You Can't Go Back

I found this deserted building along Interstate 40 in Texas today.

Actually, I was looking for it.

It was very satisfying to find it in this disgusting, deteriorating condition. You may be wondering how I could find inner pleasure in this deserted landmark.

More than 25 years ago, I was travelling the American Southwest on my motorcycle. Late one afternoon, about 60 miles west of Amarillo I blew out my rear tire. I was able to steer to the shoulder. Turning off the engine and getting off the bike, I surveyed the damage. It dawned on me what had most likely happened. My rear tire had been replaced earlier that day back in Amarillo with a new one. This blowout was probably the result of the tube being pinched when they mounted the new tire. So, kind of like a time bomb, it would be able to run fine for a while, but eventually a hole would rub in the tube and it would blow. Anyway, I look back to the East from where I had come; then I look forward to the setting sun and as far as my eye can see in either direction there are no signs of life. I see no houses, no stores, no buildings at all. This is one very desolate stretch of highway.

I start walking west; gambling on the hope of the unknown rather than the certainty of the known. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before I saw an exit. Not just an exit, but an exit with a gas station. To be precise, not just a gas station but a service station. In the days before gas stations were grocery stores and fast food franchises, they were service stations. A service station would have a couple of bays to pull a vehicle in and a mechanic on duty to repair or service your vehicle should you have a problem while on the road. What a great concept.

As I approach this service station, I can see a couple of guys that run the place just sitting there talking and laughing. I walk up to them, but they don’t really acknowledge me. During a break in their conversation, I ask them if I could get them to help me out with a flat tire back on the Interstate. Without really answering me, they mumble something about waiting till some other guy gets back, and then they just walk away to a back room and shut the door. An air conditioner is whirring mounted in the wall of the back room. I wait outside in the non-air conditioned space. Eventually, another guy does come, walks right to the back room and shuts the door (so as not to let any of that cool air escape).

After waiting about an hour, I figured I had made them suffer in air conditioned comfort long enough. I walked back to my motorcycle, took out my tool kit and proceeded to remove the rear tire.

Obviously, there’s more to this story. But it was strangely gratifying today to see what had become of that station. Today, as I stood there I thought, “Well, I survived and I’m still here… what about you guys?”

Cornhusker State

Nebraska looks like this on the GPS.

As you can see, the only thing I have to look forward to is in 135 miles; I can move to the left lane.

I did not meet a single person that could husk corn.

Road Pleasures

Road trip.

“It’s the little things in life”, they say.

You can’t always find Moon Pies at every stop on a road trip, so you have to buy them whenever you get the chance.

Because they are not a big seller, chances are pretty good that the one you buy has been on the shelf for quite some time. This makes them stale – and as a result kind of tough and rubbery.

And that’s just the way I like them.

Arizona Chicago Dog

Today, Cathy had a hankerin' for a Chicago style hot dog.

Well, knowing that you can find pretty much anything you want in Phoenix, we were on a quest.

We were told this was the best place to go for the authentic dogs. I think it's fair to say it did not disappoint.

It took us a while to find the place, but well worth the journey. The dogs are under $3.00 and you can get a black cow for $1.25.

One more thing... if you go, don't bring your Visa card. They only take cash.

The Dutch Underground

A few years ago, Catherine and I attended a wedding for one of her coworkers. The ceremony took place in the Riviera Ballroom on the shore of Lake Geneva. The reception was held there, as well. It was a memorable location for a wedding.

The reason it was memorable for me had nothing to do with the wedding. At the reception I had the rare opportunity to engage in conversation with a most fascinating individual. What I took away from those several minutes left me humbled and inspired.

Nellie worked in the kitchen at the facility where Catherine also worked at the time. By chance, we ended up sitting at the same table during the reception. After casual introductions and typical small talk, I discovered that Nellie was from Holland. As is my habit, I began asking her about growing up in Holland – what was it like? Why did she come to the States? Before long, I realized she had some powerful childhood memories.

In May of 1940, the Germans invaded the Netherlands. The Nazis began identifying and deporting Jews to death camps. Of the 140,000 Jews that lived in the Netherlands prior to 1940, only 30,000 survived the war. Nellie was a child at the time. Her non-Jewish family helped hide Jewish friends and neighbors and worked to smuggle them to safety.

As she spoke of how her brother and his friends would sleep on the roof of their house in order to avoid Nazi patrols, and explain the method of tying a string to his toe dropped down the chimney to awaken him when needed, she related these things without drama or intrigue.

Since she was a little girl at the time, her memories were random. There was a strong bitterness evident in her voice as she told of the Germans entering their house without warning one morning and taking their breakfast for themselves.

This small Dutch town had one fire truck and a group of volunteer firemen. When they were able to anticipate a German patrol looking for Jews, the firemen had devised a clever plan. The fire truck had compartments large enough to hide people. As the Nazi patrols would come into town, the fire truck would go racing out of town at the same time with sirens screaming headed for an imaginary fire. Once safely outside of town, their concealed Jewish passengers could exit the truck to hide or flee, having escaped the Nazis one more time.

A pastor of a small church in the town hid a Jewish friend for weeks in the sanctuary inside the organ cabinet. They joked with the Jewish fellow about spending so much time in a church.

Other memories were not so victorious. A pastor hiding Jews in the attic of his church was taken away with the discovered Jews and none were ever heard from again.

As I listened to Nellie reminisce, she didn’t speak of heroics and courage, or the bravery of those she knew in this small Dutch town. She told these stories as though any one in any small town anywhere would have done the same. Though, at times, I could see her eyes start to tear up as she would mention certain people.

No books were ever written about Nellie’s family. No movies were made about the risks they took. None of them are celebrities. They were a normal family in a small Dutch town doing, without question, what they assumed everyone would do.

I consider it a privilege to have shared a table at that wedding reception with someone who understood firsthand what it means to be a hero. She just didn’t know it should apply to her and her family.