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I have two pictures from the 20’s, the 1920’s, one of my Grandpa with his
senior high school class at Mt. Vernon in June, 1924, and another hand colored
photo taken in 1926 at Yosemite, taken by him when he hitchhiked across country
from Pennsylvania, two years before he became a father to my father. And his
stories of that trip with a friend were always spell bounding to me, probably
where I got my wander lust and desire to be on the road as much as I do. He
told of spending nights in jails in small towns in the west, at their request,
no motels then, and how when they got to Tijuana and crossed over, there was
only a gate, and no motels. I still can see him hanging onto the running boards
hitching rides on touring cars, and the excitement he must have had. And it all
seemed so glorious, whereas today we take it for granted there will be gas and
food and lodging at the next freeway exit, the first interstate was still 30
years away.
But one of my most precious possessions is a diary he wrote in July of
1951, when he and my Grandma and her family drove from Pennsylvania to see my
parents in Colorado, where my Dad was stationed in the Air Force. Still no
freeways yet, but a pioneering spirit setting out on 2 lane roads, battling
traffic, stop signs, and not having to encounter fast food yet. McDonalds was
still a dream of two brothers in San Berdoo. But eating at cafes, or fixing
meals along the road, picnicking taking on a different meaning then. But
reading the journal, I can see America through his eyes, and know many of the
places mentioned. Staying at Busli’s Modern Motel, just 7 miles west of
Roseville, and 3 miles east of Media, Illinois. Having a delicious dinner, in
his words, of pan fried potatoes and onions, grilled frankfurters and tea-milk,
and cup cakes. A far better choice than any franchised meal. And the notes go
on of horseback riding with my parents, I was still 3 years away, and packing
lunches and seeing all of Colorado they could in a short trip that included his
24th wedding anniversary, celebrated at The Yucca in Denver, they packed and
left the next morning for home. Seeing Mt. Rushmore, and South Dakota,
Minnesota, Wisconsin which reminded him of home, and then home. Almost making
it to the top of Mt. Evans, highest point in Colorado, getting within 12 miles
from the top when the altitude gave them motor problems. Arriving home after
two weeks on the road, and travelling 4700 miles. What a summer it must have
been!
And I have been blessed with two other memories from the trip. One is the
road map they used, courtesy of their local Pontiac dealer, Eight Street Motors
in Bangor, Pa., phone 652. With cities circles and routes traced they took, and
of their next trip to see my parents in San Antonio, where my Dad was stationed
next. But the other treasure I have is the picnic basket, covered with decals
from the trip, and also the ice chest and cooler for drinks. How many meals
must have been eaten using these items, I wonder if the plates they ate the pan
fried potatoes on are these? But memories of how things truly were, seen
through their eyes over 60 years ago, when they were young, and so was America.
A much smaller America, less than half of who is here now, and a time of smaller
roads and picnics along the side of them. Ten years before Todd and Buzz were
getting their kicks on Route 66, my family was travelling across America. I
wonder what they would think of it now? And what they would think of how it is
being remembered?
Just a generation ago we had no cell phone cameras, video was new and
expensive, we still took Polaroids and used 110 film, until we could afford
35mm. Somewhere between now and then our memories get fuzzy, but the photos and
the journals like this bring us back to reality. Words that form pictures, and
pictures worth a thousand words when combined fill the time spent back there
precious and fulfilling. That special meal of pan fried potatoes and
frankfurters still bringing a smile to the faces. For it is in these special
times, times not set out to be anything but just another night, it is where we
find the treasures of the heart. Times so special that a note is made, so when
telling the story you brag about it, or get teary eyed. A book filled with
memories of how it really was, not changed over the years, but that gets better
with each reading. We call it the Bible, and it tells of times past, times of
today, and times to come. Times spent in exile from God, meals provided by God,
and clothing and good weather all courtesy of Him. A story of a 40 year trek
across the desert, referred to as the Exodus. A time spent with families,
visiting other families, and having families along the way. But another way to
look at it is this. The kids who were very young at the start, were in their
forties at the end. The old people, some never finished the trip. And some
born towards the end relied on the older ones relating the stories of how it
was. Times spent sharing a trip, you can just imagine the old men telling the
young men, and how their eyes would light up. Tales of a trip, not fully
realizing that they were still on it, daily life excluding them from a different
perspective. But today we have the Bible to read Moses’ words, and his side
trips along the way. And can learn much from them, and how trusting God along
the road, no matter where the journey takes you, is always best. No cameras,
but words so perfectly inspired by God that we can see through their eyes, and I
for one am glad I travel now. My manna coming in different ways, and having
motorcycles to travel on. My Exodus still in process, and the promised land,
heaven, via Jesus Christ still ahead.
We are all on that journey of life. Some times we will remember, and some
we will try to forget. But I am thankful God chose His to record them in His
Word. And the stories of Jesus, and when mixed with prophecies, poetry in
Psalms, great advice in Proverbs, and the good news of the gospel, it becomes
timeless. And will continue to be timeless, because we will be too. How we
travel that route is our choice, choosing the route God has for you makes it
that much more valuable. Consider that on your next ride, walk, or trip to the
store. To some my Grandparents’ trip was just a ride to see their son, but it
reminds me that the trip I am on is to see God’s Son. For some just another day
in the life, but for those of us who believe, a day that much closer to heaven.
Which takes patience, time, and a sense of who God is, and making it personal.
And maybe the note from a repair in Lexington, VA., tells more about the
trip than a postcard. A verbally recorded testimony, putting our lives in
perspective. After having his horn and gear shift repaired, the mechanic told
him “he never saw a ‘47 Pontiac is such good condition,” some 37,652 miles from
new. What does, and what will your testimony tell others? Where is God in it?
If only I could spend an afternoon with Grandpa again, the questions I would
have. Maybe throw some frankfurters in with the onions, and potatoes, pan
fried. Some ice tea, to go along. I’ll take the blue plate and cups like I
always did....let the memories begin again. On the road again, time
travelling. Eight Street Motors is long gone, no one answers at 652. Plan
ahead in Christ. Only in Him will that trip never end. And the maps are still
free!
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com