Showing posts with label sketch trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sketch trip. Show all posts

Monday, April 20, 2015

[Sketch Trip America] Episode 19: A Stormy Night





A Stormy Night






The building Lowell let us stay in was the General Store that his father owned in his old town. It was the most special one in the entire Red Oak II. Inside the store was a large open hall and in the back of the store was a storage room and a small bathroom. There was no shower but a sink and toilet was more than good enough for us. I washed my face and hands in the sink and wiped the rest of my body with a damp towel. A whore's bath, Lowell had told us that was the name for it. I have to say whore's bath was very refreshing for me.
 

A patch of grass would've been plenty for us, but a whole store building to stay in?  We became a staying-over guest from mere passer-by's and we were inside s store building in Missoura. Lowell liked to separate the lower part of Missouri from the North and called it 'Missoura.' In the corner, there was a wood stove and tables that looked as old as the building itself. Sumi and I put our laptop on the round table and started to write our travel log.

'Today, we enter deep into our journey. I started to feel this sometime today, then suddenly….' I wrote this and suddenly, for sure, it started to really pour with gusts of wind. The roof was rumbling and walls made squeaking noise. The ceiling went dop-dudop-duddadop. The window panes were clattering, and the walls went kwikity-kweek. The romantic mood abruptly turned into eery feeling.

"You know, in movies, the towns people come to 'take care of' the outsiders at nights like this, holding all sorts of farm tools in hands." I said half-jokingly.

"That's actually scarier than ghosts." Sumi said curling in her shoulders.

"Right. The ghosts disappear in the morning, but people being territorial continue on during the day."

"Remember 'Deliverance'? They encounter terrible local people. So scary."


Suddenly, the front door swang open. We looked up in surprise. There was someone standing at the doorway and looking in our direction.     








We also stared him in silence. For a while, we were lost for words. If we were in our house, we would say, 'Who is it?' But we were in someone else's empty building. It actually took some time to think up what to say. Most of all, I had to summon my poor English grammar and began saying, "We…. arr… tra…vel..er… so, ….." But Sumi said in simple, precise and fluent English that we were visiting and Lowell had let us stay the night here. The person standing at the door said that he was Rose's son and he thought it strange to see lights on in the empty building. He then said good night and left. It must be also unusual that someone stayed in this building over night. I admit, it is pretty strange thing to ask to stay for the night at someone's house in this day and age. We finished writing down brief description of today's journey and lied down on the sleeping bag spread on the floor. The old ceiling panels were visible in sight and it became special again that we were staying here.


"It's pretty amazing that we're sleeping here. Don't you think so, Sumi?"

"Yeah, I know. It's pretty, this building. I like that old wood stove, too."

"The building squeaking also makes me think there's something about this place."

"What about this place?"

"Spirits. Ghosts are shaking the panels one on each panel, right?"

"I know! There were religious fanatics lived here and they killed people while doing some sort of exorcism, then buried the bodies underneath this building. That's why there're evil spirits roaming around here."

"Wait. Should I bring the camp axe from the car? Shouldn't we have something with us?"

"No, Jingoogk, we shouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"You know that's how people get killed, one by one. While you are gone, something could happen to me, then you. Besides, how can I tell after you're back, if it's really you?"

"You're right. Let's pick a password. Shinkyo-dong! The town we lived when we were in Korea."

"You can't say that out loud? The ghosts already heard you."

"Uh, um. No, no, we said it in Korean. Zombies and ghosts here use English."

"Okay. Then go. Bring me some chips and peanuts, will ya?"

"Where are they?"

"You look around. They should be somewhere behind the driver seat."

"Sumi, I think I better stay. We shouldn't be apart, as you said. Let's hold together tight and go to sleep."








I closed my eyes for a long time but didn't fall asleep. I had been fighting with the squeaking of walls for some time, then I began to feel sleepy. But soon enough, the rattling of the windows woke me up. This whole process repeated several times. There was a thunder in a distance. Whenever the lightning hit, the inside of the building brightened up like in daylight. Flash! One, two, three, four, five…. Craacckkk! Five miles. Sumi opened her eyes. She mustn't've been asleep. Splatt! We started counting together. "One, two, three…" Kaboom! Three miles. Again, splatt! "One, tw…" Boom! One mile. And then? Sumi and I prepared ourselves.







Splaaattt!! Kaboooomm! Lightning hit right above our heads, and the noise ripped the sky apart. Simultaneously, the front door split open, letting the bright light and rain spears pour in. If there was a dark figure standing in the doorway, it would definitely have been an evil spirit, but there was nothing outside the door. Another lightning struck but no evil spirit or terrible townspeople came. Only rain and wind rattled the door noisily. A thought crossed my head, 'Who is going to close that door?' Now that the inside the blanket was all warm and cozy, I didn't want to get out to close the door. If there would've been a scary ghost, I would've asked it to do it for me. A terrible group of townspeople that despise outsiders didn't come by here when we needed them. It was four in the morning and no one out walking around in this storm. I had to get out of the blanket eventually and put the latch across the front door.

