I’m torn. Do I write this philosophically or personally?
Philosophically is easier, because it means I can use all those years of journalistic objectivity and the diligent development of a professional disconnection from the subject. In this case, however, that wouldn’t be right. In this case, it’s simply too personal.
I’ve just finished reading Kent Nerburn’s Neither Wolf Nor Dog: On Forgotten Roads with an Indian Elder and I don’t recall being so haunted by something I’ve read since I stumbled across the fact that the Edsall from which my family most likely descended was a slave owner in colonial New Jersey.
I still feel sick to my stomach when I think about anyone, even a long-dead relative, claiming ownership of anyone else. We – hopefully all of us but in this case my brother and I – were raised to believe that everyone was created in God’s image and was equal in His sight and in ours.
Soon after learning of a possible ancestor’s participation in slavery, my nausea turned to tearful lament as I read several accounts of what Africans suffered in being captured and brought to and sold onto this continent.
But what does any of that have to do with Nerburn’s book? Nothing other than I felt many of the same emotions as I read and reflected.
Recently, I’ve become a correspondent for my church’s national magazine. My “beats” are the denomination’s churches in Arizona, most of New Mexico, and far west Texas. The New Mexican churches comprise predominately ethnic Navajo and Zuni congregations.
On my first visit to what are known as the “Red Mesa” group of churches, I was fascinated by a conversation I had with a Navajo pastor and scholar who is studying how natives who attend “western” colleges are affected by the white culture’s sense of time.
He explained that Indians see time as a circle while the dominant North American culture sees time as a straight line.
So what? I wondered.
He explained that Anglo professors are deadline oriented. Papers are to be turned in by a particular date, even if that means the quality of the work may not be as good as if more thought, more work and, yes, more time had been devoted. However, he said, in the native culture, where time goes around in circles rather than disappearing along a line of fleeting moments never to return, quality of work is more important than deadline demands. He believes such a basic philosophical difference in perception of time works against native students’ academic success.
I was telling a friend whose family has had long experience among indigenous peoples about my conversation with the Navajo scholar. She suggested I read Nerburn’s book.
Nerburn is Kent Nerburn, an Anglo, educator and author whose work to collect and share native oral histories led to an invitation, actually, more of a summons, to spend time on the northern plains with an Indian elder and to tell not his story but his peoples’ story to non-natives.
Circles and lines – representing how differently natives and the descendents of European immigrants look at the world -- were a recurring theme I found in Nerburn’s book.
The book also explains the native concept of something being sacred; about the difference between owning land and being part of the land; about the horrors done as more and more of that land was taken from its inhabitants, and it was excruciating to read about what happened in schools where native children were taken to be made into darker-skinned white people.
On a lighter note, we also are enlightened in regard to those old and seemingly abandoned cars we see when we drive through many native communities.
Like the difference between seeing things as circles or lines, another recurring theme in the book is the difference between freedom, which the Anglo immigrant people and their offspring cherish, and honor, which the native peoples so value.
My conversation with the Navajo scholar in New Mexico had begun with his campaign to include native peoples in any conversation and legislation regarding American immigration policies and practices. But, as the Indian elder told Nerburn, “No one ever asks us. No one ever listens to us when we speak.”
But if no one listens, why do a book?
“I am old, and I cannot wait,” he said. “I have chosen to speak. I will be silent no more.”
But the question remains: Will we listen at last?
-- Larry Edsall
TUCUMCARI, NEW MEXICO
Somehow, Bobby Troup missed this one – or maybe he just found it so delightfully special he simply wanted to keep it a secret.
“Well,” the composer wrote after his drive to the West Coast at the end of World War II, “it goes from St. Louis down to Missouri, Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty. You’ll see Amarillo and Gallup, New Mexico; Flagstaff, Arizona, don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino…”
“It,” of course, is the famous American’s Mother Road, Route 66.
For some reason, Troup didn’t mention Tucumcari. Perhaps it had too many syllables for his tune or maybe it not only was too difficult for the rhythm but also too hard to rhyme. Regardless, Troup’s lyrics leap from Amarillo, Texas to Gallup, New Mexico, which means they bypass Tucumcari – a precursor to Interstate 40 that would bypass so many of the towns along the way.
