Rising, I head for the
bathroom. I collapse onto the toilet seat breaking it. In horror, the boys name
me the toilet terrorist. Fearing the seat destruction may have attracted
undesirable supernatural attention, we speedily depart before Thor hurls a thunderbolt
our way.
Today all three boys gang up
on me, informing me that we will visit an airplane museum. Anticipating my fate, I carry plenty of
reading material. I finished the Laura plantation book yesterday. As we depart
Louisiana, I plan to pick up Kit Carson again, mentally preparing for our
reabsorption into the West.
Pearl cruises over to the
Global Power Museum. She can’t breach the security fence and gate barricades,
much less the anti-tank concrete and orange construction fencing. Yes, Pearl could take out the orange
construction fencing, but we would probably be shot by the US military. I’m not
particularly interested in suicide by cop, and Pearl likes the way she looks
now, sans bullet holes. Nervously, as if reading our thoughts, she interjects,
“I’m not ready to die yet guys! I’m in the prime of my youth.” My personal
suicidality mimics Anna Karenina, the romantic heroine who throws herself in
front of an oncoming train. No self-respecting Tolstoy character would attack a
fortified US military base. Boring!
All musing aside, and already
impressed by the size of our country’s global power, we look for another
entrance to the museum. We find the visitor center a few miles away. Personnel
there inform us we must return to the heavily guarded gate, park Pearl, walk up
to the gate and be granted admission. Following military directions exactly, we
return to gate number one. A young soldier takes our drivers’ licenses and
studies them intently.
We face a temporary
construction gate with no cutaways in the curbs. Sven can’t climb the regular curbs
and enter. The young soldier, ever helpful, volunteers to find his superior who
would allow taking down some fencing, permitting my entry. Altruistically, I
don’t want to make the guy work that hard. The cold handily abets my altruism. With
the wind and the humidity, I’m chilled to the bone. More gratefully than I wish
to admit, I return to Pearl’s relative warmth, settling in for a well-deserved
read. “Ah, Beaver,” mutters Pearl,
“you’re back. Let’s nod.” We bask in the
heat and doze.
The boys spend about an hour
looking at airplanes outdoors in the wet cold, proving their masculinity, I
suppose. I think we keep nukes here at this base, but the boys don’t see any. On second thought, they think they may have
seen a nuke under a B-52. Obviously, you
can find anything you ever could need at the Eighth Air Force Museum.
Back safe and warm in Pearl,
the boys and I debate the merits of Dallas versus Shreveport. The rural poverty
in our country saddens and amazes me. I so live in the Denver bubble. We have
no solutions to offer the victims of northern Louisiana’s dire economic
straits, except moving. The poverty steals our souls, burrows into our guts, and
profoundly depresses us. After a brief huddle, we decide to head west. Naturally, by this time, we’ve missed the check-out
deadline at our substandard hotel, and have purchased another night’s stay. Keith
agrees to be part of our westward scheme only if our Dallas Airbnb host will
take us tonight and tomorrow. Barkley calls and finds the efficiency apartment
available. Yeah!
Further conferring, we decide
to visit one last museum in Louisiana before striking out for Dallas. Barkley
leaves tomorrow and must see the George W. Bush Presidential Center (located in
Dallas), which occupies a prominent spot on his bucket list. We hear that Bush
the Lesser has taken up painting dogs, on canvas, not on the animals. (Think
about it. This is a logical question.) “All myths will be dispelled and I will
truly know the man,” Barkley sardonically enthuses. I can never tell when the boys are serious.
Keith responds, “This will probably be like another sinkhole.”
Our path and destination determined,
Pearl turns west once more, delivering us to the Louisiana State Exhibit
Museum. The wheel-shaped museum surrounds
a courtyard containing a fountain. I suggest venturing outside to greet the
fountain, in order to better appreciate its majesty. The boys opt to remain
indoors, yet recovering from the awesomely cold Global Power Museum. The outdoor
fountain beckons us spewing water in concentric patterns, defying our assertion
that the mercury outdoors has dipped into the 20s. Huh, our blood must have
thinned out again.
Safe inside the museum, we
find an inner wall of displays and an outer wall of dioramas. We first explore
the outer wall, moving from one scene to another. We see careful, thoughtful
depictions exploring each of Louisiana’s industries, from cotton to corn,
sugarcane, pigs, and chickens, all set on 1940s farms. We also see oil, salt
and sulfur mines. Each diorama has models of appropriate machines along with human
figurines, presented in sufficient detail that we learn something from nearly
every scene.
Turning to the inner circle,
travelling back around the wheel, we find an excellent signed-papers display. The
museum has letters of Rochambeau and Lafayette from the country’s beginning,
through letters of the Kennedys. Aside
from these luminaries, Andrew Jackson, Grant, Lee and numerous presidents’
signatures also grace the display.
Next to the signatures we
find a fine collection of insects all pinned to the wall and quite dead. Is there some hidden meaning in placing the
insect display right next to the presidential signatures? Keith views the bugs closely. I squirm uncomfortably. Pinned cockroaches give me the willies.
Actually, all cockroaches flip me out; I can never believe that they’re really
dead. I hurriedly turn away, worried that the bugs sneakily await, massing to
march out and enter Pearl, ready to attack me while I sleep.
Completing the inner museum
circle, we chat with a helpful guard who recommends lunch in Shreveport’s
oldest restaurant. “Herby-K’s for real Louisiana food. That’s the place,” he
says brightly. By this moment in our journey,
we find ourselves more than sorely tired of real Louisiana food, especially the
mega-salt part, but the alternative is takeout Thai.
