[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Ugh. Maybe on another visit it will seem okay; last year, it was the pits to me …

Memphis, TN

Population 650,100 (2000 census). The first European to set eyes on the site of what is now Memphis was probably Hernando de Soto in 1541.

The site where Memphis now sits was first occupied by a French military post, Fort Prudhomme, in 1682, followed by Fort Assumption in 1739, followed by a briefly-held Spanish post, Fort San Fernando de Las Barrancas, in 1795 (the British held most control of the area following the French and Indian War in 1763, but skirmishes for control continued for years among Britain, Spain, France, the United States, and Indian tribes). After getting rid of the inconvenient Chickasaw tribe, Andrew Jackson, John Overton, and James Winchester founded the city in 1819.

The first settlers of Memphis were primarily German and Irish workers. Memphis was incorporated in 1826. Memphis was a key Confederate post until 6 June 1862, when Ulysses S. Grant took the city and turned it into the chief Union headquarters for operations in that theater. Nathan Bedford Forrest, who later became the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, led a daring raid against Union forces in Memphis in August 1864. A three-day riot occurred in April-May 1866, triggered by animosities between black freedmen and Irish workers. A series of cholera and yellow fever epidemics killed over 8000 Memphians in the 1870s and devastated the city. The city went bankrupt and the State of Tennessee revoked its charter in 1879. With the help of investments by millionaires like William Goodlett and Robert Church, the South’s first African-American millionaire, the city charter was reinstated in 1893. In 1892, after three black Memphis grocers were lynched, Ida B. Wells, a journalist, began a crusade against the atrocities.

Beale Street became a hotbed of culture and it was here that W.C. Handy, originally a faculty member at Teachers Agricultural and Mechancial College in Huntsville, AL, and later a bandleader and touring member of minstrel groups, wrote “Mr. Crump,” which eventually became “Memphis Blues,” one of the first popular compositions to use the 12-bar structure and flattened third/fifth/seventh-note melody that later became characteristic of the blues. Handy first came across music resembling the blues one night in 1903 in Tutwiler, MS, when a black man sat next to him and started pressing a knife against the strings of a guitar while singing the words, “Goin’ to where the Southern cross the Dog.” Handy asked the man what the words meant, and the man said that they referred to the town of Moorhead, MS, where the Yazoo & Mississippi Valley Railroad (commonly known as The Yellow Dog) crossed the Southern Railroad. Handy later said that the sound was “the weirdest music I’d ever heard.”

One of the most explosively popular and perennial blues compositions, “St. Louis Blues,” was penned by Handy in his Beale Street bar, PWee’s, and although Handy was forced to publish the tune himself in September 1914 after being turned down by every publisher he approached, the tune took on a life of its own, especially after Sophie Tucker recorded it and it became the first blues to sell a million copies.

Elvis Presley’s parents sold their furniture, loaded up their truck, and moved with Elvis to Memphis from Tupelo on 6 November 1948. In the middle or late summer of 1953, Presley cut his first record at Sam Phillips’ Sun Studios on 706 Union Avenue. (Phillips’ studio was not yet famous, but it had already cut what many scholars consider the first rock song, Jackie Brenston and Ike Turner’s “Rocket 88,” in 1951.) The rest is history.

Memphis was (until the company’s bankruptcy in 1975) also the home of Stax Records, one of the most influential labels in the burgeoning soul music movement of the sixties. Among the artists who recorded for Stax were Otis Redding, Eddie Floyd, Joh ie Taylor, Rufus Thomas, Booker T & The MG’s, Sam & Dave, the Staple Singers, and Carla Thomas. Given all the rich history above and the fact that I had wanted to see Memphis as long as I could remember, I wish I had had the fortitude to meet Memphis on its own terms and to give it a chance. I didn’t.

We arrived late Tuesday night, a sweltering, dark night on which the bridge across the mighty Mississippi was a blur, and we nearly got lost trying to find the right exit to take to get to our hotel near the airport and Graceland. I got out of the Jeep and my legs promptly got barraged by a battalion of mosquitoes. The hotel was not the worst place on earth, but it wasn’t the best, either. We were both exhausted and cranky after a long day of driving through one and a half states with barely a stop in Conway, AR, for gas and reinforcements, and we weren’t thinking clearly or rationally. We tried to find Elvis Presley Boulevard, and we failed. We tried to find a neighborhood with a restaurant, and we didn’t find anything but a Wendy’s, where we got our bag of fast food, struggled to understand the checkout woman’s drawl, and drove quickly back to the hotel, in the process being nearly cut in front of twice by reckless drivers.

We went to sleep, got out of bed this afternoon, and drove to Graceland, which was a tourist attraction that I somehow stupidly expected to be something it wasn’t. I walked around a little bit, briefly stopped in the tourist center to see if there were any maps or brochures, and seeing none, walked back out, where I saw a line of people waiting to take a photo in front of a mural with a mock-up of Graceland’s gates on it and a giant fan in front of the mural to, I guess, cool off the line of people. I walked back to the parking lot past a brook with a wooden bridge over it, which I thought was the nicest part of the whole place. I asked Steve to snap me in front of one of the signs advertising the 30th a iversary of Elvis’s Aloha from Hawaii Via Satellite concert, made a snide comment I shouldn’t have made about the function of the site as a money-generating mechanism for Elvis’ ex-wife and daughter, and we left Graceland without further ado.

We stopped downtown and shot a few photos on Beale Street, Steve stopped in an Elvis memorabilia store while I sat on the sidewalk with Bayley and watched a big man leaning against a wooden construction barrier across the intersection of Beale and Second trying to steer what few tourists were on the street into the Blues City Cafe, and that, unfortunately, was the extent of our Memphis experience.

