1. Postcards from The Mother Road - “The Roots of Route 66”
The name Route 66 has a certain kind of magic. For some, it calls to mind images of muscle cars and neon. For others, the words of Kerouac and songs of Guthrie. But how did this legend come to be, and what is Route 66 to begin with? Featuring a sampling of stories collected over a journey spanning 6,845 miles, we’ll kick off this season long road trip by attempting to answer this question through the voices of some who’ve witnessed its many transformations firsthand. Contributors include renowned authors Michael Wallis and Jim Hinckley, “The Guardian of Route 66” Angel Delgadillo, Cynnie Troup, Rhys Martin, and more.
Jim Hinckley, Jim Hinckley’s America on facebook, Wake Up with Jim
Delgadillo’s Original Route 66 Gift Shop
TRANSCRIPT
(As this transcript was obtained via a computerized service, please forgive any typos, spelling and grammatical errors)
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Jim Livingston (00:00):
There's so many stories on route 66 that, um, are gonna disappear. And so one of the most valuable things I think about traveling route 66 is to hear people's stories that may be the most magical part of route 66.
Evan Stern (00:14):
That's Jim Livingston. An Amarillo based photographer, he's just one of over a hundred people I spoke with in creating this season, which found me driving Route 66 from Oklahoma to the Pacific Coast. End to end, that's a journey of roughly 1500 miles. But if my car's odometer is to believed, I drove 6,845. How did this come together? I wish I could share some inspiring Genesis story or Eureka moment, but if there was one, I honestly can't remember. It's also not like I'd ever made this trip or visited any of these places before. Yet, It was absolutely something I felt called to do. Why? I don't think I'm alone in saying that the name Route 66 has a kind of magic. For some, the mere sound of it calls to mind images of muscle cars and neon. For others, the words of Kerouac and songs of Guthrie. But where did this myth come from? What can be found in driving it today? And what is Route 66 to begin with? I'm Evan stern. And this is Vanishing Postcards.
Michael Wallis (01:47):
I, I grew up, uh, in West St. Louis County and I grew up off an original alignment of 66. That was my home. There were people who would come off Route 66. Uh, they were, uh, what my father would call men of the road. Some of them had just, uh, gotten out of the war and for one reason or another didn't have their bearings. And, and, and, but they'd come one or two at a time. They would go to our, our back door side door of, of this house. And they'd knock and my mother, uh, would open the door and, and they would doff their cap. And they would politely say to my mother always, "Do you have some work that I can do for you in exchange for some food?" And I would guarantee you, my mother was always good at finding work.
Michael Wallis (02:50):
And then they would come up and my mother would give them food. It, it could be a, a bowl of soup and a sandwich or some leftover stew, a piece of fruit, maybe even sometimes coffee. And they would take this grub down near our garden and sit under these mimosa and pin Oak trees in the shade and having washed up and eat their lunch. And then this was what would happen. My mother, who was always clad during the day in an apron was at her place at the sink, a kitchen sink. And there was a window there and we looked out and we could see them eating. And then my mother, and I would make up stories about these fellows and try to decide who they were and where they were going. Then they'd come up and deliver the, the dirty dishes and my mother would take them and they would thank her. And they'd maybe wink at me. And then they'd tail off back to the mother road. And almost as soon as they left, my mother would turn to me and she'd say, "Michael, you never ever turn anyone away from your door. If they come to your door, they may be angels, angels in disguise." And those words have stuck with me forever and ever, and ever.
Evan Stern (04:22):
If you're a Pixar fan like me, you might recognize that voice as Michael Wallis, whom John Lasseter handpicked to play the Sheriff of Radiator Springs in the movie Cars. A journalist historian, an author of 17 books, he boasts three Pulitzer nominations and a mantle heavy with awards. Yet he traces many of these accomplishments to those early years by the kitchen window as it was there he first discovered the art of storytelling and his name today is inextricably linked with route 66.
