Cotton Boll Motel, Canute, OK

There were trucks.  Lots and lots of trucks.

Not here.  Down the road, where I spotted the Uniroyal Tire sign and old gas station that had morphed over the years to the man's mechanical repair shop.  You could tell it had been a gas station by the castle-tower-like formation of the roof.  At one time it was also a bar where a famous country singer, in his salad days, cut his teeth on hammering out the perfect stage presence.

The man's knuckles were torn and slightly bloody; his overalls gave off the sheen of well-absorbed axle grease and his gray hair was laying order in several different directions.  But his smile was friendly, and behind the thick-rimmed glasses his eyes were lively and curious.  There was power and calm authority in his voice as I watched him explain a repair to the 18-wheeler road warrior who had come to him, seeking help for his rig.  

We talked for a bit about the history of the station, and then he let me know that a single owner lives in the Cotton Boll and has made it his home.  Across the street are the city municipal buildings - water, police - all the services that keep a town like Canute running.

Up and down the Route here are more repurposed buildings.  A different motel, also used as a residence.  Another gas station, same story.

I came back the next day, after spending the night in Elk City, hoping for a better photo here.  A flash of orange slowed down in the middle of the road; it was my friend from the day before, heading off for truck parts in a different city.

October 4, 2012

Avalon Theatre, McLean, TX

A story.

You're going the wrong way! I heard a young girl's high voice shout.

Startled, with a faint memory of reading about the one way streets here, I did the perfectly sensible thing and immediately yanked the steering wheel hard to pull into a nearby gas station, where the car bounced through a pothole before landing safely. I took a breath, turned around and nosed the car back to thank my rescuers, who gathered, giggling, around it. It was the second most exciting thing to happen to them that evening; their previous warning to another driver executing the same stunt went unheeded, "and he just went all the way down the street!"

There were five or so young girls, brimming with the joy and high spirits that came from being let loose on a hot summer night to roam the neighborhoods and shuttered streets of downtown McLean, Texas. The oldest was around thirteen; they all had the same sunkissed skin that comes from swimming and bike riding, two of the essential summer food groups. Dusk was rapidly smothering the last of the sunlight here, and in the west, thunder awoke and lightning threw spasms of light toward the ground.

I chatted with my guardians, asking about several Route attractions. I was earnestly schooled about avoiding the attentions of the police by going the right way on streets, and hotel and eating recommendations for Shamrock were ruthlessly deliberated and debated. It had been a day of rough weather on the Route, and, photographing in Conway, I had been caught off guard by the sudden rise of a furious wind and dust storm that sent me scrambling for the shelter of my car. A monsoon followed, and delays from the resulting smoldering wreck and pileup on I-40 meant I had to decide if I could make Shamrock. After dinner, the answer became no.

So here I was.

Some towns and encounters draw out the best of your sleeping memories and touch off a flood of color and light, like trailing your hand through bioluminescent waters and watching the sea flare in response. Here, the past and present merged seamlessly into living snapshots of cool summer nights where crickets and cicadas never stopped gossiping, stars were thrown glitter overhead, and you and the rest of the neighborhood prowled the streets in a pack playing ghost in the graveyard, hanging out in the school parking lot and throwing furtive Little Kings parties and stealing the occasional cigarette. Days brought hours of baking under each individual ray of the sun, or wading in the creek behind the neighbor's house catching sunfish and crawdads; waiting your turn in line for a charred hot dog or burger at the neighborhood block party, and wincing at the bite of chlorine in your nose after hours in liquid turquoise. Summer was a forever thing, and the days were luminous and filled with gold and wonder.

So that night I dreamed, and the dreams were of all those things, of questing, yearning, feeling that things would never change, that these moments and this time would always remain hungry and open, and impatiently waiting to discover everything that was just around the next corner.

Over the years, Time has sometimes given a severe beating to the fearlessness and voracious thirst for exploration I like to think I possess. It's certain that storms will come, and sometimes they stay a long time. But in that brief encounter on a twilight street in a forgotten town, I came face-to-face with the best part of me, the part that roams the streets, exploring the world with the nights telling me their secrets, and I remember that I am always, until the very last moment, still there at the next corner, waiting to discover the surprise.

May 28, 2015

Night, and the City III

Traveling the neon pavement at night, with its ever-changing orange, red, green, gold and purple moods. Watching the signs which shift constantly but never blink. Hearing the rise and fall of tires in their conversations with the road. Feeling the thwap! of your shoes as they wilt a little in the face of the heat with each step you take. This is Albuquerque. And this is the Desert Sands Motor Hotel.