Fortunately, the people from Pixar drove the old road a few years ago. Their experience inspired the movie Cars and the movie shared the road’s legacy with a new audience, a new generation which, hopefully, will come to appreciate places such as the Blue Swallow Motel here at 815 East Route 66 Boulevard.
I first noticed the Blue Swallow last fall when I was driving from the Midwest back to Phoenix. It was dusk when I pulled off I-40 and I stayed at a chain motel close by the exit.
But early the next morning, instead of simply getting back on the Interstate, I drove at dawn the old road through town and there it was, sitting in the shadows on the north side of the road, one of the most unusual motels I’d ever seen. What made it so different was that each of the rooms appeared to have its own garage.
This year, on my way to the Midwest, I spent a night at the Blue Swallow. Fortunately, when I arrived, there still was one room available – usually, the place fills with reservations made by those who already have discovered its charm (and that includes the producers and animators of Cars and those making their personal Route 66 pilgrimages).
W.A. Huggins built the Blue Swallow in 1939, when motor courts frequently included garages for the cars as well as rooms for the people. Huggins sold the motel as WWII began and gas and rubber rationing halted tourist travel.
.jpg) Lillian Redman bought the place in 1958 and ran it for nearly four decades, but finally had to give up because, just like Radiator Springs in Cars, the Interstate system took so much traffic around town rather than down the old route. Sadly, several other Mother Road vintage motels in Tucumcari remain empty, establishments of brick and mortar (or stucco), but no people.
The Blue Swallow’s current caretakers are Bill and Terri, who bought the motel in 2004 and not only have returned it to all of its glory, but have enhanced the story with some wonderful antiques in the dozen rooms and with murals inside and out. 
By the way, that’s “inside” as inside the garages, where a friend of the proprietors who also is an artist in Los Angeles has painted various scenes, from the characters from Cars to vistas like those you’ll see as you do, indeed, get your kicks on Route Sixty Six.
-- Larry Edsall
I’ll be on the road for the next few days, but if you absolutely must read my writing, I’m offering the links below to a new blog I’m doing for Racing in America, the website for a new exhibit at The Henry Ford museum in Dearborn, Michigan.
The museum complex, which includes historic Greenfield Village, plans a $15-million, 22,000-square-foot permanent exhibit on the history of and innovation by American auto racing. Co-chairs for the project are Edsel B. Ford II, Rick Hendrick, Roger Penske and Jack Roush. Somehow, I’ve been asked to be among those writing about American auto racing history for the exhibit’s website, www.racinginamerica.com..jpg)
While fund-raising continues toward the construction of the exhibition, you can read the various blogs and other news on the website. If you’re a teacher, there already are two “educator digikits” available for downloading.
One – Physics, Technology and Engineering in Automobile Racing – is designed for grades 9-12. The other – Science, Life Skills and Innovation in American Automobile Racing – is for third through eighth grade students.
Below are the links to the blogs I’ve already written:
My next one will be about the creation of the infield road course. Then comes auto racing as portrayed by Hollywood, and a follow-up about an auto racing movie that was started – with more than a million feet of film shot under the direction of Steve McQueen – but never finished.
P.S. I recently found a photo of me, as a child, holding a checkered flag, though I have no idea where or why the photo was taken. But I guess it shows that I’ve been “racing in America” for even longer than I thought.
-- Larry Edsall
I am sorry to report this, and those of you who are sensitive to bad news might want to divert your eyes, but Mr. Ed, the talking horse (of course, of course) is dead. His obituary notes that after his television career ended in 1966, he worked as a model, “primarily as a unicorn in posters marketed to preteen girls.”
And it’s not just Mr. Ed.
Arnold Ziffel. Gone.
And while reportedly everybody loved Raymond, someone did not. He was found bludgeoned.
And then there was Pogo, who, we learn “met the enemy, and it was him.”
We learn this and so much more in Mr. Ed: Dead: And Other Obituaries of the Most Famous People Who Never Lived, a new paperback book you will want to add to your bathroom library, though beware, this book will have you falling off your toilet in laughter.
The book is the work of the sick minds of co-authors and former college roommates Barry Nelson and Tom Scheckter. Nelson got the idea of the book as a child whose parents turned in their local newspaper first to the obituaries. Scheckter is a debate coach turned standup comedian.