Michael Wallis (04:56):
This is the road I grew up on. This is the road I, I learned how to drive a car and got my first car, a little '55 Plymouth from Pacific, Missouri, right on Route 66. Did my first courting on Route 66. When I was in the Marine Corps, I hitch hiked Route 66 back and forth, California to St. Louis. In the sixties, if I was in uniform, toting a Seabag, I could get a ride easily when I'd come up from Camp Pendleton to Los Angeles, and I'd see those 66 signs. I felt like I was home
Evan Stern (05:29):
Recounting his days as a hitchhiking serviceman Michael's memories are infused with the pop music he heard on the car radios that drove him across the country. Acts like the Beatles, Supremes, righteous brothers, Bob Dylan, But in a 2019 speech he gave at the Tulsa City County Library, he said it was during this time. He also heard one song that continues to haunt him to this day.
song (05:55):
Once I thanked God for my treasure now like rust it corrodes. And I can't help from blaming your going on the coming the coming of the roads....
Michael Wallis (06:29):
Now, it would be some time before I learned that song written by Billy Ed Wheeler actually mourn the loss of a lover in an unspoiled forest destroyed by wealthy robber Barrons. To me, it was and always will be about the loss of my revered old roads. It was about the five interstate highways that were being built right then from Chicago to Santa Monica, to try to take the place of Route 66. To me, the coming of the roads meant the coming of the super slabs. We all knew they were necessary, but we also knew that they broke our hearts
Evan Stern (07:19):
When it comes to super slabs, few are as massive monotonous or treacherous as interstate 40, which a friend of mine simply describes as "one of the worst stretches of highway in America." Its asphalt claims a few hundred lives and carries nearly 8 million fume belching big rigs over its 2,500 miles each year. Moments of beauty are fleeting and driving past the same golden arches and Hampton Inns exit after exit, it's easy to miss the uniqueness of towns like Albuquerque while others are passed altogether.
Angel Delgadillo (07:55):
This town died September 22nd, 1978 at about two 30 in the afternoon. It died for 10 long years. People, people in general don't know what it is to be forgotten by the world for 10 long years.
Evan Stern (08:15):
Seligman, Arizona sits in the high desert on old Route 66, about halfway between Flagstaff and Kingman. A former railroad stop driving in you'll be greeted by a series of Burma Shave signs, and might wanna grab a bowl of chili at the Road Kill Cafe whose motto famously proclaims, "You kill it. We grill it!" But when it comes to elder statesmen, perhaps none in this town of 446 command, more respect than Angel Delgadillo who was born here in 1927.
Angel Delgadillo (08:48):
My father Angel Delgadillo and my mother Juana left Mexico in 1916 with brother Juan and another older child that died on the way. They were coming to Seligman. Pancho Villa is getting ornery in Mexico. My father and mother had a dream. They recognized America as a land of milk and honey where the sky is the limit. Where if you have an idea, no one can stop you. No one, except yourself.
Evan Stern (09:34):
Thin in stature and dressed in a light gray jacket, buttoned down gingham shirt and Route 66 ball cap, Mr. Delgadillo sports, a wide toothy grin and twinkle that belies his 94 years. A barber by trade who only put down his razor in 2020, he's speaking with me from the perch of the chair his father bought for his old shop. The room's walls are covered floor to ceiling with cards he's collected from patrons over the last 70 years, alongside old portraits and his degree from barber college in Pasadena.. This framed, yellow certificate stands as Testament to Delgadillo's abiding belief in the American dream, but he also readily acknowledges that times haven't always been easy and will tell you he remains in Seligman today due to a twist of fate.
Angel Delgadillo (10:27):
My father and my mother owned a 1926 model T Ford. They had a plan. Somehow or other, they scraped up a flatbed trailer and all of us 11, and we're going to California. But because my my brother, Juan played the valve trombone for the Hank Becker Orchestra- He got, my brother Juan a job for the Santa Fe as a laborer. My brother Joe told me that we were all loaded. The windows had been bolted. We were just anticipating leaving, just ready to turn the key on and leave he says, when Hank Becker came running across the street, "Juan, Juan, you don't have to leave. I got your job on the railroad!" And brother, Juan fed us all for two whole years.
Evan Stern (11:26):
Like his brothers, Angel joined the orchestra before picking up his shears and eventually opened a pool hall in the space adjoining his parlor. He cleared out the tables many years ago to accommodate a gift shop that's managed today by his beloved daughter Myrna. But for her, this place is about far more than t-shirts magnets and shot glasses.
