 years</i>--that is, since before American women gained the right to vote. Some states, like Pennsylvania, had no previous culture of large-scale mail-in voting, yet with the eyes of the world on them, election officials and poll workers just calmly did their job. Wearing masks, night and day. There weren’t even many glitches or problems of the type that routinely happen in U.S. elections, much less the fraud and violence that some alleged and/or feared. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who else won? A much larger group than Democrats. I call us “people who wanted Biden to win.” That’s a crucial distinction, because there is evidence that a significant proportion of people who aren’t Democrats, who in fact might have voted for Republicans further down the ballot, couldn’t stomach another four years and cast their vote in the presidential election for Biden. (Not to mention, there are people around the world who wanted Biden to win, although they can’t vote.) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I don’t Tweet or watch U.S. television, but I see posts about Twitter and what people are seeing on MSNBC and other networks. You wouldn’t know Democrats had won the presidency, still less the House of Representatives, from some of this fussing about why Democrats didn’t win even more House seats. Do these guys not know how to win? In fact, had the votes in different states not been counted in various peculiar orders (and had there not been all those mail-in ballots, for which we have the post office to thank for WORKING in spite of all obstacles), it would never even have looked close. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joseph Biden, Jr. ended up winning the popular vote by 6 million votes. That’s a big margin. Yes, tens of millions of people still voted for the loser (or, as I will hereafter refer to him if I have to at all, Loser with a capital <i>L</i>). Some people, and not just Americans, are hung up on that. But this was a turnout election. If we insist, as we did, for months that this was the most important election of our lifetimes, and as a result achieve record turnout, then people are going to turn out on both sides who don’t normally vote. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s break this down a little bit. In case you want to skip around, (1) are the good things that happened, (2) is why we should stop worrying about bad things that aren’t going to happen, and (3) is what we—again, worldwide—need to do next. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">(1) Most incumbent presidents are reelected. Furthermore, no challenger has upset an incumbent by this large a margin since Ronald Reagan defeated President Carter in 1980. In an era of great polarization, such as the U.S. is enduring today, this was a big win for Biden. No, it was not a landslide but it’s probably as big a margin as can be won in a national election these days. This did not come down to Biden winning by a few votes in one state. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">While not a wholesale repudiation of the Republican party, it certainly is a repudiation of the Loser. We know this because of the gap in Congressional races that some Democrats are complaining about. The only explanation for Republicans doing better down ballot than at the presidential level is ticket splitting—something that doesn’t happen as much in U.S. politics as it used to. In other words, a crucial slice of the electorate that normally votes Republican, that was happy to elect Republican senators and representatives, just could not stand the Loser. Why is this not a good thing? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">But while Republicans in the Lincoln Project are on the right side of history, they didn’t save us. Americans of color did much of the work, and the Loser’s inept handling of the pandemic in “blue wall” states finished him off.
The sun had not even risen on the day after Election Day and I was already seeing down-in-the-mouth moaning about “how could you?” (a large percentage of white voters) vote the wrong way again. But there’s another way to think about this: We needed all those votes. Black voters in Georgia went for the Biden-Harris ticket 90%; in the Navajo Nation, it was <i>97%</i>. Those votes mattered. Some of the communities that have had the most to put up with in American history, and this year in particular, did not give up on democracy, but showed up and made their voices heard. Our democracy was saved by people who weren’t recognized at all at the founding of the country, and who, for practical purposes, didn’t achieve voting rights until relatively late in the twentieth century.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">They could have given up on a democratic republic as the imperfect invention of men who failed to recognize their very humanity (Thomas Jefferson owned slaves, etc.) Instead, they heeded the call of Stacey Abrams, Atlanta mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms, and many others to take power into their own hands and exercise the right to vote that has long been fought for. We—and I don’t just mean those who live in the U.S.—owe it to those people to take seriously what we have learned from them. To take seriously the responsibility to make that imperfect invention more perfect, to fully include all the people mentioned in Joe Biden’s victory speech and so many others. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">(I almost wrote Keisha Knight Pulliam there, but she was the little girl who played Rudy on <i>The Cosby Show.</i> Oops!) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead of wringing our hands wondering why we can’t convince more of our white fellow citizens to vote the way we do, we need to thank our neighbors of color—above all black women and Native voters—for saving our butts. And we need to start actively helping life be fairer for them. That starts at the community level, wherever we live. It doesn’t just happen every two or four years. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, and I’ve seen a lot of fretting about this too: What about the Senate, what about President Biden not having enough clout to do all the things we want him to do? As Perry Bacon, Jr., an African-American journalist with FiveThirtyEight, said soon after the election, there are two big crises happening in America and worldwide, neither of which has much to do with whether Congress and the president can work together. First, the pandemic—just taking a different tone will help, and President-elect Biden is already taking a different approach, meeting with both Republican and Democratic governors, for example. Second, doing something about improving the race situation. Again, the president can instantly send a different message and set a different tone, but those issues have to be resolved at the community level. Your town, where you live. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know people who look from outside at a map of the States and rage about all this "red." They vow never again to visit a place full of voters for such a terrible person. Well, if they ever get another chance to visit the U.S. I hope they’re prepared to hold it between Chicago and Omaha! Seriously, we need to look at the big picture. Not only Philadelphia but its suburbs went for Biden, and in a big way—a 50% increase over Hillary Clinton’s margin in 2016. Biden did better in South Dakota, which is suffering terribly from the pandemic, than Clinton did, and much better in Minnesota. Middle Tennessee is more “blue” than it has been in many years. Even absentee ballots from the military, which typically skew Republican, <i>increased</i> Biden’s winning margin in the crucial state of Georgia, rather than eating into it. I guess it really does matter which candidate respects the troops. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">If after all this, you still wish the Democrats had done better or you have energy left—good! Use it to help win the two Senate runoff elections in Georgia on the 5th of January. I guarantee you that Stacey Abrams and everyone who worked so hard to organize and turn out the vote in Georgia are not whining and complaining. They’re fired up! </span><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EkRflmq60dk/X7ksDrqQa4I/AAAAAAABan0/FN0D2Ia8-IQKIZ8IvCC98fSNBnTZSvpEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/45697947_10156740386284929_1785498500008509440_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EkRflmq60dk/X7ksDrqQa4I/AAAAAAABan0/FN0D2Ia8-IQKIZ8IvCC98fSNBnTZSvpEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/45697947_10156740386284929_1785498500008509440_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jimmy Carter was just waiting for this day.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">(2)
But, say my worried friends, the Loser is about to <span style="color: #454545;">stage a coup d’état</span>. Or millions of armed Americans are going to come out of the hills. Or Vladimir Putin will somehow prop up the Loser, even though he’s not Putin’s useful idiot anymore. These things don’t even make any sense. Granted—it’s disturbing that even a fraction of Americans believe the bullsh*t that the election was crooked or stolen in some way (a fraction that’s already declined since the election). All these lies are bad for democracy—very bad, which is why it was so important to defeat this guy. But we did defeat him. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">And all the efforts by media, I don’t care if it’s social or <i>The New York Times</i>, to keep us glued and worried about how somehow we’re still all doomed is not going to take away my relief about this fact. Come the 20th of January, Biden is going to be president. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know about you, but the main reason I voted for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris is so I would not have to worry about the U.S. every day anymore. I haven't lived there for 20 years. I’ve had to deal with anger and anxiety over what the Loser was doing to America and the world for four years now, and <i>d*mned</i> if I’m going to do it for two more months, or even one more day. He LOST. He never had the votes, he never has had magic power to destroy democracy in spite of all our efforts, and we have got to stop giving him attention as if he had. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hfbDr_xakm0/X7ksHFriEKI/AAAAAAABan4/pteLef6xP1gVD-nGPf9RcUmWAgs1lLS5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s732/Screen%2BShot%2B2020-11-20%2Bat%2B9.42.22%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="732" height="124" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hfbDr_xakm0/X7ksHFriEKI/AAAAAAABan4/pteLef6xP1gVD-nGPf9RcUmWAgs1lLS5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h124/Screen%2BShot%2B2020-11-20%2Bat%2B9.42.22%2BPM.png" width="640" /></span></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is important to remember that while everything he's up to now may be venal, if not seditious, it is also <i>ridiculous</i>. Some of the things he and the rest of the treasonous gasbags have done, not just since the election but throughout his administration, are illegal. The State of New York is certainly preparing charges, and state charges are unaffected by pardons, the future Department of Justice, or anything else federal. But all his graceless and corrosive antics now, from failing to concede to baseless lawsuits that keep getting thrown out, are just fundraisers. He's bilking a few more bucks from those still gullible enough to believe in him, before his creditors come (and they are coming).