IT MAY NOT BE KING TUT'S TOMB BUT...

My well planned schedule for the Route 66 encyclopedia went out the window sometime around early December. After the writing of six books and countless feature articles I fully understand that a rigid schedule is a lot like the land of Oz or organization, they look pretty but everyone knows they are fictional.

Still, out of habit, with each project a time table is created that would be worthy of the Allied military planners in the weeks before D-Day. I know that if I take on enough projects, and compose enough schedules, the odds are in my favor that just one will go according to plan.

Meanwhile I keep the frustrations to a minimum by writing 3,000 to 5,000 words per week. With ten months to go the rough draft stands at 63,000 words with the publisher expecting 120,000 to 150,000. So, no problem.

I have yet to miss a deadline and do not plan on starting a new trend. After twenty years of trading words for money I now understand this is all merely situation normal and won't begin burning the midnight oil until at least one month before deadline and panic shouldn't set in until the week before. That should be about the time I begin trying to sort out a couple thousand illustrations, praising the assistance received in this department,  (thank you Joe Sonderman and Mark Ward) and write captions.

I suppose the writing process could be compared to an obstacle course with the deadline being the finish line. In between the starting gun, the date of contract, and the deadline are little things like the job that supports the writing habit and the unexpected, such as sorting through Mom's basement to get the house ready for sale.

That is where I spent Saturday afternoon, after getting off from work. It wasn't exactly King Tut's tomb but it was an adventure.

Ma's house was, according to story, the post office in the mining town of Chloride before being moved to its current location in Kingman at some point around 1950. It was set on a hill and as a result the basement, actually a glorified crawl space, has a taper starting at around five feet in the rear and ending at around three feet in the back.

Ma never threw anything away. Ma never used anything she saved. Ma lived in her house for more than thirty years.

My step father had Alzheimer's before anybody realized it and as I learned Saturday, this meant he carefully packed boxes of foam rubber scraps as though they were fragile items being shipped to Turkey. He also buried tools in the sandy floor along with carefully crushed stew cans.

It wasn't pretty. About two hours into the project, and some twenty feet from the entrance with thick, choking clouds of dust swirling around me, I flashed back to the old days working as a jack leg operator in a silver mine up in the Cerbat Mountains. The biggest difference was I knew that the satisfaction of sticking dynamite in the holes and making a big boom wasn't going to be the reward for this hard work.
Scattered here and there were just enough tantalizing gems to keep me from going mad and taking up smoking while sitting on gas cans perched on kegs of black powder. A 1940s Spartan radio tops the list but scattered amongst the empty mayonnaise and pickle jars I have found a turn of the century apothecary jar and a forbidding brown glass, triangular bottle with the word poison embossed on the side.
That bottle, the sandy floor, and the discovery of this secret side of Ma had me thinking about that classic film Arsenic and Old Lace. What else was under the floor?
Without exaggeration, I moved an entire truck load of empty plastic containers, rats nest camping mattresses, suitcases filled with cancelled checks from the 1970s, home made signs from Ma's little gift shop that closed in the 1980s, bent motorcycle exhaust systems, several boxes of empty glass jars, and what seemed like two hundred boxes of paper back books that the dry air has turned into confetti.
Here is the really neat part. This was day two of operation clean up and there is at least one more day to go - before starting on the shed!
All of this has convinced me that ma was a closet hoarder, something long suspected. Her little house was always neat and orderly but underneath, literally, she was able to indulge her hoarding away from prying eyes.
If I sound a bit titched in the head please consider I spent the weekend eating at least 75 pounds of dirt while spider webs and their occupants danced around the rim of my hat as I worked on imitating a hunchback in the sewers of Paris just to move a box of phone books, some thirty years old, a small trunk filled with Christmas wrapping paper, and another filled with assorted flashlights.
Isn't America grand! If we have a garage it is filled with the items we will most likely sell at a garage sale, or leave as some insidious means of revenge on our children for a particularly harsh and lengthy labor at birth, after paying full retail but never using while the $50,000 car sits outside.
So, with at least the next few weekends preplanned, I will be working on the encyclopedia at night, and dreaming of Amarillo this June by day. And in my troubled sleep, I will dream of scaling mountains of old phone books as swirling reams of old paper blind me to the fact that spiders are encircling me with their webs.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN - THE WEEKLY TRAVEL TIPS

As you may have noticed the weekly travel tips and book review feature is a bit late. Computer issues that further constricted a very tight schedule were the culprit. With that said ...
Am I the only one who is craving warm weather, festivals with fresh lemonade, and the road trip season? Perhaps this hunger for escapism has as much to do with the wonderful weather of this past week as it does with my incurable obsession with that great American adventure that is the road trip.

