Taking the Mother Road to Hilo

On September 1, after loading up the car—well, after putting in the few bags we hadn’t already shoved into the shipping container—we took a last walk around Meadow Dore, locked up, and headed down the driveway on the next adventure. Our neighbor Susie had asked us to let her know when we were leaving so she could say goodbye personally on our way out. We had shared the first part of our driveway with the Webers for the last 17 years. In fact, I’d met Susie and her 7-year-old son, Nate (now in his 20s), on one of my first visits to Hawkswood, on the day I was “walking it,” compass in hand, trying to figure out exactly how far the property extended in each direction. As I said in the last post, David had told me that if the meadow wasn’t included, he wasn’t interested, and I was out to prove it was. I met dear Susie that day on the driveway by chance, and neither of us have ever forgotten it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget saying goodbye, either. We huddled in the shadow of the Matson container, prayed, cried, and finally waved goodbye.

The Webers are the kind of neighbors everyone dreams of having, and they were one of our hardest goodbyes. Susie had often commented how much she loved hearing our windchimes on breezy days, even hinting around as the day approached that possibly she could buy them. But we loved them too, of course—in fact, everyone seemed to. If they were chiming when someone came to visit, the visitor almost invariably made some comment about how sweet their sound was. We had even bought identical sets for several family members after they had mentioned the same thing. So there was no doubt in my mind we would take them with us across the Pacific as a remembrance of Hawkswood. But the closer we got to leaving, the more it seemed like the plan needed to be revised. The new plan? We ordered a new set of chimes, based on a new scale, and gave our set to Susie on our last official pizza evening.

The Plan

Those of you who know David won’t be surprised that he had cooked up quite an elaborate transportation scheme for our last summer in Michigan. First, we’d let the F-150 lease expire and turn it in (harder for David than selling the tractor by a long shot), leaving us with just the Honda CRV. We’d make do with just one car between us to save some money. And since the CRV, our remaining vehicle, was close to the end of its lease too—with only several months left—we’d turn that in early and get another car. We’d then leave the new car with friends, rent a car to drive to Mom’s place in mid-Michigan, pack up her van, drive her to my sister Doreen’s in Pinson, Tennessee (dropping off the rental car in Battle Creek on the way). Thence to South Carolina to visit my niece Susan’s family, and then on to Florida to get Mom settled for the winter and visit my brother Curt. We’d stay there a week, helping her with things, then fly back to Michigan, pick up our new car, drive it to Los Angeles, put it on a boat, ship it to Hawai‘i and hop on a plane. After all, we’d both talked about traveling the old Route 66 many times over the years, and what better time to do it? Sounds easy, right?

Just a little teaser. 

An aside for those of you who think we were being rather spendthrift shipping our car all the way over to Hawai‘i: not so! David did lots of research, comparing various scenarios, and it turned out that leasing the car in Michigan and shipping it to Hawai‘i was the most cost-effective of them all, believe it or not. And it was $3,000 less to ship the car from Long Beach, California than it was from Ann Arbor, Michigan. So necessity was actually the mother of this rather complicated Mother Road plan.

The first part of the plan was completed in June. However, getting by with one car proved to be difficult, since both of us were still working and had lots of errands to do—and people to meet with—before the move. So he started figuring again, and found a great deal on a new Honda Accord at a substantial reduction in cost. We would go ahead with that part of the plan now, then work on either turning the CRV in early or selling it. So by mid-July, we had a new Accord and were back to two vehicles.

We turned in the CRV in late August when it was finally financially advantageous to do so, and the car count went down to one again. So it was our Accord that we packed with the last couple pieces of luggage and drove up Hashley Road on our last trip as Sharon Township residents. We left it at Marcia and Linda’s, picked up a rental car, and drove up to my family homestead, just outside Sidney.

We packed up Mom’s van, including a few items to be delivered to family members along the way: Tonka trucks and other items from my childhood would go to Luke and Caleb, Susan and Chris’s two boys. Grandma’s tea set would be split between Susan and Christopher (niece and nephew). The painting of great-grandpa Ralph sitting in front of his house on the Little Manatee would go to Curt, my brother, along with an old gardening book of his, with handwritten notes on particular trees in the back. To Doreen would go the bookcase Dad had made in highschool, along with the antique rocker that had come from an aunt of our Great Aunt Dot, later refurbished by David’s aunt and uncle. We were full. Thank goodness, there was just enough room for Mom to squeeze in.