Myrna (11:49):
This is, this is the place that Route 66 got its historic rebirth. This is a place full of people's memories. People leave a little, they take a little. So when they come here, it's just not a gift shop, but it's more of a museum of the different people who have made the pilgrimage throughout the years. And when people come in here, they look up and they go, wow, look at all this stuff. And, and it's just a, a part of, um, Route 66. And it kind of tells a story of the people who have come and gone.
Evan Stern (12:23):
Many do make pilgrimages to this store as Angel is revered as "The Guardian of Route 66." But before we get into why that is and how this town far from Chicago or LA came to be hailed as the birthplace of historic route 66, we must ask how it was born in the first place. So Rhys Martin, president of Oklahoma's Route 66 Association gives me a brief history lesson.
Rhys Martin (12:52):
So Route 66 was established in 1926, along with the rest of the federal highways. Uh, right around that time, the federal government looked around and said, "Hey, you know what? This automobile's gonna be a big deal. We should really start preparing for it." You had a lot of named highways like the Lincoln highway, the Ozark trail, things like that, but there was no federal organized highway system. So a group of people got together and designated different highway numbers. And highway 66 is the highway that went from Chicago out to Los Angeles, California. So Cyrus Avery is considered the father of Route 66. He's one of the men that sat on that federal highway board that came together in the twenties and designated numbers and federal highways. And all that. Um, being from Tulsa, of course, Cyrus, Avery had an interest in making sure Tulsa was well represented and said, you know, of course, if you draw a straight line between Chicago and LA, it does not touch Oklahoma.
Rhys Martin (13:43):
It does not touch Missouri. It goes through Nebraska and Colorado and it's, it's, you know, different. And when they were coming together to try to figure out, okay, Chicago, LA, that makes sense. How should we, you know, route this highway, he said, "You know, there's this brand new state of the art bridge in Tulsa, Oklahoma, that is the safest place to cross the Arkansas River" and, uh, was able to lobby for that, convince them. And because of his advocacy, that road goes, uh, through Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas Panhandle, and on, on out. So originally they wanted all east to west highways to have even numbers. And so they said Highway 60, great. There were even a couple of limited maps printed up with 60 on this road, but Kentucky threw a fit. They said we don't have one of these big highways. We want 60. Uh, so, um, they were in Springfield, Missouri, uh, which is hailed as the birthplace of Route 66, cause that's when they got together and said, "Well, 66 sounds good, too. Let's do that." And so that's where the official telegram was sent saying, we're gonna number it 66 instead of 60.
Evan Stern (14:40):
So that covers some of its origins, but writer Jim Hinkley is quick to comment on its legend.
Jim Hinckley (14:46):
Of course we got other roads, you know, that are, uh, more historic, even more mom and pop stuff. But something happened to Route 66, somewhere along the line where it just morphed into this, uh, almost magic place where the past and present blend seamlessly. And it's, it's the road of dreams. You know, I had a gentleman from Czech Republic talk to me once and it was really quite a moving deal. He talked about growing up behind the iron curtain and uh, watching bootleg copies of Easy Rider. He said that the open road motorcycles, Harley Davidsons came to just symbolize freedom, but particularly Route 66, it came to symbolize to his generation the freedom that the Statue of Liberty represented to a previous generation- I thought that's pretty intense.
Evan Stern (15:37):
How did 66 gather all this mystique? Michael Wallis will tell you it's owed to a matter of timing.
Michael Wallis (15:44):
It, it almost became iconic from the start because the location of the road bookend by two big cities, the city of big shoulders, Chicago, all the way to LA cut through eight states, 2,400 plus miles, three time zones. It really was the first big connector that way. Then we had these incarnations and these are what really made Route 66. The Depression and dust bowl. It was a one, two punch that impacted much of today's Route 66. People poured into the road. And hence it earned the name that Steinbeck so aptly gave it in that great, very important novel, The Grapes of Wrat, "The Mother Road," this nurturing road.
Steinbeck (16:43):
Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66 - the long concrete path across the country, waving gently up and down on the map, from Mississippi to Bakersfield - over the red lands and the grey lands, twisting up into the mountains, crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert to the mountains again, and into the rich California valleys. 66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert's slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.
"Dust Bowl Refugee" (17:55):
From the drought land and the south land, come the wife and, kids and me. It's a hot old, dusty highway for a Dust Bowl refugee...