I can’t say why it was the experience it was; Memphis is an intense, almost seething city, and that’s not casting aspersions on it, but it is what it is, or it is how we experienced it, and we weren’t in the mood or the inclination to be patient with the city. That’s about all I can put it down to. Maybe someday we will go back and have a different experience there. I hope so.

—Posted by Frank at 19:03:04 | 20-Aug-03

Bayley Murphy Beagle was born in a double-wide trailer house in Kemp, Texas, near Dallas, on 20-Aug-94, to Laddie Lattie and No-No Emmitt. He came to live with David and I on 17-Oct-94. He is better travelled and has lived in more places than most people I know. He has lived in Dallas and Plano, TX; brief periods in Duncan, OK; Highlands Ranch, CO; Pleasant Hill and San Francisco, CA; and now Ann Arbor, MI. He has ridden Jeeps through TX, OK, NM, AZ, CA, UT, NV, CO, AR, TN, KY, OH and MI, probably better than 10,000 miles.

His favorite things are … food and sleep. His pet peeves are nail trims and teeth brushings, the vet’s office and being woken up from a nap. And squirrles, skunks, rabbits and kitties. He is celebrating his birthday by snoring on the couch and scoring an extra PeaMutt Butter Treat. Thunderstoms and tornadoes don’t phase him in the least but plastic bags and the yelling that ensues when I talk on the phone to any corporate customer service representative send him running.

He’s overweight (my fault) and has some growths that have to be taken care of in the next couple of months, but is in otherwise excellent shape. He sticks to his Unca Frankie like glue and enjoys chasing rabbits in County Farm Park.

He has been pictured in a San Francisco publication for Yerba Buena Gardens and is the inspiration behind the entire AirBeagle domain name. He lives much of his life in front of a digital camera and has had more photos taken of him than many small children of doting mothers. He is spoiled shamelessly and shamelessly takes advantage of it. And we love him very much.

A very happy #10, my little puppy dawg, and many more!

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Day Six started out wonderfully and with lots of fun in Don’s airplane flying above Sundance Airport northwest of Oklahoma City. We then drove around Norman and around Thunderbird Lake to rejoin I-40. Then things got ugly as we hit Arkansas and Tennessee. Let’s reminisce, shall we?

Day Six

Day Six — Oklahoma City, OK, to Memphis, TN

Oh dear lord, what have we done coming to Memphis, Tennessee? This is NOT a good neighborhood, Elvis Presley lived in a slum, our hotel is located between the two active runways at Memphis International, which would normally thrill me, but after 548 miles from Oklahoma City and encountering some VERY scary neighborhoods near Graceland, I’m sorry, I’m just not in the mood.

More on all this at the end of this post. I was unable to post the adventures from day 5, so look below this post for that one first.

Here we go then. Today’s statistics:

We travelled 548 miles from Oklahoma City, OK (making aroundabout trip through Norman and Shawnee before rejoining I-40). Spent $40 on gas, $18.75 on food, $7.53 on miscellaneous expenses, and $0 on a hotel (bill comes due tomorrow).

And here yet again: All the boring, exhausting details, almost as they happened:

—I-40E, Approaching Russellville, AR, 18:00 CDT | 20-Aug-04d

Boy, did we have fun today … after we were roused by Don playing Elvis singing ‘In the Ghetto’ on the stereo, we got up and had some breakfast, and played with the Artie-pooch, we loaded the Jeepy and the Beagle. And the thermometer on Don’s back porch really did say 116, I swear it; I just forgot to get a picture of it, as promised earlier. At any rate, it was hot. Very, very hot. We said goodbye to Jean, the consummate hostess, and followed Don out to Sundance Airport, where AirDonpy has its base of operations.

AirDonpy (which to the uninitiated is the shortened name for the pilot/owner of the airline, Don P. B——-, get it?) had a reserved ticket aboard its flight 1, service from Sundance International to Sundance International with a stop at Sundance International, aboard a beautiful Cessna 150, for Frank. Yes, it was to be Frank’s very first ride in a small private plane, which, as Chief Pilot Don P. pointed out, has HALF the horsepower of the engine in Jeepy.

Okay.

It was very hot and windy when we arrived at the hangar where AirDonpy has its base of operations, which means that the ride was going to be slow, hot and bumpy. But after the usual preflight briefing, conducted by moi and a preflight check and briefing from the Chief Pilot, Frank boarded AirDonpy Flight One for his maiden Wafting On Silvered Wings Through the Skies of Oklahoma.

[Insert standard verbiage about the very mad, very hot, very whiney, very uncooperative, very concerned beagle here. Beagles simply do NOT do hot airport hangars while the people who slave for them vanish mysteriously in very loud, noisy vehicles. Beagles also do not appear to enjoy grass by the side of truck stops in Texas and Oklahoma, but that’s another story.]

After a pushback (performed also by the Chief Pilot), the flight was ready for departure. There being no traffic at the moment, clearance to taxi was granted and AirDonpy Flight 1 taxied out to runway 17 for an immediate departure. After seatbelts fastened and tray tables stowed, the flight did a circle on the apron to check for traffic and prepared for takeoff. Departure was quick, with the stiff prevailing wind providing much-needed lift in the hot conditions, departed slightly to the southwest, then turned back to the north for an approach back to Sundance International and completion of the first leg.

Frank, apparently deciding that he did, indeed, enjoy the flight, elected to continue on the second leg of the journey, which was completed with perfect on-time performance and a smooth landing. A short taxi off the runway and flight 1 was completed.

Frank is happy to report that he thoroughly enjoyed the service provided by AirDonpy and would certainly fly with the line again. ‘It wasn’t as bumpy as I expected,’ he said.

