Day 3: Eureka to Springfield, Missouri

Springfield, Missouri. 11pm, and we’re all snuggled into the camper at a KOA Kampground just west of Springfield, Missouri after another long and busy, but interesting day. Today’s stats: 8am start, 8pm finish, 234 miles (pretty good, considering our 2-hour stop at Meramac Caverns, an hour for church in Marshfield, and other assorted adventures and detours along the way). Apologies if these daily summaries are too long-winded; if they’re boring, you can just stop here for now – but most of you already know I’m not much one for brevity.

Our day again began with some suspense and some disappointment. First, leaving the campground, the Skyliner balked, refusing to shift into gear (just like the "Green Hornet" back in the Springs!) The problem turned out to be low transmission fluid – but Tom was prepared with a reserve jug, and we were on our way in no time. Next came our breakfast debaucle: we had been excited to have breakfast at the Red Cedar Inn praised by the guidebooks as a longstanding Route 66 institution "with flavorful cookin’ and Ozark-friendly service, all under the original family’s careful management"; however, sadly, its web site informed us that its owners have put it up for sale. Plan B was to seek out the Diamond Café in Gray Summit, so named for the shape of the original building. Although the business has moved and changed names, we decided to track it down, and entered its current name, the Tri County Restaurant, into the GPS, which guided us straight and sure to... somebody’s house. Wah wah wah... Going with Plan C, we headed in to St. Clair and found the Lewis Café on South Main Street, which turned out to serve up hearty breakfasts quickly (for the first time yet on this trip). Not having planned to stop there, we asked the friendly waitstaff to tell us about their town, and they seemed a little stumped beyond its hot and cold water towers. We were all hilariously amused when one came back to report that she had been asking around, and nobody could think of anything special about their town. That got us to musing that many people probably would be in the same boat: when asked about the most unique or special characteristic of one’s hometown, or the one thing for which it is known, what would we respond? I imagine there are plenty of us who would be hard-pressed to put our finger on that one magical thing; for most of us, home is special because it’s home; because of the people, the shared experiences and memories; or because it’s just a great place to live or raise a family.

Anyway, we checked out (and of course snapped pictures of!) the hot & cold water towers on our way out of town en route to Stanton, home of the famous Meramac Caverns that have been aggressively advertised all along Route 66 since its inception. Apparently locals like to joke that if champion roadside entrepreneur Lester Dill hadn’t discovered the caverns, he would have dug them himself. The place was kitschy and the tour script probably hasn’t changed since the 1930s – Dad filled us in later on the correct explanation of a Foucault pendulum, of which there are only 16 in the world including the original in Paris – but it was worth the stop, from the story of how Jesse James and his brother hid out in, and escaped from, the caverns by using its underground waterways to their advantage, to the one about scenes from Lassie and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and an episode of People are Funny (the Honeymoon Suite) having been filmed there, to the "theater," containing the caverns’ oldest (75 million years) and largest (73 feet tall and I-don’t-remember-how thick and wide) formation, where Kate Smith once stood and sang her signature song, God Bless America, a recording of which the guide played to a light show as the finale of the hour-and-20-minute tour. The formations were numerous and spectacular in all 7 levels, with amazingly clear water, safely scored walkways, and plenty of fun lighting effects. I was impressed to see that they offer free kenneling for pets, mindful of the heat suffered in cars baking in the sun outside the cool caverns.

Today we traversed Bourbon (the water tower of which has delighted tourists for years), Cuba (where we stopped to photograph the vintage Wagon Wheel Motel), Rolla (where we found the giant fiberglass A&W Hamburger Family, all handling giant fiberglass burgers, though only the father still hoists his frosty mug – and the entire family had been relocated from a downtown building to a container car along the I-44 frontage road).

