Day 5: Claremore to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

14 September. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Executive summary: 8:45am start, 9pm finish, 169 miles. Claremore, Verdigris, Catoosa, Tulsa, Red Fork, Oakhurst, Bowden, Sapulpa, Kellyville, Stroud, Arcadia, and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. A varied day of vintage sights seen under rainy skies, emotionally powerful reminders of the impact of violence on our world, and the milk of humankindness among far-flung friends. Hearty, delicious meals, pictures of so many bridges that the rest of the group began teasing me about it, heartrending reflections on senseless violence... and a wonderful visit with friends.

[Note: We had no internet access at the luxury (not) digs at Claremore’s Will Rogers Downs & Casino, so apologies for the tardy postings. Love the comments; keep ‘em coming! :)]

14 September. Oklahoma City. Nearly midnight. I had read that in Oklahoma as nowhere else, art and architecture go hand in hand with folk history, down-home hospitality, and the sweetness of the green-on-red land, which today seemed to bear that out tenfold. The birthplace of old Route 66, Oklahoma – and its people – is well worth knowing. One of the guide books advised, "Take some time here. Let the people of Oklahoma get to know you, too." And that we would do, for sure.

We slept last night to the steady sound of rain on the roof of the camper. Not unpleasant – even cozy – but we woke to a cool, gray, drizzly morning, leaving me impatient to get on the road: I much preferred to get going to see things (even if it meant braving wet weather to do so) than to sit around a cold, soggy, gray, un-atmospheric campground.

None too soon, we were on our way. First up were the not-quite-twin bridges in Verdigris, immediately after Route 66 crossed over the McClellan-Kerr Navigation System, a 445-mile waterway linking Tulsa to the Gulf of Mexico (due to the navigation system, the tiny Port of Catoosa is billed as the furthest inland seaport in the United States!), next to an impressive railroad bridge. The "almost" twin bridges cross the former Verdigris River (now Bird Creek); the 1936 and 37 spans are respectively 24 and 28 feet wide, and are nicknamed Felix and Oscar by locals. Nearby, we tried to find a 1913 one-lane bridge along a detour on the old Ozark Trail, without success, though we drove back and forth past the Arrowood Trading post along it, so we decided it must have been updated. We did find the nearby blue whale, the grinning, concrete-cetacean star of a former swimming hole, now renovated as a park with swimming prohibited (although, had it been warmer, I might have been tempted to plunge off of its tail or slide down its chutes into the water).

Entering Tulsa, we stopped at an Oklahoma welcome center ostensibly to scoop up some Route 66 information, but wound up staying more than 30 minutes, after a tour busload of senior citizens arrived and inundated the single woman on duty manning the information desk. However, we did pick up some maps and brochures – as well as the unwelcome news that today’s planned breakfast destination was now closed. However, she recommended Talley’s Café at Yale; we followed her advice, and it turned out to be terrific: an authentic diner straight out of the 50s, in the heart of old Tulsa, where we had our biggest, best breakfast yet en route to paying a visit to The Golden Driller at the fairgrounds, a 76-foot tribute to Tulsa’s oil heritage (it was formerly the "Oil Capital of the World"). Driving through Tulsa, we admired its abundant art deco architecture, including the streamline-style Tulsa Monument Building east of Utica, the colorful terra cotta tiles of the Boston Avenue Church downtown, and the Blue Dome gas station on a pre-1932 segment at 2nd and Elgin that was worth a little extra trouble to find. Apparently it is such a Tulsa institution that the neighborhood around it is known as the "Blue Dome District."

Many remnants of gas stations, burger joints, Mom-and-Pop motels, and other now-defunct businesses littered our path today through Red Fork (where we saw Ollie’s Station Restaurant, decorated in a train motif), Oakhurst, Bowden (its Frankhoma Pottery shop not nearly as picturesque without the row of vintage cars featured in a photo book we had bought yesterday at Gay Parita), Sapulpa (giant Coke bottle and Happy Burger, the oldest hamburger stand in Sapulpa – since 1937 – a restored trolley car and caboose at the offices of the Tulsa-Sapulpa Union Railway Company on Dewey, and repainted "ghost signs" (old advertisements) on downtown walls), Kellyville (where Tom and I followed the Tank Farm Loop option which, though bumpy in places, was worth the drive, crossing a 1925 iron bridge with its red brick deck over Rock Creek, passing a defunct drive-in, and curving under a narrow railroad trestle), and Bellvue (featuring a building with two boats jutting from its front). We couldn’t find the giant penguin in Bristow, missed the turnoff for the DePew Loop, and decided to skip the "shoe tree loop" (figuring we didn’t need to see the tree into which lots of people have thrown shoes) and the rocky, gravelly, muddy Ozark Trail Option from Stroud – though we did see the famous Rock Café (an historic 1939 café built with original rock dug up for Route 66 construction) and Davenport’s Gar Wooly’s Food-n-Fun, decorated with old gas pumps and signs and the Old 1933 Texas Co. Station. The 1937 stone Armory in Chandler looked like an amazing building; it apparently is being renovated to become a Route 66 Interpretive Center. We wanted to see the bird-topped totem pole supposedly at Pioneer Camp near Wellston, but, finding the place long closed, with no sign of a totem, we nonetheless took the detour through little Wellston, deciding that our idea of "nice little downtown" differs slightly from that of our guidebook’s author.