It was noted that the hot conditions had produced a hot engine, so AirDonpy’s Cessna was allowed to cool off while we took a rest and … then the beagle spit up. He also spit up while flight 1 was in the air, but he did again, this time within the AirDonpy hangar headquarters. He was a very hot dog who had just drunk water the wrong way, I suppose. The concrete floor of the hangar was cooler, so he took a rest and quickly recovered and gave his nervous consent for me to board Flight 2.

The Chief Pilot once again made his checks, started the engine and we taxied back out to runway 17. Since AirDonpy’s airconditioning is provided by opening the windows, and since said windows must be closed during flight, said windows were closed and sweat began to build, as did our airspeed as we pushed down the hot, dense air along the runway.

We gathered speed and parted with the earth; as always, it is a glorious feeling to slip the surly bonds, even if it is accompanied by questions about just what would happen if an engine half the size of my Jeep’s engine suddenly quit at altitude and we were forced to … oh, nevermind.

The flight was a bit bumpy, but considering the conditions, it really wasn’t that bad.

I’ll go ahead and bore with the following aside: My personal measure for how bad turbulence is remains a flight on the dearly-departed and bankrupt MarkAir 737 flight David and I once took from Denver to Dallas, on a 1995 afternoon when hailstorms pounded Aurora south of DIA and tornadoes hit Amarillo, TX, and Ardmore, OK. It was on this MarkAir flight that we were packed into with a very large contingent of pink-clad Mary Kay ladies, on their way from Los Angeles to Dallas for a convention. The flight departed in the rain and flew south over Colorado Springs, then turned left and headed towards Kansas. Since Dallas is located far to the south of Kansas, I wondered what was up, but the captain told us that a tornado had just hit Amarillo, consuming some tornado food in a trailer park. Being that Amarillo is roughly on the air route to Dallas, it was probably wise to go around the storm.

Yet, going around the storm meant flying to Wichita and hanging a right, following I-35 down through Oklahoma to Dallas. Which was great, except for one thing; storms were pounding Oklahoma, and a tornado was in the process of tearing up Ardmore as we made our right turn at Wichita at 33,000 feet.

Once we entered Oklahoma airspace, things began to get rather ugly. When it began, a man who was in the lavatory up front emerged with a sheepish grin and blue hands (let’s just say from some lav-related splashing we won’t go into here). It started rough, but as we went further south, it got rougher. Soon, the flight attendants were strapped in tight, praying to Jesus and urging the passengers to do the same or we were on our own; bins opened up and we began to get a bit worried.

At first, everyone was quiet, just hanging on for dear life. But as it got worse, the Mary Kay ladies finally couldn’t take it anymore and it commenced to get noisy. With every stop, drop and roll of this 737, there was a pink chorus of ‘Oh, lordy! He’p us Jesus!’ from the ladies, which, of course, didn’t serve to make the rest of us passengers any more comfortable.

Finally, we landed intact at DFW, and I must confess that I have never before or since seen a Mary Kay lady, not to mention a whole herd of them, emerge as disheveled and bedraggled as those ladies did that evening. Their cute, pert, peppy … pinkness … was replaced by shades of green not commonly seen among the Mary Kay set. Afterwards, we got the news that, unbeknownst to us at the time, our captain had, indeed, flown us through the remains of a tornadic storm system.

Now, I’m not a white-knuckled flyer usually. On today’s AirDonpy flight 2, it didn’t really bother me to be tossed around a bit. But that MarkAir flight was one for the record books. Oh, and one last thing, a short lesson: Commercial airliners DO break up in flight due to turbulence; a BOAC flight over Mt. Fuji, Japan, in the 60’s, Braniff International’s flight 250, a BAC 1-11 broke up south of Omaha in 1965 due to an encounter with a gust front which stressed the airframe beyond design tolerances and Northwest Orient flight 714 over the Everglades in 1963 also broke up when design limits were exceeded in extreme turbulence.

But most turbulence that passengers experience and live to tell about is not extreme. The MarkAir flight experience was probably classified as ‘moderate’ turbulence; there was no damage or injuries. ‘Severe’ is very rare and sometimes catastrophic; what most people encounter is ‘light’ or ‘light to moderate.’ Flight attendants and passengers who happen to be up and walking around often sustain broken bones and other injuries in moderate to severe. Today’s AirDonpy experience was pretty light.

But I digress. I can go on for hours about commercial aviation. But back to AirDonpy flight 2, which was a short hop from Sundance International to Sundance International. Takeoff was smooth and climbout was not bad; we were swatted around a bit as we turned to the west. As we turned to the north on the downwind leg, we were crabbing a bit and a little bumpy, but as we turned on base, things got interesting.

I’m under a confidentiality agreement where it comes to discussing what happened on AirDonpy flight 2 on approach and final, as well as touchdown. But I must just say that it was the most fun I’ve had flying AirDonpy lo these many years. And we’ll leave it at that. Let’s just say that we’re on the ground safe and sound, AirDonpy will fly another day and we’re now approaching Russellville, AR, some hours later. The day has been uneventful since this morning’s flight.

After bidding a fond adieu with many thanks to the AirDonpy operation, we drove south to see Jay’s house and the University of Oklahoma at Norman. It was a pretty quick trip. We then drove east on Hwy 9 and north on 102 and met up with I-40, our old friend, at Shawnee. We stopped at Shawnee for gas, a car wash, a Braum’s hamburger and shake … and some beagle business. Frank has been driving ever since.

The much dreaded construction zones on I-40 in Arkansas have indeed materialized and are slowing us down considerably. Mile after mile of one-lane interstate this late in the evening, with Memphis still 200 miles away is rather irritating. We debated whether to avoid Arkansas and Memphis entirely, but ultimately decided that ‘going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee’ is an important opportunity that Frank really shouldn’t pass up. Hence, we find ourselves behind a long line of trucks at 50 miles per hour, nearing Russellville, AR. Frank says he’s driving until Little Rock, where we’ll change over and I’ll do the final two hours to Memphis. Gonna be a late arrival this time. And we’re discussing whether to stay an extra night in Memphis and possibly skip Nashville entirely. We’re both pretty tired and there’s lots to see in the City of the King.

