Hello Again,
I promised I would deliver Part 2 of TJ’s Great Adventure, “in a few days”. That was on June 8th, coming up on 2 weeks ago. Not good. I will do better. In Part 1 we discussed the meaning of the word adventure, and I cited a few examples that transpired during our lifetimes. I hope a few of my childhood escapades into the wider world around me hit home.
The stage is now set for our departure. Dan and I are heading to the land of our dreams…California. You know why we are going and how we will get there. So let’s go already.
Note: As added punishment I combined the next two installments into one. Delivering it a little faster but doubling the reading time. No thanks necessary.
TJ
Part 2- A little pre-departure background
Remember, it’s mid-July 1970. Dan and I are hot to trot. Our single focus…going to California. The emphasis here is on the journey. We never considered getting there fast in order to then take it slow. California is not Kokomo. Besides, a one-way ticket from Buffalo to San Francisco in today’s dollars was around $1200. Anyway, flying was never an option. Exploring our great nation via its highway system was the only method we ever considered. By the time we left Batavia, the international highway system was over 70% complete. Several sections along our route were not quite what you would consider super by today’s standards, but more than passable nonetheless. A wonder the pioneers could never imagine.
When last we met, I believe I mentioned my love for California. How my fascination gradually grew into practically an obsession. Occupying a sizable portion of my teenage years. The ever-present energy of change sweeping the country was infectious, serving as a back drop for the Baby Boomers transition into adulthood. The 60’s were over by the time we loaded our van, chronologically, but our generation was just getting started. Carrying with us the lessons learned during our “counter culture” experiences.
I was encouraged to skip the following but I think it adds a bit of context to the time period in which we traveled. It also partly addresses some residual guilt I might have regarding Vietnam.
1970 broke big-
* I must say that the entire time I lived in New York I never made it to the end of a Monday Night football game. It was on from 9 pm until usually after midnight (admittedly, I managed other activities that continued well beyond the witching hour). Yet another reason to tout California. There Monday games were over around 9. Very civilized. The evening was still young.
So why was I “selfishly” embarking on a cross-country journey when the nation and the world was in turmoil? First of all, the world is always in turmoil. Secondly, I had made my peace with the Vietnam War. In a manner of speaking. Like many college-aged, draft eligible young men I was conflicted. Having known several Batavians who lost their lives fighting in Vietnam, I vacillated between doing my patriotic duty by serving my country or taking a wait and see attitude. At times that felt cowardly. My father on the other hand would have none of my bravado even if it was less than full-throated. You may recall he was part of the 5th Armored Division during “The” war and knew all too well it’s horrors.
I was in DC the previous November for the Second Moratorium to End the War. A month later I was part of the first U.S. Draft lottery since WW2. It felt a bit surreal since I had only recently requalified for a student deferment that I lost simply by changing schools. I appeared before the local draft board explaining the move, and they agreed to allow me my II-S status. I then drew #343 in the lottery, more or less granting me immunity from becoming a soldier as the cutoff eventually reached 195. I could of course join voluntarily. I did not and here I am.
The Big Day
Sleeping in was not an option. As if I could. In less than an hour, Dan and I would be waving goodbye from the open windows of our van, bus, big bug, it’s your call. I had not envisioned the entire neighborhood coming out to add their support, lining the street and cheering us on. Good thing, because that’s not how it played out. Not quite a whimper, but certainly not a bang either. Our moms were on hand, as was my father. I’m sure they had mixed emotions. Yet no tears were shed as the joy written across our faces must have been infectious. I don’t recall any others being present. I apologize to my sisters if in fact they were there.
Mary Fragnito had, of course, attended mass that morning as she did every day. Praying for Dan’s soul and no doubt giving her confession. I cannot for the life of me imagine what sins she could possibly have committed? She’s an Italian mother for goodness’s sake. Says the Rosary three times a day. And knowing Dan, has the patience of a saint. In her most frustrated moments, the worst language I ever heard was, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph”. Mrs. Fragnito also made the best 3 ingredient pizza on the planet. Whatever transpired that morning at Saint Anthony’s did something. Dan was at the van ready to go when I arrived. A first for him as he is not a morning person.