This day’s drive took us along smooth blacktop, most of which closely paralleled Interstate 44. The foliage and topography reminded me most of the midwest, or on toward New England, with rolling hills, forests, and fields; plenty of green and interesting scenery, by contrast with yesterday’s unbroken flat farmland. Route 66 through the Ozarks (which, we learned, is a contraction of the French name Aux Arc) wound over and around gently-rolling hills, through forests and fields, across rivers and through rocky cuts, never far from the straight-shooting interstate. Some of it was 4-lane still with original curbing intact, and we crossed several still-majestic bridges built in the early 1920s, like the one at Devils Elbow, just beyond the 90-foot Hooker Cut that once was the deepest road cut in Missouri. In the afternoon, hankering for an ice cream treat and figuring we would just roll up at a random local ice cream parlor in the next town, we were out of luck, passing through lonely town after deserted former town, one after another, sporting boarded-up businesses, the dilapidated despair of abandoned homes, or the lonely emptiness of grassy patches growing up through concrete that once had been the foundation of one home or business or another along the once-thriving Route 66. All of this really hit home the essence of what has happened to so many of the families, businesses, and entire communities along what was once a major thoroughfare, where many family fortunes just dried up and blew away like so much refuse along the interstate roaring past less than a mile away.
I was especially touched by the story of ill-fated Arlington, on the banks of the Little Piney River at the end of an access road north of I-44 and west of Exit 176. There, stranded on a dead end are the abandoned remnants of John’s Modern Cabins and lonely Vernell’s Motel. According to the guidebooks, this gem of a resort site was cut off by earlier relocations of US 66, then by I-44, and then further isolated by the realignment of I-44 – from which we could still see the little berg, standing forlornly on a hilltop overlooking a sweeping panoramic view of a beautiful valley spreading out below rolling green hills along a gently winding river. It was easy – and heartbreaking – to imagine the hopes and dreams that must have ridden exuberantly in the minds of those who originally built up the area, with good reason: it’s an idyllic setting in fairytale-like surroundings – and how could they have known then the multiple cruel blows that fate would strike in re-routing their access roads and their livelihood not once, not twice, but several times over?

You had to sympathize with such folks, and it was hard not to feel mildly resentful toward the trappings of civilization that we all embrace as progress – like straight, safe, fast roads, for instance. When our minds and appetites turned toward ice cream right around the time we passed a Dairy Queen, I disdainfully swore it off as a chain place, to be avoided... but we were about to be reminded of exactly why such chains succeed: supply, demand, and the ability to have those match. We had just left the Devil’s Elbow area farther along the Piney River, and I felt certain that we would find a charming spot for our afternoon snack in one of the approaching bergs. I was picturing a soda fountain, a granite counter and silver-spoked stools, and maybe even a jukebox. Not so. Hopefully we approached – and left – Waynesville (with its big boulder sticking out of a hillside painted like a giant green frog or turtle, and gas-station-cum-nursery cleverly named "Every Blooming Thing"), Buckhorn with its giant bowling pin, Laquey (whose general store – or even its remnants – we couldn’t locate), Hazelgreen (featuring a few houses on stilts and a little church perched on the edge of a steep drop, shortly before one of the 1923 bridges, this one carrying Route 66 across the Gasconade River), and on to Lebanon. Touted as one of the guidebook author’s "homes away from home," boasting the famous 1946 Munger Moss Motel, Wrinks Mart, Bell Restaurant, and a new Route 66 Museum, we just knew we would find a delicious diner serving frozen desserts there... but no! When we stopped at two of those institutions to ask where we might find ice cream locally, we were directed by both to a strip off the interstate business loop, where we could find DQ, Arby’s, etc. – when I asked whether there were any local places that served ice cream, I was flatly told no. So we eventually wound up at a Dairy Queen, lamenting the astonishing lack of local flavor... But at the same time forced to acknowledge that it must be difficult, if not impossible, for mom-and-pop businesses to compete with giant fast-food chains. We, as if symbolic of what has happened to the communities along the Mother Road in the heartland bypassed by fast-paced, mainstream America, were forced into the conformity of fast-food chains in order to enjoy the simple pleasure of ice cream on a hot afternoon.

