On the Road: From Missouri to Colorado: A Night at Love's

I've left Missouri for a two-month sojourn in Colorado. 

I passed the night in Chez Prius at a Love's in Ellis, Kansas. 

A very cozy bed chamber. 

 

Cozy bed in Chez Prius. Ellis, Kansas. Credit: Mzuriana.

I awakened to a glorious dawn, co-starring a slice of Americana. 

 

Dawn in Ellis, Kansas, at Love's Truck Stop. Co-starring an A&W. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Dawn in Ellis, Kansas, at Love's Truck Stop. Credit: Mzuriana.

On the Road to Longmont, Colorado: A Stop in Czechoslavakia, Sort Of

 En route to Longmont, Colorado, I pulled over for gas and other sustenance in Wilson, Kansas. 

Hi, ho! A giant egg! 

Giant Czech egg in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

And no worries, I took more photos of this good egg from different angles and distances, in case you yearned for same. Wilson, in fact, claims that its egg is the world's largest Czech egg:

Giant Czech egg in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Giant Czech egg in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

There was more visual evidence of Wilson as the "Czech Capital of Kansas:" 

Czech heritage acknowledgement in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Czech heritage acknowledgement in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Czech heritage acknowledgement in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Czech heritage acknowledgement in Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

The giant egg puts me in mind of the Big Alaskan Road Trip that my daughter, Kit, and I took back in the 90s, which Kit deemed the trip of "Buttes and Big'uns," thanks to the many "largest in the world ..." roadside attractions we visited, in addition to the countless buttes in the northern plains.

But I digress. Below is Wilson's historic opera house, undergoing restoration: 

Historic opera house undergoing restoration. Wilson, Kansas. April 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

So why the hell did the Czechs land in Wilson? 

They came to build the railroads, back in the 1870s. They left their homes in Europe because of poverty, for the most part. American railroad companies even advertised in Czech papers about the opportunities to be found in the American plains.

Also, early Czech arrivals to Kansas wrote back home about the opportunities in Kansas for work and land. Some Czechs, already in the US, simply migrated west from the American east.

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Let the Rain Decide

 

Rain over the Sacramento Mountains. Alamogordo, New Mexico. July 2013.

 

 July 2021

What I wrote to friend Travis (here and here): 

Where am I going? Just last night I decided, after perusing for several days the weather (with rain at ALL destinations for the coming days, flooding in some areas, etc.) --> Mobile, Alabama.

I'll check out the Mobile Bay and Gulf area for possible coming-year residency.

But after a few days, I'll slide over to New Orleans, then Lafayette, then Lake Charles, and then Beaumont.

 

On the Road Again: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 28: Flags and Traps

 

Fire and brimstone in an Arkansas tract. January 2012.

 

From Salado Rest Area on Highway 167, on the way to Livingston, Texas, my route included spans on:

1. Highway 167
2. Highway 67
3. Highway 57
4. Highway 595
5. Highway 59
   

My take-away sights

Highway 67 and 57 (Arkansas): Dotted by many flapping Confederate flags that proclaim quasi-American citizens' fealty to a dystopian ghost nation that lurks in the United States like plaque on a heart's arteries

Highway 595: Speed traps! 

Atlanta, Texas: The town of Atlanta, Texas, has a big ol' billboard close to its entrance that announces to all comers: "One City Under God." .... Not to be disrespectful, but by the looks of things there, God don't like Atlanta too much. Depressing.

Between Atlanta and Livingston: More speed traps!

On the Road Again: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 27: Overnighting in an Arkansas Rest Area

 

Salado Rest Area camping area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

After a week in Missouri, it was time to strike out again toward the southwest ..... to Livingston, Texas. My goals to achieve there: 

1. Vote in the spring 2020 runoff election, which had been postponed, because of COVID-19, from its usual May time to July
2. Simply spend time (and some money) in Livingston to cement my relationship with Texas as my official home state
3. Meet up (safely) with my Houston and Livingston friends

 

When I left Missouri, I knew I'd overnight in Chez P at Arkansas' Salado Rest Area on Highway 167, a bit south of Batesville. 

I have a history with this pretty rest area. Every time I swang by here on my way up or down to South Louisiana, I stopped at Salado Rest Area. Because it's pretty and because I so love that it is a rest area with actual campsites. 

It was with some excitement that this time, I would actually use one of the campsites! 

I arrived before dinner, and chose my site for:

• Attractiveness
• Proximity to restroom 
• Relatively short distance for a rapid exit, if needed
  
• Proximity to night time light source for a feeling of security (not actual security, mind, but the feeling of security)
  

 I backed Chez P into the campsite driveway so I could shoot straight out if necessary.

View from my campsite, Salado Rest Area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

 For dinner, I pulled out a can of Chunky soup, a bag of carrots, some crackers, and an apple. An unexpected visitor arrived and I shared some soup with her.

Dinner guest at my Salado Rest Area campsite, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

After dinner, I anticipated that other overnighters would begin to roll in on this Friday night. I welcomed the additions, as I feel safer in the middle of a herd of other overnighters in a rest area.

But no one came. No. one.

