Route 66 Memories
In 2010, my father-in-law, Lloyd “Shorty” Smith, asked me to collaborate with him on a project. He’d written down his boyhood memories of traveling the Mother Road during the height of its popularity, and asked me to edit the piece before he submitted it to Route 66 Magazine (it ran in the spring 2010 issue).
I was honored that he’d asked me. While spending time reading through his memories, I felt like I was unwrapping a present. With each sentence I read, I could hear the unbridled enthusiasm of a boy finding joy in the simplest of things as he journeyed across the country with his family. Being able to hear Shorty’s voice as a young boy (when he was actually short, and not his adult height of 6’5″) was a precious gift.
I also learned a lot about Route 66 while working on this piece, and it made me want to experience the Mother Road culture myself. This year, I vowed to do just that, using Joplin as my home base. Since Shorty had such fond memories of traveling the Route, I’d planned on bringing him along as my companion.
However, before we had the chance to venture out together, Shorty was diagnosed with terminal cancer which quickly weakened his body. He remained housebound from the time of his diagnosis in April until his passing on July 8.
As a tribute to Shorty, I’d like to share his memories of Route 66 with you.
After reading this, perhaps you’ll picture him as I do: a soft grin on his face, his belly full after enjoying a satisfying meal of a juicy hamburger, salty fries, and a rich vanilla milkshake.
And, of course, he’s snug as a bug inside his teepee at a Wigwam Motel.
During the years of 1949 to 1959, Dad’s Pontiac transported us from our farm near the Route 66 community of Farmersville, Illinois, to my grandfather’s house in Glendale, Arizona. Every other year, Dad would purchase a new Pontiac to carry us from the bitter cold to the enveloping warmth of the desert.
We kicked off each trip early in the day. With 1,800 miles to drive, we wanted to make sure we didn’t waste any moment of our two-week vacation.
Dad always drove. Periodically, he lit an Old Gold, and the smoke from his cigarette escaped through the small window wing, leaving a wispy trail in the car’s wake.
Mom sat in the front passenger seat. Although she never drove, she remained awake the entire time, fulfilling her role as the beautiful and dutiful sentry of the Pontiac. Mom loved to laugh, and her giggle would fill the car with its melodious sound.
My brother Dale, five years my senior, claimed a seat by the window, contentedly witnessing the changes in the landscape – from corn fields, to gentle rolling hills, to majestic mountains, to stark desert. Sister Carol, three years my senior, claimed the other window seat. I sat between the two, leaning forward between Mom and Dad in order to get the best view of the road ahead.
As miles passed, the familiar question, “Are we there yet?” was asked with increased frequency, and cabin fever increased to a dangerous level. Dale was then forced to sit between Carol and me in order to maintain the peace.
At the beginning of the trip, we ate picnic meals that Mom had lovingly prepared back on the farm. One year, she baked a colorful fruit cake filled with red and green candied cherries, pineapple chunks, raisins, and pecans. She would slice off a piece and pass it back to us. I never understood why fruit cake gets such a bad rap; to us, it was out of this world!
We often stopped at grocery stores along the way to replenish our supply. Frequent stops at restaurants was not an option, as doing so would take up precious driving time. We frequently bought Vienna sausages – perfect road trip fare, as they did not require refrigeration.
When we weren’t eating, we passed the time by sleeping. Carol, Dale, and I would nestle on the floorboards to take naps. Sometimes, I even climbed onto the back window shelf for a nap, curling up in a cozy patch of sunlight like a contented cat.
Occasionally, we’d awaken with a start, our stomachs churning like we’d just stepped off a roller coaster. We’d quickly realize that Dad had just driven over one of the many dips in the road. Because it was so expensive to build bridges, engineers built dips in the road to allow storm water to pass over the road. These dips provided us with some cheap thrills.
While awake, we were easily entertained. We would perk up when we spotted a cluster of clever-witted advertisements for Burma Shave, the brushless shave cream in a pressurized can. Each sighting consisted of five or six small red signs with white lettering spread out over several hundred feet. At one point in the ad campaign’s history, there were 600 jingles on 7,000 sets of Burma Shave signs throughout the country.
Other billboards along the route piqued our interest with hints of exotic experiences, like the wonders of Meramec Caverns. Unfortunately, there were too many miles to cover and too little time to stop at these roadside attractions; as a result, Meramec Caverns remains a mystery to me to this day.
One thing we did make time to stop for was fuel. Gas stations on the Route usually consisted of only two pumps: regular or ethyl. Dad used ethyl in our cars, but I never knew why. The interior of the gas stations always smelled of stale oil, but the candy counters beckoned me with their mouth-watering temptations. Sadly, I was never allowed to partake.
On one trip, darkness had already arrived when we reached Tulsa, Oklahoma, and the eerie sight and smell of oil refineries burning off the gases was a shock to the senses. The heavy, low clouds suspended in the air reflected the flames from the refineries, creating a surreal backdrop.