Up until now, everything seemed to be working fine, but then our plan was threatened by more than the forces of finance and business. This time it was nature herself. Hurricane Irma was taking aim on Florida, they thought, and promised to arrive roughly around the same time we planned to.

We headed south anyway, dropping off our rental car along the way, and arrived at Dry Creek Mini Ranch, the farm where Doreen and Dee raise miniature animals of all kinds. We had a whole lot of fun fixing fences, sorting pigs, witnessing a litter of mini-aussies being born in the kitchen and soaking in some real down-home hospitality at a real country still—yes, a still! What Wikipedia calls “an apparatus used to distill liquid mixtures by heating to selectively boil and then cooling to condense the vapor.” And of course, as Wikipedia also says, “Alcoholic products from home distilleries are common throughout the world, but are sometimes in violation of local statutes.” I think it’s best to leave the subject right there, don’t you? (OK. We did sample it, and it was good. And we were surprised to learn that one of the ingredients was cotton seed!)

Every few hours we’d check the weather again—the hurricane report. The forecast just kept getting worse. We delayed going on the next leg of the trip, first one day, then two. Irma was not only heading to Florida, but now forecast to travel through South Carolina afterward. Was someone trying to tell us something? We weighed different options and scenarios, but finally on Thursday, we decided to abort the original plan, leaving Mom with Doreen, who would drive her down to Florida once it was safe. Of course, during all this time, Mom was very concerned for her house, not to mention my brother’s, both in Ruskin, directly in Irma’s path. Susan’s husband Chris flew down to help Curt board up both houses. It seemed that we just had to let go of our perfect trip plans.

Sad at having to miss seeing so many of the family and being of help to Mom in Florida, we rented another car and headed back to Michigan. I was still working, and we had started the clock ticking on our shipment to Hawai‘i, and we couldn’t afford to wait any longer. We stayed with Marcia and Linda overnight and finally said our goodbyes and set out for St. Louis on September 10.

The Mother Road

Neither David nor I really knew much about Route 66 at first, but the trip certainly provided a great opportunity to complete what was lacking in our education. Of course, we’d both heard the famous song of the same name in many versions through the years (as practically everyone has who isn’t from Neptune) and it’s teaser line: “Get your kicks on Route 66.”

(Left) Lonnie and Joe sent us this not-too-traditional version of (Get Your Kicks On) Route 66. What are your favorites? Do you have it memorized? We do (now).

From Wikipedia, you’ll find out that Route 66 was also known as the Will Rogers Memorial Highway and America’s Main Street. It was established way back in 1926, with road signs erected the following year. It ran from Chicago, Illinois to Santa Monica, California, covering 2448 miles, and served as a major path for westward migration, especially during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. In fact, in his classic novel The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck called Route 66 the “Mother Road” because it beckoned to desperate migrants fleeing the Dust Bowl as they moved west in search of jobs. But in the years after the Depression, the highway took on a downright mythical status as it became America’s main street for adventure.

The original inspiration for the route came from entrepreneurs Cyrus Avery of Tulsa, Oklahoma and John Woodruff of Springfield, Missouri. The pair lobbied the American Association of State Highway Officials (AASHO) for its creation, and the number 66 was settled on—since it was unassigned, and the numbers 60 and 62 had proved too politically controversial. It was thought the double-digit number would be easy to remember as well as pleasant to say and hear. Coincidentally, the number 66 was used in numerology as a master number bringing material pleasure and success. From the outset, US 66 was intended to be a connector of rural and urban main streets, and for a very practical reason: most small towns had no access to a major national thoroughfare.

The road was not fully paved until 1938, was officially retired from the U.S. highway system in 1985, and underwent many improvements and realignments during its lifetime. Of course, most of the road was replaced little by little by various segments of the newer and faster Interstate Highway System (mainly I-55, I-44 and I-40), but portions that still exist have been designated as National Scenic Byways by some states, and have even been incorporated into state highway systems as State Road 66 by others.

We weren’t setting out to do anything like a complete traversal of the original route, but were planning to drive as much of it as we had time for, making exceptions when we wanted to see something off the track.

