1960s Road Trip

In 1967, my grandparents took a road trip from Springfield, Illinois south to New Orleans and then west through San Antonio, Mexico City, Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, and back through Kansas City and St. Louis.  At 7:15a.m. on 10-7-67 they pulled out of their driveway, carrying with them $1,000.87. They’d return at approximately 4:30p.m. on 10-27-67, coming home with $249.91. Only $2.45 was unaccounted for. During their 20-day trip they spent a total of $230.03 on motels, $123.74 on gas, $192.31 on food, $9.50 on tips, and $220.86 on gifts and miscellaneous items. They recorded 4 movies and 7 slides. They traveled 4,599 miles, and at 12:20 p.m., on 10-26, on a rainy Topeka bridge 109, on the Kansas Turnpike, their odometer turned 40,000 miles. How do I know all this? My late grandmother was meticulous in recording all of the details of their travels in her Stenographer’s Notebooks, and I had the pleasure of reading them. On her trips to Chicago, New York, Florida, California, and more she recorded every expense from a cup of coffee to a museum fee. Precision and care was taken with each day’s entry.  

I attempted to keep an expedition expenditure list when my family drove to Virginia one year. It worked for a while, but then I forgot to add the extra Twix bar at the gas station or the groceries we bought for dinner. Details of the outgoing journey were written with honest and excited dedication to the task, but my hand and head failed to keep up to those initial standards on the return trip home. I wonder how many people still keep detailed records of trips. Is it a lost art? Now, our cars can record some of those details in trip odometers and GPS units, but I’m sure there are still folks out there who enjoy making columns in notebooks and filling in little squares by hand—the joy of flipping back pages and comparing the gas prices in Tennessee and Florida, checking for a fair price of a hotel by their past days’ travels, and tallying up how much they’d spent at the end.

On their first day out they spent $26.48. Today that is practically absorbed by my family on our first stop for 4 hefty lunches at Hardee’s. Here’s a list of their expenses on that first day:

Coffee—Litchfield, IL                                        .31

Gas—Standard—Fairview, IL                            2.70

Lunch—Cape Girardeau, MO                             .72

Motel—Travel Lodge, Memphis, TN             10.40

Gas—Phillips—Howardville, TN                     4.60

Dinner—“The Flame”—Memphis, TN            7.50

Dinner Tip                                                           .25

I’m a detail person. I’m shocked at myself that I’ve only completed one of these detailed trip logs before. Rereading my grandmother’s methodical travel log stirs a new desire to try it again.  

Memorial Drive, Joplin MO

It was a sad road that I traveled yesterday. One of destruction, of loss, death, depression, and heartbreak in Joplin, Missouri. From Schifferdecker Avenue to 32^nd Street to 20^th Street, across Main Street and Range Line Road and Interstate 44, each street felt like a funeral procession. The May 22 tornado had traveled these same roads—an unlicensed, reckless and deadly driver that left miles of emptiness and pain behind.

The twig-like trees stood out among the expanse of twisted metal and splintered wood that covered miles of land. They were stripped of their leaves, with trunks pock-marked where flying objects had pummeled them on their way by. But little green leaves sprouted in irregular clusters as they fought to regain their composure—a small sign of renewal in a ravaged land. Many trees had trapped the twisted metal of someone’s home. They had captured someone’s quilts and blankets and held their shredded fibers like massive spiderwebs among their branches.

The neighborhoods were eerily quiet. There were no children squealing playfully in their backyards. No one was cutting their grass or trimming flowers to take into the house. No joggers. No walkers. No postal carrier walking from home to home. I wondered where they had all gone. Where they were now. What road had they taken?  Would they come back or could they never return?

As I passed each forgotten toy or recognizable household item, I kept thinking, “This is someone’s shoe, someone’s jacket, someone’s toy.”

While walking the sidewalks of a torn apartment complex, I saw a penny on the sidewalk—heads up. I left it- another small piece of hope for someone. On our journey weaving back through the devastated route, I saw other signs of hope on their road to recovery— on the sign of Joplin High School, where the “J” and “lin” were missing, they had fashioned an “H” and “O” out of duct tape to create “Hope High School.” Spray-painted messages of “We’re ok” and “God Bless Joplin,” with the ever-cheerful Smiley Face accompanying them, brought a brief smile. Work crews who graciously allowed us to drive carefully through, and the smell of fresh lumber and the sound of hammers birthing new homes for someone were hopeful sights and sounds.

For me, these sights from the road were new yesterday morning and I was overcome with that initial shock and heartbreak that comes with being handed a letter of loss. But for others who had lived through it and were beginning to rebuild, the road may appear to them as one of Hope and reconstruction. Where my wheels turned solemnly and slowly, theirs are starting to turn with purpose and strength.

G-70 China or I-70 Missouri?