Some of the obits are just -- if hilarious -- headlines:
Mrs. Jones, 44
No Longer Anything Going On
or
Emperor Dies of Hypothermia in Spite of New Clothes
Most are one-page or shorter obituaries presented as though they were clipped from actual newspapers.
Speaking of clippings, the book includes news of the death of Clippy, the annoying Microsoft Office Assistant you probably wanted to kill when he kept popping up on your computer screen. His remains, we’re told, were discovered by a Norton Antivirus Scanning Agent.
-- Larry Edsall
Remember Thursday Night Thunder? Producer Terry Lingner was running things inside the control truck as Bob Jenkins and the Larrys – Nuber and Rice – and others provided running commentary on short track, grassroots auto racing from places such as Eldora and Indianapolis Raceway Park.
Or maybe your favorite early ESPN moments involved college sports, or maybe for you it was things such as big-time softball or other sports events that television ignored except, perhaps, for a quick clip on ABC’s Wide World of Sports.
But the sports world and our vantage as spectators changed forever with the launch of what was to have been – and right up until just days before its first cablecast – the E.S.P. Network. Thankfully, its founders had the good sense to rethink broadcasting’s tradition of three-letter networks and thus, at 7 p.m. Eastern time on September 7, 1979, America’s first 24-hour, satellite-fed cable network came into our homes as ESPN.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But there was history to ESPN’s pre-launch as well, and that history is the subject of the new paperback edition of Sports Junkies Rejoice: The Birth of ESPN by Bill Rasmussen, who with his son, Scott, were two of the three founders of the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network.
Basically, Rasmussen tells us how he was released from his management position with the New England Whalers of the old World Hockey Association and came up with the wacky idea of creating a 24-hour a day national television sports channel – this at a time when there was no CNN, not MTV, no Weather Channel, when the Big Three networks were off the air from 1 a.m. until 7 a.m. and when HBO offered only five hours of movies a day.
Not that you might have wondered, but did you know that cable television was born in the early 1950s when a man in Pennsylvania hill country, unhappy with poor television reception, put up a very tall antenna and, to cover the cost, ran wires to the homes of his neighbors, who became the first cable subscribers.
Then, in 1975, RCA launched a communications satellite and a television signal could be beamed to receiving stations anywhere on the North American continent.
All Rasmussen and his team had to do was to learn the technology, obtain funding and the rights to enough sporting events to fill 24 hours a day every day of the year and – voila – we could watch shows such as Thursday Night Thunder.
Rasmussen tells ESPN’s story in a wonderfully conversational tone that has us turning pages as we follow him in his quest for cash and content even though we know the outcome.
The book’s a fun read, and gives you something to do during those long TV time outs. Retail price is $14.95 from www.espnfounder.com, or you can order it from amazon for $10.76.
-- Larry Edsall
You’re the father of 3-year-old twin daughters, a best-selling author whose work is so good, so important that PBS turned one of your books into a documentary series, but here’s the doctor telling you that you have bone cancer that likely will kill you. What do you do?
Most likely, you and your wife cry, and pray, and seek the best medical care you can find.
Bruce Feiler and his wife did all that, but Feiler also did something else. He organized a group of friends, a team of men, a council of dads to stand ready to teach Feiler’s daughters what he might not be here to teach them himself.
Feiler also did something else, something that writers must do: he wrote about it. He wrote about the men, what they had taught him, and would teach his daughters, and about other men– his father and grandfathers and mentors – and what they had taught him. He wrote it all into The Council of Dads: My Daughters, My Illness, and the Men Who Could Be Me.
I bought the book ($22.99 from William Morrow or $13.79 from amazon.com) in part because I like Feiler’s writing. I’ve read at least three of his previous books and gave another – Under the Big Top: A Season with the Circus – to my son, who, like Feiler, at one point in his life didn’t exactly run away from home but did leave for a time, moving his things into a small compartment on the circus train and riding the rails out of town with the “greatest show on Earth.”
My son and I both learned things from that experience. In Dads, Feiler writes about the things he has learned, and about the lessons he wants to daughters to learn: How to see, how to dream, how to think, how to travel, how to remember, and, yes, how to live.