Our first stop was St. Louis and the Gateway Arch, which we both thought was a very appropriate beginning. Many settlers and adventurers of the 19th century, including Lewis and Clark, launched their journeys to the West from St. Louis, and it eventually became known as the Gateway to the West. The Gateway Arch was designed to pay tribute to this. So we decided to pick up our little adventure right there, and head toward California. I had been to St. Louis before, but neither of us had ridden up inside the Arch, so after taking some pictures and admiring its design and craftsmanship, we did just that. It was well worth it, and turned out to be a lot of fun. With a few more people and higher temperatures, I could see why they wanted to warn those with tendencies toward claustrophobia, but on this particular day, it seemed to us quite manageable.

The next day, with a new Rand McNally open to Missouri (the best part of each year’s trip to Florida when I was growing up was when Dad would get a new Rand McNally road atlas from the State Farm office, so I could follow our route all the way), and a Route 66 iPhone app freshly downloaded, we took off, stopping at several landmarks along the way. I’ll let most pictures speak for themselves. You’ll see one photo taken in Jerome, MO, a somewhat crude rock arch with a “Trail of Tears” sign hanging from the middle. Since I’ve had an interest in Native American history since my great-grandfather Ralph W. E. May told us stories about the Indians, this really caught my attention, and I started doing a little research.

I found a wonderful article entitled, “Intersecting History: The Trail of Tears and Route 66 in Missouri,” by Amy M. Costine. According to the article,

“The Trail of Tears National Historic Trail and Route 66 have an important, often overlooked link in Missouri. The two not only intersect a number of times between Rolla and Springfield, they also have the same alignment in certain areas. Meaning, when you are traveling on Route 66 in Missouri, in some locations you are also directly retracing the footsteps of thousands of Cherokee who were forcibly removed from their homes in 1838–1839.

“A man named Larry Baggett paid homage to the Cherokee removal by building an elaborate memorial on his property, located at the crossroads of Route 66 and the Trail of Tears near the border of Phelps and Pulaski counties in Missouri. His memorial, constructed primarily of concrete and stone, became one of Route 66’s roadside curiosities, and its origins became a local legend. The story goes that Baggett built a retaining wall on the property near his house. After the wall was complete, he repeatedly heard knocks on his door, but no one was there. Baggett was later informed by a visitor that the wall was built directly across the Trail of Tears and that the Cherokee spirits walking the trail could not get over it. To resolve the issue, Baggett built stairs into the wall and continued to construct an archway and sculptures to memorialize the Cherokee removal. Whether you believe the tale or not, Baggett’s now crumbling masterpiece remains a haunting reminder of Route 66’s intersecting history with the Trail of Tears.”

Mr. Baggett’s memorial was closed when we visited it, but I took the picture you see here, and I’m happy to report that there were other signs on the premises indicating that a renovation might soon take place.

The juxtaposition of these two significant pieces of U.S. history really “baked my noodle” (as the Oracle says to Neo in The Matrix). Here we were, leaving our home, heading toward a new home, a new state—a new life in many ways—traveling in the same footsteps our suffering Native American brothers and sisters had trod nearly 200 years before, and on the same road that Americans of all sorts had followed 100 years after that, gathering their belongings and their hopes and setting off along this “yellow brick road” to a better life. A Trail of Tears. A path toward a better existence. A place to “get your kicks.” Very different periods in our national story.

As we passed the many remnants of times, businesses and events gone by, old signs rusty or shiny, landmarks dilapidated or newly painted, I wondered what kind of journey the Mother Road would prove to be for us. Where was she taking us? I pictured Mother Mary adopting the road both now and in times past as a sort of namesake, praying for God to guide her many children toward whatever God’s will might be for their futures. See what I mean? It definitely bakes your noodle.

So many, so many landmarks along the way! So many interesting things to see. And so much kitsch: a collector’s paradise! We stopped in Springfield, MO, where Route 66 was established. The very interesting museum there had a big map where you could add push pins to show where you came from and where you were going. Of course, so much of what makes Route 66 so iconic is its associations—with the musical, culinary, design, and cultural aspects of its history. And it’s these associations that make each landmark and artifact along the way something more than a material object.

Just outside Springfield, we traveled the first lengthy stretch of original highway, and it was pretty evocative. We passed a restored gas station about halfway to Kansas (see picture). Here I was very glad of the other tourists that were also there, as I really think it would have been a little bit creepy to be alone there. The station was so perfect in every detail, along with the old vehicles strewn about the grounds. It was as if it had all been frozen in time.

