The Texas panhandle is where God ran out of ideas.
Or, as La Raymunda put it as we drove through Amarillo, “What a horrible, horrible place. Yuck.”
We’re on Day Four of our second trip across the United States in the last six weeks. Whereas we took the Jeep to Southern California via a northern route that passed through Minnesota and Sioux Falls, South Dakota, this time we are taking a more direct route along Interstate 40.
La Raymunda just proclaimed the Texas panhandle west of Amarillo as unsuitable for human habitation. “What a miserable place!” Then she made a face like she’d just eaten a squishy, rotten fruit. Then she added another “miserable!” for emphasis.
It really is miserable here in Texas. The temperature is 98 degrees, the wind is blowing almost 30 miles an hour (that’s roughly 37 degrees and 48kms/hour for you Euros), and there is a white, glaring, dust-filled haze that blocks the sky from horizon to horizon. Most of the trees we see (and there aren’t many) are dead, the buildings are nasty-looking and dilapidated and there is virtually nothing but stunted, dessicated grass stretching away to eternity in every direction. Surely this is where the lost and the damned go to die.
Other than that, it’s not a bad place at all.
We left Virginia on Sunday June 1st, coming south on I-81, spending most of the day in Virginia before finally picking up I-40 shortly after crossing into northeastern Tennessee. We spent the night in Knoxville and, after crossing the Mississippi into Arkansas the next evening, The Debra wondered how we could have only been in two states after two solid days of driving. “Last time, with the Jeep, we went through ten states in two days.” Which is true, I said, but this time the states are bigger. It’d been a long time since I’d driven through Tennessee the long way and I’d forgotten how long it took.
In Knoxville we ate at a restaurant called The Restaraunt of Doom. We ordered a plate of fried green tomatoes for an appetizer. After the server brought them to the table she asked for the rest of the order.
“Do the noodles that come with the seared ahi tuna have any peanut oil?” asked Debra, who is very allergic to all things peanut. The server said that yes, as a matter of fact they were drenched in peanut oil. “For that matter,” the server continued, “so are those fried green tomatoes you’re about to eat.”
The server went on blithely to say that they fried everything in peanut oil, eliminating half the menu options in one shot, then said that they used peanut oil in the au jus, which was the base for the gravies and sauces used in the items on the other half of the menu.
Debra leaned across the table and whispered, “I think they’re trying to kill me here.”
Anyway, after a long conversation with both the server and her manager about the joys of extreme peanut allergies (nausea, projectile vomiting and death), Debra managed to special-order a dish that would not make her barf or her head explode. The whole episode reminded Debra of a time when a vendor she worked with during her time with Time Warner Cable - a vendor whom she had difficult relations with - once left her a well-intentioned gift basket on the desk in her hotel room during a conference. The gift basket was stuffed with peanut brittle, peanut butter and crackers, peanut spread and granola bars made with peanuts. She called it the Assassination Basket.
We just passed a big yellow sign saying, “Welcome to New Mexico”. “Thank God we’re out of Texas,” said Debra.
The landscape has changed already. There are distant mesas on the horizon, the glaring haze has given way to clouds and blue skies and the wind has even died down. I bet gas prices are lower here, too, and everyone sings with soft, angelic voices.
Memphis was a let-down. We wanted to eat dinner at a barbeque place recommended by Mark Furstenberg, but it was Monday and the place was closed. So we crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas and headed 100 miles or so north to Caruthersville, which sits in the bottom of the Missouri boot heel, fronts the Mississippi River, and is the birthplace and hometown of one William H. Dorsey III, Debra’s step-father.
If I recall correctly, the sign at the town limits said 7,670 souls lived in Caruthersville, and that it was the county seat of Pemiscot County. President Harry Truman, a Missouri native, visited the town on many occasions and has a street named after him. In fact, William’s father served in Washington, D.C. with Truman during the Truman administration. Two streets are named after relatives of William’s: Ward Street, which is one of the main drags through town, is named for his great grandfather and there is a smaller residential street named after the Schult side of his family. There’s even a white stone bench sitting out front of the public library which is dedicated to William’s aunt. The name Helen Jacobs Schult is chiseled in beautiful letters on the front edge of the bench.
Caruthersville struck me as a timeless place, where not a lot has probably changed in sixty years. The river still chugs by, occasionally overflowing its banks (by over 40 feet in 1997), the downtown streets see more foot traffic than cars (although not much of either) and where everyone knows everyone, from the hotel clerk and the waitress at the Roundhouse Restaurant to the clerks at the post office.
Tuesday we left Caruthersville and dipped south again into Arkansas, where we picked up I-40 again and turned back west. We were headed for El Reno, Oklahoma, my own father’s hometown and old stomping grounds. I still have a lot of family out there and when we pulled into town we were met by two aunts, one uncle, four cousins, three spouse-in-laws, a youngin and a dog.
We all headed into town, driving through old residential neighborhoods, to eat at Johnnie’s Onion Fried Burgers, a local tradition which was supposed to be DA BOMB. And while the burgers were ok, I have to be honest and say that Five Guys in Virginia still holds the burger title for me. But we had a great time telling stories and catching up on the fifteen years or so which had passed since I’d been in Oklahoma. I’m real glad we made the stop and got the chance to see everyone.
After hanging out in Rachel and Benny’s living room, looking at old photos and taking new ones, we retired to Sarah Wilkins’ home on the other side of town. Sarah and my father have been friends since the early 1800’s and we relaxed and chatted and caught up on days gone by. We slept in (the guest bed at Sarah’s is uber-comfy) and didn’t get out of El Reno until after 11:00.
When we finally did get our butts in gear, we drove out of town on a battered remnant of the old Route 66, which used to run right through El Reno before the Interstate killed it. In Clinton we spent some time looking at some pretty cool exhibits - the rooms are laid out on a decade-by-decade basis - at the Route 66 Museum. The museum has classic cars, signs, music, photos, and artifacts of the different eras, from a psychedlic hippie van to a jukebox playing Elvis. It’s definitely worth stopping to check out.
And now we’re about 40 miles from Santa Rosa, New Mexico. We’re going to try and make it to Carlsbad tonight so we can see Carlsbad Caverns in the morning. But first, it’s been recommended that we stop by Comet in Santa Rosa and sample the red enchiladas. I’ll let you know how it goes.
