Lincolns and More

Last week we took a little spin down to Louisburg, Kansas where we saw a large RV park out in the middle of nowhere.  Near the entry to the park was a little "strip mall' constructed in more or less Old West style, wooden buildings and so on.  A few stores occupying same but on the south end of the complex we espied a garage, front door open and a gleaming '57 Thunderbird facing the world.  We had to stop.

We got out of our car and walked over to the building.  We entered and were greeted by the owner who clearly enjoyed having visitors ogle his workmanship, for he is a quality restorer of classic cars.  The conversation enlightened us considerably.  The T-Bird he had just finished for a customer, having redone a previous restoration and correcting the problems therewith.  He declared it now "better than new" and I don't doubt it.  Here is a rather poor picture of the 'Bird, as it is severely back-lighted.

Next to the 'Bird was a '64 Lincoln Continental 4-door convertible.  I expressed considerable interest in the car as I drove a Continental for six years in the sixties and early seventies.  Mine was not a convertible.  The gentleman advised me to take a look outside at the south end of the building, as there was a completed Continental out there which he had just finished and taken out.

Next to this Lincoln was a '65 Mustang, a marque which I also owned.  I bought mine new in1965.

This is what we saw out under the trees, my old heart-throb!  Isn't she beautiful?

Why?

I am a fan of air conditioning.  Willis Carrier is my hero.  Yet I ask "Why?" is this wonderful convenience so often and so severely abused?  This is primarily in reference to public spaces.  How you use your unit in your own home  or in your automobile is  your business.  Enjoy.  But it is essential, at least in the Midwest where summer temperatures typically hover in the nineties that one carry a jacket or sweat shirt with him if he is planning a foray into a restaurant or public office.

Following a number of wonderful days in Kansas where the temperatures were often in the low nineties we headed homeward.  Typical Midwestern day, we stopped in Springfield, Illinois for an evening repast.  We were seated eight feet, literally eight feet, from the device pictured here.  Observe that  it is set calling for 70^oF and that the thermometer component records 70^oF.  I had to get up, go outside in the ninety degree heat, walk to my vehicle and get a jacket so that I could partake of my meal.  Hands were still cold, but my heart kept beating.

Weekend Adventures, Part 2

2.  Adventures in eating, continued

We checked into our hotel and took a bit of rest before calling the elder brother of BBBH.  As usual, his son had to roust him from bed so he could take the call, but see how you do when you are 93.  We invited him to have supper with us and we agreed on a pick-up time of 7:30.  Glenn was ready when we arrived at his house.  We agreed on a location and away we went for the evening adventure!  His son drove along in his car, saying then we would not have to make the return trip to their house.

Where did we go?  We chose a very popular chain restaurant most often found hard by a major highway, you know, the one with rocking chairs on the front porch.  And two hundred thousand kitchy items for sale inside.  But again, I digress.

Following the wait in the store-- and we all know the design here: sign in, get suckered into buying stuff you don't need while you wait.  We were finally seated, orders placed.  After a w h i l e our server returned with the food.  BBBH got what she ordered.  Glenn's order looked to be essentially what he called for, but the scrambled eggs looked to be a scrambled egg.  "I said 'eggs,'" he said.  "Well, they gave you one egg."  John stated the obvious.

John got what  he ordered.  I got my turnip greens in a small bowl and my coleslaw in a small bowl and a biscuit on a full-sized dinner plate.  We started to eat, I thinking that my meal would arrive presently.  Finally after exhibiting entirely too much patience, I signaled the wait person and asked, "Where's my fish?"  "Hunh? she replied.  "I ordered fried catfish."  She turned and walked away.  I finished my green stuff, which was good, by the way, and still no fish.  I filed this complaint with a manager, young man very apologetic.  He soon had my fish delivered.  Good thing everyone else had eaten by then, for the aroma nearly sent all my dinner companions into the next room, and I was less than pleased.  I looked at the four sorry pieces of "fish" on the plate, managed to eat most of one of them and when the waitress brought the check she asked if I wanted a take-out box.  "Yes, please."
I carried the remaining three pieces out in the box, paid the bill.  The cashier, as  they are  all  instructed to do, asked, "Was everything okay!"  I said not a mumbling word as I handed her the cash.

