A humorous autobiographical exaggeration of life with a roadie!
By Kathleen J. Miller, the wife of a Route 66 ADDICT!
Let me begin by explaining a little bit about what “The Mother Road” means to me. I know the basic history of “The Mother Road” also known as the famous Historical Route 66. I know it runs from Chicago to L.A., etc. etc. The real meaning to me is this, unless I use the words Route 66 in any given conversation with my husband, no matter what it is about, he does not hear me. For instance, to get his attention in and emergency I must say something like “Honey, while driving on Route 66 today, your brother severed his limb, we need to go to the emergency room to be with him!” He’d say, “Oh my goodness, let’s get going, what are you waiting for!” If I had said, “Honey, your brother is seriously hurt, his limb is severed, we need to go now!” he would have shrugged and nodded, and then I would have to scream, “HONEY!” Because without the words Route 66 in a conversation, he would not have heard me at all!
With that in mind, here is my story of how I became “The Mother Road Widow”
It was June 1996 when DH[1] (dear husband or damned husband depending on the day) turned and said to me, “Honey, let’s go for a ride. I read in the newspaper about some kind of motor tour on Route 66 and the celebration will be in Lincoln, Illinois. It will be so cool! They drive through an arch and everything!” Mistake #1 Being a sucker for togetherness I responded, “Sure sounds fun!” It was that easy for my life as a “The Mother Road Widow” to begin.
We phoned my sister and her beloved hubby to invite them along on our little jaunt. We live five miles south of Chicago. To give you an idea of how far my DH is willing to drive for “The Mother Road” the town of Lincoln, Illinois is approximately 155 miles even still further south of us, so it is approximately 160 miles south of Chicago. We traveled along I-55 (not yet being familiar with the Old Route 66 we chose to take the most direct road which was the interstate.) While traveling along I-55, we would see small caravans of cars driving along the road that ran next to us, Route 66. Every once in a while, we would notice a stray lone car scattered here and there. We assumed they were with the motor tour. We reckoned they must have lost the group and were driving solo. We later found out this was not the case. It seems the people participating on the motor tour get very side tracked. They stop at every possible place there is to see along the route. They stop to see what it is, what it was, and make plans for what it could become. This is what people with the “Mother Road” addiction do. If only I had known then how contagious this addiction is.
We arrived in Lincoln, Illinois before the motor tour participants. The celebration was already taking place on the streets that surround the courthouse, which forms a traditional town square. This is small town America at its best. Vendors were set up selling food, mostly pork. Pork is very popular in central Illinois. You can buy pork burgers, pork chop sandwiches, sliced pork, barbequed pork, pineapple pork, and along with all that pork they had beverages. No alcohol was sold, not even a cold beer was to be found, and I also noticed there was no pubs or local bars. Things up north are very different. Where I live there is has one bar for every 10 adults. This town had several antique stores. I always wondered why you do not find antique stores up north. There must be old things north, or maybe it’s like everything else, you go south when you retire.
Within an hour, a pick-up truck arrived with an arch in the back bed. The arch was silver and sparkly and in the center of it was a sign that read “Historic Route 66”. I should have known immediately to grab my DH and flee. The look in his eyes was that of an addict when they first sample whatever addiction they imbibe in. DH’s eyes became transfixed upon that arch, they turned glassy and I swear I saw drool streaming from his smiling lips. He was so awestruck I think a Vegas girlie show could have taken place in front of him and he would not have noticed. I watched him in amazement. Then, “Oh My Goodness!” the parade of cars started. One by one they passed under that arch. People were waving and clapping as they drove slowly around the town square. A parade of cars, antiques, classics, sports cars, family sedans, even mini-vans passed by for viewing. There was no special requirement to be in the parade. Just the love of the “Mother Road” was enough. I knew in an instant by the look on my DH’s face this too was my future!
Returning home, for nearly three weeks, no more was said about that day. Little did I know my wonderful, funny, loving, caring, handsome, computer illiterate, DH had been on the Internet consuming everything he could detect on Route 66. After we went to sleep for the night, or at least I thought it was “we”, he would rise from his sleep much like a zombie from a grave and make his way to the computer. He would log on half in a daze and search the World Wide Web for any and all information he could find on the subject of Route 66. Alas, he found “THE” page. The website for the Route 66 Association of Illinois. I will never forget this day. This is also the day I found out he was not the computer illiterate that I thought he was. I found out not only did he make his way surfing the World Wide Web, he also learned about printers, which is another subject altogether. He thinks printing out everything he downloads is fun! This is the same man who nearly has a seizure because we turn on the air conditioner when it’s merely in the 90’s outside. DH now finds that replacing an ink cartridge at the cost of $6,000000.00 a pop isn’t expensive at all. Oh all right I exaggerated, but you get my point!