Midpoint cafe

When my flights of fancy turn toward the road trip they often center on great places to eat and places to eat awaiting discovery. As a great deal of our adventures in the past year or two have centered on Route 66 it probably won't be a surprise to learn that a number of our favorite eateries are on that legendary highway, or are at least found with the slightest of detours.
Topping my list has to be the near perfect time capsule that is the Midpoint Cafe in Adrian, Texas. Excellent food, first rate pies and baked goods, and an atmosphere that perfectly captures the era of Route 66 that I remember makes it one of our favorite stops.
Next on my list, the Rock Cafe in Stroud, Oklahoma. With Dawn Welch at the helm this classic restaurant has been able to utilize the resurgent interest in Route 66 to literally rise from the flames like the mythical Phoenix.

Rock Cafe

If we were splitting hairs here I would have to say that the top position on our list would be shared. After all, the Rock Cafe and the Midpoint Cafe are cut from the same cloth, have management that strive for excellence without loosing the atmosphere that sets them apart, and both have excellent food.
After successfully avoiding the greater Los Angeles area for more than thirty years, we now find ourselves there at least two or three times a year. With each visit we juggle visiting at least one old favorite and a new discovery.
Our first recommendation requires a slight detour from Route 66 into downtown Burbank. Porto's has several locations but it is the one on Magnolia Boulevard that we enjoy most. Perhaps that has a bit to do with its proximity to Auto Books-Aero Books, our favorite book store, that is also on Magnolia Boulevard.
Crowds are the deterrent as well as part of the draw. The eclectic and diverse group that frequents Porto's gives it a really electric atmosphere but is a true deterrent if your in a hurry.
My suggestion? Any of the Cuban specialties and a tall glass of cold tea. If possible, plan your visit for a warm day to take advantage of the sidewalk seating.
For more traditional fare, and in a classic Route 66 setting, it would be tough to beat Barney's Beanery. A long and very colorful history is maintained, providing a unique atmosphere, as is the tradition for good food.
In Arizona, my list of great places to eat is a lengthy one. However, for the sake of brevity I am trying to keep the focus on Route 66.

Yesterday's in Chloride, Arizona

So, from Kingman it is a detour of less than twenty miles to the old mining town of Chloride just off of US 93, the highway to Las Vegas. At Yesterday's the food is good but not extraordinary. The prices are fair but dinners run just a bit above average. The beer list is amazing but would not warrant a visit.
However, to describe the atmosphere it would be possible to use most adjectives available. Unique, historic, fascinating, relaxing, would be just a few.
In Williams our list of favorites is rather lengthy; Old Smoky's, Jessica's, the Pine Country Restaurant, and Rod's Steak House to name but a few. In fact, I would go so far as to say Williams tops our list for the number of great places to eat in a ten block radius.
The well laid plans of mice and men might have worked as title for today's post. I had plans for a more expansive list of places but it is now time I get back to job one, the Route 66 encyclopedia. Today's goal, 2,500 words.
I hope this abbreviated tribute to great food on the road has stimulated your appetite for great eats as well as some travel. We are always in search in new discoveries so if you have any ideas, please feel free to share.