Zip around a little corner in Kansas (Hi, Kansas – have you missed me?), and into Oklahoma. Oklahoma has the highest number of original lane-miles in service—over 400—and designates the route as State Road 66. (In 2000, the Oklahoma Department of Transportation donated sections of the original pavement to the Smithsonian Institution.) Here and there along the route, there were sections where you could see the original Portland cement showing through subsequent layers of asphalt, or even miles-long segments of the original concrete, and very narrow sections of pavement bounded by curbs on each side—a “ribbon road” as it was called (see pictures). There are no fewer than three Route 66 museums in Oklahoma, in Chandler (Chandler Route 66 Interpretive Center), Elk City (National Route 66 & Transportation Museum) and Clinton (Oklahoma Route 66 Museum).

The Chandler museum occupies the old Chandler Armory, which is an impressive building on its own, and “strikes at the heart of what we believe is the true meaning of Route 66.” A sign from the exhibit quotes Michael Wallis, from Route 66: The Mother Road.

“Even a brief drive along old Route 66 reminds us of what is missing on the superhighway—and in our lives. On the old road, every rise or dip, every side-road junction, every new direction gives rise to the feeling that we have actually been somewhere, that we are actually getting somewhere. In between, the ever-changing roadway helps us regain the experience of going, rather than of merely being transported from place to place.”

That’s after all what our trip was about: being somewhere, and going somewhere. Not just being transported from place to place. That’s what I had always loved about road trips, from the time I could open a road atlas and trace the routes we traveled. I still have the travel diary I kept on one of the trips, full of erudite entries like: “Entered Murphreesboro at 2:53 p.m. Left Murphreesboro at 2:55 p.m.” David and I have always loved road trips, too, and have taken many, often traveling secondary roads by choice, voluntarily giving up some of our time to just be somewhere on the way to somewhere else. And traveling the Mother Road—well, it was sort of like taking the mother of all road trips. Plenty of time to philosophize on those long, lonely stretches of concrete.

Elk City held another important distinction for me, singer-songwriter that I am. It’s the birthplace of Jimmy Webb (1946), my favorite songwriter. Nobody excels him in marrying lyrics and melody. I just had to have a picture taken at the first official Elk City sign. I asked a few people at the museum if there was a plaque anywhere commemorating his birth here, but never had any luck. Anyway, I tried, Jimmy. Here’s one traveler that’s very glad you were born to offer us all your own style of “traveling music.”

And so, the three museums behind us, we headed West for Amarillo on I-40. Mile after mile we watched the service drive criss-cross the expressway, noting the long segments of signature Portland cement and realizing that we were still shadowing the original route.

By this time, we realized that there was something else shadowing us, too. We were keeping tabs on our Matson shipping container every day. It had been delayed in leaving Detroit, but was finally put on a train there, and was traveling West with us—in many places along the same route. After crossing into New Mexico, we checked again, only to find out that the container had also stopped in Amarillo! How odd, this cat and mouse game we were playing with all that was left of our worldly possessions. Ever since we pointed the car West from Oklahoma City, we had been noticing the incredible number of freight trains trailing their innumerable cars of shipping containers, bustling over the rolling landscape loaded mostly with full-size, but also some half-size containers like ours. We read the names of the shipping companies, looking for a shiny container with the bright blue Matson label painted on the side—of course, it might not be shiny by now. The quiet little Route 66 of rural America had evidently become a huge transportation mega-corridor by the time it reached the Southwest, carrying people of all ilks and goods of all sorts along the same monotonous, mythic miles.

Neither of us would rate Texas as a high point in our trip. Except for the little Mexican place we found in Amarillo for dinner, and the iconic Cadillac Ranch just west of town, it was unremarkable. But New Mexico seemed different. The topography seemed to change, and so did “the feel,” whatever that means. We truly enjoyed our breakfast at the little town of Tucumcari—a bit “ghostish” on the edges—and our trip from I-40 to Santa Fe.

We had thought we had to leave 66 to drive up through Santa Fe, nicknamed “The City Different,” but we found out when we got there that the city actually lay on the original alignment of US 66 from 1926 to 1937. Inhabited for more than 10,000 years, the oldest Pueblo villages were built here around 900 AD. The state was ceded to the U.S. after the Mexican-American War in 1848 and became the 47th state in 1912, with Santa Fe its capital. City planners aimed to preserve the historic town and build a harmonious city using traditional styles and methods. They succeeded beautifully. With art and history everywhere we looked or walked, we put Santa Fe on our list of Places To Visit Again. It was wonderful. Only one day—yet light years—away from Amarillo.