Our homes were but 50’ apart, the van parked in my big empty back yard adjacent to the Fragnitos facing west. No need to steer. Just step on the gas and go. Goodbye, everyone. We’ll see you in six weeks. California, here we come.
We hadn’t made it to Ellicott Street, yet, about a mile from home and a main thoroughfare leading out of town. I glanced at the rear-view mirror, noticing a rapidly approaching car, lights flashing, and blowing their horn. It was Mrs. Fragnito waving at me to pull over. She seemed a bit frenetic, (normal for Mary) apologizing for her oversight while pushing a plate of cellophane wrapped Italian *Pizzelles through my window, followed by two huge pieces of her homemade pizza in a paper bag. What about her son? Nothing for him? She insinuated we return with her for lunch, but Dan put a kibosh to that and we were once again on our way.
* These thin, crisp, and delicious waffle cookies have been around since the eighth century and remind me of holy communion. Though way better tasting.
Westward bound. So long East Coast. Hello Midwest and on to the Plains.
Our initial route took us along the south shores of Lake Erie, through the rest of Western New York, a tiny portion of northwestern Pennsylvania and into Ohio. The beginning of the Mid-West. The city names were familiar as I had visited the area east of Cleveland several times in the early 1960’s. Mentor, Willoughby, and Painesville. (Where do beatniks go when they’re sick? Painesville, man. (Local humor I suppose.) My uncle Ont (Anthony) and my three cousins, John, Bob, and Jim, lived in that area. Uncle Ont was the corporate pilot for an Ohio based firm. He flew a DC-3. I can still picture it parked in the hangar in its classic nose-up angle. Right out of Casablanca.
Thinking about that hanger now brings back the memory of its distinct odor. The smell of industrial strength hand soap used by mechanics. It’s with me now.
On to Chicago. We had been on I-90, and picked up I-80 just south of the Windy City. It would take us all the way to San Francisco, 2300 miles away.
We didn’t actually make it down to the “loop”, but you could see its magnificent skyline in the distance. We had a long way to go and didn’t need the distraction nor the challenge of navigating big city traffic. We also had been driving all day and it was getting dark. Hello KOA. That’s Kampgrounds of America if you were wondering. We found one on our map, just a few miles away. We decided to gas up now and avoid that chore in the morning. While doing so we made a new friend, of sorts. This guy across the median was filling up his big-ole Harley. He was wearing a long, thick metal chain around his neck. We exchanged a few words and the next thing we knew, he was shadowing us. We camped for the night. He was right there. We stopped to take a break. He stopped. I don’t remember a whole lot of conversation taking place between us, allowing our imaginations to run wild. Was he a “Hells Angel”? A crazed lunatic? No, he was just lonely we later concluded. On day three he was gone. We could now focus on what lay ahead. Every mile to come was new, each state virgin territory. Neither one of us had been this far west. Traveling in style.
OUR VAN
As you can see, our ride to the West Coast was “the nuts”, to quote my sister Tina. Comfortable, fully appointed, and darn near perfect from our perspective. We had all the amenities: A near queen size bed, privacy curtains courtesy of Mrs. Fragnito, plenty of storage and our own entertainment. By that I mean a deck of cards and of course music. The van was equipped with a built-in AM radio. FM was available in those days but expensive. So the previous owner opted out of the upgrade. Just as well. Although FM was superior in quality to AM: no static, higher fidelity, and stereo broadcasting, it only had range of thirty to forty miles. Meaning any music we could find would disappear in less than one hour. That is if we could find an FM station. Hardly any existed in those days. Just in case, Dan and I brought our transistor radios. If our radio died, we had back up. We could also play them in the evening at our campsites when the AM range was magically extended from 50-100 miles to hundreds of miles after sunset. Ah, such luxury.