In the meantime, we wound our way through Phillipsburg, past the now-defunct Niangua Junction Store, over a small green-girder bridge over the Niangua River just after a former cottage-style gas station, and on to Marshfield, in which we were keen to see the quarter-scale model of the Hubble Space Telescope. We found it prominently displayed in the town square adjacent to the courthouse in Dr. Edwin Hubble’s hometown. After admiring and photographing it, we decided to check on whether there might be a Saturday evening service at a local Catholic church, and we were in luck: God (and Garmin) led us to Holy Trinity Catholic Church, just a few blocks off the town square, where mass would begin at 5:30. (It was then 5:15). Perfect! We were all a bit bedragged from the road, but figured God wouldn’t mind, and the people at the little parish seemed friendly and welcoming (including the new priest, who was saying what may have been his first mass there, announcing a parish picnic and his own installation scheduled for tomorrow afternoon)... although we were surprised and amused reflecting over the announcement that "during this flu season, we are recognizing a reverent bow" during the Kiss of Peace (and, of course, no wine at communion). Interesting – and surprisingly progressive – that the church is paying heed to biology; I can recall being taught that we didn’t have to worry about germs at church (in the context of us as children wondering and worrying about the spread of germs through the communal chalice). Apparently the swine flu is cause for further reflection; probably a wise thing.

From Marshfield we made our way to Strafford, in which a Route 66 festival was in full swing this weekend – it appeared slightly more busy than Atlanta’s fall festival yesterday – but we decided to press on to Springfield, calling ahead for reservations at a KOA Kampground.
Uncle Tom specifically muttered something when it happened about not wanting this next part all over the internet, so this part might get cut during our group editing in the morning – but it definitely bears mention at least for my private journal. Less than a mile from the campground, we received a walkie-talkie call that the Skyliner had run out of gas. Tom urged us to go ahead and check in at the campground before coming back for him and Don, so we obliged (although this was when our last shouting incident of the day occurred – see below). Leaving an irate Dad to set up the camper with Mom, I gunned the pickup back to meet the uncles, who had already engaged in great self-help: Don had set out on foot, and as it turned out, he spotted an open garage, walking over to which he found a guy willing to help us out. The kindly guy filled a big gas jug for us and would have sent us on our way with it full of gas; he wasn’t asking for anything in return, but Tom gladly handed him a $20, and we came back to return his gas jug and so that he could admire the Skyliner, which he had said he’d love to do. He seemed genuinely in awe (and in the know, a self-proclaimed "Ford fanatic"), picking up his 5-year-old son to show him its engine, about which he seemed amazingly knowledgeable. He introduced himself as Kevin Barrett, having just started his shoestring business (Barrett’s Garage) 8 months ago.

Whatever circumstances prompted him to start a business in this time of economic crisis – and whatever determination enabled him to make it a success so far – must be some of the "lingering endurance" used by the guidebooks to describe the Missourian people; something handed down from Pony Express riders and the redoubtable Lindbergh. Our book contained an interesting description of the Missourians’ sense of humor, allowing a state with heavy interests in manufacturing, shipping, and the aerospace industry to declare with a straight face that it is also a world leader in the production of corncob pipes.

We perhaps saw a little of that dry sense of humor (or was it resigned stoicism?) in some side entertainment while Kevin Barrett was generously helping us. A couple of teenagers were busily lighting off fireworks, nearly right under, and certainly pointing at, the cars. Don said that when he first had walked up, they were doing it inside the garage where Kevin was transferring gasoline from one tank to another, which made Don a little nervous when he was asked to participate in that process. When they were shooed outside, the teenagers continued lighting off their fireworks just outside the building next to, pointed at, and almost right underneath our vehicles at times. We were alarmed as we nervously observed the sparks and shooting fireworks in such close proximity to the cars and open gasoline – and these kids barely paused between the succession of fireworks – but Kevin merely shrugged, "Ah, teenagers." And while the fuel transfer was going on (he nearly filled a 5-gallon jug for us), a little boy came running up and told him excitedly, "The stove’s on fire!" I thought at first he must be playing a game, as Kevin nodded as if in explanation, "My 5-year-old" – but he didn’t seem amused, quickly handing the gas siphon over to Tom and Don, hurriedly asking if they could take over and taking off sprinting over to the adjacent house. I followed him a little way out into the yard, half-watching for flames in the windows. A few moments later he returned, explaining casually, "Ah, just a grease fire." He apparently is accustomed to putting out fires – literally – and our little emergency seemed not to phase him in the least. We all wished him well and thanked him profusely before returning to the campground. He has the right attitude: although Tom wound up paying him, he clearly hadn’t helped us out with any expectation of payment, instead doing so simply because helping out passing travelers in trouble was the right thing to do, and that’s how he rolls. What a nice guy!!

