A LITTLE PERSPECTIVE

In my humble opinion I really believe that those who are well read, those who have an understanding, and a grasp of history (as it was, not as we would like it to have been) have a much better understanding of how fortunate they are to live now instead of then. They have also seem to have a more pragmatic and clear picture of history yet to come.
From that perspective I am aggravated and saddened by the current state of historical knowledge in this nation. It is also one of the foundational elements of why I write, and why I rave about books (such as the recent release of David Crockett) that present history rather than snippets of history to justify an opinion or belief.
Some years ago I was privileged to befriend an elderly gentleman that contributed greatly to a more balanced perspective in regards to my passion for old cars and trucks. Like Route 66, vintage cars are enjoyable because we have a choice.
We can drive the Model A because it is fun, not because we have no other means for making the trip to Phoenix in the summer. Likewise, Route 66 is fun because we can enjoy it rather than endure it, we can savor its charms and multifaceted wonders free from the constraints of bumper to bumper traffic on narrow bridges, and patching inner tubes on a hot summers day.
We can travel Route 66 to remind us of the price paid for the modern life. We can linger in little cafes and mourn for our loss and sleep in peaceful slumber in vintage motels while meditating on the price paid for the illusion of progress as well as what really constitutes advancement.
My buddy Don began his life long career as a truck driver in 1937 at the age of 17. His family owned a produce market in Needles, and supplied fresh produce to the Central Commercial stores in Kingman and Oatman.
His dad and older brother would make two runs to Los Angeles from Needles every week, a trip of twelve to eighteen hours each way. On more than one occasion an overload or mechanical problem would result in a call home and Don being dispatched with a pick up truck to share the load or bring the needed parts out to Amboy, or Daggett, or Chambless, or Cadiz Summit.
Even at the age of 17, Don often had additional duties such as making the deliveries to Kingman and Oatman, over the grades and curves of the Black Mountains, in a flat bed Ford. Flat tires and roadside repairs, over heating and traffic, accidents and detours, were all part of another day on the road.
When he turned 18, he began making the L.A. runs alone. On hot summer days, with a full load, he would drop the old Ford truck into compound low gear, pull out the throttle knob, and stand on the running board to steer the truck with two wheels on the shoulder at speeds of less than ten miles per hour.
Two spares were carried as even with new tires at least one flat was almost a guarantee on each run. During the months of summer, with the relentless heat baking that narrow strip of asphalt as it snaked across the desert, the return trips were made at night if possible but still, gallons of water were carried for the radiator as well as driver.
One of the best films for portraying the life of a truck driver in those early years that I am aware of is They Drove By Night. Tough is a very inadequate word to describe the men who made their living on the road in the pre 1950 world.
I prefer the old ways and the forgotten roads and am grateful for that choice, for that luxury. Perhaps it is that realization that makes them so special to me. 

TRIALS, TRIBULATIONS, AND THIS THING CALLED LIFE

There are times when it seems this thing called life seems to be an endless series of trials and tribulations bracketed with joy and happiness. In the past twenty-one days I have learned that grandchild number three is on the way, have lost a very good friend from Australia, have gotten a clean bill of health from the doctor, am eagerly anticipating a visit from our friends from Amsterdam, Dries Bessels and his wife, have recovered from a painful bacterial infection in the pulp of a tooth, had to replace the refrigerator, and am in limbo as I await for confirmation of the scheduled date for another interview on AM Arizona in Prescott and with Jay Leno at his garage.
To ensure the self induced stress level keeps pace with the natural stresses of life (the day job, age, money issues, etc.) I have the pending deadline that is now hanging over my head like an anvil, pending approval for an ambitions two book deal, and planning for the October trip. If there were any fears in this swirling sea of chaos and tribulation it would be that I become myopic and loose track of what is really important.
A few years ago I was privileged to meet a fascinating young man from Illinois, Cort Stevens, as he made a pilgrimage along Route 66. In spite of what many would consider debilitating health issues and other challenges, he manages to maintain a relatively upbeat and even optimistic outlook that is infectious. You might even say he is inspirational.
Now that is really the essence of life, that is the difference between a life well lived and a life endured. And that just may be the greatest blessing that comes from living on Route 66, writing books about that highway, and our travels along that storied highway - the inspirational people met along the way.
Try sitting at the Midpoint Cafe in Texas, where Fran and her crew serve everything with a smile, with a slice of fresh pie and a cup of hot coffee and not feel the spirits lift. It is an impossibility.
This is where the real magic of Route 66 is found, in the people. This is what is fueling the ever growing international resurgent interest in this old road.
In these trying, crushing, harried times people are in need of inspiration that feeds dreams and the break from the cold impersonal electronic world of the modern era that is made manifest in the smiling faces of the people behind the counter who call you by name even if your last visit was in August of 2010.
This was another aspect of the Route 66 encyclopedia project I found to be so enjoyable. Along the way I met some of the most inspirational people and have an opportunity to share their story, people like Alberta Ellis or Victor Green.