At some point one of us expressed concern about our sleeping arrangement. Not our proximity to one another as we had individual sleeping bags with locking zippers, but our actual comfort level. Sleeping on a wooden board every night might get old. So at the last minute, we purchased air mattresses. Unlike today’s lightweight insulated models, ours were made of heavy canvas covered rubber that required significant lung power to inflate. I don’t think a day passed without one of us wakening to a deflated mattress.
There was one item that accompanied us on this trip that was kept out of sight by design. However, I am contractually prohibited from acknowledging the existence of an alleged yellow plastic Blue Bonnet container that may or may not have resided behind the driver’s side door panel. Hopefully airtight and neatly taped in place to avoid spillage. I can, however, assure you that it did not contain margarine.
Food & Cooking
As you can imagine, our moms made sure we were well stocked with food. Not today’s health food designed for wellness, and longevity. I’m guessing what we were given was not organic, free range, and certainly not gluten free. I remember PB&J sandwiches, cereal, canned soda (pop in New York), whole milk and candy bars. I’m sure their main concern was that we eat…period. Dan and I both drank coffee. So, we brought two jars of instant: 1 Folgers and 1 Nescafe. We brought along a Playmate cooler. Curious name. But using it to keep things cold and/or fresh required ice that took up half the space of the cooler. Canned goods to the rescue. We hauled everything from Cambells Soup, spaghetti, and tuna fish to Pork & Beans and Chef Boyardee. No Spam.
I brought my Boy Scout approved Coleman stove and plenty of fuel.
Lastly, and you should already know this, Coke a Cola mixed with peanuts (right in the bottle) is a complete protein and very refreshing.
Welcome to: Name the State
It’s exciting entering any state for the first time. Like many I had preconceived ideas about the states we would be visiting. Well not actually visiting per se, but passing through. You cannot know a state or its people at 50 mph, glancing at random locals that happen to come into view. Many states take pride, or once did anyway, in announcing their uniqueness while welcoming you to their state. Usually on a giant billboard you cannot miss.
WELCOME TO ILLINOIS- The Land of Lincoln
THE PEOPLE OF IOWA WELCOME YOU- Fields of Opportunity
NEBRASKA-The Goodlife…Home to Arbor Day
NEVADA-125 Years of Vision. Hmm. That’s what one of its welcome signs says today. I doubt it read 69 Years of Vision when we passed through. Nevada may have lots to offer, but vision was not high on my list. Apologies to Pam and Erik.
Just beyond the billboard was a welcome center chock full of brochures, merchandise and smiling faces eager to say hello, howdy y’all or just plain old hi! We usually stopped to either get gas or use the restrooms. Get a snack and pick up souvenir pins, bumper stickers or a few postcards. Surely, one day our grandkids would sift through our stash with the same enthusiasm as a pirate’s treasure chest.
Ahh. The Midwest: Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska.
Admittedly, I had a few preconceptions about the Midwest. Lumping all the states into one large breadbasket. I expected them all to look and feel the same. To be underwhelmed. This was not the case. I found America’s Heartland to be a thriving, diverse land of plenty. Yes, countless farms and towering silos dominate the landscape and at times differences were subtle. But there is a recognizable transition from the glacial Great Lakes where we began our journey to farm prairie, then to rolling Loess hills (a rare 200-mile-long band of wind deposited silt bluffs), and finally to the Platte River and the Great Plains. This evolutionary transformation from east to west geologically is something I would have known about then if I had done my homework. Unlikely, at that time in my life. Each state felt unique. The people, at least the few we contacted, a bit different than others next door.
Today, to a great degree, we have achieved a noticeable level of “sameness” while traversing our country, regardless of region. Transitioning between states can feel nearly seamless. One strip mall after another. Shopping Centers (though in decline) anchored by the usual suspects, Walmart, Target, Macy’s or Piggly Wiggly reinforce that lack of diversity at least as far as the physical composition of what we encounter as we pass from state to state.