The group started getting petulant today about the many photo-op stops, complaining that we’ve seen enough bridges, and starting to tease me when we drove over some nondescript bridge that maybe we should stop and take a picture. It does seem that at every turn we find another 19-teens or 1920's structure spanning some waterway or other, which probably back in the day was how it was determined where the roadbed would go. Many of them are incredibly picturesque and/or have some interesting story associated with them; however, at risk of sounding like Ronald Reagan, I do have to admit that they are all starting to look somewhat alike.

We finally reached Arcadia, after passing the ruins of the old Little Brothers Station, an historic marker about the Land Run of 1889, the Route 66 Rock of Ages Hay Farm, and the remains of an old stone service station that once was home to counterfeiters, then taking a mile-long detour that is on the National Register of Historic Places; the east portion is 1928 Portland Concrete; the west section (paved in 1929) is blacktop over concrete, with pristinely-preserved curbs. In Arcadia we easily found its centerpiece, a completely-restored 1898 round barn with a loft that can be rented for dances and events. I was impatient with Dad and Tom’s insistence on parking in the designated lot rather than just pulling off to the side of the road long enough for us to snap pictures and be on our way; however, we wound up lingering a good while longer than that, taking the time to talk to one of the volunteers who man the barn’s Route 66 tourist exhibit downstairs, and it was great. Today’s docent, who introduced himself as Mr. Sam, had a tiny waist, a huge smile, and dancing eyes; with his blue jeans, plaid shirt, and cowboy hat, he looked like a caricature from some old western, and at first we thought he must be a figurine – until he began moving and rapidly talking to us. He had endless lively tales to tell about his 82 years (to tell us how old he was, he gave us a riddle, explaining that he was born the year they stopped making the Model T and started making the Model A – Tom knew right away that that meant 1927). His ancestors participated in the Oklahoma Land Rush to stake the beautiful family farmland (he described it as the most beautiful farm in Oklahoma), his restoration of an old surrey, restoration of the round barn itself, and the surrounding local area and entire state of Oklahoma. Workers were busily replacing the cedar shake roof, an interesting process in itself. We passed on Pop’s, featuring countless flavors of soda (though I wondered whether they might have Coke with lime!), heading on into Oklahoma City.

Like Chicago and Los Angeles, Oklahoma City was not heavily influenced by Route 66, so there is comparatively little to experience in the way of strictly-Route-66-era businesses or attractions – but there was plenty for us to see, do, and experience here.

We diverted onto the interstate to whiz downtown; I was a little concerned about the group feeling rushed at the Oklahoma City Memorial Museum, which I felt should not be rushed but was worth any effort to see. Our timing wound up fine; we all were through the museum, unhurried and at our own pace, with time to spare before it closed. I had visited here in April 2007, finding it to be a powerful, epiphonic reminder that life is too short and too precious to spend it just marking time. (I could go on and on about that but won’t do so here – I’m being plenty long-winded enough.) Despite having been through the museum already, I found it just as profound this second time, struck all over again by many of the same personal stories, as well as new ones, from the young woman who happened to be in the building to get a Social Security card for her new baby, with her mother, baby, and other small child, all of whom were killed in the blast, while she was pinned under a beam and freed only by a through-the-knee amputation performed by a surgeon who used a makeshift pocketknife to perform the difficult surgery after twice being evacuated while trying to do so, due to safety concerns; or Julie Marie Welch, a young woman roughly my age who had traveled, had foreign-language skills, tried to help others, and was excited about her new job as a Social Security claims representative; or the 37-year-old nurse who came running from elsewhere, saved the lives of 3 bombing victims... but was struck in the head by falling debris and died four days later because of her heroic efforts. These and countless other stories struck just as deeply as they had during my first visit here – perhaps partly because of the awareness that there but for the grace of God go I (or any of us – many of the victims were present purely by chance, in the process of running mundane errands just after 9am that Wednesday morning): I worked in the federal building in Houston at the time, and it was pure chance that this one and not mine was selected by a nutcase for destruction. Looking at the exhibit of photos and personal items or symbols selected by family members of the 168 victims, I wondered (yes, somewhat morbidly) what photo and what items my family would have chosen to represent me had I been one of these lost. Most profoundly, though, I was again struck by the overwhelming outpouring of generosity and acts of kindness by everyone around: those who lost loved ones but returned to console other families still awaiting news in agony; those who anonymously washed and folded rescuers’ clothes while they were out working the site, or donated clothing, toiletries, or food for them and displaced victims; those who risked their very lives to try to save others; the rescue animals whose paws were cut and bloodied by their tireless efforts; the bottomless compassion exhibited by the people of Oklahoma City, themselves in deep morning, that came to be referred to as the "Oklahoma Standard." Literally from the ashes of inconceivable evil, kindness and compassion rose to win the day.