Anxiety about being the lone camper in a rest area that attracted stoppers-by throughout the night punctured my buoyant camping spirit a bit. I reminded myself of this: The vast majority of humans simply want to go about their business, neither wanting to be molested nor wanting to molest others, so get a grip on reality, girl. 

When I arose the next morning, I saw that a couple of other travelers had, after all, stopped for the night, including one in a tent. 

Every time I pass a night like this, it makes the next time easier. Which is good because I aim to camp in the future in a dispersed camping area on public lands, where I'd be far from a main road and facilities. 

When I say "easier," I refer to a process that moves me toward right-sizing safety fears. It is out-sized fear that keeps us from doing so many things.  

 

A campsite at Salado Rest Area camping area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

 

On the Road: Kansas: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 26: Minneola and the Confederates

 

Trump and Confederate flags fly together forever. Minneola, Kansas. June 2020.

 I left maskless Meade, with its coded "Situation," and just up the road a bit, passed through Minneola.

On this road trip into the Midwest, it has been so disconcerting to see how people twin Trump with the traitorous Confederate States of America, founded to protect the practice of enslaving women, men, and children.

It is raw racism, unmasked and unashamed.

I can get that this is part of the Trump brand. 

But how does one reconcile the pairing of the United States flag with the Confederate flag, as if they were equal? Isn't this action on the level of burning the American (that is, the United States of America) flag? 

 

On the Road: Kansas: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 25: Meade and The Situation

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Campground and playground. June 2020.

En route from Tucson to Missouri, I stopped in Meade, Kansas, for two nights.

On Wednesday evening, I visited the pleasant city park. There is a campground there, making it a welcome and comfortable retreat for RVers passing through.

There is a pretty playground, too, and it gave a nod to COVID.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground. June 2020.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground and COVID sign. June 2020.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground and COVID sign. June 2020.

I noticed a clutch of people with musical instruments across a parking lot from the playground. Ah! A small outdoor concert! Fabulous - a safe event outdoors with everyone able to choose their physical distance and still enjoy the music and (careful) conviviality of being with other humans IRL. If they chose to be careful, that is.

The musicians: Talented! Old-timey Christian songs, pleasantly nostalgic.


The music ended, and I learned that several clergy had pulled together to host this event for the purpose of offering solace and fellowship in this Difficult Time.

I reckoned, at first, that the clergy intended to talk about COVID, and maybe also some about the Black Lives Matter protests. 

COVID didn't come up at all. They talked about the protests. But they didn't use the word "protest."



Here are words I heard from the four ministers, all uttered with calm, reasonable, and pastoral tones of voice:

• Race riots
• Fear
• Mobs
• Riots
• Fear
• "The events"
• "The situation"
• Fear
• Arson
• Looting
• Criminal acts

As I listened to the four members of the clergy from Meade, I felt confused. It was like they spoke in code. I understood the words. I understood the usual meanings of the words. But there was an overlay of meaning that kept me asking myself: "What is he really saying here?"

A minister of Meade, Kansas, at Meade City Park. June 2020.

There was much talk by each minister about how the protesters (my word) should turn to God and find peace and healing. There seemed to be an assumption that protesters (or, as the Meade ministers might call them: "rioters") are not people of faith. It seemed to be further implied that people of faith do not protest (my word). Maybe the thinking is: They protest (my word), therefore they have no faith. 

This talk of fear. Fear .... that Meade residents have? 

Fear of what? This wasn't explained. But maybe for Meade residents, it was understood.

A minister of Meade, Kansas, at Meade City Park. June 2020.

When a Black clergy woman strode to the stage, I had two thoughts:

• "Oh! I am pleasantly surprised at Meade! A person of color is at this table!" (Because I have my own biases about small Kansas towns.)
• "I want to hear what she has to say! Surely she'll bring some balance to this talk about riots, arson, looting and the lack of God in the protesters' (my word) lives." (Yes, I profiled her perspective based solely on her complexion.)

But no.

The minister, originally from Kenya, described a harrowing experience back home in which white folks shot at her husband while he and she were in their car, and threatened to cut off her hands! The minister related how she called to Jesus in her mind, and felt supreme confidence that Christ was not going to allow these men to harm her and her husband any further, and they did not! ..... And, she declared, it's this kind of faith and confidence that all of us should embrace.

For one, oh my gosh! What a horrific experience to have suffered! I cannot imagine the terror she must have felt.

But: George Lloyd called out for heavenly intervention, and the police murdered him anyway.

What is it the minister from Kenya - and the other Meade clergy - want African-Americans to do?

Be quiet, keep their heads down, pray?

Maybe the message is for African-Americans to do nothing. Maybe the message is that age-old one that colonizers and oppressors and their compliant missionaries disseminated to the oppressed: Accept your lot and get your reward in heaven.

I puzzled over this during the event, and afterward, and again when I arrived at my friend, Kate's, house in Missouri, who is a faithful follower of Christ, and who also protests in the streets, alone and with others. She is not a quiet Christian. Kate couldn't decipher the code either.


There was only one time when any of the ministers used the word justice.

One time.