May 20, 2012

Route 66 Restaurant, Santa Rosa, NM

Wandering the Route through sleepy, self-contained towns, you note the quiet decay and shuttered buildings and the lives that have just faded away, sometimes to better parts unknown, sometimes not.
I panicked a little when I first visited the Route 66 Restaurant on a Monday and found it closed. By the time I made it to Santa Rosa, I had wound my way on the Route among countless forgotten structures such as the old Wilkerson's station and the wreckage of any number of formerly vibrant signs along Central Avenue in Albuquerque, and I was feeling a mixture of elation, numbness, and a fierce sense of regret, by turns. How could people forget, and how could I not have been aware of or noticed, the intricacy of the diamond blocks for each letter of the word "restaurant?" Or the perfect curve of the top neon ribbon of the Pioneer Motel sign? Or the sharp detail drawn in the sword holstered in the Pony Soldier Motel sign?
Fortunately, the reason for the closure was the graduation party for a member of the restaurant waitstaff. It's mostly a family owned business, the Route 66 Restaurant; the owner took over from her father, after having run it with him until his untimely death. She says the restaurant kept him going during his illness. She now runs it with her daughter, following the pattern of generational ownership of businesses, and has for over 28 years. But times are stagnant, and the body and spirit grow tired and begin to yearn for rest and redemption.
As a child, the owner worked alongside her mother, who served as part of the housekeeping staff at the Western Motel down the road. During its heyday it was a sparkling motel with all the right people staying there, and the property was so large you did your rounds with a go-kart, something she loved. As with most properties, it was eventually sold. And sold again, and again, and again, until one day it gave up the ghost and burned to the ground.
Inside the restaurant is a cheerful combination of red, black, and white, just like a 50's diner. The seats at the counter individually spell out the letters in the words Route 66, and the postcards that cover the walls point to a time when laughter walked among the residents and times were busy and purposeful.
 What becomes of places like this when generations pass? Who carries the memories and the ways of doing things that have been engraved in their bones over time?
I don't know.

May 22, 2012

LZ Budget Motel, Winslow, AZ

Late afternoon.

A time when you suddenly realize it’s been a while, maybe, since you’ve eaten, and you’ve spent your day walking among the ruins of a time and way that has faded away, when the sight of an unused and broken phone booth fills you with a sudden, sharp pain for no good reason at all. You spent your day tracing curves, gingerly touching sharp arrows, following broken tubing and rust, noting the beauty of a fallow and almost ancient time, and a faint melancholy settles over you like a thin blanket. You lean back in your car, the seats hot with the impatience of wanting to be somewhere, anywhere other than here, in this wrecked land, and just when you think you can’t stand it any more, can’t take the destruction, the sun gently lays its hands on your shoulders and says softly, don’t worry, let’s try again tomorrow, your work is done today. Rest now, and you can start again tomorrow. And you do.

May 6, 2013

Night, and the City IV

Night. Williams.

The city yawns as it starts to wake and stretch, and the blankets of twilight crackle with the electricity of anticipation. No memory of the day now, just the sudden rush of clarity that comes from the freedom of darkness and the fixed glare of headlights prowling the city streets, searching to and fro, restless and alive. Neon signs flash their colors flirtatiously; storefront windows look them over with a hard white stare of light. And in the background looms the mountain, granite, silent, protector of all.

May 2, 2013

Somewhere in Missouri

A story.

This could be anyone, anywhere, anytime out on the Route. It happens to be a real person. If you happen to recognize her in my telling, please respect her world and right to go on about her business undisturbed. The irony of me telling this story is not lost on me, either.

It was the second time I had been photographing down the road, and I had made a mental note to approach after I had finished my business there. I drove up and carefully parked outside the large cattle-type gate, where numerous NO TRESPASSING! signs greeted me in orange and black. There was a figure resting on some cushions under a large shade tree. There were also three small dogs. I waved gently. The advance guard of dogs started to bark and rush toward me, and the figure - a woman - rose nimbly and spoke to them as she made her way towards me. After a while and a thorough inspection the dogs decided I was friendly enough and began to behave accordingly.

“May I take a photo of the the signs you have on the building there?” I asked tentatively. On the side of the building, like paintings on a wall, hung an old Coke sign, a picture of the Marlboro Man, and a Gulf station sign.

“Well, sure, I guess,” she said, clearly puzzled. “Don’t pay any attention to the signs, some folks just drive right on up so I had to put up signs. Would you like to see my place? You might want to move your car a little closer if you’re coming in - they drive real fast here and they’ll tear your mirror off there.” I agreed this was a good plan, and went to move my car in a little closer.