Posted by Ted:

It was not I-70, but rather G-70 that carried me south into Fujian State.  I had entered this Inter-state highway after landing in Nanchang in Jiangxi State.  I would be traveling on G-70 for 4 hours – the same time it takes to drive across Missouri on I-70. I immediately was struck be the similarity between G-70 in China and I-70 in Missouri.  I imagined what it would be like to do a book like Driving across Missouri for this stretch of highway.  If we did do such a book, an amazing number of the stories would be the same for both books. With this thought in mind, I made a list of how many stories would be the same as the ones in the Missouri book.  That list of identical topics included:

1) transition areas between urban and rural land use,

2) powerlines,

3) rest stops,

4) wetlands,

5) forests,

6) soil conservation,

7) terraces, 

8) grain crops (in this case rice instead of corn),

9) cemeteries,

10) power plants/cooling towers,

11) railroads,

12) quarries,

13) major rivers and associated stories (shipping, irrigation, etc.)

14) Interstate Ponds,

15) cellphone towers,

16) rock cuts

17) tree farms

18) wind farms

19) a mysterious brick chimney

20)  Billboards!

More than anything else the most prominent and common link to I-70 in Missouri were the plethora of billboards.  In China, as in Missouri, it is a challenge to look beyond the billboards.  China may even exceed Missouri with their record number of billboards per mile. Apparently China, like Missouri, doesn’t tightly regulate billboards. Even the first glimpses of the Great Wall as you approach on the highway are blocked by billboards! 

Billboards blocking view of the Great Wall of China

I expected to see Missouri-style fireworks stores since all of the Missouri fireworks are made in China. But I didn’t expect to see a lonely brick chimney like the one described in the Missouri book. It seemed the only story lacking was the RV dealers story!  Of course, Winnebagos are larger than most Chinese homes and are hard for the rickshaw drivers to pull. 

Power lines and Interstate ponds

 

The drive stimulated more roadwriting questions than answers. Are Interstate highways by their nature universally similar? In China’s strong central (and only recently capitalistic) government are there laws governing billboards? In one of the most exotic countries in the world who would have thought that their interstate would look basically the same as it does here in the Midwest, and that over just a few hours of driving there would be at least 20 stories that occurred in the Missouri book that could be lifted for use in a China highway book.  The stories that would differ, of course, are those dealing with history and place names - although this genre of stories is in the Missouri book too. Is there anything new along highways on the other side of the planet?

Roadside cemetery

Would a book “Driving across Jiangxi” be significantly different from “Driving across Missouri”? Apparently not…

Then it occurred to me that a “Driving across Jiangxi” book is exactly what I needed to see the beauty of China beyond the billboards. I needed to know why things were the same, and if indeed they really were the same. So LuAnn doesn’t know this yet, but she better start studying up on rice production and how Jiangxi got its name!

Run for the Wall

This week I set out with my family on a two-day drive to Virginia. We traveled Missouri’s I-29 down to meet my old friend, I-70, in KC. Not long after we merged onto I-70, we noticed some people standing on the overpass ahead. One woman, with a happy anxious smile, was waving an American flag-- using the full length of her arms and twisting her torso slowly back and forth to keep the flag in motion. Cool morning air and moisture from pregnant rain clouds had brightened her big ruddy cheeks.

Within the next 5 miles we saw a lighted sign supporting veterans. At the next overpass we encountered more military supporters sporting rain gear and waving flags. We began to anticipate each overpass, wondering how many people, 6 or 12 or 20, would be there waving flags, smiling, and laughing. Caught up in their joy, we began to honk and wave at each bridge of supporters, inviting ourselves into their circle of camaraderie.  We wondered how far behind us the heroes followed. Who were they? They must be close. Assuming they were flying into KCI from the Middle East, when did their plane land? Who was on the overpass—their sister or brother or parents or spouse?

While most “welcome home” messengers were atop bridges, one couple had parked on a frontage road. The white-haired man paced in the grass away from his pick-up truck, his hands crammed into his blue-jean overall pockets and his baseball cap bowed towards the earth, while the woman stood near the front headlights rigidly facing the oncoming traffic.

Just before the Concordia exit, we enjoyed our last celebration with strangers above us. This time they held a huge flag that draped over ¼ of the length of the bridge. At the Concordia exit, a policeman stood next to his motorcycle and two rows of flags lined the exit road like runway lights leading these soldiers home. The flags continued down the street to the downtown.

We were sad to see the welcome parade end, but it seemed a fitting spot. Just over the other side of the exit is the St. Paul Lutheran cemetery of which Ted and I had written about in our I-70 book. Here in this cemetery 25 men were laid to rest after they were killed defending their home, their families, and their town. Fifteen Civil War soldiers are also buried here. On October 10, 1864, Bushwhackers (southern sympathizers) led by William Quantrill neared the German town of Concordia intending to kill those who were opposed to slavery. A group of brave townspeople rode to meet them. Of that group, 25 would give their lives for the freedom of others.