We just saw the first California-tagged vehicle in the last 500 miles, east of VanBuren, AR. How strange to be the only California vehicle on the freeway …

—LaQuinta Inn, Room 117, Memphis, TN, 12:20 CDT

Okay, back to the Memphis part of the day.

Yes, I took a wrong freeway. I was so mentally tired that I was following my mental picture to Graceland instead of the hotel. It was dark and we had gone almost 550 miles, on top of everything else this morning.

But we landed in bad neighborhoods in a bad hotel between two very busy runways. That’s the bad news.

The better news: Not all Memphis is bad. I think. The hotel is fine, and we’ll only be here one night. And I like airplanes and the room is sound-proofed enough that you don’t hear much. Not anywhere near as bad as the BNSF trains roaring through Flagstaff every 20 minutes all night long.

Still. The security apparatus on the door looks like it was forcibly ripped open (By police? Jealous husband? Marauding drug dealers? Who knows?) and has not been replaced. The bathtub is … only good for showers. The carpet needs cleaning. The bathroom door won’t close and the handle is loose. I’m NOT thinking about the sheets. And don’t get me started on the hotel clerk. Sorry, don’t mean to be snooty, but the girl is right out of Appalachia and I’m not sure she was wearing shoes. Okay, okay, that IS snooty. But she really didn’t understand anything that was going on. It just added to the off-putting time that we’ve had in Memphis … and haven’t even been here three hours yet.

I’ll spare you the rest of the details (including the trip back through the neighborhoods to visit the Wendy’s Drive-Through From Hell, because it’s very late and I’m very tired and I had a panic/anxiety attack when we got here. Frank’s not in much better shape himself. But the Xanax is kicking in and we’re ready for bed.

Things will be rosier tomorrow, I’m sure.

For now, let me thank everyone who has posted comments and sent e-mails. We do appreciate them, especially now that we’re nearing the end and about to come up against the reality of what we’ve done. It hit me tonight in Memphis; after we left Oklahoma and our friends, I’m feeling especially … discombobulated and freaked.

But tomorrow is another day, as they say here in the south and things will be rosier come morning. It’ll all be okay, don’t worry about us. We’ll handle it. Just 746 more miles to go and we’re home.

The beagle sends very tired and wornout greetings and hugs to everyone, as do Frank and I. More tomorrow!

Today’s trip stats. The Arkansas part after Little Rock is missing, because it was dark and I was driving. And you shouldn’t write down trip stats in the dark, while driving in Arkansas. There was construction and state trooper speed traps everywhere.

11:00 — Left Don and Jean’s House in Oklahoma City; went to Sundance Airport for a couple of plane rides with Don; drove to Norman to take a quick peek at the University of Oklahoma and vandalize the house of a friend who is in Venice and Verona, Italy today. (Just kidding, Jay. We just let Bayley poop in your yard. Oh, no. Just kidding again. But I thought about it …) — 0 miles | 1906 total

14:40 — Shawnee — 85 | 1991

15:28 — Okemah — 122 | 2028

15:45 — Henryetta — 143 | 2049

16:23 — Webbers Falls Bridge That Fell Down — 193 | 2099

16:56 — Arkansas State Line — 234 | 2140

17:00 — Van Buren — 239 | 2144

18:04 — Russellville — 313 | 2218

18:28 — Morrilton — 342 | 2247

18:46 — Conway — 362 | 2267

19:30 — Little Rock — 395 | 2300

21:30 — Memphis, TN — 548 | 2453

Good night from Memphis, TN … y’all!

Oh, and thank you. Thank you very much.

[AirBeagle has left the building …]

—Posted by Steve at 00:40 | 20-Aug-03

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Ah, Day Five … Santa Fe and Oklahoma City … my old stomping grounds. Some great things happened, some nasty things happened, but at least we survived the Texas Panhandle and got outta there in one piece …

Day Five

Day Five — Santa Fe, NM, to Oklahoma City, OK

[Note: Due to our late arrival in Oklahoma City, I was unable to post this entry last night … here ya go … sorry for the delay:]

Today’s statistics:

We travelled 569 miles from Santa Fe to Oklahoma City. Spent $51 on gas, $45.63 on food, $70.40 on an oil change and lube and other things for Jeepy, and $219.88 on a hotel (for two nights). We’re now staying with our friends Don and Jean and cousin Artie-Moose, who are being gracious hosts and putting up with us for a night.

Here yet again: All the boring, exhausting details, almost as they happened:

—I-40E, New Mexico/Texas, 12:11 MDT | 18-Aug-04

Well, I’m very sad today, as I usually am when I have to leave my native New Mexico and go to Oklahoma. Invariably, this is a distressing and depressing event, and has been for the last 32 years that we’ve been going back and forth between the two.

First up, notes about our day off yesterday in Santa Fe.

The day began just dandy. We had a quick meal at Sonic (it was good to have that again, even if it is the last thing I need), then headed downtown. We found parking next to St. Francis Cathedral and then did some exploring and picture taking. Nothing really changes around the plaza, just the names of the stores. For a summer Sunday afternoon, the tourists were really not that numerous and it was an enjoyable experience. There is a book store on Palace Street where I could spend the rest of my life; it’s just perfect. I’d try to describe it, but I couldn’t do it justice. You just have to see it for yourself. It’s a good thing that we’re on a budget and that there is no more room in the Jeep, or I might have gotten myself in trouble there. A great edition of ‘The Lincoln County War,’ a fine recounting of the events involving Billy the Kid not far from my birthplace, was especially tempting. But, at $75, I’m afraid it was left behind in Santa Fe.