His obsession continued into the fall of the year. As he browsed the Route 66 Association of Illinois website he found an application for membership. Mistake #2 my first instinct when he suggested “WE” should join this association was NO! I however did not follow my instincts. Instead, being the loving, supportive wife that I am, I said, “Sure, sounds like fun!” With a flash, I heard the printer churning and grinding away, dot after dot this application was printing. Voila! Through the magic of the Internet, he produced a clear crisp clean paper copy of the application. He filled it out, whipped out the checkbook, wrote out the check, stuffed it all in an envelope, stamped it, and out the door he headed. It was as if he thought the sooner he brought it to the mailbox the sooner it would make it to Springfield, Illinois (where the association headquarters resides.) I watched in amazement as he ran out the door and jumped in his car and headed off. I wondered if he thought some magic post office genie would appear in the middle of the night and pick up the mail to hand deliver this application for him. Did I mention this was at 2a.m. on a weeknight? He had awoken me from a sound sleep to ask me, “Honey? How do I print from the internet?” To which I had lovingly replied, “What are you goofy? It’s 2a.m. let me sleep!” But when he looked at me in with the light reflecting off of his head, looking like a halo, oh, did I mention he’s bald? Anyway, when he looked at me with those great big puppy dog eyes, looking so lost and confused how could I refuse him the help he needed? So, once I opened my eyes, I slid out of my bed, put on my fuzzy ducky slippers and schlepped into the family room, propped myself up at the keyboard of our computer. DH looked at me again, this time the halo seemed more like devil horns to me, and with those same puppy dog eyes and an added grin from his salivating lips said to me, “But I want to do it!” So I pulled up a chair and sat beside him leaning on him every once in a while when I would nod off until he finished printing. The moment he ran out the door and I thought to myself, “this man has a problem!” I was so right!
Weeks went by and nothing, no mail from the association. He would walk in the door and no longer say to me, “Honey, I’m home.” it would be, “Any mail for me? Anything from the association?” When I responded “No” to DH it would then set the tone for the evening. I am sure you have all dealt with a man that pouts. Ten fold this and you have DH. You would have thought that Ed McMahon had pulled in front of our house, headed up our walkway to award us the million dollars and at the last minute said, “Gotcha! Just kidding!” then goes off to the house next-door to award them your money. This is how disappointed this otherwise mentally healthy man was each and every day.
On the day the membership card finally arrived, I debated whether to tell him or hide it and prolong his agony. You have to understand, by this time I was sick of Route 66 obsession he was showing evidence of having. I decided prolonging his agony would not be the wise thing to do and would even be an extremely cruel treatment to bestow upon the father of my children. So instead, I waited for him with the garage door open holding the envelope that contained his membership card. As I saw him approach, I stepped outside and waved it at him. He actually sped up the speed of the car, loose gravel shooting up from under the tires as he sped down our alley way. He would have made a funny car at a drag strip look like slow motion. I am sure he broke a new land speed record. Slamming on the breaks, as he missed me by a hair stopping inches from me, he jammed the car in park, jumped out, ripped the envelope from my hand, and tore it open. I think I saw tears of joy trickling down his flushed cheek. Happy would not be adequate in describing his mood. Euphoria might come close. It was as if the man had died and gone to heaven arriving at the pearly gates with Saint Peter never asking him about the time he, well never mind that too is another story. He was waving the membership card high in the air; I believe I even heard him shout, “YAHOO” as he showed his name on the members name line. He pulled it back down from the air and put the card to his lips and kissed it! Can you believe it? He kissed that dang card. He then ran into our home and phoned his mother, both of his brothers, his best friend, my best friend, his boss, my boss, my bosses boss, all of our living relatives on both sides of the family, thirty members of “The Mormon Tabernacle Choir”, and I think all of the neighbors within a 20 mile radius to tell them all he was now a registered, card carrying member of The Route 66 Association of Illinois. And then, the final blow, I watched in disbelief as I saw him open his wallet and place the picture of our children sitting on his car with our dog, all his most loved possessions in the world behind his new best friend “The Membership Card.”
This is my friends, is a man obsessed! And I my friends am now officially “The Mother Road Widow!”
[1] DH penned by Bernadette Henry
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