Thanks to television, the internet and now social media there is a homogenous feel to the style, tone and sound of our communications. Of course there are differences; variety of thought, lifestyle and, yes, accents. They just do not seem to be as great or as noticeable as they once were. Perhaps all of this helped form a seemingly common reference point for many living on the “coasts”: that all Dan and I were about to experience was merely- “fly over country”. Sad.
Our van would not go faster than 55 mph downhill. I swear there must have been some sort of “governor” on it but none we could find. No surprise everyone passed us including 2 girls in a big old Cadillac.
They looked over at us on their way by and smiled. We smiled back. A few minutes later we mysteriously caught up to them. They swung out into the passing lane and slowed a bit until they were beside us. The passenger held up a sign asking a question. Dan and I looked at each other, I turned my head and nodded no. Sorry. They frowned and were on their way. The sign read: Got Any MESC? Different times.
Crossing Western Nebraska, approaching Scott’s Bluff, we noticed a definite change in topography. It was striking, even dramatic. Towering 850 feet above the North Platte River, Scott’s Bluff is a landmark for both native Americans and emigrants on the Oregon, California, and Mormon trails. The land was all of a sudden dry, rugged, and challenging, if you were on foot anyway. This definitely felt west’ish if you will. Not surprisingly as we were paralleling routes traveled by 19th century Pioneers. Historic sounding landmarks began to appear. Places like: Medicine Bow, Centennial, Ogallala, Laramie, Fort Bridger, Table Rock, and Bitter Creek.
We hit Wyoming and instinctively drove right up to Cheyenne’s annual Frontier Days celebration. Yahoo! We were at first a little apprehensive, as our hair was a bit long and cowboys had a reputation for, well anyway, a good time was had as I remember. P.S. I now live about an hour or so south of Cheyenne in Niwot, Co. Who would have thought?
We skirted Salt Lake City and spent the night near the great Salt Lake. The lake is shrinking, as we all know. Actually, three feet lower today than it was back in 1970.
Driving through the *Bonneville Salt Flats was quite exciting given its reputation for speed. This vast area was white-white, flat, (duh) and hot. Our van was not equipped with air-conditioning which was still somewhat of a luxury in those days. What better time to be philosophical about a potentially uncomfortable situation. I formed the opinion that “if you want to experience the desert, one must do so when it is hot, (without creature comforts like A/C)”. Then and only then will you come to know the desert. It was also my first experience with mirages. Dancing rays of light playing tricks off in the distance.
*1970 proved to be a historic year for land speed racing. In October, “blue flame”, a rocket car, set a record speed of 630 mph, that still stands to this day at Bonneville. It ran on hydrogen peroxide and produced 58,000 horsepower. That’s a lot of dye jobs.
It was here in Utah that a simple observation ended up expanding my world view. Inexplicable in the moment, but over time as it merged with my consciousness, was an important part of growing up.
As I gazed down onto the Plains, I witnessed multiple weather cells forming, expanding, and moving across the entire horizon. Dark clouds and lightning here and there, sporadic rain showers separated by blue skies and sunshine in between. As I tried to understand why it wasn’t raining everywhere all at once, as it did back home, my eyes settled on a meandering chain far below. It took a few seconds to come to terms with something I had never witnessed before. A mile long train and I could see the whole thing. From engine to caboose, and dozens of cars in between, out in the distance, silent, moving in slow motion. Neither of these events would have been possible in the flat, narrow corridor of my previous existence.
Weather was to a great degree unpredictable. And when it rained it poured seemingly everywhere. Trains of course had a beginning and an end, but rarely seen simultaneously. (Unless of course it was a really short one.)
Nothing of course had really changed. Not a weather pattern nor the train. It was my perspective that was evolving. Being open to new possibilities as my experiences accumulated was feeling pretty darn good.