We walked along in front of the Plaza and Palace of the Governors and took turns popping into La Fonda. Which. Is. Santa. Fe. Speaking of Billy the Kid, he reputedly did dishes and odd jobs in the kitchen at La Fonda for a period of time. La Fonda is the original hotel in Santa Fe and served travellers arriving on the Santa Fe Trail. It advertises itself still as ‘The Inn At The End of The Trail.’ It is a wonderful place; I stayed there in 1992, but this time, we had a beagle with us, and La Fonda, which once hosted Billy the Kid, doesn’t permit beagles on the premises.

The beagle wasn’t a very happy dog; crowds, noises and hot pavement are definitely not his cup of tea. He was pretty antsy during the experience. He was, however, a very good dog considering what we asked of him; he had plenty of rest periods and cold water from his canteen. He was happy when we returned to the car.

My main purchase of the trip (aside from the necessities) had been planned well in advance, and I was very pleased to find very good and affordable chile ristras, strands of hot New Mexico chile peppers, which, if they survive the next 1,700 miles, will look great hanging in the kitchen in Ann Arbor. They’re now hanging and drying in the rear window of the Jeep as we go along.

I also looked for another piece of Adakai pottery, but couldn’t find any. I didn’t look very hard, though.

In front of St. Francis Cathedral stands the old statue of Archbishop Lamy, one of New Mexico’s most famous denizens. Willa Cather helped make him famous with her novel ‘Death Comes for the Archbishop.’ He stands in front of the cathedral, looking west down San Francisco Street, over ‘his’ city and people. He’s stood there for years alone, but now he has company. For the 150th anniversary of the founding of the Archdiocese of Santa Fe, a new statue has been erected, actually closer to the doors of the Cathedral than the Archbishop. This new statue was dedicated just last Saturday, the day we arrived in SF.

The statue is of the ‘Blessed Kateri,’ and as you can see from the Day Four photo gallery, she is a native American woman. It’s a very pretty statue. The Blessed Kateri was born Tekakwitha Kateri, part of the Mohawk people, in 1656. According to Sunday’s New Mexican, she suffered much in a short life. She lost her parents and baby brother to smallpox, which also left her scarred and frail. She was baptized a Catholic in spite of ‘the disapproval of her community.’ She refused to follow Mohawk customs, dedicated herself to Christ and died in 1680. Supposedly the scars of her illness vanished upon her death. She was declared Venerable in 1943 and Blessed in 1980. The church must certify a third miracle before she can be canonized. People at the dedication of the statue reported healings and visions, including one member of the Jemez Pueblo who saw Kateri herself during a drum ceremony.

Not sure what all that means. What makes the inclusion of a native American woman in the pantheon of the cathedral acceptable? Is the only statue Santa Fe can erect of a Native American acceptable because she is pre-approved by the Catholic Church? As a book I’m reading points out, when anglo New Mexicans erected a statue to Juan Onate a few years back, someone cut off the foot of the statue. Anglos reacted with outrage … how dare they desecrate art in the city where art is the Holy of Holies?! But if you dig a little deeper into Onate’s history, this is the Spanish governor of the territory who wiped out most of the Acoma people, enslaved the survivors for 20 years … and cut off the right foot of every male over the age of 25. Hence, the poetic justice of the statue foot amputation 500 years later.

The history of New Mexico is complex, difficult … bloody and contentious. Most of us New Mexicans, of whatever background/ethnicity, have never, and may never, come to terms with our bloody, bloody past. An article in the same book I’m reading points out that even the names of the Native American tribes are not actually correct; they’re usually derogatory names applied by either invading anglos or enemy tribes. Most tribes called themselves ‘The People’ in words from their own languages. But Apache means ‘Enemy’ and wasn’t the name they called themselves. Sometimes, the tribes me the white man, who asked them what they called themselves. Most said variations of ‘we don’t know.’ And then adopted whatever name the white man called them.

Very complex stuff and to me, New Mexico is one of the very few places in the country where culture/race questions are so thorny and difficult. New Mexico represents a collision of the Native, the Hispanic and the Anglo … the collision continues and its effects are still very real after over 500 years. As an Anglo New Mexican, my heritage, culture, life experience, opportunities and other sensibilities are very different (more fortunate in some ways, poorer in others) than the other two, which have major variances between them as well.

They’re not kidding when the call New Mexico the Land of Enchantment. Not only is the landscape dramatic and awe-inspiring, but the peoples, cultures and different towns and cities are fascinating as well.

But back to Santa Fe. After walking around the Plaza, we drove up Canyon Road, with its very foofy art galleries and the most concentrated amount of pretension in a small area in perhaps the U.S. And I say that as someone who has been to Aspen and Palm Springs and LA and San Francisco and Marin County and Highland Park, TX.