THE PEOPLE AND PLACES I HAVE BEEN

It has been said that the vehicle we drive is a reflection of our personality. Well, if that be the case then the people I have been are a very confused lot.
If there were a common thread to link the people and places I have been over the years, it would be vehicles that do not require wrenches with metric designations to repair. I suppose this stubborn grip on American built steering wheels is merely a vestige of red neck roots carefully nurtured during my youth. Perhaps it is simply a manifestation of an outdated type of patriotism that has been swept away by the Walmarting of the nation in our quest for cheaper and more plentiful stuff.
I am painfully aware that the lines have been blurred in recent years and as a result a Toyota is as American as Chevrolet, that vehicles built by foreign manufacturers are as good or better than their American competitors, and that few people even really care anymore. Moreover,  it is not prejudices rooted in the treatment of my father during World War II that keep my butt planted in American seats.
After all, my son has and does grace my driveway with Honda's. Now, he has turned his attention toward a Datsun Z.
Still, after all these years it seems a shame to mess up my track record or start having my tools share drawers with metric cousins. Most of them are older than I am and all of them are veterans in regards to my efforts of keeping vintage wrecks operational.
The first vehicle I ever purchased with my own money was a 1964 Rambler American station wagon with a flat head six, three speed transmission, and overdrive. Powder blue with an odd black and white checkered seat upholstery framed in black borders, and seats that folded flat from tailgate to steering wheel were among the most noticeable features on that relatively nondescript automobile.
The Rambler was ideal for camping trips, and with fuel economy in the 23 and 24 mile per gallon range, it was also great for road trips. Oil consumption made manifest in puddles and the faintest haze of blue smoke was the primary issue.
I traveled many a mile in that Rambler before deciding that Jim Hinckley needed a pick up truck. So, I parted ways with the wagon and purchased a very well used '42 Chevrolet pick up truck, the subject of a previous post. 
That old truck met with an untimely end, the result of the narrow curves on the pre 1939 alignment of Route 66 west of Kingman, a bit to much throttle, and a broken tie rod end. Sliding it on its side over the old asphalt gave it a nice shine but it also bent the frame.
The next acquisition was a big 1964 Pontiac Bonneville sedan, for the princely sum of $125.00. With that car toured much of northern Arizona, parts of Nevada, and both sides of the Colorado River Valley. 
It too met an inglorious end on Route 66. I was on my way to a Christmas Eve Party when a drunk in a Ford Pinto, traveling at an estimated speed of 75 miles per hour, ran the redlight at the corner of Fourth Street and Andy Devine Avenue in Kingman and nailed my land barge at a point between the front tire and the front bumper.
The Pinto spun down the street like a top spewing parts as it went. The Pontiac shuddered like an old Ford with a worn clutch but I was able to drive it to the side of the road and, later that evening, drive it home.
Frame damage, a broken radiator, and other ailments were cost prohibitive. So, I honed my skills as a horse trader and in one week was the proud owner of a new 10 speed bicycle and a .30/.30 Model 94 Winchester.
It took another two weeks to parlay that trade into a very nice, but terrifyingly powerful, white on white 1965 Pontiac Catalina 2+2 with rare four speed option. After a summer of near misses and a constant battle with temptation in the form of challenges from drivers in Firebirds, Camaros, and Mustangs, I returned to my first love and swapped the Pontiac for a 1956 Ford F100.
With the luxury of hindsight I know now that Ford was a very rare bird, as was the 2+2. The truck had a very bad case of desert sunburn but it was a one owner Arizona truck with a 292 c.i.d. V8, Ford-O-Matic transmission and the wrap around back glass.