I dumped the fish in a waste receptacle.

Friday had not been a good day for us in the comestibles department.

 The view from our hotel room.

Weekend Adventures, part 1

 1.  Adventures in eating.

We loaded a few things in the Escape and made our escape from our humdrum existence, on the road and headed out!  About an hour down the road we were hungry and we were on the outskirts of a small city which we seldom visit.  On our left we spotted an eatery billing itself as a smokehouse.  Immediately I thought of Texas barbecue and a hankering for brisket overcame me; we wheeled into the parking lot.

We were greeted inside by pleasant surroundings and a pleasant hostess who showed us immediately to a table.  Our cheerful young waitress soon served our water and we placed our orders.  The food arrived, we ate.  I have little more to say than that it  was not the brisket I had in Rockport.

 Wall decor

BBBh was not offended but she did think this was, shall we say, not necessary.

Back on the road we soon found ourselves in a neighboring state.  Lots of singing and pleasant conversation and a couple hours later I remarked that I had had only two cups of coffee all day.  BBBH allowed as how she could stand a cup as well, so at the next exit, which promised only a gas station convenience store, we pulled off.  While she looked at trinkets and so on I ordered.  "Do you serve coffee here?"  "Sure! the high school girl said.  She turned, grasped something, and came back to me with three K-cup type gizmos in her hands.  "Which would you like?"  I looked behind her then and saw the one-cup coffee maker.  I picked my poison, told her two cups.

While the first cup was in the making, BBBH returned to the room.  "Where's the coffee?"  "It's brewing."  I will not repeat the remainder of the conversation, for you don't have the time.  Two cups were finally delivered at a cost of two bucks per.

BBBH doped hers up, as  is her wont, and went to a table.  One sip later, *sputter:sputter*  "Gag!  That is the worst coffee I ever tasted!"  She grabbed up the paper cup and headed to the counter.  I stayed at table drinking my coffee.  (I eventually managed to consume about a third of it.)  What went on at the counter I saw from the corner of my left eye.  She demanded her money back, asserting what she had already told me.  This of course required recourse to a "manager" who turned out to be a year older  than the server and and not nearly so bright, but I digress.  BBBH did get "her" refund, which she pocketed without regard to the fact that I bought in the first place.

We arrived at our destination an hour later.

Birthdays and Highways

The first time I drove this road in Idaho and Oregon it was designated "I-80N."  Actually, the first few times I drove the route there was no Interstate System and the highway, a two-lane, was US 30.  Man, I am old.   Well, yes, that is why I posted this highway logo, for I turn 84 today.

When this western branch of I-84 was on the drawing board it was designated I-82.  But delays and one thing and another ultimately resulted in another route  being so named.  Thus when the powers that be decided to scuttle the I-80N name they chose I-84, which totally flies in the face of the south to north naming system, for I-82 lies north of I-84.

That's not right.

If you need further explication, look it up.

   Yep; I lumber along toward the 85th!

California, Fourth Trip

This one was a road trip.  Mom, Dad, kids in the car-- you may be familiar with the drill.  The vehicle was a '41 Chrysler Royal club coupe, a car with but two doors but adequate seating for six.  Remember, no seat belts, no kiddie seats and, which became an issue eventually, no air conditioning.

"Are we there yet?"

Actually, no.  It was a long trip from Colorado Springs to Ventura, US 85-87 to Route 66, on to Southern California.

A few memories:

I remember somewhat the anticipation of seeing the Petrified Forest and the disappointment I felt, but did not express, when upon passing through all I saw was a bunch of rocks-- no trees.  What kind of forest is that?

I seem to recall jogging south from Flagstaff and driving through Oak Creek Canyon and being duly impressed with the town of Jerome, clinging as it was to the mountainside, clothes flapping on the lines which were on pulleys so the laundry could be reeled in.  I mean, there were no yards.

 The drive from Needles to Barstow was hot (remember, no AC) and interminable.  Oh, not really interminable. I think it was in Barstow that I saw my first date palm.  Quite impressive.