After the galleries petered out, we drove Upper Canyon Road and meandered around through the real Santa Fe with its dirt roads and adobe houses of all kinds. We passed a house for sale which had brochures out front. Here’s a Santa Fe real estate update for you: The house we stopped at is ‘Casa Colina’ at 1430 Upper Canyon Road. Quoting from the brochure now: ‘One of a kind beautifully landscaped restored classic adobe creatively landscaped with drip irrigation on 1.4 +/- acres bordering National Forest. Historic feel and finishes that cannot be duplicated. Hand adzed vigas, nichos, brick, tile and flagstone floors. Matching guest house with unique rock waterfall incorporating part of the natural rock hillside. Exterior hot tub. Jacuzzi in master bath, minutes from town.’ Isn’t that a hand thing to have? A Jacuzzi just minutes from town? (That was an English Major joke …) But if you can get past the atrocious writing of the ad copy, you will see the Casa has three bedrooms, two baths, two living areas and a chunk of Santa Fe canyon all for the low, low price of $925,000. Now to some of my dear readers, that sounds outrageous. But I think my California friends will find it … somewhat cheap. Anyhow, call Town and Ranch Realty of Santa Fe if you’re interested. The beagle has dibs on coming and visiting you and staying in the guest house …

But then we ended up almost getting wiped out by a crazy woman in an SUV, who was yacking on her cell phone and following me so close I thought she would shove us off the road. As we came to a four-way stop sign, she gunned her Explorer and passed us on the left speeding through the intersection without stopping. I saw her wave her left silver-braceletted wrist at us as she continued to yack on her cell phone with her right hand and blazed through the intersection. So, I suppose that means she was driving with her knees. We know she was not driving with her brains.

It put a bit of a damper on things. Perhaps at the point, we got tired. Perhaps at the point, the closeness of Mars put our universe out of whack. But the rest of the evening was a series of … distasteful events that kinda dampened our spirits.

First, I realized I stupidly didn’t take any pics of Frank downtown. So we went and took some in front of the cathedral. I felt bad. Then, the restaurant we picked for dinner was closed and dark; we missed it and had to turn around and backtrack twice to find it. We ended up having dinner at Tortilla Flats for the second night in a row, which was fine, because the enchiladas are superb. But after we began eating, a rather … macho-looking guy and his girlfriend sat down at a table next to us and we began to get bad vibes and be stared at. Not sure why, and not sure if there was anything behind it, but the feeling was rather odd. Fortunately, they ate quickly and left, but it served to remind us that we are no longer in our bubble of comfort and protection in San Francisco. The middle of the country is populated with some rather weird characters; unlike San Francisco, where weird characters are merely weird and eccentric, weird characters here are often quite menacing. As we approach Texas (now just 30 miles away as I type this), I’m beginning to wonder if I need to cover up the ‘California’ on the Jeeps tags. I looked for a ‘Native New Mexican’ bumper sticker in Santa Fe, but no such luck.

At any rate, we went back to the hotel, where I spent the next hour-plus having a conversation with … someone … which I won’t bore you with, but was rather intense, very uncomfortable and extremely upsetting. Let’s just say it involved tonight’s stopover, which will now NOT include a previously planned meeting, which is probably all for the best. Enough of that.

I did some laundry, then discovered that the hotel dryer didn’t work. Fortunately, the night clerk let me use the hotel’s commercial dryer and the job was done. Then I discovered that the gas station where I filled up before going to the hotel has placed a $100 hold on debit card … to cover a $27.60 fill up. Wells Fargo tells me the hold won’t be released until tomorrow morning between 5 and 8 a.m. MST. Needless to say, we’ll be paying cash for gas from now on.

Didn’t get to bed and asleep until 2, then the alarm rang at 7:30. Plus, at 5:30 this morning, Bayley got lost in the covers of the bed and spent what seemed like a long time walking around the bed trying to find his way out.

This morning, we loaded the Jeep and had the oil changed, then grabbed a bit of breakfast at Sonic and hit the road. Today has been a much better day, in spite of the fact that we’re about to leave New Mexico and enter Texas and Oklahoma. I drove us out of Santa Fe down US-285.

Frank took over driving at historic Clines Corners, on historic Route 66. CC is a historically large rubber tomahawk shop with just about any kind of … stuff … you could think of to buy. There are rattlesnake eggs. Indian headdresses (the fake dyed stuff for kids). Moccasins. Cedar plaques with ‘Mom’s Rules’ on them. Turquoise out the wazoo. T-shirts. Cactus jelly. Shot glasses. Anything that will sit still long enough to have a New Mexico logo/landscape painted on it is right there.

I make fun of Clines Corners, but I don’t remember one single time in the 40 years of my life that we haven’t stopped there. It’s on the route from Roswell to Albuquerque, and Santa Fe to I-40 and is a pretty convenient and fun place to visit. It remains, in my opinion, one of the purest and most successful relics of Route 66. At an elevation of 7.200 feet, CC had a reputation when I was a kid of being a nasty place to navigate in the winter.

We’re now tooling down a pretty quiet and calm I-40. Not too many trucks; there is a crosswind again, but it’s not as bad as Friday and Saturday. We passed Santa Rosa, the Scuba Diving Capital of the southwest, or so it claims. There is a deep lake called the Blue Hole which gets its fair share of divers, plus Santa Rosa Lake, Sumner Lake and Conchas Lake are nearby.

I remember Santa Rosa as the place where my vacationing aunt and uncle and cousins were pulling a camping trailer during the early 1970s and ran into a fierce crosswind which overturned and destroyed their camper. We came up from Clovis to check on them and I remember seeing the pictures later; trailer looked like a tornado had hit it.

I’ve been noticing that Tucumcari’s signs have been updated. In the olden days, they used to say ‘Tucumcari Tonight: 2000 Motel Rooms.’ The new ones now say: ‘Tucumcari Tonight: 1200 Rooms.’ I guess there’s been some attrition since the hey day of Route 66.

Just what are the ‘Billy the Kid Tombstone Races’ in Ft. Sumner? Hmmmm.

Just passed another interesting road sign: Very large square, black background … smallish white letters state ‘Stop driving without a seatbelt on or’ and in big red letters: ‘We’ll stop you!’ In the lower right corner: ‘New Mexico State Police.’ I think they mean bidness.

Frank will be driving to the west side of Amarillo, some 220 miles. I’ll then take over and have the … pleasure? Honor? Duty? Misfortune? to drive us through Amarillo and across the Oklahoma state line. That’s another 240 miles. Something tells me we won’t be getting to Okie City until 8 or 8:30 or so.

