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