Route 66 Killed Grandpa - before critique group

for Pen Masters’ critique JC Ragland Dec, 2010

Route 66 Killed Grandpa Ragland

Route 66 connected our family farm to church and town – a trinity of sorts. Our farm was Grandpa Ragland’s farm plus two more.  The shadow of Grandpa Ragland’s death hovered over my 1950s childhood.  The shadow evolved into an event with logic, as I grew old enough to understand cause and effect.  It wasn’t a farm accident that killed Grandpa.  He’d only run out of cornmeal.

After his WWII tour of duty, Dad bought out his sisters’ shares in their family farm. I was one; my sister was three.  Later, he bought two adjacent 80-acre farms and with my mom, built one of the first modern dairy farms in post-war Missouri. 

I experienced what some would call an idyllic childhood – and it was by some standards  although most people have no clue that a 1050s farm childhood was fraught with dangers.  While we kids reveled in our innocence, 1950s farmers had a higher rate of injury than any other occupation except mining.

Grandpa Ragland, even in his senior years, walked four miles to town to save the aging work horse for farm use. He walked fast and with head down, watching for large rocks in the creek-gravel covered road and thinking - or daydreaming or worrying a bout Grandma Mattie’s treatments in Columbia’s cancer hospital.  By the time of his last walk to town to buy cornmeal, he was hard of hearing but still had a full head of mostly coal black hair.  He likely also had cataracts because he did not see or hear the car until too late.  Shock must have etched his face as he saw the 1939 milk truck after he stepped onto the highway - Route 66 - still a novelty to him.  The driver, too, would have registered shock and maybe yelled, “No!” as the man stepped into his lane. Grandpa’s intense blue eyes probably widened with horror a heartbeat before impact. Grandpa bounced and fell still, the concrete of the highway far harder than his Welch-Irish skull. 

Grandpa Arthur Hudson Ragland was the first person killed by a car on Highway Sixty-Six and his death rocked the 1944 Laclede County community.  The highway brought good, modern things.  Economic growth with tourism.  Ease of transport for emergencies and farmers needing supplies.  And suddenly, death. 

Then more death during the 1950s and 1960s. The dangers of Route 66 grew exponentially over the years, as cars grew larger and faster.  No seatbelts in those giant eight-cylinder beauties that rocketed down the highway at seventy-plus miles per hour.  The cool driver held the right hand on the steering wheel and the left outside the rolled-down window.  The super cool driver held the left hand on the wheel and the right hand around a girlfriend snuggled close enough to smell her Breck shampoo.

The curved lip on the sides of the two-laned Route 66 required a steady hand on the wheel because a nudge of that curb flipped a car fast as an eye blink.  Too many drivers tried to pass in too short a space.  Semi-tractor trailors carried tons and tons of goods from town to town faster and cheaper than the railroads.  The big trucks slowed on hills and daring drivers roared into the left lane to pass, daring a car to not come over the hill head on.

By the time that I-44 opened in 1962 – the year I started high school and left childhood behind - the highway had been dubbed “Bloody 66.”  Grandpa Ragland’s death paled in collective community memory by 1962 - except in my family.  At the Phillipsburg exit of I-44, even today as I turn onto Old 66 to go to my aunt’s house, I think of Grandpa.  The convoy from Fort Leonard Wood passed and he thought the highway was clear so stepped out and – the milk truck.  Only a eyelash flutter in time, but an eternity in family stories.

Route 66 Killed Grandpa - REVISED per critique group suggestions

Route 66 Killed Grandpa Ragland

The shadow of Grandpa Ragland’s death hovered over my 1950s childhood.  The shadow evolved into an event with logic, as I grew old enough to understand cause and effect.  It wasn’t a farm accident that killed Grandpa.  He’d only run out of cornmeal.

Route 66 connected our family farm to church and town – a trinity of sorts. Our farm consisted of Grandpa Ragland’s farm plus two more.  After his WWII tour of duty, Dad bought out his sisters’ shares in their family farm. I was a baby and my sister was three years old.  Later, Dad bought two adjacent 80-acre farms, and with my mom, built one of the first modern dairy farms in post-war Missouri. Dad and his herd of registered Jerseys garnered feature coverage from Hoard’s Dairyman and The Missouri Ruralist.