We strolled through the memorial park with its Gates of Time (one end reads 9:01; the other 9:03, reflecting the minutes before and after the bombing), the Field of Empty Chairs, the children’s gardens, the deceptively shallow and still reflecting pool, the fiercely-defiant, inspirational Survivor Tree, and the statue of Jesus, face in hands, mourning, labeled simply, "And Jesus Wept." We remembered and mourned the victims, the survivors, and the frustrated rescue workers, leaving feeling sobered but inspired.

I was keen for them all to see the monument at night, which we did a couple of hours later, appreciating the memorial anew with the different perspective that the darkness brought, bringing alive the floating empty chairs, the etched names appearing even more clearly in the dark, and the reflecting pool shining calmly through the night. The evening air had become a perfect temperature: mildly cool and absolutely comfortable, a light breeze moving in the deepening dark, not unlike that emotional night that I came here with old and new friends two and a half years ago, full of reflection after a weekend packed with intensity, action, and emotion.
To kill time before dark, we decided to do a little sightseeing and then have a nice dinner. We drove over to the Capitol with its new dome, approaching up Lincoln with its grand view, stopping to admire the sculptures and the Capitol’s own oil derrick in front, before swinging over to drive up 23rd Avenue a way, checking out the giant milk bottle on Classen, the gold Geodesic Dome of a former bank (recently saved from demolition), and the towering neon sign at the Tower Theatre on 23rd.

Uncertain where to eat, we decided to check out a place we saw called Cheever’s, in an art deco building that obviously had once been a florist. Inside, we found a charming local restaurant. The flower cooler had been converted into a wine cellar; the attached former residence housed several intimate dining rooms; and an art exhibit with complimentary wine and hors d’oeuvres was in full swing in the bar area. We sat down, ordered dinner, and then Dad and I checked out the drinks, munchies, and pretty paintings before our meal came. All of us were thrilled with our meals, though we wound up stuffed to overflowing so that dessert was out of the question. Dad partook so freely of the wine at the art exhibit that he wound up a little tipsy, telling our poor, patient waitress the recipe for lemoncello whether she wanted to hear it or not.

While we were there, I received a call from my old friend Mark Bravo, a local celebrity, television personality, and all-around great guy whom I had met during my 2007 visit. I had been tardy in letting him know detailed dates (mostly because I didn’t know them myself) for our visit to his fair city, but had left a voice message earlier inquiring about recommendations (and a possible rendezvous) for dinner. He heartily approved our choice, telling me earnestly, "You did very well!" He knows the owners, Keith & Heather Paul (though they weren’t there this evening), and noted that it’s a place he would have highly recommended. He asked about our accommodations, and I mentioned that I had found us a campground on the way out of town. Bless his heart, he and his new wife, Leslie, invited us to come and spend the night at their place up in Edmond! The "adults" were reluctant to impose, but I was eager to see and catch up with Mark and to meet Leslie; besides, it’s always nicer to spend time with friends than at an impersonal hotel, motel, or campground, and I knew that they all would enjoy meeting one another, so I insisted we head up there for the night, calling to cancel our tentative reservation at a local campground. I’ll stay with friends over an impersonal institution – no matter how classy (I once cancelled a free night at the Amway Grand during an interview trip, choosing to drive an hour each way instead, to spend the time with my parents) – any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Mark and Leslie (who arrived shortly after we did, driving back after watching her son play high school football in Stillwell this evening) were great hosts, welcoming us warmly and settling all five of us in for the night in their beautiful home. This would be the first night since starting this trip that we would sleep in an actual building and on real beds (and couch, for me); how luxurious! I loved meeting Leslie and getting to know her a little; she seems a perfect match for Mark and an absolute sweetheart – one of those new-spouse-of-a-friend who makes you feel more and more happy for your friend the more you get to know them. She is a speech pathologist with 5 kids, and (forgetting the math) I was astonished to learn that she’s older than me. She and Mark attended the same high school but didn’t connect until the last decade; how sweet! They were just married this summer, in a traditional Jewish ceremony – chuppah and everything – right there in the house, and they make a great pair. He seems happier than ever and full of life, pleased with the results of his hip replacement (2 days after I last saw him, in May 2007), continuing to help out with broadcast work, coaching (notwithstanding his athletic expertise, I have no doubt that he’s a huge inspiration just through the exuberant enthusiasm inherent to his personality), and writing a book on momentum (I already can’t wait to read it!). Coincidentally, one of his athletes, out walking his dog with a friend, welcomed us to the neighborhood, admiring Tom’s car, and directed us to Mark’s house when he realized we were having trouble finding it in the dark). I’m so happy for them both, and I sincerely hope they’ll come visit Colorado; I think we’d have a great time hanging out together! I loved a sign in their downstairs bathroom, a translation beside an oriental Kanji script, "One dream can change your life." How true that is!

Mark and I plan to run in the morning at 7 and it’s nearly 2am now, so I’d better sign off. With a full belly and a comfortable setup, I imagine I’ll sleep like a rock tonight!