In the light of day, the room could be called old, rustic, or plain old crappy. Mom thinks Psycho is more fitting. We have concluded Weaubleau is pronounced WeBlow, and we wanna blow this town. Before we even emerged from our cabin, granny, her sister, and maybe Mr. Bates were setting up a yard sale. Mom takes a look at the stuff spread out on tables and can see her own past scattered amongst the junk. From Las Vegas ashtrays she’s owned to a heater she used in Angola, New York, while the sliced-up shower curtain only added more worry.
Leaving town, we drove past one of the guys from Deliverance. A shave, shower, and some dental work were in order. Missouri is definitely a state with rich contrasts. What the amenities failed to deliver on, the beauty of the landscape makes up for.
Breakfast was at 54 Café in Nevada, not the state: I meant Nevada, Missouri.
Nothing else much happened this morning as we were driving out of Missouri. Then, in the early afternoon, just before we were about to turn right, a procession of wide-load vehicles was coming our way. The lead vehicle pulls into the middle of the street with flashing lights to alert drivers in both directions to slow down. I can see a truck approaching, hauling a giant pipe about to make a right on our road. So I pull closer to the right. After the first truck passes, the follow vehicle leaves its position to race ahead of the first truck. We see another exact configuration approaching.
While Mom and I sit at the stop sign, the second lead vehicle stops in the middle of the road just as the previous guy did. A tow truck driver behind the lead vehicle is not paying attention, and before he knows it, he is approaching way too fast. With a Lincoln Town Car on his hitch, he locks up his brakes, and as he begins to slide right to avoid the stopped lead vehicle, he is heading directly at us.
There is no doubt in my mind that we are about to be T-boned by this freight train and that if I’m hit, I am certainly going to die in the wreckage. As he is sliding at the speed of sound, I hit the gas after contemplating putting it in reverse but decided I may not be able to do it quick enough, and if the transmission hesitates even a second I’m still going to be hit. As the car accelerates quickly, I have to maneuver over gravel under the right tires and try not to lose traction as, again, I know we are close to being hit.
I am nearly around the corner and thinking about driving down the embankment to save us from being jackhammered as I see his bumper in my peripheral vision with the rearview mirror reflecting his red tow truck and the white smoke billowing out of his locked and skidding tires. We miss sliding into the ditch with the tires holding traction and we continue accelerating down the road as fast as we can. The tow truck, at one point, could not have been more than a few inches away from us.
A quarter-mile down the road, gasping for air and nearly in tears, we pull into a driveway to catch our breath and check our underwear. Just as we exit the van, the old guy in the tow truck passes us with a brief, casual wave and a cigarette dangling from his lips as though this was routine in the course of his daily routine. Mom suppresses the need to flip the man a bird and we get back in the van and try to calmly drive away.
I require an hour or two before feeling like things have calmed down and that my adrenaline won’t trigger some kind of heart condition. I’m done with Kansas and am now ready to leave the state.
I should point out that this tow truck, but especially the Lincoln Town Car, was especially traumatic to mom as just two months ago, on May 5th, while leaving the freeway in Phoenix, mom rolled her own white Lincoln Town Car that required her to be airlifted to the hospital. Maybe that close call with the possibility of a deadly outcome was what motivated her to want to see the city of her birth one more time. Then here we are out in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas, and the haunting image of the killer Town Car was trying to collect the soul that had been spared fairly recently.
Slow down, take deep breaths, and things will be fine.
I do love Kansas. When Caroline and I first passed through this state five years ago we were enchanted with the places we saw. The Great Plains have a different kind of beauty than the heavily wooded eastern U.S. or the mountainous western states, but the charm is undeniable.
I feel that there’s much to explore out here, but with over 600 miles we’re trying to cover today, we don’t have the time to collect place names or linger to admire the finer details.
Why were the lights flashing here? There was no train. I waited as I really wanted to see one lumber by out here on the Great Plains, but there was nothing.
No, Mom, we are not stopping for ice cream, pie, walleye, pizza, a bakery, a fruit stand, or a winery. I’m stopping to look at the horses because one of them is telepathically signaling me to rescue it from the other horses that are forcing it to herd with them when it just wants to be free.
Passing over the Cimarron River, we are close to leaving Kansas.
Can someone, anyone, tell me why it is hotter out here on the plains than it is in the deserts of Arizona? At a gas station, the sign says it’s 108 degrees, but the attendant said someone reported an asphalt temperature of 136 degrees down on the interstate. The humidity is starting to fade the further west we go, but this is still an overwhelming scorcher of a day.
The sights of roadside America leave indelible impressions in my mind, but with photos, I can share the things I’ve seen in my past with my future self and, of course, with Caroline, who wasn’t able to travel with us. Lucky her.
Sunflowers are the plants of smiles. Who can look at a field of these yellow and black plants and fail to find a moment of happiness? Or maybe I’m just projecting this as knowing we are about to enter Texas; I know I’m only a couple of states away from getting back to Arizona and into the arms of my wife.
Leaving Oklahoma using small back roads, we do not find anything that hints at an upcoming spot for dinner. The first couple of towns in Texas are not delivering any promise either. Then, about to enter Canadian, Texas, we see a billboard directing our attention to the Cattlemen’s Exchange Steak and BBQ Restaurant. This place is drawing us in.
The Cattle Exchange Restaurant in Canadian, Texas, has by far the BEST steak I have ever had in my life! EVER! They have the best bread pudding, too. Their salsa is homemade and GREAT! Their bread is unbelievable! But that RIBEYE STEAK is the thing you (and with that, I mean: I) will come back to Canadian, Texas, for.
Forget Morton’s, Fleming’s, Ruth’s Chris, and any other contender. The Cattle Exchange in the little town of Canadian in the Texas Panhandle has set the bar for the best mesquite broiled steak in the Universe. And best bread pudding. The ranch dressing is no slouch, either. – Yeah, I was impressed. If you don’t someday make your way to this little corner of the panhandle of Texas for this wonderful treat, you are truly missing out on life.
Leaving Canadian we drive by some well-kept, beautiful old homes and a meticulously renovated old theater. Outside of town, the landscape is lusciously green. Mom exalts high praise on the state she was afraid was too boring and ugly for her tastes, a newfound appreciation has been found.
We breeze by Amarillo and stop in Vega at the Bonanza Motel, where, for $45, we have a room on Saturday night that isn’t the backdrop for some horror plot. Tomorrow, we will be home.