</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The narrative that we still have to worry about the Loser, that the Republican party will remain in thrall to him or he’ll be in a position to run again, is as much a fantasy as his tweets about winning. A lot of media want to keep pushing the story that he has a future after this—in TV or as a Republican “kingmaker.” That’s because he’s been perversely good for ratings for them. But none of that is going to happen. He is facing bankruptcy and will be lucky to stay out of prison. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Again, if you still have energy, don't look at headlines about the outrageous actions of fools and worry that these things might actually happen. Focus on the Georgia runoffs, which will determine control of the Senate, and getting through the pandemic until the cavalry arrives.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">(3) Finally, where do we go from here? As we’ve heard <i>ad nauseam</i>, America is still deeply divided, and the ink hadn’t dried on the last ballot signature before I started seeing posts despairing of the “half of us” who are these terrible supporters of the Loser. Wrong. Seventy-three million is a lot of people (all of whom did not have the same reasons for their votes, any more than the rest of us did). But it’s 22% of the population, somewhere in the 30s if you consider only the voting-eligible population. His support isn’t and never was “half” of Americans. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">When people fret about this “half,” what they really mean is they despair of their neighbors who voted the other way, and don’t know how they’re supposed to live with them anymore. The divide between urban and rural Americans is deep and deepening, but it’s only part of the story. Gender is a big part of it, as is race, always. And education. By that I don’t just mean the growing tendency of college-educated Americans to vote Democratic; that’s not a solution, as the college-educated percentage of the population is only in the 30s too. I mean critical thinking skills, so people can evaluate sources and know what to believe, whether from cable news or Facebook. The ability to tell fact from fiction is a long-term project; it’s not going to be fixed, in America or elsewhere, even in a generation. But we can do it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s a difference between saying it was good that a trauma has happened, and that there’s something we can learn from it happening. Like COVID-19. It’s here; what, if anything, can we learn from our reactions to it? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The past four years have brought to the surface some aspects of American life that were not new or created by one person. A young political writer originally from Ohio, Clare Malone, has written <a href="https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/how-trump-changed-america/" target="_blank">a piece that includes many good observations</a>, and in an interview about it she mentioned “the talk” that black families have, something with which many white people were previously unfamiliar. In the midst of terrible events, there’s a chance for more of us to become aware of things of which we were previously ignorant. But awareness is one thing—doing something positive with that awareness is another. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">We should not be too disappointed that we still have to fight. Gay people like me should certainly be used to this. If America has never yet lived up fully to its promise to all people, one election is not going to change that, no matter how consequential. But things do change. It’s well known that Biden went out on a limb for same-sex marriage before most other leaders of his party, including Barack Obama. We could see Biden’s evolution, on this or another issue, as just one more example of flip-flopping; but haven’t we evolved ourselves? I know I have, thank God. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The prayer of St. Francis has really been in the zeitgeist lately. Our cousin Kim prayed it in her communion meditation the week after the U.S. election. And Malone mentions the prayer “that I may not so much seek… to be understood as to understand” as “the journalist’s prayer and the prayer of our time.” She is skeptical that the tensions and divisions will be healed, but also notes that cynicism is a choice, and a boring one at that. And she provides these astonishing insights: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">It can be painful to realize your brother is a chauvinist, your cousin is bigoted toward religious people, or your mother is a racist. And that pain can drive us into the harbors of the like-minded. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s harder to grapple with how to convince people to change the way they think about things, or to just go on letting them think what they think, not allowing their humanity to be defined by their worst beliefs. That’s a radical act of acceptance, and some might say a radical act of love. It’s not an easy thing. It might actually be the hardest thing. </span></i></p><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Holidays, and may we all look forward to a much happier New Year.<br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jagJeaLXRRQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="jagJeaLXRRQ"></iframe></span></div></div></div></div></div></div>J. E. Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02330719789451650544noreply@blogger.com2