For the most part we have so far been pleasantly surprised by the signage helping us find our way along the sometimes disjointed segments of the old Route 66. We did encounter some difficulty in following the guidebook directions to one of today’s attractions, which at one point led us off on a series of wild-goose-chase tangents that could easily have been avoided by the use of a correct preposition, or the simple addition of some indication – any indication – of distance (for instance, some hint as to whether "along here" meant "20 feet from" the just-listed sight, or another 5 miles). So we went on a merry chase seeking out an ornate rock arch gateway honoring the Trail of Tears (the forced migration of the Cherokees). We very nearly created our own trail of tears of a different sort, with all the consternation and frustration attendant on trying to follow the poorly-written directions (I had to take serious issue with the grammar used by the guidebook author). We wound up exploring quite a bit of (incidentally beautiful) countryside between Jerome and the Little Piney Creek River between it and Arlington, much to no one’s amusement: after several of these fruitless expeditions over gravel roads, Mom, Dad, and I rejoined the Skyliner to find Tom and Don standing beside it. Don had his hand on his hip in an expression of impatience, and Tom’s (probably only half-joking) comment was, "Lori, the next time you decide to turn off like that, just let me know and I’ll find a biker bar to sit down and have a beer while you go." Things were far more heated inside the truck, where Dad swore at me and I yelled back; good times. Miraculously, we did eventually find it, hidden away in some trees almost adjacent to (though buried in foliage behind) a few falling-down cabins that are all that remain of the Stony Dell Resort a couple of miles west of Jerome, barely half a mile along the frontage road east from Exit 172 (past which we had driven almost immediately after exiting the highway from a short stretch on which Route 66 shares the interstate pavement).

Our nerves frazzled and frayed thin after that episode, we had more to come later, with plenty of family frustration expressed loudly and angrily between Dad and me. We laughed about it later when we repeated the tale to Tom and Don, with all of them insisting that I need to remember that I’m traveling with senior citizens: apparently they don’t appreciate, nor respond well to, someone sitting next to them urgently gesturing and shouting commands like, "Stop now!" and then becoming exasperated while whizzing past Rosati’s remaining roadside grape stands (I pouted over missing them as if they were the top and only attraction along the entire length of Route 66... Marilyn, does that bring back memories of "the good old days" of our roadtrip through Germany and Scandinavia – particularly Skagen?!), or "Turn left here!" (this caused us to come to a complete stop in the campground) or "Just pull over and stop right here!" (which, when Dad thought better than to pull up next to a barful of bikers, led to his stopping the whole rig right in the middle of the road at the end of the bridge at the Devils Elbow, probably causing some anxiety in an oncoming driver who may have worried about a head-on collision as he exited the bridge) and expecting an immediate reaction. After hearing all that, Tom and Don tactfully invited me to drive with them tomorrow. In the meantime, we all had a good laugh about it over wine and Route 66 root beer (we finally found some, in the KOA Kamp store; yay!).

Once the wine was flowing and tongues loosened, it was fun to listen to Dad, Tom, and Don reminisce about long-ago days back home in Stephen, remembering with some amusement Grandpa’s antics going out with Fr. Beaver from the church in town (the two of them apparently had a good time together, including one two-week stint visiting all of Fr. Beaver’s priest friends in the Dakotas), and his annual homemade holiday Everclear marachino cherry punch mix (the goal was to get the cherries that had marinated in the Everclear for a week beforehand – which required drinking a lot of Everclear first). They tossed out the idea of an annual Stich brothers’ outing, though that idea might not sound appealing right now to their wives. Poor Dianne had a long day today; she’s in the process of moving her Dad to a home, and not overly amused or enthused about Don skipping out of town while that’s happening. She seemed to blame Tom for luring Don away, and Dad and I thought it was fine that Tom was in trouble and not us. :)

Another evening of cheese, crackers, wine, and other assorted munchies before bedtime, and showers all around (the campground restrooms were gorgeous, putting some residential ones to shame, with immaculate tiling and even a beauty-salon-style hair dryer with a comfortable-looking chair!), so we’ll all feel fresh in the morning for what’s sure to be another great day on the Mother Road.