Pearl takes us over to
Herby-K’s. Spotting the 1950s neon sign,
Keith parks across the street from the restaurant. Sven and I gently descend onto a sidewalk only
to find ourselves ensnared in a death trap. There’s no way off the
sidewalk! Swearing as he contemplates
remaining on a Louisiana sidewalk for the remainder of our lives, Sven begins
to pace back and forth, back and forth. Finally, he pulls his foot rests in
high, as high as they go. With great
trepidation, we aim for the street. But
to no avail, we strand our main wheels, stuck on the high curb as the foot
rests hit the street pavement. Straining their muscles, the boys push. With a
metallic scraping groan from Sven, we land on the road. “If you guys keep this
up,” snarls Sven, “there’s not going to be anything left of my feet!”
Entering the restaurant, Sven
and I plow into nearly everything. The
small room holds three communal picnic tables, each of which Sven hits. The
tables show no signs of damage from our impact, having withstood far worse in
the past eighty years. Each table sports a roll of paper towels, centrally
located, to be used as napkins. Herby-K’s has amassed a fine collection of neon
bar lights, most bearing the name “Herby-K’s.” We order some fried food. I have
shrimp. It’s okay. The fries are frozen, disgusting by nature. The decor and
local appeal far exceed the actual quality of the food. But what the hey, we’re
on an adventure, no?
Burping as our bodies attempt
to absorb the grease load, we return to the lovely Super 8 to collect our belongings.
We load Pearl and head for Dallas, three hours west.
As Pearl flies west, we watch
the windowless trailers and bombed out buildings recede to the east. A half hour’s drive deposits us in Texas once
again. Crossing the state line, we already see a bit more wealth. People still
live in trailers, but the trailers have windows and doors. Mentally, I take my
hands and wipe down my arms. Shaking out
my hands, I leave the stain of hopeless poverty behind in Louisiana, hopefully
not to be confronted or seen again.
Ah, Texas again. The first
mileage marker reads 635. Wow, 600 miles across the top of Texas. Can you imagine walking it, as the Anglo
pioneers did?
Cruising by at 75 mph, we
pass one sign ominously discouraging unnecessary travel. Before Thor chased us
from the hotel earlier this morning, we heard the weather prophets name yet
another winter storm. Glancing at the TV before we left, we saw rain forecast
for our itinerary, albeit a cold rain. The Weather Channel cries wolf so often
that we’ve long ceased to pay them any heed.
About halfway through our
journey, we began to notice a plowed inch of snow on the berms. Crowded like
all Texas highways, the I-20 traffic greatly exceeds the capacity of the small-four
lane freeway. We slow as bridges become icy. Then we stop dead still for
forty-five minutes. Bloodroot replaces Bear as driver. In an hour and a half we
travel ten miles on the dry, bare road. We see skid marks and cars spun off of
the road in myriad directions. I fear some stupendous cosmic being tossed
vehicles toward the road, missing the mark often, much as a child would volley
a handful of marbles toward a target. Most cars have been towed, leaving only tire
ruts as silent reminders of their path through the roadside mud.
Stopping to buy gas at the
sole open gas station, we stretch our legs.
Bloodroot, ever patient, wants to take a side road around the traffic
mess. The clerk informs Bloodroot that all the roads are seriously iced and
sternly admonishes him to stay on the freeway. Leaving the gas station, we
merge back into highway traffic. We notice the big trucks begin to pull off
onto the roadside, their drivers choosing to sleep out the weather.
Traffic halts again. We sit dead
still for another thirty minutes. I become certain that the ice and snow on the
road are not natural, but have really been thrown there by some malevolent god
from an anime series. We’ve already
angered Thor. Could we be attracting the unwanted attention of various
immortals? Noting that I have never read a single anime novel, much less a
series, the boys ascribe my questions to the deranged rantings of a terminally syphilitic
mind. They whisper nervously amongst themselves. I hear only the word
“straightjacket.”
Slowly, as the semis exit the
road, traffic begins to speed up, eventually reaching a colossal 40 mph. We drive another twenty miles on a fairly icy
road. Then the road clears and traffic resumes speed as if nothing had ever
occurred, confirming my suspicions about the malevolent anime gods. We sail
into Dallas on dry, clear pavement.
Our kind Airbnb host has
waited for us and hands us the keys at a bit past 10 PM. We left Shreveport at
four. What a grueling journey! We close
the door to our haven of rest and hear a deep throaty chuckle. The Bear sniffs
the air. “Oh-oh,” he says. We look about discovering the absolute worst Airbnb
we’ve ever rented. The efficiency apartment holds two hideous air mattress
quasi-beds and a patio table with four chairs. Exploring, we find no TV, no
microwave, no pots, no pans, no silverware, no dishes, nothing.
Wow, is this place massively
overpriced! At least we’re not spun off the road in Texas. “Take that!,” I
think at the evil following us, but not out loud since we’ve already had our
share of bad luck today.
Making the best of the
situation, the boys return to Pearl and wake her. She grumbles at them but
opens her doors to allow them access to our cooking equipment. The boys tote
our stuff upstairs. Keith creates a nice dinner under the most trying of
circumstances.
We wash up after dinner and
settle in for the most uncomfortable night of our journey. Air mattresses suck
period and these have the added joy of attached air pumps that cycle on and off
all night refilling the mattresses as they lose air.
We hope tomorrow brings a
better day, a day where we attract no attention from angry deities!