We just passed an actual, real-life, functioning Stuckey’s, once an American institution on highways and byways and mostly disappeared. Whaddya know.

Okay, the Tucumcari Tonight signs now read ‘1500 rooms.’ The number of hotel rooms increased as we approached Tucumcari.

I’ll give this thing a rest right now. We’re about to leave the great state of New Mexico and that always makes me cry, so I probably can’t see the keyboard anyway. More later …

—I-40E, approaching Vega, TX, 15:07 CDT

Well. It’s flat. Yellow. Ugly. Windblown. Full of signs proclaiming supremacy of Empire and inerrancy of Bush. We must be in Texas. We’ve already seen our first car decked out in OU paraphernalia and a couple from Utah in an old green Ford Taurus in front of us have a Just Married sign taped to the back window. When we first saw them, just the man was visible. We just passed them again and now she’s sitting up and they’re both smiling quite a bit. I think they’re having a fabulous honeymoon.

Frank says he now believes that I was telling the truth when I warned him that the Texas Panhandle is (mostly) flat. The wind is up and he’s fighting it. The wind always blows here; there’s nothing to stop it. I’m not used to so much … flatness and wind. I’m gettin’ a little freaked out … but we still have about 285 miles to go. Sigh. More later …

—Don and Jean’s House, Oklahoma City, OK, 20:07 CDT

[Note: I am writing this entry while enroute to Memphis, so this is from memory]

I took over driving at a Phillips 66 station in Wolflin Square in west Amarillo. Frank says he wasn’t too scared to leave the car, but I have my own opinion on that [grin]. Actually, I was kinda scared to leave the car. Amarillo is a truly ugly place; I’ve always thought so. It’s flat, dusty, windblown and ugly. Did I mention it’s ugly? We didn’t pause long. We drove through to the far east side and stopped at a truck stop to let the beagle walk and have some water. It was kinda scary inside there too, with a trucker staring at me when I went in (we take turns going in places; one stays outside with the beagle, while the other conducts business). We got back on I-40 (Frank is still trying to break himself of the southern California habit of calling it ‘The 40’) and sped towards Oklahoma. Texas has crappy roads (remember, it’s a low tax, low services state, a Republican dream) and we got tossed around quite a bit, but before the Oklahoma line, they have built the Mothers of all Roadside Rest Stops. Basically, these are some picnic tables and a little building and some rest rooms, but Texas has turned them into fancy roadside art projects, with variations in bronze, fabric and stone of the great and worshipped ‘Lone Star.’ Therefore, when your car simply falls apart from the bad roads, you have some truly beautiful roadside rest stops to be stranded in.

Ah, Texas.

We hit the Oklahoma line at 17:34 and, while marginally better and being worked on constantly, there are sections of Oklahoma road that almost made me wish we were back in Texas.

It was strange to be back in the Sooner State, as it always is. I can’t describe the feeling. Something somewhere between panic, depression and … oddly, happiness that I can see friends and be back in a familiar place with some elbow room and not much pretension.

There’s not a great deal to report about the rest of the day’s road trip; we stopped for gas at El Reno, then arrived at Don and Jean’s house at about 20:04. Bayley and Artemis, who hadn’t seen each other in almost five years, greeted each other a little skittishly at first, but soon settled into a routine of rear-end sniffing, followed by studiously ignoring each other (with the exception of the occasional ‘sneak sniff’ when the other one wasn’t looking). After a short stretch, the four of us decided to expose Frank to some more southern culture and took him to eat dinner at the Cracker Barrel, which is always an … interesting experience. After some good chicken fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baby sweet carrots, cornbread and macaroni and cheese (Frank had black-eyed peas and okra instead of carrots and mac-and-cheese), we bought some postcards and left for downtown.

I hadn’t seen the new dome on top of the Oklahoma State Capitol. It’s quite impressive at night. Until its completion, Oklahoma was the only state capitol without a dome (although it seems that the Roundhouse in Santa Fe is pretty domeless itself – in the traditional sense). It does seem very strange to see; I’m used to a rather dour, classical building with a flat roof, and suddenly there’s this thing there. Still, it’s a beautiful and much-needed addition to Oklahoma’s skyline and image and is magnificent at night.

But the highlight of the evening was a visit to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, site of the 1995 Murrah building bombing. I was never too enamored of the design of the memorial when I read descriptions and saw drawings of it before its construction. The empty chairs especially seemed a bit … well, hokey, to me. But that night (the grounds are open 24 hours and we were there around 23:00), the whole thing is truly awesome and amazing. They’ve done a magnificent job with the site and the memorial.

I remember a May day in 1995 when I stood at a fence in front of the blasted ruins of the Murrah, two days before explosives experts demolished its remnants. The memorial cannot erase the sight and smell and sound of that 1995 day. The memorial is emotional and intense and all that, but the sight of what was left of the Murrah that day in May ‘95 almost prevented me from seeing the memorial and taking it in. I remember only ugliness, grief, tears. I remember panic and fear as I found out that my mother was nearby and that a good friend of mine was walking around downtown OKC immediately after the explosion and not knowing for several hours where they were. The memorial is necessary and cathartic, but for anyone who was there or saw the immediate aftermath, I doubt if the memorial does much to erase the memory.