I experienced what some would call an idyllic childhood, but those people don’t know the dangers we dodged on a daily basis.  While we kids reveled in our innocence, farmers had a higher rate of injury than any other occupation except mining.  Family gatherings focused on who said or did this or that – mostly humorous, some pathos, while we built our family folklore. Talk included politics. More talk involved the weather.  Small farm operations did not allow for the luxury of irrigation.  Letters from distantly located relatives got read and re-read.  Remember when your Uncle Himself did this and Aunt Whomever did that- triggered more anecdotes.  Kids ate lunch with the adults then got banished outside.  We rowdies rotated our play through the yard, the smokehouse, the cellar – is the blacksnake down there? - and the barns. We dodged black widow spiders, rusty nails and dared each other to jump from the barn loft into a pile of hay below.  In the house, Neighbor Soandso got killed when he tried to brush hog sprouts that were too big for that.  He should have known better…

Highway 66 brought good, modern things.  Economic growth.  Tourism.  Ease of transport for emergencies and farmers who needed supplies.  Then sudden death.  Grandpa Arthur Hudson Ragland was the first person killed by a car on Highway Sixty-Six in our community.  His death rocked the 1944 Southwest Missouri world.  Although I wasn’t born yet, I knew him well.   Family folklore contained many anecdotes about Grandpa Ragland.

Grandpa Ragland, even in his senior years, walked the mile or two to town. Had to save the aging work horse for farm use.  He walked fast and with head down.  In family folklore he is remembered as a thinker and a daydreamer.  Maybe he was worrying about Grandma Mattie’s treatments in Columbia’s cancer hospital that day.  By the time of his last walk to town to buy cornmeal, he was hard of hearing -but still had a full head of mostly coal black hair.  He likely also had cataracts because he neither saw nor heard the car until too late.  Shock must have etched his face as he saw the vehicle after he stepped onto the highway - Route 66.  The driver, too, would have registered shock and maybe yelled, “No!” as the man stepped into his lane. Grandpa’s intense blue eyes probably widened with horror a heartbeat before impact. He bounced and fell still.  The concrete of the highway was far, far harder than his Welch-Irish skull. 

The dangers of Route 66 grew exponentially over the next twenty years, as cars grew larger and faster.  No seatbelts existed in the giant 1960s eight-cylinder beauties that rocketed down the highway at seventy-plus miles per hour.  The cool driver held the right hand on the steering wheel and the left outside the rolled-down window.  The super cool driver held the left hand on the wheel and the right hand around a girlfriend snuggled close enough he could smell her Breck^™ shampoo.

The curved lip on the sides of two-laned Route 66 required a steady hand on the wheel because a nudge of that curb flipped a car fast as an eye blink.  Semi-tractor trailers carried tons and more tons of goods from town to town faster and cheaper than the railroads.  The big trucks slowed on hills. Vehicles had to pull into the oncoming lane to pass.  Too many drivers tried to pass in too short a space.  Route 66 rolled with the curves and hills.  Daring drivers tested fate - that a vehicle would not come over a hill head on.

By the time that I-44 opened in 1962 – the year I started high school and left childhood behind - the highway had been dubbed “Bloody 66.”  Grandpa Ragland’s death paled in collective community memory by 1962 - except in my family.  At the Phillipsburg exit of I-44, even today as I turn onto Old 66 toward my aunt’s house, I think of Grandpa.  The convoy from Fort Leonard Wood passed and he thought the highway was clear so stepped out and the milk truck - 

Only a eyelash flutter in time, but an eternity in family stories.

Velvet's Editing Services

A fellow writer, a member of my critique group, is also a great editor.  Here's her web address: www.proofreadandeditpro.com

documentary project

I am starting a new project, a documentary about a small rural school that won - against tremendous odds - a national championship.  To gather data, I will conduct extensive interviews.  Any suggestions?

elevator pitch for BOB BALMAR, A ROUTE 66 KID

In 1955, ten-year-old Bob Balmar feels scrawny as he picks up rocks from a hot, dusty field; by 1959 he is grateful for the muscles he’s built from farm chores and that a growth spurt helps him get on the basketball team and finally he can outrun his favorite girl cousin.  If only he knew what girls looked like under their clothes – Oh!  New girl in summer band camp -  with – with enormous mazoombas!

new posts 27 April

"Jersey Cream Cake" and "Abandonment" -- scroll down

a story for adults

The Hiccup   - revision # 5

writer's note:  The title change from "The Apple Rum Raisin Hiccup Pie" now makes the story a metaphor.  The ending is tweaked because some readers were confused - "white" is now "black".  Note the penultimate line to "get" the over-arching metaphor.  Tell me if you like the changes - you may post anonymously.  Thanks!

What’s wrong with me? Compliments on my cooking usually pleased me, except today I grew more annoyed with each compliment, almost sniping, “Blah!”  I felt the urge to slap the speaker.  It got worse until I—horrified at myself-- fled, pleading a sinus headache.

Mom would’ve laughed, figuring I was going through The Change. But Mom was gone and I had no one to talk to.  I did nothing maudlin like going to Mom’s grave and talking to the dirt, nor did I call or email my angst to any friends, because they wouldn’t have a clue as to what was going on with me.  My compulsion to break the compliment ritual simmered.  I had to do something dramatic with cooking, to- to- to win a pie contest!