And there are other lessons, including Feiler’s father’s encouragement to his children as young adults to allow themselves to do more than simply dream:
“Take a year. Give it a try. When you’re fifty years old, you will have spent two percent of your life trying to make your dream come true. And when you look back, I think you’ll realize it was a good two percent.”
And then there are the lessons Feiler learned from the experience of his illness, lessons about being someone’s child and someone else’s parent, about embracing the monster, about walking with a turtle, and why we should “always learn to juggle on the side of a hill.”
I am not going to explain hillside juggling or turtle walking because I really want you to buy the book and read and learn for yourself – and, yes, for your children.
-- Larry Edsall
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve been zipping around a skid pad with a car that isn’t a Porsche, though its design was inspired by the classic 911 and it certainly handles like a Porsche: It starts immediately (and is keyed on the left side, of course); it turns with almost intuitive responsiveness; and it stops, as they say, on a dime.
The one I’m testing is red, though the car is available in sliver or black as well.
O.K. it’s not a real car, but it’s more than a toy, even if it's toy-sized, because it’s a wireless computer mouse, produced by David Bailey Developments Ltd, in England and distributed in the United States by Avant Garde Gifts LLC of Marco Island, Florida through the www.motormouse.us.com website.
For you techies, it’s a 2.4G wireless mouse with a 1200DPI optical sensor and a 19-mm plug-and-forget USB receiver.
For the rest of us, it’s just way cool to drive, comes with its own mouse mat – which I’ve taken to calling its skid pad – and even has its own carrying pouch with an inner pocket for a couple of extra AAA batteries, which insert into the car beneath what would be the engine cover on a real 911. And just like a real Porsche, you left click – though with your finger, not an ignition key – to start the mouse, which flashes its lights and is ready to roll.
The “motor mouse” is priced at $49.95 and is my No. 1 recommendation this year for your Father’s Day shopping (assuming, of course, that you’re not buying dear ol’ Dad a real 911, in which case I’d really like you to have a conversation with my children).
I’m not sure there are Father’s Day stocking stuffers, but if you want to start that tradition, consider stuffing Dad’s sticking (or glove box) with a few sets of Wrenchware picnic packs.
We’re proclaimed Wrenchware before – it’s silverware with handle that look like real tools. Now the company from Colton, California, has added plastic silverwar4e for picnic use. A pliers-handed knife, closed-socket handled fork and a open-ended wrench-handled spoon come packed with a napkin for $4.50 (vs. $24 for a three-piece set made from metal).
Wrenchware also has other tool-inspired products including wine glasses with gear set bases, a tire-style serving bowl, a “nut” bowl that looks like a large nut and bolt set, and car and car travel-themed ceramic pleats.
See www.Wrenchwareinc.com for details, or you can order the picnic sets from the Antique Automobile Club of America museum’s website at www.aacamuseum.org/store, where you can find all sorts of Father’s Day gift ideas, including GoBoxes, which are metal tool boxes in the shape of the Chevrolet bowtie or the ford blue oval ($59.99) or you can buy Dad the Birmingham, Alabama company’s newest product – a Ford or Chevy logo-shaped canvas carrying bag ($29.99).
For more details, visit the http://www.motormouse.us.com website.
As a writer and author, I can’t complete any suggested Father’s Day shopping lists without a few books:
-
Phil Hill: A Driving Life is a collection of Road & Track articles by the late Phil Hill (Vanessa’s dad), with photography and introductions by John Lamm ($75 from www.bullpublishing.com)
-
The Jaundiced Eye is a collection of articles by the late Leon Mandel (Dutch’s dad), edited by Kevin A. Wilson ($21.95 from www.671press.com)
-
Growing Up NASCAR: Racing’s Most Outrageous Promoter Tells All is the autobiography and stock car racing tell-all (well, almost all) by H.A. “Humpy” Wheeler (Patti’’s dad) and is co-written by Peter Golenbock ($25 from www.motorbooks.com).
Or, you can buy the book I’ve just ordered for my own Father’s Day present –The Council of Dads: My Daughters, My Illness, and the Men Who Could Be Me ($22.99 from www.harpercollins.com) -- which, as far as I know, has nothing to do with cars or motorsports and while I don’t know the author’s offspring, I do know that Bruce Feiler I one of my favorite writers and, when diagnosed with cancer, not only recalled his own father and grandfathers but called on six friends to become surrogate fathers for his 3-year-old twin daughters should his cancer prove fatal.