In a couple of somewhat unrelated notes, it looks as though the Route 66 tour will take place during the first weeks of October. As always, if you sell copies of my books I would be pleased to stop and sign them for you. In addition I will have some copies with us, as well as prints from our various adventures on Route 66 and the desert southwest.
Additionally, if you are having a fund raiser and I may be of assistance, please let me know as soon as possible. The trip is going to be a whirlwind and the schedule is filling quickly.

THE CURIOUS THING ABOUT CURIOSITY

Curiosity is a curious thing. That nagging need to know causes us to drive an extra forty miles just to see what is over the next hill, to stay up an hour or two later than we know to be prudent because there are only two chapters left in the book, and to order that gadget just because there might be a chance it will really do what they claim it will.
For me curiosity has been a foundational element of my life as well as an endless source of trouble. With good intention I will strap my backside to the chair and begin research on a specific topic. Along the way something is discovered that piques the interest and in an instant the concentration, the focus is gone and I am off on a rabbit trail.
As an example, one evening I was writing the encyclopedia entry for Red Fork, Oklahoma when a notation about Crystal City amusement park in the Route 66 guide book penned by Jack Rittenhouse in 1946 caught my attention. So, I finished that entry and decided to research Crystal City amusement park.
As it turned out Orcutt Park with its roller coasters and concession stands was the first of these parks to open in Tulsa. The year was 1911.
Fast forward a decade. In 1921 the Electric Amusement Park opens in west Tulsa to great acclaim. There were rides and a dance hall, a miniature train and swimming, concessions and shows. In 1922 the park expanded through the contracting of operators of carousels and Ferris wheels.
It proved to be a short lived venture and in 1925 a bankruptcy forced the closure of the park. In 1928, remodeled and expanded, the park reopened under new management as Crystal City with the giant Zingo coaster as the center piece.
This endeavor lasted until 1956. With closure the rides were dispersed to other parks, including the Lakeview Amusement Park in Tulsa, and the on the site rose the Crystal City Shopping Center in 1958.
There I was, intently focused on the task at hand when in my research a link to information about Hague Park in Jackson, Michigan grabbed my focus by the throat. Hague Park wasn't actually in Jackson, it was at the end of the street car line in Vandercook Lake. I knew this because my grandfather had been the owner of a concession or two at the park, one of which was the bathing beach, and I still have one or two of the old wool bathing suits. Well, in the blink of an eye I was off on a rabbit trail.
My grandfather, and the fact I never met the man, is what started me on the quest to cast the light into dusty dark corners of history and write books as well as feature articles. More specifically, is was an old photograph of my grandfather and Henry Ford on the front porch of the family homestead on Hinckley Boulevard that set me on this course.
Most kids born in the mid to late 1950s like I was were raised with the ideals of the 1940s. I was raised as though it were the 1920s and 1930s, largely the result of the fact my grandfather was past his 60th birthday when my father was born. Even more amazing is the fact he lived long enough to see both sons, my uncle is just a bit older than my dad, married and with kids.
There was little talk of family history in our home. The past was past. This is now. Focus on the now if you want to have a future. That was the general drift of the direction I was pointed.
So, when my grandmother passed away in the early 1970s, and we began cleaning out the old homestead on Hinckley Boulevard, it seemed as though I had discovered King Tut's tomb. There were letters written during the Civil War, and rolls of blue prints (my grandfather was a prolific inventor and had associations with men like David Buick during the period he launched his auto company in Jackson), political material from when my grandfather ran for road superintendent during the 1950s and patent applications, congressional reports on the conduct of the war and treatment of prisoners dated 1864 and travel journals of drives to California from the late teens.
Tragically, there was little time to dig deep and even less time to grab souvenirs. There was work to do and if I wanted to dig through the trash it could be done when the job was complete. And so a great deal of history went to the dump and some went to museums but my curiosity was set afire.
To a large degree, this is much of what I know of my grandfather -
Frederick P. Hinckley was born in July 1866 at Michigan. Fred Hinckley (given age 4) was listed as a household member living with Jas. D. Hinckley (given age 40) on the 1870 Census on 22 June 1870 at Adrian, Lenawee County, Michigan.1 Frederick P. Hinckley (given age 14) was listed as the son of J. D. Hinckley (given age 50) on the 1880 Census recorded 8 June 1880 at Jackson, Jackson County, Michigan.2