The Ford proved itself time and again as a loyal and dependable work horse but age took its toll and the following spring it developed a pretty healthy rod knock and so the search began for a replacement. With my adgae of I will drive most anything that is cheap or free as the guiding principle, the search took me through want adds, countless yard sales, and the hunting down of countless leads.
The hard work paid off. The Ford was sold for $900.00, and for $500.00, I purchased a very nice 1969 Ford Galaxie that needed a starter. With the extra jingle in my pocket, I christened the new car with a maiden voyage east on Route 66 to Flagstaff, on to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, and home again via Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park, and Las Vegas.
In those early footloose years, I tired of the same dashboard rather quickly and when presented with an opportunity to trade the Ford for a 1941 Chevy stake bed truck and $400.00, little thought was given. A man with a truck is never broke and will always have more friends than money can buy, and as I learned with this truck, a stake bed ensures both and in spades.
The Wayne associated with the Drake Incident drove a '49 GMC stake bed. Together we hatched an ingenious plan worthy of the most ardent capitalist in the Republican Party to tide us over until a real job could be found.
Wayne knew a fellow down on the Nevada side of the Colorado River that had property he was hoping to develop. It was mostly scrub brush, cactus, and rocks but there was also a large area of scorched mesquite thickets.
Now, Wayne also knew a fellow on the Arizona side of the river down near Topock that hauled landscaping rock and firewood into southern California. I had access to about ten acres of rock off Oatman road just south of Cool Springs.
In our mind all of this equaled a big package of opportunity, even if it was summer and the temperatures along the Colorado River often exceeded 120 degrees and our newest truck was thirty years old. So, began THE BUSINESS.
We would roll west from Kingman on Route 66 before sunrise and be at the rock fields by the time light was breaking in the east. We would back the trucks into the wash and up against the bank. Then we would load them down till the wheels were about to rub and the springs were flat. 
On the days when things went according to plan, which was about every third day, we would slip the gear box into low, pull out the throttle knob and crawl back to the highway, Route 66. On the other days we would loose an hour or so getting one or both of the trucks out of the sand. 
Like living time capsules we would twist and turn our way to the top of Sitgreaves Pass over the pre 1952 alignment of Route 66 hoping we made the summit before the temperature gauge pegged. There we would pour water over the radiators, wait a half hour or so for them to cool down, and start them down the other side in a manner similar to the ballad of Wolf Creek Pass by C.W. McCall.
Unloading in Topock was relatively fast work and then it was off to Needles for lunch, and up the river to the mesquite thickets. We would cut wood under the blazing sun until we again had the old trucks loaded tot he hilt.
Now it was close to sunset. So, we would roll into Laughlin, trade the coupons obtained from the tourism office in Needles that morning for a free beer and hot dog at the Riverside Casino, drive back to Topock, unload, get paid, and drive back through the empty streets of Oatman and over Sitgreaves Pass in the dark.
A day of rest and repairs was followed by a repeat performance. In our heat fuddled brains fortunes were just days away. The reality was that the cost of tires, fuel, food, and oil meant we were busting our hump in the blazing heat 12 and 14 hours per day for just a little less than we could have made a McDonalds.
But we had something money could not buy. We had the unbridled freedom of independence that can only be savored for that brief moment in time when a man is to old for childish things and to young to be encumbered with family and their needs, or the worries of retirement. It is that magical time when harmless stupidity does not come with penalties other than blisters, sunburns, skinned knuckles, sore backs, and elusive dreams.
The seeds of my passion for vintage trucks were sown long ago. That amazing summer they burst forth in full blossom.