-- Larry Edsall
Have you ever gone fossil hunting? To me, it’s a lot like going into a used book store. You crack open rock after rock -- or in the case of a book store, book cover after book cover -- and every so often you discovered a gem.
Our family did a lot of fossil hunting when I was a kid growing up in Illinois, where strip mining around the appropriately named Coal City exposed a lot of rocks, some of which contained the images of prehistoric ferns or – the real gem of our searches – the three-lobed body of a Trilobite, a marine arthropod of the Paleozoic era.
A couple of months ago, I went to Florida to visit my mother and her husband. To get my daily connection to the Internet, I had to go to the Venice Public Library, where, just to the left of the front door, there's a room where old library books are for sale.
DISCARDED is stamped into the inside cover of a $2 gem I brought back to Phoenix with me.
On the spine of the cover is the book’s Dewey decimal code:
796.323
64
SIM
The book’s title is Home and Away: Memoir of a Fan. The author is Scott Simon, host of Weekend Edition on National Public Radio.
I’ve listened to Simon’s radio show, have liked his manner, and as I flipped through a few pages I noticed several references to Chicago sports teams. I grew up as a Chicago sports fan. I was hopeful that Simon’s memoirs might remind me of my own growing up.
As it turns out, in Home and Away, I found a real gem. Billy Pierce. Ernie Banks. Jack Brickhouse. Gale Sayers. Dick Butkus. Even Rocky Colavito. They’re all in here. In fact, Jack Brickhouse was Scott Simon’s father’s best friend. The Simons used to go to the Brickhouse's for Thanksgiving dinner. Hey! Hey!
But there’s more of value to this book than happy childhood memories of sports heroes. Simons writes candidly of his family life – and of things that happened at summer camp (I doubt he could share some of these stories on the radio). He writes of protesting at the Democratic convention and of Martin Luther King’s death and the rise of Jessie Jackson. Of Chicago politics. Of wars he covered for NPR and others.
He also writes of his father’s death. Of his stepfather’s death. Of his “Uncle Jack’s” death. Of the time when Simon was a child and his Uncle Jack introduced him to his childhood sports hero, White Sox pitcher Billy Pierce, and of how he, Scott Simon, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Billy Pierce when they were pallbearers as Brickhouse’s funeral.
The Venice Public Library got it wrong. Instead of DISCARDED, the stamp inside this book should read: CHERISHED!
-- Larry Edsall
As I write this, we still do now know who paid a record price – somewhere between $30 and $40 million -- to buy what is now the world’s most expensive car, the 1936 Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic formerly owned by the Williamson Family and Trust.
As the “official broker” for the sale, all Gooding & Company has reported is that it has “found a devoted connoisseur who will become the guardian of this treasured piece of automotive history.”
Treasured, indeed!
Only three such cars, which were based on the Bugatti Aerolithe Electron Coupe displayed at the 1935 Paris Auto Salon, were built, and each with some unique features. Of the three cars, only two survive. One is owned by fashion designer Ralph Lauren. The other was owned by neurologist Dr. Peter Williamson, who died in 2008. Williamson had purchased his car, which was judged best-in-show at the famed Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance in 2003, back in 1971 for a then-record price of $59,000.
It was widely reported that the Williamson car was bought by the new Mullin Automotive Museum in California, but the museum said it was not the buyer, although it was hopeful the car might be displayed, although perhaps only briefly, in the museum.
So who bought the car?
We don’t know, but an article yesterday in The New York Times provides some prospective on the sale. “The Coy Art of the Mystery Bidder” is the title of the article by Times art critic Roberta Smith, whose subject was another recent and record-setting purchase. In this case, it was not rolling art but Picasso’s “Nude, Green Leaves and Bust,” a painting that sold at auction to an anonymous telephone bidder for a record $106.5 million.
“For a minute or two, I felt that the insistence on anonymity might qualify as mildly admirable behavior under the circumstances,” Smith wrote. “It suggested that buying the picture… wasn’t done just, or even primarily for the attention. I thought of the relentless legacy opportunities that museums are pressed to create, slapping the names of trustees and donors on galleries, wings, auditoriums, facades, directorships, curatorial positions.”
