I love the Route 66 in AZ: the steady change in the landscape, the sparse traffic consisting mainly of locals, aficionados and bikers.
I love the small places: funky Hackberry with its red and white Corvette, and the forlorn gas stations. Every time less and less. This time of two the pumps were gone.
I see Valentine's stone building and think about the Navajo and Hopi and Hualapai children brought here to be thought English and Religion as if not having any of their own.
Yet when in Seligman the saga, this boulevard of broken dreams, the myth is turned into a '50's theme park without a thought for those who out of dire need left family behind, home and hearthstone for an uncertain destination. Many fell by the wayside and staying where they fell they found alfe of menial jobs sometimes over several generations.Yet living on Route 66 what destination is left to dream of? Can one get away from only candied past to pure present fed by a ream of doing. They may miss the majestic mountains, the long vista's, panorama and space? Do they wonder how much space there is at the golden shores?
|The silence and loneliness of men staring in their beer.|
I love the train, the Sante Fe, Atchinson and Topeka line meandering along the road.
I love the Route 66. It touches me by its tragic beauty & brass commercialism.
Yet it doesn't shine in everybody's eyes-