Jimmy Phillips (18:13):
Well, my granny. She was from Ada, Oklahoma, and they came right through. They came out Route 66. I mean, they came out and theseN old trucks that just barely wouldn't make it. And you got some Hills to climb. If you ever drove from eedles, um, up to Barstow, you got one hard hill to climb there and it's hot. And that, and it reaches 120 degrees out there on that desert. And then people, they had a hard road to hoe.
Evan Stern (18:42):
Jimmy Phillips is a native Californian. Born in Bakersfield, he grew up in the Weed Patch Government Camp written of in The Grapes of Wrath. And while he's always called the Central Valley home, he proudly answers to the title of Okie and remains forever grateful for the sacrifices of those who raised him.
Jimmy Phillips (19:02):
You know, what they was working back then. And this would be aaround 19-, probably 30, 1932, 3, 4. They was working for, um, a teaspoon lard and a cup of flour. That's what they'd work a full day for. Just anything to eat. And yeah, they said, well, why did you come all the way out here to find this well, because they didn't even have that in Oklahoma. They couldn't even get anything. This is dust bowl. We're talking this dust blew.
Evan Stern (19:34):
During this time. Many young men found shelter, food, a meager salary and dignity by joining Roosevelt's Citizens Conservation Corps whose improvements and sites continue to line the Route today. But while perhaps the most popular of New Deal programs, it was quickly dissolved when circumstances summoned these boys for other duties,
FDR (19:56):
December 7th, 1941, a date which will live in infamy. The United States of America were suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
Michael Wallis (20:20):
The road immediately answered the challenge again and became a military road. It became a road of men in arms and training bases from the Great Lakes all the way down the road, Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, Reno, Oklahoma, all the way out to California. Patton, blood and guts Patton is out in the Mojave off 66. When the war ended in 1945 and the GIs came home, there was great prosperity here in this country. They were able to buy homes. We had this building boom, baby boom, new cars. And there we have the great heyday of the road. It was a time to, uh, you know, hit the road in your 57 Chevy or your Corvette or whatever-
Evan Stern (21:11):
Perhaps no one captured the spirit of these times, better than actor, musician, and songwriter, Bobby Troup, who hit the road with his wife, Cynthia in '46. Their drive became the stuff of a legend that daughter Cynnie shares with me over the phone from her pad in Malibu.
Cynnie Troup (21:27):
He was a Marine officer, uh, and was in Saipan and came back and, you know, decided that he wanted to, um, see if he could make it in the music, business, writing songs and doing that instead of, you know, running the business, the, the family store they're leaving, um, you know, Harrisburg driving. And she said, I, I think it was route 40. I mean, making that up before she says, "Honey, why don't you write a song about route 40?" And he said, "That's silly. We're gonna get on 66 in Chicago and take that all the way." So she said, and this is, you know, the, of course within the title of the song. "Oh, okay. Route 66." And as she said, "A lyricist, I'm not, but I'm going six, mix, licks... Kicks! Kicks! Get your kicks- which was a hip expression at the time." And she, so she had that line and he loved it. He said, "Oh God, that's great. I love that. I like that. Get your kicks on route 66,
Asleep at the Wheel (22:24):
Route 66 lyrics
Cynnie Troup (22:33):
And he apparently wrote some of it, you know, as they were driving out. He gets to LA and he got out a map it's in my house and there's a copy of it at the Smithsonian. Um, and you know, kind of circled the, the, you know, the, the, the cities that are in the, you know, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino, the cities that are in it. And, um, so he looked at it and then, you know, looked at what he wanted and made the rhymes and, you know, and all that. Brought it to Nat King Cole who recorded it. I think it was an immediate hit. And, um, bought the house that, you know, uh, I think it was $20,000, the house that I grew up in,
Evan Stern (23:09):
But while the song's first and definitive version belongs to Nat King Cole, a terrible irony exists in the fact that he and other drivers of color, would've had a hard time getting their kicks as for them driving the road during this often romanticized era could prove downright perilous.
Rhys Martin (23:28):
When you think of, you know, tailfin Cadillacs and milkshakes and that kind of American graffiti time period, you know, that's fine and good. And that's what route 66 is often associated with. But during those same times, you have, you know, African American travelers that didn't have nearly as many places they could stop, um, and feel safe. Um, native American culture for the longest time was for lack of a better term lampooned and, and exaggerated for the traveler. But that didn't really represent the authentic cultures of these areas that the road goes through.