However, she added, debating her earlier statement, “Strictly enforcing one’s privacy – at a time when so much goes public so fast as it happens – may be the ultimate public display of power, and thus the most erotic. The buyer is the puppet master whose puppets are the in-the-know few…”
And what of the rest of us?
“The rest of us don’t even need strings to be jerked around,” she added.
The anonymous buyer, she writes, is in total control and “therefore derives the greatest pleasure from the actual transaction. Anonymity only makes it that much more pleasurable and voyeuristic.”
Smith closes her article with a statement about the art world that may also apply to the world of automotive art, the collector car marketplace which for these past many months has seen prices falling, swept along with the plunging world economy.
But in the aftermath of record-setting sales, she suggests, “The art world and the world at large are now back in their boom-time positions regarding auctions, which is watching the money, oohing and ahhing and making the spending of it that much more a turn-on.”
-- Larry Edsall
FOUR PEAKS WILDERNESS AREA, TONTO NATIONAL FOREST, ARIZONA
One of my favorite words is “serendipity.” It’s even fun to pronounce – say it with me: ser-en-dip-e-tee, although I often think of it as serendipitydoodah, which, of course, rhymes with zippity doo dah. And delightfully often, I do indeed find Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder when experiencing serendipity. Take today for example:
Oh, first, let’s check the definition of serendipity. My Oxford American defines serendipity as “the faculty of making happy and unexpected discoveries by accident.”
Which is what happened today.
I missed the recent pre-Easter Jeep gathering at Moab, Utah, but the folks from Mopar were kind enough to drop off a Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Unlimited they’d modified so I could try it on some of Arizona’s off-pavement trails.
I chose the route up to Four Peaks, at some 7700 feet, the highest point – well, actually, the four highest points – you can see from Phoenix. We packed up our off-highway trail books; filled the cooler with ice packs and water, sandwiches and cookies; made sure the batteries in the camera were fully charged and headed out the Beeline Highway to the turn off for Four Peaks.
Not too far into the trail, the road splits and for some reason I took the left fork when I’d planned all along to keep to the right. I don’t know why I did, but I was very glad I did, because the drive was wonderful, winding and climbing, bumping and thumping, watching out for oncoming dirt bikes and quads, and stopping in plenty of time when a couple of dirt bikes roared around and headed up a hill, but while one zoomed on up the hill, the other immediately wiped out in front of us. (He picked himself up, made sure he was still intact, pushed his bike to the side of the road, got it restarted and waved us on.)
There were several stream crossings along the way – yes, there are streams in the desert, though most dry up after the flow from the snow melt is gone.
According to the GPS, we traveled Cline Cabin Road, the Lone Pine Trail, Pigeon Spring Road and, finally, El Oso Road, where we crested at nearly 5700 feet over the ridge of the Mazatzal Mountains. Though sections of the road have different names, together they comprise Forest Road 143.
El Oso Road leads from the mountains to the shores of Lake Roosevelt – yes, there are lakes in the desert, too. It was on that descent that we made our serendipitous unexpected discovery.
At one point the road makes such a sharp turn that you’d probably have to make at least a five-point turn – or perhaps even a seven- or even nine-point maneuver, depending on the size of your vehicle. But to make that turn easier – in fact, to make it absolutely delightful – someone carved a shelf road around a small adjacent peak. Instead of a sharp turn, you simply do a Ring Around the Rosie, returning to where you started but now headed in the right direction to continue your ascent (or, if you’re coming from the lakeshore, your ascent).
There’s a place a few hundred feet above the loop where the trail is wide enough that you can pull over and enjoy a panoramic view. We watched a succession of vehicles make the maneuver, and noted that several drivers found the loop so much fun that they went around again before continuing on their way.
We did the same thing, making a couple of loops around before continuing the descent.
From what I can tell, the loop has no name. One trail guide simply says “take fun loop around knoll (adds 0.1 miles)” while another notes the “turning circle around hillock” at N33 degrees 45.10’ / W 111 degrees 18.38’.
From now on, I’m calling it the Serendipity Circle.
-- Larry Edsall
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