It was impossible to escape the religious underpinnings of the area’s history—and its legends. We visited the mysterious “Miraculous Stair” at Loretto Chapel. Its winding helix ascends twenty feet, making two complete revolutions up to the choir loft without the use of nails or apparent center support. Since the Sisters of Loretto were not comfortable climbing a ladder to the loft, they had prayed for nine days (a novena) for St. Joseph to intervene on their behalf. At the end of the novena, a scruffy-looking stranger appeared and promised to build the staircase if given total privacy. This he did in three months, using non-native wood and just a few primitive tools, disappearing after the job was done.

The cross permeates both building designs and landscapes. We found several crosses in our beautiful room at the Hotel Chimayó, which lay off a quaint little bricked courtyard dotted with tables, chairs and plants. Over the courtyard loomed something you would not expect: a large, wooden cross. In the lobby, there were several icons and religious sculptures, including an exceptionally beautiful one of Our Lady of Guadalupe. It seemed that, as in so many other places on our trip, we were meant to be there.

We asked the young, friendly hostess about the exceptional number of crosses, and she replied that the hotel’s mission was to help inform the public of the history and culture of Chimayó, an agricultural community nestled in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains 30 minutes north of Santa Fe. Founded in the 17th century as a traditional fortified central plaza, the close-knit community of Chimayó has a rich history centered around time-honored artistic and culinary traditions, spiritual devotion and familial bonds.

A percentage of the hotel’s revenue is donated to the Chimayó Cultural Preservation Association, which archives historical photographs and documents, gathers oral histories, maintains historic buildings and increases community awareness. You might be able to guess where we decided to go upon leaving Santa Fe the next morning.

If our adventure was also a spiritual journey, then Chimayó was at the heart of it. We arrived at El Santuario de Chimayó pretty early. Leaning against the wall next to the parking lot were many, many crosses of all sizes, materials and colors. Maintained by the Sons of the Holy Family, there are two main historical buildings. The first is El Santuario itself, the small shrine that is built on the site of what many believe to be a miracle associated with the crucifix of “Nuestro Señor de Esquipulas” (Our Lord of Esquipulas). The sanctuary is also the site of “el pocito,” the small pit of Holy Dirt to which many attribute remarkable curative powers.

Within easy walking distance is the Shrine of Santa Niño de Atocha. Built in 1856, it is the destination of an Easter pilgrimage, originally begun by the US soldiers and sailors who prayed to the Santo Niño during the infamous Bataan Death March. Upon their return to the US, these servicemen began the pilgrimage to Chimayó to give thanks for their deliverance and in memory of their suffering. This tradition has now grown to encompass tens of thousands of individuals of all faiths and all walks of life. In fact, Chimayó is sometimes called the Lourdes of North America. Even the young lady at the Hotel Chimayó had told us that she also makes the pilgrimage.

We wandered around wide-eyed, mainly spending quiet time, meditating on what we saw and read, and praying. David bought a crucifix—very appropriate given the history of the place and the amazing number of crosses and crucifixes we’d seen in the last two days. As we left the sanctuary, we were deciding whether to bend down under the little stone archway and enter the tiny Holy Dirt chapel, when a woman seemed to appear out of the dark hall behind us and handed us two little plastic bags. So we went in, scooped up a couple spoonfuls of sand and put it in our bags. When we bent back under the archway, we looked for the woman to thank her, but she was nowhere to be seen. On the way out, we passed through hundreds of photos, letters, discarded crutches and other sorts of personal artifacts, remembrances and memorials lining the walls of the antechamber.

We had no idea that by detouring to Santa Fe we would bumble onto one of the holiest sites in the US. I suppose the city’s name itself should have been a clue. It does mean “Holy Faith,” after all. And our trip down the aging Route 66 was definitely a journey of faith for us. We knew God was leading us. Of that we had no doubt. But we had no idea what the destination would turn out to be, or what life at that destination might hold for us, and it was scary at times. Hebrews 11:1 says that “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” We were traveling and hoping, just like the pilgrims, just like the travelers of long ago, heading toward healing, or a land of plenty, or perhaps the end of the rainbow. Yearning for heaven. But the path is not always easy. There are plenty of twists and turns and hardships, and signs that are sometimes difficult to follow. We learn as Christians that Jesus is the Way, and that, just as his path led through a cross, so must ours. But we had not realized that even our trip down the Mother Road would lead through a cross.