I will make no attempt to retrace the visits to the grandparents, the uncles and aunts, cousins, and so on around Ventura, San Fernando, Riverside and points thither and yon.

An amusing recollection from the return trip is this.  My mother, who was in her late thirties at the time, had never driven an automobile.  Somewhere in the desert in New Mexico, the parents, probably mostly Dad, decided that Mama should learn to drive, and here was the ideal spot for that!  Dad pulled over and the parents exchanged seats.  Mom actually got the car into the driving lane and headed down the road.  She may have driven as much as fifteen or twenty miles, Dad instructing her the full time, you understand, and soon my little mother was a nervous wreck, pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car and got out, walked around to the other side the vehicle.  So far as I know Mother never got behind the wheel of a car again in her life.

I thought I had posted an article some years back describing the most memorable part of this journey, but no, apparently I did not, for I cannot find it.  That will require another post.

California Again: Trip Three

In 1944 we moved to Colorado Springs but Mother's family was still in California so another trip was planned, this one a bit different from the two previous trips.

The war was still on and rationing was still in effect. Gasoline was severely limited.  But Dad had a "C" coupon due to his occupation.  He had a friend in the same line of work who had the same rationing status and he had a 1937 Chevrolet.  He and his wife wanted to make a trip to California but there was the gasoline issue.  The parents decided that Mom and the kids could make the trip with Mr. and Mrs. Meyers and by sharing gasoline rationing stamps they calculated the trip was possible.

So three adults, two children along with luggage took off in the old Chevy, California bound!  And just how was this trip memorable?  In order to conserve fuel, Mr. Meyers calculated that a speed limit of 35 miles per hour would best serve that end.  Therefore from Colorado Springs to Southern California and back, the car never exceeded a speed of 35.

It was a long trip.

First Trip to California #T

I recall four trips from Colorado to California during the 1940s.  Details are sketchy, but vignettes were impressed deeply in my memory.  I would have been about seven years of age during the first of these trips, thirteen at the time of the last.

The first journey was from Canon City to Los Angeles via the Santa Fe.  This would have been, I think, in 1941.  We, the family I mean, boarded the train at Pueblo and traveled through Raton Pass into New Mexico, and this provided one of the most vivid memories of the trip.  The train was drawn by a steam engine.  The Super Chief War Bonnet powered by diesel electric also ran this route but we were not Hollywood celebrities or movers and shakers.

At Trinidad helper engines were added to the train to assist it in making the grade and a very steep grade it is at 3.5%, which my seven-year old self did not know.  I looked it up.  The locomotives were chuffing up the grade, smoke pouring copiously into the atmosphere.  We discovered that on certain curves one could look out the window of our car and see the engine in the rear pushing us along.  I can see it yet.  Mallet, Dad said.  Mallay, I  heard, which is the pronunciation of the word.

Santa Fe Station, Raton, New Mexico

 Other bits of memory from this trip include the red peppers hanging on the sides of the houses around Bernalillo and across New Mexico; the more-or-less interminable transit of the desert lands between Albuquerque and Los Angeles; the arrival at Union Station in L.A. where we were met by the Uncle and the reunion with Mother's family began!

Fourth Trip to California

A Quick Trip

A drive to Mt. Vernon, IL, a funeral and visiting with relatives.
A night's sleep, a drive home through rain, rain, rain.
Elapsed time: 32 hours, 15 minutes.Condition: Exhausted.

Frame of mind:  Thanks be to God for travel mercies and safe arrival home.

A Viennese Afternoon

 

Stephansplatz in the heart of Wien is a happening place.  Nearby on Graben is the imposing column pictured here, The Vienna Pestsaule, memorializes the victims of the Plague of 1679 and celebrates the survivors, among them Emperor Leopold I who upon his return to the city after the disaster had passed ordered the construction of this thing.  Numerous plague columns across Europe were modeled after this one.

One observation I made as I traveled across Western Europe was that Europeans had a penchant for committing statuary.  The artist in this case did that with a vengeance, stacking stuff, well you see it.

