Abandoned mini golf course in Zion, IL.

Things are quiet around the homestead now, back to normal after several weeks of, well.. abnormalities.

My younger brother got himself hitched last weekend, which I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to all that much. We haven’t gotten along in the last couple years, which left me less than confident about the outcome of spending a weekend together in tuxedos.

In the end though, it was actually pretty special. The entire Cornelius nuclear family was in one spot and everyone got along, everyone had fun.

And now everyone’s gone. With parents and sisters back in California, and the newlyweds in their love nest (ignoring the rest of the world as they should,) I’m once again free to zero in on a long punch list of stuff to do around here.

First, there’s the issue of that children’s DVD project. The founder and I weren’t able to reach an agreement in our contract negotiations, so we parted (amicably) the day before I left for California at the end of June.

Because this was going to be a large part of my immediate future, not being involved anymore is both disappointing… and freeing. I’m looking at about a half dozen other projects I’ve started, all are equally exciting. And it’s completely up to me whether or not they succeed.

Morning in Amarillo is just like life in any other town that sits along the interstate. You wake up, toss your bags in the car, gas up the car and head for the on ramp.

Day 4 and 5: Amarillo, TX, St. Louis, MO and home sweet home

We’d hoped to make it all the way to St. Louis today, but under the best conditions that’s a run of over 12 hours factoring in stops for lunch and gas. So as we set out at 10 a.m., we weren’t sure how far we’d get.

A ‘58 Lincoln Continental sleeps quietly in Shamrock, Texas.

As it turns out – farther than we thought. When you just want to sleep in your own bed and the road has run out of interesting, new things to show you… you just keep going. So through the rest of Texas’ panhandle, across Oklahoma’s flat, featureless waistline and slightly more hilly Missouri, we soldiered on.

Midway along the turnpike in Oklahoma, we heard loud rattling from the backseat. It seemed the heavy, metal pieces I’d stacked back there were bumping into each other whenever we hit a bump. As Melissa leaned into the backseat to look for the source of the sound, I aimed for the bumps so she could locate the source.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the trunk,” she shook her head.
“Impossible, there’s only one press back there… and nothing for it to bump against.”

I pulled over to examine the pieces in the presses in the back seat, and we scratched our heads. A semi whizzed by, blasting us with a rush of hot, Oklahoma air.

“Maybe it’s the top?” I wondered aloud, and started folding it back into it’s storage space above the trunk.

“What’s this?” Melis pointed to the boot area. Where there was supposed to be a black, rubber cap on top of the rear wheel strut, it had been ejected off and instead we were looking at a 3-inch steel rod sticking straight up. I took a few steps down the grassy embankment and looked back at the car. The weight of the presses was finally too much for the rear shock absorbers – there was now just an inch or so of room between the wheel and the wheel well.

Being Sunday and not knowing the area, we decided to take our chances looking like hip hop low riders and kept driving, albeit with more care as to bumps in the road. It was a good call – the car ran just fine, though more noisy and bouncy than normal.

That night we pulled into St. Louis for a late night visit with college buddy Andrew. He’d printed up signs – complete with directional arrows – and posted them on lamp posts and street signs, and leading all the way up to his apartment. It was hysterical, and extremely welcomed for a tired pair who’d been on the road around least fourteen hours by that point.

Andrew has his place outfitted as both his home and office, with the smaller, second bedroom serving as painting studio and computer workstation. As we walked around, enjoying his etchings and metal sculptures, he served us warm peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream. Sitting there in the air conditioned oasis, it was hard to leave, but with Melissa needing to head back to work and home only five or six hours away… we said our goodbyes and headed out into the hot St. Louis night.

We finally reached the city limits of Chicago at about 7 the next morning, just in time for traffic jams on the south side. Crawling into bed with about ten hours of sleep ahead of us felt fantastic, and we awoke feeling like the whole trip had been one long dream.

It would’ve been nice to spend more time in some of these neat places, but the trip absolutely served its purpose – we got the letterpresses home, enjoyed being together more than we have in months, and are happy to spend a nice long time at home, where we belong for now.