As I pondered this and many other things like mysterious winding staircases built by carpenters that appear and disappear and Cherokee spirits walking the Trail of Tears, David pointed out another very interesting fact: this day—today—just happened to be the Feast of the Holy Cross. It was September 14.

If I don’t end soon, I’m going to be publishing a book here instead of a blog post. And really, I think I have already shared the true substance of our trip. There was much more, of course, but the themes were already set, and the truths just deepened as they played out in new amazing contexts and settings. It’s time to let the pictures and captions tell the story. Except to say that a strange thought had arisen in my mind as we reached Chimayó, and only kept growing as we experienced all the “places of being” in the days afterward.

Route 66 ended in California, right? “…Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino”—and finally Santa Monica. Yes, everyone knows that. We lined up and took pictures of all the “end of the route” signs and kiosks and everything, extending way out onto Santa Monica Pier, just like everyone else. But in my mind, I was starting to doubt that the Mother Road really ended there. How could it end there? How could a road so meaningful and challenging and inspiring come to an end before our journey was complete? I started to imagine that maybe—just maybe—Hawai‘i was somehow the symbolic terminus of Route 66. If Hawai‘i had been a state when the road was built, if the Pacific had been dry land, if people had known that the land of rainbows lay just a few thousand more miles to the West…

Davey saying goodbye to his meadow.

Jordan in his spiffy ride. Wish we could have taken this car to California!

Mom’s van all packed.

Mom all packed, too.

Davey took a shine to little Casey.

New pup – this was the last one of the litter.

Dee, Mom, Doreen. Thanks for the great time!

Davey at the high point of the arch – 630 feet.

The Gateway Arch. What an elegant structure.

You have to lean out a bit to see out of the horizontal portholes.

Going down?

This was our little cubicle on the way down. Yes, we had to bend over to get in.

A retired bridge, right at the beginning of Missouri’s portion of Route 66.

Trail of Tears monument. Closed when we visited, but hopefully will open again. Very thought-provoking place.

Just down the road from the Trail of Tears monument, an old cafe on what used to be a very popular road.

Here and there, you can see the Portland cement showing through later layers of asphalt.

An original bridge with brick and concrete deck. You have to pull off the road to see it now.

An old gas station on the route, now used for storage.

Where US 66 was established, Springfield, MO.

Route 66 timeline in the Springfield museum.

Note the pin stuck in the Big Island. We were the first!

A long stretch of original concrete.

A Sinclair gas station – a time capsule full of memorabilia.

A sign painted right on the pavement in front of the station.

Old vehicles were sprinkled around the property.

Many collectible items, including this US 66 iron bench.

Early “Main Street of America” map inside the station house.

Yes, 66 went through Kansas. Just a little corner of it.

A little old station right where the road turns south toward Oklahoma.

Driving on the old “ribbon road.”

US 66 Interpretive Center in Chandler, OK.

I thought the quote in this exhibit quite remarkable.

One of the thousands of murals we saw, this one in a suburb just west of Oklahoma City, where we had a great little lunch with free popcorn.

The National Route 66 Museum in Elk City (Jimmy Webb’s birthplace).

Cadillac Ranch, just west of Amarillo. Invented and built by a group of art-hippies imported from San Francisco called The Ant Farm.

Davey really wanted to see this landmark.

Another mural, this one on the ghostly edges of Tucumcari, NM.

We learned that Santa Fe was indeed on the original alignment of Route 66, until 1937.

A very civilized little snack in our own private (well, no one was around at least) at Hotel Chimayo.

Our room – full of crosses. Another little interesting detail. Take a look at the tile over the fireplace enclosure. It’s a honu (green sea turtle)!

And another interesting coincidence. The Westcotts (the new caretakers of Hawkswood) sent us this photo in a text message. We had left them a welcome card with a honu on it. Guess what was pictured on the side of the U-Haul truck they rented? And make sure to take a good look at the tagline!

Crosses were everywhere in Santa Fe.

The sanctuary of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, Santa Fe.

The mysterious spiral stair of the Loretto Chapel.

Crosses placed by pilgrims to El Santuario de Chimayo.

The small sanctuary itself. Built where a miracle happened.

Chapel of Santo Nino.