Strolling the platz is fine entertainment for tourists who I am sure are an impediment to the daily chores of the busy Viennese who have to dodge the tourists in the pursuit of their endeavors.  Of course we contributed our share of roadblocking, stopping and staring at all the wonders.

Street performers were fairly common and one could be entertained for a long time were he to stop and appreciate each artist or actor.  And one afternoon stop we did for there under an awning pitched in the middle of the street stood a very nice looking young woman in an artistic pose.  There she stood, stock still, naked as Eve before the fig leaf apron.

She was being painted by an artist.  No, he was not painting a picture of her on a canvas: he was painting her.  Literally.  I closed my mouth, picked up my eyeballs and inserted them back into their sockets.

The stream of Wieners continued to flow quickly past, but trust me, there was a crowd of tourists gathered here.  We had with us two boys, ages fifteen and sixteen. Suffice it to say, they were transfixed, rendered immobile.  And speechless.  The adults were eventually able to prod the boys into moving along.

Word of the day:  impediment

An Evening in Vienna #T

 

We had all strolled down Dorotheegasse together.  The boys were urging one more adventure.  It was nine in the evening, though, and we had been on our feet all day.   Ellie and I held out for cashing in and heading for the pension.  And thus it was that we split up, they to their adventure, we back to our hotel, or so we supposed.  We had been in Wien three days and except for an excursion to Schloss Schönbrunn we had scarce been farther than a kilometer from the hotel.

We had "done" the Kunsthistoriche, had had Sacher torte at The Sacher Hotel.  We had explored the Stephansdom and its immediate environs. This evening we had witnessed a performance of The Wiener Sängerknaben     We knew our way around.  And we were young, Ellie and I, in our fifties.

So we walked.  And walked.  And as foot traffic and vehicular traffic became increasingly lighter there began to arise in our consciousness the awareness that somewhere we had made a wrong turn.  Then soon we were gripped by the cold reality that we had no idea where we were nor any notion as to how to get where we wanted to be.  And we walked.  Ellie, who seldom complained about anything, remarked that her feet were beginning to hurt.  "Killing me," I think she said.

And we walked, turning from one street into another, alleys really at this point.  Wound in and out of lanes, increasingly more narrow and now completely deserted.  Dark, dismal, and eerie.  Then we found ourselves staring at the Donaukanal.

That at least suggested that we needed to be going the other direction.

So we walked.

And eventually we turned into a street from which we could see the spire of St. Stephansdom.

And thus we found our way home, arriving there long after our cohorts had called it a day and had returned to the digs.

Good times.

See also Spanish Riding School

Word of the day: walk: it's what you do. 

Getting There the Roundabout Way

Hamilton County has committed circular mayhem.

Guess which roundabout spun us into the wrong direction.  Yeah, I don't know either.

Our destination was the white building in the lower left-hand corner of the picture.  We got there safely, negotiating the twists and turns with full visibility of the area.  Coming home in the dark in the rain via the pitifully signed mess seen above we were able to turn a thirty-minute drive into an hour of frustration.  Imagine that.

 Charlie took his car keys, left his home for an outing
A little country drive, never for a moment doubting
That he'd have a good time, or failing that
He'd surely have a productive time so he didn't take his hat.

Well, Charlie entered a roundabout, a traffic circle don't you see
And the next thing he knew he was headed out to Tennessee
Not a destination he had in mind but he was soon spun
Into another traffic circle and now he's on the run. 
But to where? 
Charlie doesn't know but soon

Another roundabout will spin him toward the moon.
If you should have occasion to visit Fishers-Carmel
Be sure to hire a navigator: a GPS won't tell.

Charlie's car is twisting, turning
Charlie's heart and head are slowly burning
If you should see Charlie on the roads of HC
Please give him a shout out, "Charlie: follow me!"*

*With apologies to Jacqueline Steiner and Beth Lomax Hawes and to the Kingston Trio. 

Image: Google Earth.  This mess occurs at the intersection of I-69, 146th St. and 136th. St and a few others for good measure.  Oh, yes; Hamilton was able to figure out how to make two parallel roads intersect.  And that was all productive farm land a few years ago.