The compulsion to win a pie contest grew by the minute.  Still, I stewed privately, because anyone I confided in would try to produce a cure through pedicure appointments, or drag me on unwanted shopping trips.

Monday morning, daughters back in dorms and husband in his man cave grading papers that provide his cocoon against the world, I started experimenting.   I first used frozen pie crusts, laboriously transferring them from their aluminum pans to my own ten-year old unused pottery pie baking dish. I hit myself on the forehead when I realized the pie contest required my own crust.  Aargh! 

Grandma made great pie crusts.  I dug out Grandma’s old rolling pin, surely a good luck omen. 

Lard or Crisco?”  I opted for the natural, and dug again, resuscitating a 1908 cookbook to get the right proportions of flour, salt, water, fat.  The measures pleased me; I related to “a pinch,” “a dash,” and “just enough to make it hold together” directions.  My fingers seemed to channel Grandma, as I worked the dough.

Crust battle won, I went to my sunroom to think up a filling.

What kind of filling would please my pie-challenged palate? I closed my eyes and willed myself into an alpha state to see what might reveal itself, then put the recliner into three quarter back position, feet up.  A wandering sunbeam jolted me awake, and a pie recipe dream flashed.  An apple-raisin pie. 

First, I had to refine the ingredients.

I sliced Fuji apples and pre-cooked the filling, recording measures of apples, sugar, salt, and butter, then added 1/3 cup of pre-soaked raisins. The mix looked good, but the taste wasn’t unique as I’d dreamed.  Hmmmm.  Hmmmm. Rum!  I’ll add a shot of rum to the raisins! 

Thanksgiving dinner produced the usual bland compliments. For dessert, I produced the expected home-cooked, store-bought pecan pie, alongside my Apple Rum Raisin Pie.  I didn’t say it wasn’t store-bought; they assumed it. 

“What’s this?  Smells good.”  My oldest daughter helped herself to a piece. 

“May I try that appley-raisin pie, too?”  Her dad grew adventurous.

“Wow!  Put that one on the menu again.  Was that was a Mrs. Smith’s pie or Marie Calendar’s?

“Mmmm.  That rum gave me the hiccups.  What a hoot.”

To the questions of pie origin, I replied nebulously, and turned away to hide a smirk.  Inwardly, I chortled.

A week later, I drove to the pie contest location with Gas-X and Immodium handy for the anticipated nervous reaction that, thankfully, did not happen.  Serene, I carried my things inside the exhibition hall, set up my station, and as I printed the name of my pie on a form, amended the name to “Apple Rum Raisin Hiccup Pie.” I smiled, tied on my chef’s apron, created my pie, watched and listened to the judges critiques, and heard the winners announced as if a routine day. 

Contest over, I packed up and started home in a light but cold, sometimes freezing rain.  I was re-living the contest, and didn’t see the approaching semi crowding my lane until the last microsecond.  I jerked the wheel, slid, then over-corrected and the car swiveled and swayed toward a gully that eroded the blacktop roadside of the old farm-to-market road not designed to accommodate today’s big rigs.  My car became airborne and my family’s faces flashed.  I think I screamed.

The semi roared on, but a car behind witnessed the accident and speed-dialed help.

I awoke in a hospital intensive care bed, with tubes and rigging tending my body while my family and friends held vigil talking, reading aloud, and playing Bach-- willing my brain back to reality.

My first question, after “How long have I been out?” was, “Where’s my bag?” 

It was stashed in a hospital locker, along with clothes the paramedics had cut off me.  My throat hurt from the ventilator tube and I whispered for my husband to please bring the bag.  It was a mess.  I had grabbed the handle as I popped my seat belt and leaped from the car as it slid toward the gully and bounced into Willow Creek some fifty feet lower.  My right hand somehow stayed clamped around the handle. 

My husband began pulling out checkbook, wallet, Puffs-- the usual bag detritus.  “Looks like its all here, honey.” 

Inside. Pocket.  Zipper.  Look!”

“Easy now, don’t get upset.”

I heard the zipper, and then he held up a large envelope.

“Open it.”  I coughed.

“Honey, please!  Stay calm or they’ll chase me out of here.”

Chastened, I smiled and whispered, “Sorry.  Please look.”

His face flashed from white-lipped frown, to eyebrows-up question, to a wide, smile and he whistled.

“Holy crap!  A check for five thousand dollars is stapled to a piece of paper that says, Lawrencetown Annual Pie Contest First Place!  It- it- the award says it’s for your original creation of Apple Rum Raisin Hiccup Pie.”  He chuckled.  “You never cease to amaze me.”

The last I remember was my husband saying, “You are one very special woman.  Wait ‘til the girls see this.”

Then I heard him shout as a machine whistled. I felt warm and wonderful, then everything went black.