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

For almost a year I spent my nights as a nocturnal creature adrift on a sea of death, but it was only when the light of the full moon transformed the dead trees along the shore into twisted and tormented shadow people loosed from the gates of Hell that my thoughts drifted toward remembrances of the people and places I had been. To complete the illusion that this tailing pond was a stage for a production of Dante's Inferno, twice each night an electric train would dump molten slag down a mountain as sterile and black as the eyes of a snake, and at least once a week the poisoned air would shroud the scene in an unearthly, thick yellow haze that smelled of sulfur.
When all was well on the dredge, half of each twelve hour shift was spent with mind numbing tasks that unleashed the imagination in a vain effort to ward off sleep. When all was not well on the job, a twelve hour shift stretched into an eternity of back breaking, filthy, bone numbing wet and cold, exhausting labor that ended on more than one occasion with me napping in the cab of my truck before making the drive home.
It was one of the best jobs I have ever had. In exchange for the grueling schedule and challenging work we were handsomely rewarded.
The schedule called for rotating shifts of twelve hours with four days off between shifts. The pay was more than ample, as evidenced by my purchase of a three year old Chevy truck from a dealership and having it paid for in seven weeks!
I always seem to arrive at sunset and my job for a subcontractor to Kennecott Copper at Hurley, New Mexico, was no different. Less than a year after hiring on, plummeting copper prices coupled to labor issues and dictatorial EPA mandates resulted in suspension of the tailing's recycling project and, shortly after, closure of the mine at Santa Rita itself.
With my string played out in Silver City, I decided it might be time to return to the adopted hometown of Kingman in Arizona. So, one frosty, early winter morning, I bid adios to my sister and her family, stowed my gear under the tarp spread over the back of the truck, tossed my dog, Critter, into the cab, and rolled into the mountains on US 180 crossing the Continental Divide shortly after sunrise.
During my years as a vagabond, destinations were always loose and subject to change without notice. I only had the dog to answer to and he always seemed game for a new adventure.
So, as promised, I stopped in Holbrook and called my sister to let her know that I had crossed the summit and lived to tell the tale. Well, as it turned out a friend of ours had taken a temporary job but his partner had backed out and he was in need of a hand.
My little sister, bless her heart, never had the sense gave a shiny brown rock when it came to directions. Now, my new destination was a small ghost town that started with "D", north of Ashfork, with a population of four or five.
As it turned out she had some of it right. Wayne was in the ghost town of Drake south of Ashfork. As to the population of four or five, there was Wayne and his wife and daughter. To see the fourth person, I had to shave in the morning.
The job didn't pay well but it was better than nothing and the work wasn't overly difficult; raze an old house, separate and stack the lumber, and, eventually, haul it to Kingman. The challenge was in regards to accommodations or the lack thereof.
Wayne had a small camper, tough enough with a family, especially in the winter. I had a tent or the cab of the truck. For showers and such we had a railroad maintenance facility with baths just down the road.
The Drake Episode, as it is referred to today, was mercifully short or none of us would have survived. It was not just the bitter cold of a winter spent outdoors in the mountains below Williams, but the temporary insanity induced by ...?
Shortly after my arrival, Wayne's wife developed a bout of common sense and went home to Kingman with her daughter. Wayne and I picked up where we had left off some years before, imitating the stupidest people on earth. We worked so hard to hone those skills you would have thought there was a grand prize for the dumbest person on earth provided they lived to tell the tale.
With complete abandonment of anything resembling rational thought, Wayne and I decided one day that working in the sleet and rain was a bad idea but driving to Jerome for a beer, through Perkinsville, over more than thirty miles of dirt roads in a rain and snow storm, in a two wheel drive truck, that was low on gas, was a good idea. It wasn't.
Then there was the cactus wine incident. It didn't end well either but I am quite sure the highway patrolman that stopped me still tells the story to this day.
The litany of craziness that transpired in those few short months is difficult to comprehend, let alone describe. Why would anybody in their right mind think that a 1969 Harley Davidson Electra Glide was a good idea when you're living in a tent and camper, in a ghost town, with miles of gumbo between you and a paved road? And when you got to the paved road it was still winter, in the mountains of Arizona.
I began making long forays into Kingman on the weekends. On one of those, irritated beyond measure at how many times I had been forced to dig my Chevy from the mud and mire on the road from Drake, and fueled with just a hint of Wild Turkey, my truck was traded straight across for a marvelous 1946 GMC.
The tales of adventures with that truck are now the stuff of legends, but those are best left for another day. Suffice to say, that old beastie never got stuck and with it I rediscovered the simple pleasure of long, slow drives on Route 66. To this day it remains high on my list of best deals ever made.
On another excursion, I met a delightful young lady that would become my dearest friend. That, as it turned out, was the one bright spot in the Drake Episode, and the turning point of my life. For that chance encounter I will always be grateful.