Meanwhile, the ants on a tree went about their usual business.

Ants at Meade City Park. June 2020.

On the Road: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 23: Highway 54, New Mexico: Changes

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. June 2020.

June 2020

Back here, I knew that my first stop after leaving Tucson would be in Las Cruces, New Mexico. But I didn't know where I'd head from there.

Then an important day for one of my descendants popped up, and that event determined my second destination: Central Missouri.

COVID-19 had an opinion about how I was to get there.

Should I take the route I yearned to take - Highway 54 through New Mexico? Revisit past scenic and cultural touchstones, perhaps for the last time, as I have no idea when I might - if ever - return to the Southwest? But knowing it would be a challenge to find a spot to overnight in Chez P because of state and national park closures, and the dearth of rest areas on this route (which weren't open, anyway)?

Or should I drop down to El Paso, then shoot east through laissez-faire Texas and up through Oklahoma, interstates all the way, hopeful of open rest areas and truck stops where I could overnight in Chez P instead of a motel?

Romantic nostalgia won out over clinical practicality. Highway 54 it was to be. 

The first time I traveled on Highway 54 in New Mexico was in 8888. The last time was in 2013.

Things have changed. Some then and now photos below. 

Carrizozo junction

The junction of Highways 54 and 380 in Carrizozo (near Valley of Fires), at my traditional pit stop, where I went to the bathroom and bought a banana.

In 2013, the c-store/gas station was an Allsup's. Next door sat an old building, C&A Stromberg Trading Post.  That giant square of color against the New Mexican sky always cheered me. 

Stromberg's at junction of Highways 54 and 380, Carrizozo, New Mexico. September 2013.

 In 2020, Stromberg's is gone. The refurbished c-store expanded into the space Stromberg's left behind.

Junction of Highways 54 and 380, Carrizozo, New Mexico. June 2020.

 

Eyes of Duran

I saw the eyes for the first time in 2013. 

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. September 2013.

Here's what they looked like in 2017.

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. July 2017.

And in June 2020.

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. June 2020.

You can read a tragic history of the people who used to own this building in this City of Dust story. 

The stone building

This stone building breathed both desolation and life to me each time I met it on Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa. 

Here it is in 2013, like a painting.

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. September 2013.

 

And in June 2020. 

 

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. June 2020.

 Crows played about the building, as did the ubiquitous wind. 

 

 

Related posts on Highway 54 in New Mexico

• August 2017: Missouri Flash Trip, Part 4: Come Ride With Me (in videos)
• August 2017: Missouri Flash Trip, Part 5: Duran Duran
• October 2013: New Mexico: Goodbye to Highway 54. (I took a video of that stone building then, too. Yellow flowers bloomed.)
• August 2013: Highway 54, New Mexico: Summer Party
  
• July 2013: The Ride Back Home: Raton to Alamogordo
• February 2013: Magic Between Two Mountain Ranges
• February 2013: Three Rivers Petroglyphs Site
• January 2013: New Mexico: The Freezing Fog

 

Here is a slideshow of  Highway 54 across the years, 2007-present.

###

On the Road: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 22: Into New Mexico

COVID signage outside Walmart. Las Cruces, New Mexico. May 2020.

After leaving Tucson, I headed east on I-10.

In addition to the Welcome to New Mexico border sign, there was another, emblazoned on a giant LED board, which I remember as:

Face coverings must be worn in public settings.

(When, oh when, will I learn to stop and take photos of these documentary things?)

I already knew that New Mexico took COVID protections more seriously than Arizona. The signage impressed me right off, not only for its literal message to inform travelers, but for the sign's implied message: We walk our talk about our concern for your health.

My experience in Tucson was that stores took COVID seriously: plexiglass barriers between cashiers and customers, sanitized shopping carts, and eventually, cashiers routinely wearing masks. But the percentage of Tucsonans wearing masks while shopping was slow to rise as COVID unfolded, and at best, I estimate only a 70% mask-wearing rate at its peak.

In Las Cruces, New Mexico, mask wearing is de rigeur. When I entered the above Walmart, everyone wore a mask except for one scofflaw dad and his under-the-age-of-informed-consent daughter.

I stayed in a Las Cruces motel for three nights. COVID constraints closed the indoor pool, prohibited visitors to motel guests, and required masks in the lobby. This felt reassuring. 

I met with friends in Las Cruces.

In one case, a friend and I met outside only, in a covered breezeway, with 15 or so feet between us. In another case, we met indoors and maskless, but with at least 10 feet between us.  In the third case, we met inside, maskless - most of the time with at least six feet between us, but for a brief time, we sat together at a dining table for lunch.

No hugs, no handshakes.

A level of confidence among all of us that we'd each practiced pretty-safe behaviors before meeting up.

If I were to apply a sexual-encounter analogy, I'd say the three personal meetings - in their aggregate - were similar to using a condom: pretty darn good protection against infection, but not without risk, and certainly not the 100% protection that abstinence brings.

Gosh, it was good to see some folks face to face!

And a rueful shout-out to my El Paso friend and treasured role model, who I couldn't meet while in the area.   :-(