Oh. To Be a Teamster
As you know there is way more to see and do on a cross-country trip that can be absorbed in a day. Naturally, we were side tracked more than a few times by the sights and events that captured our imaginations. Throwing a wrench into our flexible but somewhat important schedule. In order to compensate, we had to make up time by driving past sunset and into the night. Don’t worry, we were always at our next destination by 11.
The Interstate Highway system is the backbone of the trucking industry. The main reason it was created. Big rigs hauling nearly everything Americans need, all day, well into the night, and often until dawn. Teamsters, a mysterious lot with a tough guy reputation. At times they were the only other vehicles on the road. There we all were, fellow truckers heading west. There was one noticeable difference between us in addition to the size of our vehicles. We did not have a CB radio and were, therefore, oblivious to what was being said between and among the 18 wheelers. We began to feel alone and isolated from what we imagined to be an Interstate Highway party. We were the odd men out. At some point providence intervened, and we figured out a way to communicate with our fellow late-night travelers. While passing, (probably the one and only time we passed anyone) a semi one night, I noticed he flashed his bright lights at us, presumably to indicate it was safe for us to pull back into the slow lane. Nice. Probably trucker etiquette 101. I signaled and slid into the lane in front of him. Shortly thereafter, another semi approached us, pulled out, and passed. I waited until it appeared he could safely pull in front of us and flashed my *bright lights. He signaled, pulled in front of us and then, to my surprise, flashed all of the safety and clearance lights circling his rig. It was a mini light show. And he did it a second time. Ta dah! TAH DAH!
Dan and I felt like we were now members of an exclusive club. We had cracked their code. For all intents and purposes, we were Teamsters. This happened dozens of times and was always exciting. We took turns saying Ta dah! TAH DAH! It was dark, the middle of nowhere but we were no longer alone.
*You may recall that back in the day there was a small metal button on the floor left of the brake that operated the headlights. Bright and dim. I still think that was a superior method. Quick and easy, both hands on the wheel.
Later that night we camped near Reno, Nevada knowing it would be our last night in the van, at least for a while. We were less then 5 hours from the coast and the apartment of a good friend. We awoke early, and on the road, proud of ourselves for avoiding any casino slot machines and saving our hard-earned cash. In the distance lay a steep uphill climb. We were approaching the infamous Donner Pass. The temperature dropped nearly fifty degrees, winds picked up and clouds swirled overhead, unloading a mixture of rain and snow. Once again living up to its reputation for unpredictable weather. Our van performed admirably, maintaining a consistent speed of 25 mph. We passed by one rest stop and a couple of restaurants but, for some reason, neither one of us was very hungry.
We were officially in California. Hooray. But our real focus was still up ahead, off in the distance…San Francisco. It had taken us an entire week, seven days, to get this far. That amounts to only 378 miles a day. Pretty slow, huh? First and foremost, we took our time. This was our first journey through America after all.
TJ
NEXT Part 3- California
I left my home in the small Western New York city of Batavia in March 1977 vowing never to shovel snow again. Never say never. Settling for 38 years in what was for me the "promised land" of Santa Barbara, California. I married, helped raise a family, started a business, traveled and live a wonderful life. We spent the last 10 years of our west coast journey in the small, quiet, picturesque town of Ojai. My oldest friends call me TJ.
My wife Deborah and I moved to Colorado in 2015 to be near our daughter, her husband and 2 growing grand-boys. Add 2 bulldogs (French & English) to the mix and our hands and hearts are full. We all reside in Niwot, a small quaint town 15 minutes north of Boulder. The mighty Rocky Mountains are at our doorstep.
I am a man, son, brother, cousin, friend, husband, father, uncle, grand father, in-law and mostly retired Coloradan. You can read more about me on the About Page. If you are curious about my professional life you can visit my Career at Venture Horizon.
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