2,239 Miles
My daughter’s father and I flipped custody. She would visit me in the summer. She wanted to stay in Cincinnati due to her friends and little brother, after discussing it many times. I put everything in storage and loaded up my Mustang with $400 to my name. No place to live. No job either. My pockets were empty, but my soul was soaring.
It was winter, so it was dark before I reached my first stop, St. Louis. The Arch was closed for the night, so I stood in the empty parking lot, looking up at the silver light reflecting. I hadn’t learned how to use the new camera yet. The flash was too bright, lending itself to a crappy photo. First photography lesson learned. Know your camera.
The next day, I drove to Oklahoma City. Getting in late again, I decided to visit the Bombing Memorial the following morning. It was quiet, solemn, and there was an energy that I couldn’t explain. The memorial contains two arches with a long pool of water on either side. Chairs marked where the people perished, including smaller chairs for the children. Nearby, along the chain link fence, are personal mementos — from teddy bears to t-shirts, beads, and notes — strung up. The teddy bears made my heart ache.
With heaviness, I drove on to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I had studied art at the University of Cincinnati and was fascinated by Georgia O’Keeffe’s work. It was a split second decision to drive seventy miles north to Santa Fe.
The adobe architecture, the quaint square in the center of town, the green chile cheeseburgers, and the cluster of art studios make this a special place. Fast forward several years later… well, that’s a future post.
I returned to Interstate 40 until I saw a sign: the legendary Route 66. It was a must. Though most of the “highway” was crammed with potholes, washouts, and in places it was more like gravel. I suggest a Jeep if you’re planning a long drive on this very rough road. I stopped at a diner for a burger and fries. Another must.
The road was calling, so I rumbled along and stumbled across an Old West town called Oatman. It began as a mining camp, and descendants of the original burros can still be found there. Another claim to fame is the Oatman Hotel, where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard honeymooned.
Near the California border, on top of a hill, I pulled the car over, taking in the view of the Mojave Desert, with Hollywood in the far distance. I realized that my life was about to completely change. As I started the car again, a Beach Boys song fittingly came on the radio.
Route 66 became Interstate 40, then the sprawling suburbs of Los Angeles appeared on the horizon.
“Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city.”
I circled and circled trying to find parking near the Santa Monica Pier, the official end of Route 66. Over the next several years in Los Angeles, I put many miles on that Mustang just circling, trying to find parking.
Note: These are unedited early photographs. I wanted to see them as I remembered. Also, the brain cancer impacted my language skills; I still suffer from apraxia and aphasia.