Evan Stern (23:57):
Through. One place the road goes through is Lupton Arizona, where David Yellow Horse grew up on Navajo land. Skirting the New Mexico state line, it was here in the shadows of a red rock cliff his family opened The Yellow Horse Trading Post which remains in business to this day.
David Yellowhorse (24:15):
And they had a little rug stand, you know, uh, rug stand, where they sold Navajo rugs and petrified wood is what they sold there. I remember, uh, some of the, some, some of the people that were further back east, my dad and my uncles, they found out through talking with them. They said, "My, my, my wife didn't wanna stop. You know, cuz we, you know, we heard about Indians, you know? And uh, and I, I, you know, I cautiously stopped anyway. I was curious, you know, and it was really good relation, you know, it was really good. I'm glad we did." And uh, my dad and my uncles, said "You really, you really thought, you know, we were kind of hostile over here?" He goes. Yeah. Yeah. So my dad and my uncles were thinking about this and they go "we gotta let these people know we're okay."
David Yellowhorse (25:12):
So he started repainting their signs. They came up with this slogan that said "Friendly, Navajo ahead. Stop at chief yellow horse ahead." It says, "We no scalp them pale face, just scalp them wallet." And that actually got people laughing. And they said, "Well, they can't be that bad." So that helped get the, those folks that were scared, more comfortable. And they started stopping. They find out these folks are pretty cool. I was, I was just as interested in them as they were me as they, they always talked about the, the cities they came from, which I had never seen before. I asked him one time, dad. I said, "You're out here working on this young man's truck. You know, I, I said, you're always helping people on the highway here. Why do you do that? I'm just, I'm curious." He says, well, son, he says, my dad told me one time. I was a kid your age when I was just a young man, they told me Frank, he says, this, this road is paved with gold. And he's talking about Route 66. He says, this gold, this, this, this road's paved with gold. You take good care of them, people on it. And they'll take good care of you.
Evan Stern (26:33):
But the fate of the road's golden age was sealed when Dwight Eisenhower kick started a freeway building boom, that with each expansion forever altered the communities they pass through and buy. This is something that Bobby Lee owner of Amarillo's Big Texan Steak Ranch remembers well.
Bobby Lee (26:49):
So we started on Route 66 and uh, had to move from Route 66 because once I 40 opened, I mean, my dad's business went to, I mean the next day in 1968, when it opened I 40 at, by and I 40 had bypassed it there, there was, it just was, the dining room was empty. And he had eight kids and a payroll to meet. And so he was, he was frantic to do something about it and, and he was smart enough and shrewd enough to be able to get off there, keep the place the same and move it to the new location on I 40
Evan Stern (27:20):
Most however, did not have the ability to pick up and move. And the coming of these new roads hit communities like Seligman, especially hard.
Angel Delgadillo (27:29):
The day before we bypassed the town of Seligman was alive and well. History says that there was 9,000 automobiles used this street. Every 24 hours. We were bypassed at about 2 30, 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Traffic stopped. Just like it was forbidden to come into town. Businesses closed up. Business, came to a crawl. It was hard to put beans on the table. It was sad. Like this is not America.
Evan Stern (28:06):
This sadness would turn to anger sometime later, when Angel's brother revealed to him that his town hadn't even been dignified with a sign.
Angel Delgadillo (28:13):
So one day he comes in to get a haircut, says, "Angel, did you know there isn't one mileage sign about Seligman between Flagstaff and Ash Fork, a distance of 50, 50 miles. I says, "Juan, quit joking with me. You can joke with your customers. I know different." He worked on me and worked me. I says, "Juan, I don't believe you. You, you like to joke." He says, "Okay, next time you go to Flagstaff, check it out." Lord have mercy, not one sign that says Seligman 68 miles. Not one sign. And we were, it, it was tough,
Evan Stern (28:54):
But not long after, Angel began to notice there were a few drivers who still kept finding their way into Seligman and his barber shop.