As we walked along the reflecting pool, a security guard came and asked if we had any questions. We asked one (I forgot what it was), but that was all he needed. he launched into a 30-minute history of the bombing and its aftermath and gave us a good guide to what was where and when and what happened to who. Some things I hadn’t heard before. His take: Timothy McVeigh, operating in concert with Terry Nichols, in retaliation for the Waco/Branch Davidian mess (which was directed out of the Oklahoma City field office in the Murrah Building, put some fertilizer and a stick of dynamite in a Ryder truck, tried to park it in the parking garage, but it was too tall and wouldn’t fit, parked it in front of the building, which nobody thought much about because that’s where all sorts of deliveries were made everyday, ran over to his car parked behind a church and ‘hightailed’ it out of town, only to be picked up later and, well, you know the rest. Whether that’s the official line or his version or anywhere near the truth is anyone’s guess. I suppose I think it’s about as plausible an explanation as any.

Following this, we went back home and watched some video of the wedding and honeymoon from last fall, then went exhausted to bed. I didn’t have any time to post or make changes to the ‘blog, so sorry for the lateness of this one.

To those of you posting comments, we appreciate hearing from you. It’s great to hear from the home folks. Just remember: when you post a comment, it is immediately public and only Frank or I can erase it. As one of you who shall remain nameless discovered. But thanks for the comments. It really helps to hear from you while we’re on the road

Today’s trip stats:

• 10:00 — Left Santa Fe, NM — 0 miles | 1337 total

• 11:00 — Clines Corners — 58 | 1395

• 12.21 — Santa Rosa — 115 | 1452

• 13:07 — Tucumcari — 174 | 1511

• 13:26 — San Jon — 197 | 1534

• 14:38 — Texas State Line (Time zone change!) — 216 | 1553

• 14:40 — Glenrio, TX — 218 | 1555

• 14:56 — Adrian — 238 | 1575

• 15:07 — Vega — 251 | 1588

• 15:21 — Wilderado — 265 | 1602

• 15:26 — Bushland — 273 | 1610

• 15:40 — Amarillo (Gas Stop) — 286 | 1623

• 16:00 — Amarillo East (Rest Stop) — 298 | 1635

• 16:27 — Conway — 314 | 1651

• 16:39 — Groom — 327 | 1664

• 16:59 — Alanreed — 353 | 1690

• 17:05 — McLean — 360 | 1697

• 17:21 — Shamrock — 380 | 1717

• 17:32 — Texola — 394 | 1731

• 17:34 — Oklahoma State Line — 396 | 1733

• 17:39 — Erick — 403 | 1740

• 17:52 — Sayre — 417 | 1754

• 18:00 — Elk City — 428 | 1765

• 18:25 — Clinton — 461 | 1798

• 18:36 — Weatherford — 496 | 1813

• 19:20 — El Reno — 524 | 1861

• 20:04 — Oklahoma City (Don & Jean’s) — 569 | 1906

Good night from Okie City … y’all!

—Posted by Steve at 00:09 | 20-Aug-03

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

I remember nothing of this … geez, hit 40 and your memory goes, doesn’t it?

Soundtrack, Day Six

Don played an album this morning that startled me: From Elvis in Memphis. I had not heard some of those songs since I was a pre-teen with my ear glued to KRLA’s Elvis Hour. Hearing them again shook me to my core.

Later: the soundtrack from Trainspotting and Opus III’s Mind Fruit. KWGS-FM 89.5 Tulsa (another NPR affiliate) made the trip to the Arkansas border go by more quickly.

—Posted by Frank at 23:59:00 | 19-Aug-03

And here are the photos from Day Six:

« Our Move to Michigan – Day Six » Oklahoma City, OK, to Memphis, TN

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Frank speaks more eloquently than I can. I have too much history and other stuff mixed up in my 20 years in Okiehoma to be objective …

Oklahoma City, OK

Population 506,132 (2000 census). Capital city of Oklahoma. One of the nation’s largest cities in land area (more than 600 square miles), it covers all or part of three counties (Oklahoma, Cleveland, and Canadian). Seat of Oklahoma County. Home to Tinker Air Force Base, Mike Monroney Aeronautical Center, National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, the National Softball Hall of Fame and Museum, Myriad Botanical Gardens, and the Oklahoma State Museum of History.

Oklahoma City sprung up when Benjamin Harrison signed a declaration on 2 March 1889 opening up what had been the only “Unassigned Lands” in the Oklahoma Territory (i.e., lands not already “assigned” as Indian reservations) to white settlement. At noon on 22 April 1889, almost 10,000 settlers poured into the area and staked claims at the Oklahoma Station, a stop along the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe Railway. The town that became Oklahoma City was incoporated on 2 May 1890. Oklahoma City was designated the new state’s capital in 1910. Oklahoma City rapidly became a center of crop and cattle distribution, meatpacking, and wholesale distribution, and oil was struck on 4 December 1928.

I don’t know what I thought I was going to find in Oklahoma, but I was pleasantly surprised. Oklahoma City is huge and sprawling, but I took exception to the characterization of it in my handy Lonely Planet USA guide as “like a four-door 1976 Coupe de Ville with a broken bumper and bullhorns on the front: It’s big and ugly but oozes with a style all its own.” I’ll agree with the last part: it has a style all its own. It’s not big and ugly though, or at least not what I saw of it. What I saw was a city with a vibrant, bustling downtown and entertainment district (Bricktown); a city with the sense and the commitment to memorialize, and to memorialize movingly, one of the most horrific events to occur on American soil (the April 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building); a city with a lot of attractive neighborhoods with big backyards and green lawns and brick houses that looked like comfortable places to live; and a city with a solid identity and a definite culture and sensibility—one that I couldn’t put my finger on, but one which I liked. I regretted not being able to spend more time here.

I know that might make Steve cringe, because he has a lot of emotions and experiences wrapped up with living in Oklahoma that I as a visitor (and a brief one at that) don’t have (although I couldn’t help but notice a certain pride in place in him when he was showing me around), and I’m sure it would make the likes of James Inhofe and Ernest Istook cringe, but there it is.

—Posted by Frank at 23:59:00 | 19-Aug-03