Leaving the Grand Canyon on Day 2, we drove most of the night to try and keep up with our schedule. We didn’t want Melissa to miss any more days at work than was necessary.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at finding a hotel room in small towns (the rodeo was in town,) we pulled into the Acoma Reservation at 1 in the morning. The large casino and hotel there had plenty of rooms, and we were happy to occupy one for the night.

Day 3: Sky City, NM, Santa Fe, NM and Amarillo, TX

The next morning we awoke to another day of cobalt blue skies filled with mile-high cumulonimbus clouds. These were the kinds of clouds – so rare in Chicago in recent years – with intensely defined edges, that make you feel as if you could just reach out and break a piece off.

There was a lot of ground to cover today- but with cool weather, a sparsely populated freeway and the car behaving like a champ, we were on our way and within a couple hours we crested the top of a hill that overlooked Santa Fe, nestled below in a green valley. Practically my aunt and uncle’s “second home”, according to my mom, I thought of calling to ask for a good recommendation for lunch. However, Melissa had already picked the place from the Route 66 guidebook: Café Pasqual’s and before we knew it we were seated at a communal table in the noisy, quirky restaurant.

Stepping onto the sunny street after lunch, we could see why my family in Denver visits Santa Fe. As far as the old part of town is concerned, the clock may as well have stopped a century ago. Modern, beautiful galleries and unique shops are tucked inside authentic adobe-style buildings, and the old cathedral sits at the end of the street overlooking the public square.

This day, the whole town seemed to be celebrating the 10 year anniversary of the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum with music, arts and crafts tables, free bottles of water and chocolate cake. Thin, bearded homeless men people-watched from benches, children ran in every direction… and beneath the long, deep awning of the Palace of the Governor sat dozens of Native American artists in a row. Their silver beaded necklaces and turquoise rings were spread out on both traditional, native blankets and cheap, modern fleece from Walmart.

Perhaps I assign too much importance in considering how these peoples ancestors were treated by mine, and the effect it has in today’s world. Maybe I project too much romance and an almost mythical status on what are, today anyway, just other people. But walking past these artists, sitting on plastic milk cartons after driving long distances to be there… made my heart break for some of them. Deeply resilient and proud, they sit up straight and smile as you walk past. They’re not asking for pity or a handout, but I’ve heard enough about some of their living conditions to know they aren’t on an even playing field with the rest of us. Their aura of both pride and peace is inspiring, despite the fact they were likely some of the poorest people there that day.

Heading over to a photography gallery, we browsed original signed photographs as if we were in a museum, yet all the pieces are for sale. Edward Curtis, Ansel Adams, Alfred Stieglitz… and modern masters including Annie Leibovitz and Jack Spencer all framed and lit with great sensitivity.

Spencer’s work was especially exciting, as I don’t think I’d seen it before. It was the most viceral, moody photography I’ve seen in a long time. The price tags on his large scale pieces were just as incredible – a couple thousand dollars, hanging just a few feet from a $60,000 vintage Ansel Adams photograph. I could have spent several days just in that gallery, but we moved on to the O’Keeffe museum.

The O’Keefe Museum was fantastic, and off the first gallery they play a 12-minute documentary on a loop. Filled with interviews of the artist, period footage of her home and studio, and shots of her paintings, it filled us with a desire for that freedom, that independence and solitude that she carved out for herself – against the odds, in the 1930’s. O’Keeffe was an amazing woman and the exhibit of at least a hundred of her paintings, dating from throughout her career, was equally impressive.

Entirely too soon, it was time to head back towards the freeway. So with the wonderful taste of huevos rancheros still in our mouths, we pointed our 120 horses towards Amarillo, Texas. And just like the previous evening, Day 3 would again be capped off by an hour of tiredly driving from one full motel to the next.

But I s’pose when you mosey, you never know for sure where your Happy Trails will end that day. Right lil’ Buckeroos?