Entering the gate, I had a better look at my host and my surroundings. She was petite, with delicate features marked by wrinkles of time and sweat, and her eyes were almost violet. Her still-black short hair hung in perfect ringlets around her face. There was something fragile and bruised about her demeanor, but she proudly showed me the various parts of the 11 acres she owned. “I have 9 dogs and 14 cats, and one raccoon,” she confided. “This is the first day I’ve been outside since we had all that rain last week.” More dogs joined us as we walked. A Coleman camper truck sat off to the right on the lawn near the gate. To the left, a child-size bedspring frame was hooked up, hammock-style, to a tree. In back, a yellow garage served as the home for the raccoon. The building I had seen was a bar at some point, and behind it a small house was revealed.

In a previous life she had been an inspector for the Department of Agriculture, inspecting canneries. She had been married for over thirty years to a man who also inspected canneries, and upon learning I was from Indiana, said her husband used to be gone for weeks to his territories in Illinois and Indiana doing inspections. “But then he developed leg rot, and they had to cut off both his legs, and he just gave up and lost the will to live after that. See that cabin at the bottom of the hill? That’s my favorite place. I used to go down there all the time for a week or so and stay there. One time he asked if he could go down there with me, and afterwards he asked if he could be buried there. So I buried him in the back yard down there, same as I will be when I die.”

At her urging, I explored the length of the building I had seen, taking photos here and there. When I returned, she pointed out the various trees around the front, and said she had planted 100 cherry trees there. She had made some pies, but she had picked all the ripe cherries within her reach. She asked if I could pick some from the higher branches, and handed me the length of a rusty pipe to snag the branches and make them bend down. The pipe was hot from the sun, and I was thankful for a recent tetanus shot.

She mentioned she was in her eighties. She was still able to do most things most days, although she couldn’t drive anymore, since she had started suffering dizzy spells and someone had notified her doctor, who notified the BMV, who removed her license. In spite of this, she retrieved the Coleman and manuevered it deftly into the garage as I watched, with a tour of the camper after.

I finally said my goodbyes and thanked her for her time, as I had many miles more to explore, and I looked back through the gate as I drove past. She had gone back to resting on the cushions, the dogs in a protective circle around her.

I was halfway down the road before I realized I was weeping. I still don’t know why.

June 23, 2014

Bombay Beach, CA

After while, it became unsettling to hear nothing but your tires talking with the wounded road and sand underneath.

After a while, you began to wonder where all the birds were. And the dogs. And the children. And other cars. And the purposeful sounds of traffic and lawnmowers and weak television conversations from open doors in the middle of an Indian summer and neighbors greeting each other and the sight of walkers and joggers and flags undulating in the breeze. Even ghosts move; but there are no ghosts here, only suffering headstones in a not-quite-dead cemetery.

Time has passed its cold hand over this town; its colors are bleached and muted, and its voice is silent. And silent. And silent.

October 22, 2014

Munger Moss I

Evening.

The burntan on your arms tells you that most of your day's been spent driving into the eye of the sun, the hum of your tires staging futile fights with the rise and fall of the radio as the signal leaps from mountain to hill and back again.  The sting in your eyes is equal parts sweat, sunblock, and caffeine burn.

You've got to stop somewhere - you're spent and done for.  You pass by empty silent buildings, turned-off signs and black windows, empty and yawning, that watch you leave as they fall quickly behind.  You've got to stop somewhereyou'vegottostopsomewhereyou'vegottostopsomewhere...And then, so quickly you're sure that it rose full and fierce from the earth itself, you see the bright flash wink of a vacancy sign; chasing lights in red, green, orange and yellow, and circling metal arms that say, welcome, you're home and safe now.

You walk into the office and the cool of the air conditioning drapes over your shoulders like the arms of your best friend.  There's a calm smile on the face of the owner, who's seen it a million times before and will soon retire to the back, hopeful for a quiet night uninterrupted by a late twilight bell announcing another sun-glazed traveler with a windshield stare and sweat for cologne.

You're only aware of three things as you enter your room:  the protest of the air conditioning unit as you flip it on; the steady gurgle of the faucet as you splash water on your tired face, and the clink of your keys as they land on the nightstand.  The bed awaits; you fall, and know no more until morning.

June 14, 2014

Munger Moss II

It was the silent hour, that time deepest in the night's watchful embrace, when dreams slowly unveiled their brilliant colors and ghosted past the gated portals of the logical and conscious mind, to answer the yearnings the soul couldn't voice.
Such were the dreams of builders, colored in brick red and charcoal concrete; in vivid hues of green, yellow, purple and red neon; in the transluminescence of glass blocks, the silver of steel, the muted orange of terra cotta and the golden palette of maple and ash, to usher humanity through the twin doorways of their hope and rage into another time and place far removed from themselves and the pains of this world.
What we build is who we are, and what we make of ourselves. What we build is who we are, and what we long to be. What we build will become how we failed; what we destroy is what we have become; what we don't know or have forgotten is what we never were, or will be, ever again.

April 30, 2016