We were eating our evening meal there when Mom discovered I had chicken pox on my scalp. My parents debated about returning home or continuing on, and decided that I would be better off in the warmth of Arizona than the cold of Illinois. I was greatly relieved.
Considering all the dangers on the highway, we were lucky to have experienced safe travels during all our trips to Arizona. I would watch Dad behind the wheel, constantly marveling at how he could guess when to pass the car in front of us so as to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming car. To me, it was almost magical how he figured out the timing. Still, I’m sure the constant attention to the counter flow of traffic was a real drain for Dad.
During another trip, I recall a green station wagon passing us in New Mexico with its right front tire bouncing with every rotation. Dad commented that the driver had better get his tire changed or it would blow out and cause an accident. Later, we came upon an accident scene with a car lying on its side, its contents scattered along the road. Closer inspection revealed that it was the same green station wagon that had passed us earlier in the day. I never knew the fate of the passengers.
At the end of each day, Dad was ready to rest after hours of monotonous driving, and we were eager to get some distance between one another – literally. Thus began our nightly hunt for overnight accommodations. Motels along the Route were usually heralded with bright, elaborate neon signs. I remember one particular motel sign featuring a cowboy holding a rope. The flashing neon the sign gave the illusion that the rope was actually twirling.
Motels on Route 66 were usually u-shaped, with the office at one end of the “u.” Motel selection was Dad’s responsibility, and his close inspection of the room was required before acceptance. He would check out the room to make sure it appeared clean and had fresh sheets. These stays were such a treat to me since it meant getting out of the cramped confines of the car and being able to stretch.
I always wished that Dad would let us stay at a Wigwam Motel. These motels consisted of a cluster of 30-foot-tall teepees made from wood framing, and covered with concrete and stucco. Each teepee itself was a guest room. I knew that these teepees weren’t real Native American ones, but I thought that if staying in one was even just a little bit like the real things, it would be loads of fun! Alas, timing was never right, and we never stayed in a Wigwam Motel. I still wonder what it would have felt like to sleep in such an unusual motel room.
Eating our evening meals on the road was always such a treat, since it was only during these trips that we ate in restaurants. Mom typically ordered for me in order to make sure I consumed nutritious meals. When allowed to order for myself, I typically chose a hamburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Needless to say, I didn’t get to order for myself often!
The Mother Road carried us past various landscapes on our journey out West. I remember the red soil in Oklahoma, the blowing sand in Texas, and the blinding snow in New Mexico. On one trip, we had reached New Mexico when we encountered a blockade. The state police was turning everyone back because a blizzard was covering the roads with snow, and making them impassable to traffic. We turned around and got the last room at a motel in Vaughn, New Mexico (located on Highway 54, which is 37 miles southwest of Santa Rosa).
The next morning, Mom brewed some coffee, filling the room with its strong aroma. We were safe and warm in our corner motel room. During that day, we learned that others weren’t as lucky as we were; we heard reports of the school and churches in town being used as emergency shelters for all the people who were trapped by the storm. To this day, the smell of freshly-brewed coffee draws me back to that cold, snowy morning in Vaughn.
When we crossed into Arizona, I always got excited because I knew we would soon see some of my favorite sights on the highway. I was awed by the hut-like homes, or hogans, of the Navajos. I always wondered what life would be like living inside one of those; a far cry from the comforts of our Illinois farmhouse!
I also anxiously awaited the mysterious sights of the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert. Dad had told us how the petrified logs of the forest were formed. Millions of years ago, trees that had died and fallen down became partially buried in the ground. Eventually, wind carried volcanic ash to the area, which became incorporated with the decomposing trees. Over time, ground water dissolved silica from the ash and transported it through the logs, creating the richly-colored logs of this natural wonder. I sure was impressed by the rainbow of colors in the Petrified Forest.
The Painted Desert was another story. I expected more and brighter colors, and better definition of color from one sand formation to the next, like opening a box of Crayola crayons. To me, the Painted Desert looked like no more than a stark, colorless desert.
Dad usually drove Route 66 as far as Flagstaff, Arizona, and then south to Glendale. I remember one morning, when the sun was rising, how it revealed a little valley with the greenest grass I’d ever seen, and how the sunlight shone on the rocks at the far side of the valley. It was so bright, and the colors so deep. I just wanted to get out of the car and roll in the grass!
Our arrival in Glendale was a joyous, but always short-lived, experience. It seemed that no sooner had we arrived that we were packing up the Pontiac to head east before school resumed in January.
Although the sadness of my grandfather’s death in December of 1959 ended our yearly cross-country experiences, the journeys left delightful memories that I can pass on to my children and grandchildren who will hopefully drive the 85% of Route 66 that exists today between Chicago and Los Angeles.
Living Life to The Fullest!
I love seeking out new experiences and finding places off the beaten path. I started Joplin MO Life in August 2013 as a way to share my discoveries with others in the Joplin community so that they can learn about the resources that exist right in their own backyards.I have worked in education and event planning, and have always loved to write. I hold a master's degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma and a bachelor's degree in marketing from Tulane University.
