Easter Sunday in Stroud, Oklahoma
About 2 in the afternoon, I happened into the sleeping limits of the town of Stroud, Oklahoma — population 2,600 or so. This was the third or fourth small town I drove through that day, all separated by fifteen to twenty minutes of winding two-lane road. There wasn't a soul on the street; not a vehicle nor a person. A metaphorical tumbleweed blew across Route 66. Harmonica music wafted through the air, mingling with the subtle screech of tinnitus. A large American flag waved high above the buildings on the left, the only motion in sight. My bad for being out here on Easter Sunday.
The road runs straight through town. You crest a little rise with the Rock Cafe on the left and enter a few blocks of old brick buildings. Even under the harsh daylight of early afternoon it was apparent that there were a lot of neon signs per capita. Fortunately for me, I was wrong about the lack of vehicles. There was just one, parked toward the end of the unbroken stretch of buildings. A dark SUV, on the right under a sign that read Lin's Chinese Restaurant.
A bright "Open" sign beckoned from the window so I quickly wheeled into an angled parking space and jumped out. I was starving and rejoiced at the prospect of a late lunch.
My heart instantly sank as I grabbed for the cheap teal glasses case buried in a cubby on my dashboard. Convenient and cavernous, this space was occupied by a mix of receipts, lip balm, watermelon chewing gum, and I think a couple of napkins. But no glasses case. Had it fallen out at one of the previous stops? I tried to recall. I had dropped my keys, I remember that. But as an accomplished veteran of dropping things, I hadn't heard the distinct sound of a glasses case hitting the pavement. So I worked my way around to the passenger side. Digging through my camera backpack and a large insulated lunch bag, I didn't find them.
My heart sank lower. I can see to drive just fine but I cannot read a thing without bifocals. Well, the progressive lenses that don't have a line. I figure it goes with my stylishly graying temples. So I pondered my existence for a moment and the cost of new spectacles, and decided to jam my hand into the cavity ahead of my gear shifter one more time. Voila, my glasses case! It's hard to march victoriously into a restaurant after such a hunt, but I did my best.
The room was expansive and totally empty except for the lady at the counter. It was lightly decorated with a tiger statue, some gold and red calendars on the back wall, and a paper lantern. For the most part, it was just off-white overall. I sipped water and pored over the menu. So many choices. I don't have an adventurous palate, so I settled on chicken fried rice. Several minutes later, a younger lady set a heaping plate down in front of me. Was steam coming off of it? In my mind that's the case but I hesitate to speak for reality. I didn't know if I was going to be able to finish it all, but I've learned that I burn a lot of energy taking pictures and driving and noticing when to pull over and take pictures. So yeah, I finished the plate. By that time, another gentleman had come in. I exchanged some sort of manly greeting with him, a casual howdy friend or the like, and went back to my truck to get my camera out.
The sun was intense but the heat less so. I made sure to put on sunscreen earlier in the day, and generally wear a hat when I'm out shooting. Operating the camera slows me down. I walk and look and listen and try to feel the space I'm in. Large downtowns can be overwhelming but this was just the right size for what I do.
I moved my truck up the street to where I wanted to start from. A little park area was occupied by a very thin woman in jeans and a brown sweater. She had one of those metal and fabric folding walker things, full of plastic bags. She did not move well. I nodded to her and walked off with my camera.
I walked down the north side of the street first, taking detail photos of the buildings on my side, and wide photos of the buildings across the road. Several times, I looked back and forth and walked into the middle of the road to get the right framing. No cars bothered me. Working my way back up the south side, I was drawn to the deep shadows of a pavilion that had painted Route 66 signage. The brick facades tell you what the town used to be, but the chairs and tables under the pavilion tell you people still live here.
Twenty minutes later, I made it back. The lady was sitting next to the sidewalk, so we started to chat. People often come up and talk to me when I'm out. If someone has something to do, I'm background noise. But for folks without a schedule, well, I become the something. It's gotten me inside several buildings. Once, a guy offered to let me photograph a snapping turtle his friend was bringing for dinner. Everyone has a story.
This lady clearly had someplace that took care of her. She was clean and her clothes were in good shape. But she was alone out here, telling me that her identity had been stolen and someone had moved into her house and kicked her out. She'd told the story before. She had also had a bad accident a few years before and broken most of her left side. She hit a purple vape and told me that God was good and was taking care of her. She had to keep trusting. I blessed her as well as I could and headed to my motel in the next town.
I come back the next night. The Skyliner motel's sign rises like a sail over the road, and I park beneath it to wait for the sunset. There are few clouds so I won't catch the sun's rays dying across the sky. But the light blue sky darkens into a deep blue, while the horizon turns a blend of peach and tangerine. The traffic is constant this evening.
Behind me, other signs blink into existence. This little stretch has probably a dozen of them: two motels, a restaurant, insurance and law offices. Even the ATM has an animated sign. The True-Value hardware store is announced by a hammer-shaped neon that says HARDWARE. The insurance office lights up with Home, Auto, Life and accompanying tornado, lightning, and fire symbols. The law office is a gavel being slammed home. There's a rich visual language at work here that surprises me. Words and colors but also actions and metaphors. I imagine someone who dedicated their life not only to bending glass tubes into shape, but first to understanding what they were trying to say.
Darkness falls and the traffic slows. The early April air starts to chill as I pick up my gear and walk. Lin's is bustling tonight, full of locals enjoying their evening, a different room than the empty one I'd sat alone in the day before. I can see two men sitting at a table by the window, with another dozen scattered across the interior. The glow spills onto the sidewalk below. Of course, they have a neon sign too. A little yellow pagoda shines above the door.
My mother loved Route 66 and hung signs of her own. Above her breakfast table was a black and white Route 66 shield sign. It was flanked by an image of a classic teal 1957 Chevy, and a cheap clock surrounded by neon. These called back to a carefree childhood growing up in America's heyday. I see now that she was reaching to the past, connecting to a world that grew up without her. For fifteen years we were an hour away from Route 66. How did we live so close to the mother road but not visit it ourselves? There's always more time, right? Her memory walks with me as I photograph the signs and buildings that make up this town.
Nighttime brings a quiet to the streets. Out here in the middle of Oklahoma, the sky is big and many stars are visible regardless of the artificial light. There's a slowness about the scene. Not just a lack of people, a lack of urgency regarding the broader world. And that quiet has a way of sharpening the moment.
This time, I start on the opposite side of the road and work opposite of how I had the day before. The little town of Stroud becomes a time machine, transporting me to an era before I even existed. I wonder how many travelers have stood here before me feeling the same kind of way. It's not that I haven't seen a little town before; this is what I do. I feel not just peace, but alignment. I'm meant to be right here, right now. It's hard to separate the feeling of self from place in the moment, so I decide to just exist. I lift my camera to photograph the interior of the insurance office: it looks like a living room, with a couch and a lamp and the warm light still on.
As I pack up, I pause to look around again. A quiet town on a quiet road, glowing in the darkness. This night chose me and I accepted. The ATM sign reflects on my hood as I get into the driver's seat and head to the next little town. Neon and night mingle in my rearview, and the town of Stroud settles into my memory. Mom didn't get to see this place, but I did. And while I'm not here for her, I'm here with her.
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