 

The smiling flag-wavers were also awaiting a group of people that were willing to give their lives so that others could be free. They were there to welcome a group of over one hundred motorcyclists who were veterans of wars and friends of veterans. Their tour, “Run for the Wall,” was stopping in Concordia to fuel up on gas and food on their journey from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. Their 2-week journey would culminate at the Vietnam Wall in D.C. on Memorial Day weekend. Concordia means “harmony.” What a beautiful place to be welcomed—where the soil claimed brave men who defended freedom and where that pride and honor to freedom still lives on. 
Learn more about "Run for the Wall" at http://www.rftw.org

Hidden Logos

Posted by Ted:

I recently attended a session by Shea Lewis from Arkansas State Parks about graphic design. It changed my life… and not for the better. I am cursed with seeing the arrow in the FedEX logo. Have you seen it? Now I am obsessed with seeing the arrow when a FedEx truck drives past. And, to make things worse, I am spreading the disease.  All the way to Chicago on our recent I-55 trip I kept asking LuAnn, “Look! Do you see the arrow?” Other strains of the disease include seeing the 31 in Baskin Robbins signs and noticing nothing but O and U’s (for University of Oklahoma) in the Conoco signs. LuAnn and I will use the websites below to spread the “do you see it?” disease to our readers.    Actually we think it will be a fun diversion for road readers to spot and discern the deeper meanings of these amazingly creative symbols. You might want to check out the websites yourself to see how clever graphic designers make their logos contagious.   

http://www.famouslogos.org
http://www.graphicdesignblog.org/hidden-logos-in-graphic-designing

From Wind Farms to the Windy City

Posted by Ted:
If there was one constant on our trip through Illinois it was wind.  As the prairie zephyr buffeted our vehicle mile after mile, I was struck by how this invisible force has influenced people both past and present. Pioneers sailed across the sea of grass on prairie schooners – the wind filling the sails attached to their wagons. This same force turned windmills that pumped life giving water from the ground for people and livestock. Without these windmills, settlers would never have been able to settle away from lakes and rivers.  The same breezes that cooled, carried, and quenched prairie dwellers, also brought destruction in the form of tornados and wind-swept wildfires. Today wind is still both friend and foe.  Sometimes we want it to blow and other times we go to great effort and expense to stop it from blowing.  The most obvious interaction with wind along I-55 is the wind farms that harvest energy from the atmosphere and convert it to electrical energy.   These modern day windmills come with controversy LuAnn is working on that story for the book.  I recently did a story on how farmers block the wind with rows of trees called shelterbelts or windbreaks. These are planted to hold soil in place and to keep homes and farmsteads warmer in winter and cooler in summer, as well as to reduce the wear and tear of the wind on farm buildings.  Much of life in this part of Illinois is still devoted to capturing or blocking something many of us take for granted - the wind.

What's in a Name?

Today is my daughter’s 12^th birthday. Her name is Rose. The choice of her name didn’t originate from the delicate, yet thorny shrub in the garden; although it was sealed after a rose banner was unfurled in our church a few weeks before her birth. The choice of her name sprang from her mother’s literary desires. I named her after Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who became a successful journalist in San Francisco and then helped her mother write the memoirs of her childhood. Was it my hope that if I didn’t become a writer my daughter would become one, or would even help me find my way there?

Ted and I drove I-55, from Springfield to Chicago, this week. We rolled through towns named Shirley, Joliet, Elkhart, Bloomington, Coal City, Lincoln, Odell, Funk’s Grove, Towanda…each of them with their own story of how they were named. Many towns were born along the lines of the railroad, the steel Caesarean section that sliced across the belly of the prairie and opened up communications from town to town. Some towns were simply named for the person who ground his boots into the soil first: like the railroad engineer, William H. Odell, or the settler Isaac Funk. Funk’s Grove may be my favorite town along this stretch—a beautiful area of sugar maple trees still tapped for their sirup (not “syrup”), an oak savanna dotted with prairie wildflowers, an old family cemetery, and a peaceful chapel under the cathedral-like canopy of the woods. Lincoln—well, that one is obvious in this state with the slogan of “Land of Lincoln.” 

Other towns were named for their landscapes; surveyed with a nostalgic eye that searched for a comforting piece of their former home in the strange new land they were settling. Jesse Fell brought the name Towanda from his birthplace in Pennsylvania. Atlanta was named for Atlanta, Georgia.

My literary side delighted that Mrs. Corydon Weed named the town of Shirley after the heroine of a novel. The same was for Divernon (south of Springfield), the heroine, Di Vernon, of Sir Walter Scott’s Rob Roy. While Joliet would naturally be named for the French colleague of Marquette, there is another story that it was once Juliet, to complement the town of Romeo (now Romeoville) nearby. Aw, the romance! Elkhart was also recorded in the name of love. According to one story, the daughter of an Indian chief had to choose between two suitors. When an elk wandered by, she said she would choose the one who shot the arrow closest to the elk’s heart—and she did.

The fact that my alma mater, Illinois State University, sits near an area once called Keg Grove, seems too ironic. Like any name, we see the connections of that name to its place even hundreds of years later. It seems we always name well—we find the right connection to see its significance.

Rose is twelve today and her tenderly mature heart balances with the thorns she wields when she must. And speaking of Romeo(ville) and Juliet (Joliet), “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”