Travel Date: September 10, 2018
Traveling thirty-six minutes south from Collingsworth County Pioneer's Park put us in Childress, Texas, where we took a left on U.S. 287, a highway I have traveled many times going back and forth between Utah and Dallas. Most Texas towns are quite charming, many with red brick buildings from the late 1800s set around a green center square and exquisite old county courthouse. Such is not the case with Childress--at least not from Highway 287. Picture instead a wide strip of concrete with randomly spread concrete block, corrugated metal, and wood-frame one-story 20th century structures set back from the street behind asphalt parking lots.
Using Google Earth to revisit the town, I found that we turned left on to 287 next to a small diner named Golden Chick. Next to that is the white, concrete-block Quick Lube, which is across the street from O'Reilley Auto Parts and Cash Max. It's the normal junk you see on the outskirts of almost every town. The difference with Childress is that, at least on 287, it never leads you to an immaculate town square. It just keeps going--the hazy, light blue humidity-soaked Texas sky and a line of bumper to bumper cars moving down this line of concrete edged with low commercial buildings on each side: Econo Lodge, Red Roof Inn, Motel 6, Allsup's, and World Finance Loans and Taxes. 1960's-styled street lamps arch over the road; there are billboards and electrical wires; it's pure American suburban 20th century junk. It goes on and on with no reprieve, although there is a large plant nursery on the left hand side of the highway called Ross Gardens Retail.
The town is completely forgettable, and yet I never quite forget it. There is something about its name that sticks in my memory. That, and the fact it was one of the many towns I passed through long, long ago, when my parents and I moved from a small town in central Utah to Dallas. That move, next to my marriage to Marci, is the biggest event in my life. It stands out perhaps like crossing the plains would have stood out in the minds of the Utah pioneers once they settled in the Salt Lake Valley. Who I ultimately am as a person was born as a 1972 cream colored Lincoln Mercury Cougar made its way down U.S. Highway 287 in the fall of 1982. I was already sixteen at the time and my dad was my stepfather, so I'm not suggesting my parents had hanky-panky on the side of the road to deal with the immense boredom that is caused by driving any given Texas highway, and that I was the product of that act. No, I'm saying who I developed as a person is tied intrinsically to that trip. I seemed to sense it even then, although it didn't turn out anything like I imagined. So, instead of being bored as is only natural driving across Texas, I was alive with anticipation of my new life in the city in this strange land without mountains. Every detail stood out. And much of who I am today--that unpaid but devoted writer and lover of the arts--was first formed in Dallas. Most of my closest friends--all five of them--who know me as well as any of my family, are my high school and college friends from Dallas. I don't know who I would be if my parents had not decided to move to Dallas in 1982 to sell a powdered diet drink called the Cambridge, but I do know I wouldn't be the same person I am now. I probably wouldn't be writing this blog. I doubt I'd be writing anything at all.
Given the significance of that original drive across Texas, it's odd that it's so hard to get back to that moment. Such is age. I remember going through Memphis, Texas and seeing some old brick buildings left vacant long ago by the Dust Bowl and Depression. I remember the cotton fields, something I had never seen before. I think I remember eating at a drive-in in Goodnight, although I can't be sure, because I remembered Memphis coming before Goodnight, and consulting the map, that clearly isn't so. I remember water towers. Lots of them. I'd never really seen water towers before. Out west our water is stored in tanks, up on hills, often buried under ground, so you don't see them. The tall metal towers rising above the endless flat or small rolls of green entranced me. They still do, to this day. I remember the softening sky, as humidity increased as we approached Wichita Falls, and how the low hillsides grew greener and greener as we approached Decatur. But it's not as sharp as you'd think it would be.
Given the significance U.S. 287 played in my life, you'd think I would have taken photos along the way during this trip, but I didn't. I think I was tired and just wanted to get there. Also, much of it, though not freeway, is divided highway, and that makes roadside picture taking a little more difficult. However, I think I just wanted to get to Dallas. I was road weary, and I still had 246 miles or three hours and thirty-eight minutes of driving left.
I remember driving through Wichita Falls--what a wonderful name--and looking at the old high brick warehouses and talking to Marci about another time we drove through, how we got off and couldn't find a good place to eat, and finally found a small diner--it seemed like it was way out on a side road, out by the farms, away from the center of town, on a loop road. In my mind the diner was purple, and it was rainy, and it was winter. The boys were with us. We were on our way home after going to see Lloyd for Christmas. I had an amazing chicken fried steak with lots of thick, warm country gravy, along with a cup of coffee, which I drank back then. I remember telling myself not to forget this place, that we would return someday. But, this time driving by with Marci, I could only guess where I thought it might be on the distant skyline. She didn't seem to remember it at all. To be honest, I wasn't even sure it wasn't just a dream. But it couldn't be. The depth of the images was too strong. I saw Tyler wiggling around in the booth, sitting on his knees, hips moving, dancing all over the place, while sitting in one place.
They say that when we die, we all have a life review. If so, I want that moment back. But then I want so many moments back--even the hard ones. I am simply greedy to be alive. The most mundane experiences sparkle like late afternoon sunlight hitting quartz crystals embedded in the sidewalk.
Lovely. As always. We traveled a great deal when I was young. This strikes a loud and complex chord for me.
ReplyDelete