THE LAND OF LOST SOULS

To many it was a flop house, a dark labryinth where the damned wandered as lost souls. To me it was a cheap place to live where colorful and interesting characters dwelt with the ghosts of the past in a maze of darkened corridors that presented endless possibilities for exploration.
When I took up residence at the Hotel Beale in Kingman, the stately old hotel and the historic heart of the city that had embraced it for almost three quarters of a century were rapidly making the transition from tarnished gem to discarded sneaker. Kingman, as had happened in many communities, vainly imagined that the city could be transformed by creating a new and modern heart.
And as had happened in countless communities, Kingman became a generic land of urban sprawl embraced by stunning western landscapes. Its abandoned and neglected heart withered and died, and the city lost its soul, a malady from which it has yet to recover.
I was blessed to catch the last rays of light as the sun sank in the west before darkness obscured its beauty.
Martin Lawrence, a moon faced older fellow with a huge, waxed walrus mustache and an obsession for the Chevrolet Corvair, was king in the netherworld of the Hotel Beale. He knew its history, its corridors, and how to keep its steam boiler functioning. He also knew that no one cared about the Beale or its residents and so for him it was a revenue stream in an historic setting, no more, no less.
It was on impulse that I moved to the Hotel Beale. I knew of of its reputation that in a small town like Kingman was built on a swirling blend of myth and reality. I knew full well that that reputation would follow me like a stigma and I also knew that only by living there would it be possible to gain access to the inner sanctum that could not be seen from the dingy old lobby or from the confines of the Nighthawk Saloon.
It must have come as a surprise to Martin Lawrence when I asked for a room. It was obvious I wasn't down and out, that I wasn't an old drunk, and that I wasn't an old man with nothing left but a brief time to while away my final days at the Night Hawk Saloon while awaiting passage over the river Styx.
Still, this sly old dog had been at the game far to long for asking questions. So, he read me the rules, had me fill out a card, and took my cash for the first two weeks. Then he tossed me a key with a big red plastic tag with worn away letters that read Hotel Beale, and a smaller, tarnished brass one with the number stamped on its face on a ring.
As I climbed that wide staircase of well worn stairs under the painted over skylight there was a incredible sense that a new world was being entered. I was not raised a sheltered child but this was a domain never befroe entered. There was also an incredible sense that with each step taken the thin veil that separates the past and present was parting just for me.
The room was about what I expected. Dingy, yellowed paint, weathered wooden window frames that housed wavy old glass covered in a half century film of dirt that fogged the view of Fourth Street, an ancient refrigerator with coils on top, a decrepit hot plate, a free standing sink stained with decades of dripping, iron laden water, an iron bedstead with exposed springs, and a transom that allowed a musty breeze to circulate the air stirred by ancient fans in the hall.
The bathroom down the hall was a musty, dark time capsule. The almost overpowering smell of bleach and Lysol couldn't mask the fact that the last time there had been upgrades, or even anything more than basic maintenance, Truman had been the President.
Long term residents supplied their own mattress. Instead, I chose my foam camping pad and a sleeping bag.
The denizens of the Hotel Beale were numbered in the double digits but did not top two dozen. They were a motley crew of lost souls that had succumbed to the endless grinding and battering of life by choosing what they perceived as the path of least resistance. Through drugs, alcohol, and apathy they had hastened their journey to the bottom rungs of the ladder and beyond.
Each had a tale to tell and in each tale was grains of truth and the tattered remnants of a life far removed from the dark halls of the aged Hotel Beale and endless nights spent on stools in the Night Hawk Saloon. They were mostly nocturnal creatures and in the darkened halls their pale features appeared almost ghostly in the dim light cast by low wattage bulbs hidden behind dusty glass shades of historic vintage.
I began working for Martin on the side and in gaining his confidence, was given more liberties in regards to explorations of the hidden corners and recesses of the old hotel. There was The Sump, a bar below street level frozen in time since its closure decades before with calendars and posters, juke box and stools on the counter and everything layered in untouched dust.
The basement with corridors to the old Harvey House and Commercial Hotel now sealed, and its massive steam boiler. There were utility corridors piled high with all manner of goods either abandoned over the years or taken as payment for rent.
At every turn there were hints of better times, in the frosted glass of the barber shop door, and the heavy oak furniture on the mezzanine, in the fixtures on the ceiling and brass tags on the doors, in the skylight and the sweeping wood work of the lobby. Most rooms were unoccupied by the living but in the battered furnishings, the worn flooring, and the little touches that spoke of former elegance, the ghosts of the past spoke loudly.
It was here that Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart stayed when dedicating the Kingman Air Terminal and where Andy Devine played his practical jokes. Tap Duncan, a frontier era gunfighter that legend says rode with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, drank here when in town.
The movers and shakers in the first decades of the 20th century, the USO tours during World War II, and the lowly traveler all passed through the doors of the Hotel Beale. They came by train and automobile on a highway numbered with two sixes, they came by bus as the station was here and the railroad depot was across the street.
From the balconies overlooking a street now named for Kingman's favorite son, Andy Devine, spectators watched Barney Oldfield and Louis Chevrolet roar through town in the 1914 Desert Classic "Cactus Derby" race. They watched the boys march off to war as they boarded troop trains in two World Wars, and the frontier era give way to the modern as the dusty road became asphalt and wagons gave way to horseless carriages.
By the time I took up residence at the old Hotel Beale, it and the street it faced had outlived its usefulness. The four lane, high speed track to nowhere had replaced the two lane road to adventure. The cold light of generic signs casting a glow over bland nondescript chain motels had replaced the individuality of motels where the colorful neon appeared as a welcoming beacon in the night and the muted elegance of the Hotel Beale was cast into the shadows.
Today, the Beale is truly a forlorn edifice with a dim and uncertain future. Just as I am thankful for the memories and the short time I had with Max, a World War I veteran, I am grateful for my time at the Beale Hotel.
Both shared their secrets and through those secrets, I was allowed, for the briefest moment in time, to step into a lost world where the promise of the future was made manifest in the dawning a highway signed with two sixes, in a car affectionately known as the tin Lizzie, and in a president named Hoover.