At age 21, Frederick P. Hinckley married first Hellen Abbott, age 19, daughter of (?) Abbott and Elizabeth (?), on Wednesday, 5 October 1887 Jackson, Jackson County, Michigan.3

The 1900 US Census enumerated him as Fred P. Hinckley (given age 33), the head of household at 304 West Morrell Street, Jackson, Jackson County, Michigan, on 1 June 1900. Also living in the household was, his daughter, Fern Hinckley (given age 11) . Fred was employed as a Machinist.4

The 1910 US Census enumerated him as Fred P. HinckleyHinckley (given age 41), his daughter, Fern H. Hinckley (given age 21), his mother-in-law, Elizabeth Abbott (given age 78) .5

The 1920 US Census enumerated him as Fred P. Hinckley (given age 53), the head of household at 410 Hinckley Road, Summit Township, Jackson County, Michigan, on 6 February 1920. Also living in the household was his wife, Helen Hinckley (given age 51). Fred was employed as a Manufacturer of Machinery.6

At age 58, Frederick P. Hinckley married second Eugenia White, age 37 on Thursday, 25 September 1924 at Detroit, Wayne County, Michigan.3

The 1930 US Census enumerated him as Fred Hinckley (given age 63), the head of household Summit Township, Jackson County, Michigan, on 6 April 1930. Also living in the household were his wife, Eugenia Hinckley (given age 42), his sons, Wiliam Hinckley (given age 4 years 5 months) and Robert Hinckley (given age 2 years 2 months) . Fred was employed as the Proprietor of a Maunfacurer of Air Machines.7

Frederick P. Hinckley and Eugenia Hinckley lived in 1936 at 612 Hinckley Boulevard, Jackson, Jackson County, Michigan.8


Even though the deadline is looming over my head as a guillotine, even though my intentions were to focus on pertinent research, the curiosity about what information about the park and my grandfather could be gleaned from this website temporarily blinded me. Now that is another curious thing about curiosity - even though you know there will be a price to be paid later it is impossible to resist the urge to see what ...

THE SPRINT FOR THE FINISH

The delay in posting this past few days is not the result of another adventure on the open road, or illness, at least not in the normal use of these terms. It was a road trip through time as I continued with the research to ensure the Route 66 encyclopedia is as accurate as possible and that it contains as much information as is possible to jam between two covers that prohibited the regular daily posts. 

Jim Hinckley and the Fortress of Solitude

The illness part is a bit hard to describe. It usually strikes about four months before a deadline. The symptoms are vision so narrowed I could look down a beer bottle with both eyes, numb butt cheeks, a sense of panic that is only held at bay by seeing row upon row of words appear on the screen as my fingers fly across the key board, and a neck that becomes fused in one position. 
The history of Sampson, Missouri and Lawndale, Illinois appeared on the screen followed by the story of a bus crash at the Laguna crossing in 1930, an overview of Murray's Dude Ranch in Apple Valley, and then a brief biography of A.L. Westgard and Victor Green. Then there was the unraveling of Route 66 alignments in Los Angeles County (thank you Scott Piotrowski), the political intrigue behind the realignment in New Mexico in 1936, and the story of the Madonna of the Trail in Springerville.
With a gentle nudge from the wife at regular intervals I would stumble from my fortress of solitude to the bathroom and take a 15 minute break for some exercise. In between these interruptions there are vague memories of a pretty lady bringing plates heaped with food and then returning to remove the empty ones. If only my wife, my dearest friend, would understand I need a small refrigerator under the desk and a port-a-potty by the book case, or better yet, a combination desk chair/port-a-potty.
I have the rough draft of the text, more than 135,000 words covering some almost two hundred topics, about 95% complete. The push is to have it finished by this weekend, forward it to noted authorities such as Jim Ross, Scott Piotrowski, Joe Sonderman, and Dave Clark, to ensure accuracy of the work, and then turn my attention to the illustrations which entails a road trip to Chicago in October.

For a break, I penned the story of Afton and Afton Station for the next edition of 66 The Mother Road. This will be the second installment of my series profiling communities along Route 66.
Somehow, I also managed to find time for a movie with my dearest friend, a walk with my son, and a little fun with the grand kids. Now that is a productive weekend, one that makes you look forward to work for the much needed rest.
As to the trip in October, for those who would like a copy of their book signed or that would like share their adventure on the road over a cup of coffee, the rough outline is this:
Day one - a half day - Holbrook -
Day two - Tucumcari -
Day three - Claremore
Day four - St. Louis
Day five - Jackson, Michigan
Day six - Springfield, Illinois
Day seven - Cuba
Day eight - Elk City
Day nine - Albuquerque