The meditative, memorial walk along the creek at Chimayo.

Wide open spaces on the way to Mesa Verde.

Spent the night in Cortez, CO, at a cool little place called the Retro Inn. Great place. And not only was it very retro, it was full of Bramalani colors. (Four of our main colors are pictured here!)

At about 8,500 feet high, evidence of a civilization built over 1,400 years ago. The cliff dwellings were a truly awesome site well worth driving out of our way for.

Over 600 cliff dwellings were built by these mysterious people of the high plains.

This is the most extensive of the cliff dwelling “villages.”

After climbing the cliff faces to build these amazing structures, they deserted them about 700 years later.

Me planting my keister on four states at once. We both wanted to see this one.

Another must-see place for both of us was the Grand Canyon. Neither of us had ever seen it. Well, an obliging pilot lowered the jet wing once so I and the other passengers could see it, but this was the first viewing at ground level.

David took his good camera with us. Something he doesn’t do very much anymore. These photos reflect a mixture of iPhone and Canon engineering.

So many viewpoints, and all amazing.

This is one of my favorites. The shadows of clouds kept moving upon the landscape, changing it before your very eyes.

Yes, folks. We were there.

Williams, AZ, just south of the Grand Canyon, was our stop for the night.

And what a fun stop Williams, AZ was! Very lively, and plenty of great places to eat, drink and buy kitsch.

We had breakfast at Goldie’s Route 66 Diner on our way out of Williams.

Luckily, Elvis just happened to put in an appearance and agree to be photographed with Davey. This one’s for you, Joe DuPont.

One of many roadside signs painted on anything that would stand still. If you know the song, you’ll realize that we are now getting to the end of the route.

Another detour, recommended by Lonnie and others: Hoover Dam, built in 1931-1935.

A view from the backside of the dam, showing the huge reservoir, and how high the water can go.

The water is quite a bit lower on the other side!

Detour through Las Vegas. A drivethrough was all we allowed, given the prices and our timetable.

Yes, Donny and Marie are still alive and kicking (and singing).

One of many, many freight trains we passed en route. Many were loaded with hundreds of shipping containers.

Probably the nicest wayside markers we saw during the trip, these were in San Bernardino, CA.

Had to hit Hollywood. I’d been there, but David hadn’t.

The Capitol Records building.

A star celebrating one of David’s favorites happened to be en route to the great little burger joint where we had lunch. I took a photo of Lassie’s, too, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

Probably the most fun wayside marker, this one’s rainbow-friendly, on Sunset Boulevard.

On the way through LA suburbs, he had to see the house where all the Brady Bunch shenanigans took place. We also drove down Laurel Canyon, a centre of popular music culture in Los Angeles during the 1960s. Joni Mitchell’s _Ladies of the Canyon_ was the first of her albums I ever heard (thanks to my first college roommate), and she’s been one of my “top 3” ever since.

We’d just seen Mildred Pierce recently, and the Colorado Street Bridge was featured in the new version of the film. This was part of Route 66, too.

The official end of Route 66, at the corner of Lincoln Boulevard and Olympic Boulevard.

Even though Santa Monica Pier is not the official end of Route 66, it is the most popularly celebrated (and marketed) endpoint.

We each had to have a picture taken here, a few thousand miles from where we started.

A famous collectibles shop filled with all things Route 66.

Love this custom-made awning on one of the shops on the pier!

Thanks to a friend from Good News Circle days, Doug Hubbard (aka Hug Dubbard), we didn’t have to hire a taxi from the Long Beach Matson pier to LAX.

Our little Accord, adorned with Matson shipping labels and ready for her voyage to the Orchid Isle.

Only a few bags to transfer to the airplane now.

Besides the wonderful humid air that greeted us when we deplaned at Hilo, we arrived at Bramalani to discover that the orchid we “planted” on the ohia tree by the pool had bloomed again.

A few weeks later, we’re alerted that our container has arrived, and it’s delivered to our door. It (and we) had traveled over 4,355 miles by truck, train and boat.

Here’s the shipping container tracking report. We played cat and mouse with it all across the country.

Our stuff, crammed into Bramalani’s much smaller living area. Now you can see for yourself why we had to downsize!

Our new chimes, this time including a daring Major 7th. It’s sister is hanging in Susie’s woods near Hawkswood.

Our trip down Route 66 finally ends in the land of rainbows. At least for now…