Angel Delgadillo (29:02):
You don't know what you have until you lose it. I says, what the hell are you looking for? I told myself, you got a highway that you wanted. What are you doing here in Seligman? It finally dawned on me. They were looking for America of yesterday. They began to miss we, the average daily American people. And there is where I got my idea of how to get the economy back to Seligman. And my simple thought was we asked the state to make Route 66 historic from Seligman to Kingman. And after forming the Historic Route 66 Association, February the 18, 1987, right here in Seligman, we asked the state to make it historis. And guess what? We never got an answer. Totally ignored. We continued to be ignored, but you know what? Half a dozen of us became the nucleus and we five or six people grew up during the Depression. When it was double tough. We grew up, we did not know the word. No. The state finally made it historic November of 1987. So in giving Route 66 its historic rebirth the beautiful thing is that we
Angel Delgadillo (30:35):
have in as many words, set an example. You can't wish for it. You can't beg for it. Even money can't buy it. But if you go out and you believe in yourself, you can get the job done
Evan Stern (30:50):
Today. Every state along Route 66 can claim their own associations based on the model, spearheaded by Angel and the people of Seligman. Historic designations and preservation efforts are ubiquitous as are the countless travelers who choose to exit the interstates each year in search of iconic shield signs. You can still drive more than two thirds of the road. And some might even argue that despite the nostalgia, the journey is as enjoyable as it's ever been. But what anyone who's made this trip knows is that the heart and soul of Route 66 is found in the people who live and work in the places you'll find along the way. It's as true today as it was in 1926, as it was following its decommission in the 1980s, when Michael Walis set to work on writing his definitive book, Route 66, the Mother Road.
Michael Wallis (31:51):
So on one fine, very cold windy, Oklahoma day out in Clinton, Oklahoma, a quintessential route 66 town. We pulled into Phillips 66 station to fuel up. And the guy came out to fill my tank and he's pumping the gas and I get out and we chatted there in the wind. We talked about all the important things of the day. Sports, weather kind of avoided politics. He said, what are you doing out here? And I said, oh, I'm writing a, a book. And he said, what's it about? And I said, well, it's about Route 66. He said, you gotta be kidding me. He was just shaking his head. And I said, no, it's it's about Route 66. He said, well, who in the world would wanna read a book about an old highway? So I said, well, pal, let me ask you, why don't you tell me about your Route 66? He said, I will.
Michael Wallis (33:04):
That's route 66 right there. Uh, this is my gas station. I've been pumping gas here a long time. My granddaddy started this station 1927 year after Route 66 was created right down this road. My grandpa used to tell me about the early thirties. And it took so long, took 10 years to pave the road. And he remembered the work crews coming through here. These men naked from the waist up, just glistening in the sun with drag lines and mules carving out that road right there. My dad went on to own this business, ran it very good, except he took time out to go to the Pacific and world war II. And then he came back and he and his brother picked up on it. Now I own it. And my sister and, uh, I reckon someday it'll be our children's place. Yeah, Route 66. He said right around that bend there, the way that curve goes, I went to Clinton high school. I was a fighting red tornado and we were state champions, just like we are right now up there. There's a, a graveyard where my folks are buried, where my grandpa and grandma are buried, where there's a little baby girl that we lost. That's buried up there
Michael Wallis (34:33):
And down the road there down by Pop Hicks is that Greyhound bus station. And that's where I left Clinton. The only time I really left and when I was drafted and that bus took me right up 66 to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, right on 66. When I got back from Vietnam by God, I think I was on that same bus when it stopped right down there and I got off and it didn't take long before I married my high school sweetheart. And we raised our family right here in Clinton. About then a big yellow school bus rolled right by us right down there. And that guy just lit up and he turned and he said, all of my grandkids are right there in that bus. I had not said one single word this whole time. And just about when I was ready to slip back in that car and join Suzanne, this man stopped me, came over to me and I could see despite the wind that his eyes had tears and he looked me straight in my eyes. And he said, I'm really glad you're writing this book. I really am glad. Shook his hand, got in the car, turned the engine over and drove west. And I had gone about 200 yards. When this feeling washed over me, a feeling that I have to this very day, that that road would never die. I felt it in my heart and in my bones. And that's exactly what happened. The road is alive.
Evan Stern (36:35):
The road is alive, and I invite you to ride along with me this season, as we'll hear stories from people and places that make route 66, the main street of America.