When I laid back down, thunder, lightning, wind, windows rattling and the possible corpses underneath the floor still made me feel uneasy. As the thundering subsided and the rain and wind dissipated, I slowly fell asleep. If Lowell hadn't let us stay here, we would've been camping outside in this storm….. zzzzzz.

Cock-a-doodle-do!
This time, the sound of a rooster had woken me up. Seven ten. The donkey that brayed eeee-ahhh until late at night was quiet. He must not be an early riser. Outside the front window of the store only showed calm and serene landscape with no trace of the storm from last night.

 






Morning in Missoura


The sky that the storm recently passed still looked gray, but the ground was shining and moist making it more vibrant than under the midday sun. Old car, old airplane, metal sculpture and old building…. the sight from yesterday was added with the trees and plants that are refreshed, the town of Red Oak II began to stir and started growing more beautiful than the day before.

The weather in the Midwest seemed unpredictable. The vast flat land has no peak in sight. The grassy fields stretch as far as where eyes meet the horizon. This openness gives no shelter to the clouds and the restless wind only blows in one direction. In the summer, the moisture from ground boils up to form the cloud but has no control but to throw down thunder and lightning wherever the cold wind from far tells it to. Many days of accumulation may come down all at once in one night. And the ground with no hills of peaks remain mute receiving everything that's pummeling down on it. It goes up during the day and upside down, it pours out spilling everything over night. The sky and the ground pass the water up and down, connected in columns of water pipes for a few hours then quiet down all at once. That is the weather here. In between the heaven and the earth, people, animals and houses have to endure it all. That's why the border between the sky and the ground is only a straight line. Nothing of the human shoud dare to invade it.







A Cup of Coffee



We made omelet in the back porch of the General store building then headed to Lowell's home. He was just coming out of the house and we had coffee together with his wife in the front yard. From where we were sitting, there was a good view of Red Oak II. Maybe Lowell had placed his home in such a way that while smoking his corn cob pipe, he could enjoy the outcome of his project and also plan a new one. As we talked about Lowell's new plans for Red Oak II, our travel stories and other stories of our lives, Lowell sometimes smoked the corn cob pipe. Milford the gray cat and Geisha the black and white cat rolled over on the grass often catching our hands petting their soft coat.


 



A Stroll with Lowell



After the coffee, Lowell wanted to show us some place that we hadn't seen. It was the area where Lowell had first appeared when we first met him. Beyond the wide tree shade, there were Lowell's previous studio, his first house when he moved here, his daughter's house and few other houses and gardens. They were private and uniquely decorated. Lowell's stroll route was also unique. A visitor would view it from the front taking the wide paths, but Lowell walked through narrow space between eves of two adjoining roofs, then a path behind house and through a back door. It was the route he takes in his daily routine. A visitor wouldn't be able to see this convenience, function and joyfulness. The visitor and the dweller: This two different ways of seeing one thing made me realize why the old homes that were transported to some of the museums that we visited on the way here felt so fake. It was the lack of 'necessity'. The real life space shows the effort and endeavor for what is necessary, but museums certainly lack that aspect. Lowell's place is full of evidence of this effort and endeavor.  This is why Red Oak II is the true living-history.

 


 



After the stroll with Lowell we said our good-bye's. One night seemed like many days of excitement. When will we come back to this place again. I suddenly felt like someone who's lived all his life. It was because Red Oak II came into my life as a precious jewel of a place. Sumi and I put the purple beans and hand drawn map given by Lowell on the dashboard of our car, the green Passat Wagon, aka Nok-Cha(green tea: 'Cha' in Korean is a homonym of car and tea) and turned on the engine.




Jingoogk's Sketch Trip America is written originally in Korean.














Wednesday, January 14, 2015

[Sketch Trip America] Episode 15: Treasure Map of Route 66






Gary drew on the map the road that goes east and west as north and south. Without the '96 West' on the map, it would've been hard to find the cardinal direction. For the town's people, a place is where one reaches by following a road. Who would bother with azimuth or cardinal points? Those are for people who don't know anything.

From Sinclair, Sumi and I began searching for a town called Spencer according to the map Gary drew with his shaking hands.

Ignore any new and straight road!
Straight line is boring!
Crinkum crankum find only the old ones!
From this town to next!
Like the treasure map of a pirate captain!

If we followed the map, there would be an old landscape and abandoned shops, a town filled with treasures that had been out of fashion for over fifty years. For anyone who wants to get there, you must give up speed. The right turn into Spencer was narrow and dark, it seemed like once you miss this turn, you'd end up in a roundabout for a long time. If we weren't going thirty miles per hour, we could've easily missed the turn. Not so much because it was hard to see, but because we normally wouldn't be so tempted to make the turn. We were humming along and wouldn't care if we made circles all day, so we happily made the turn onto the road to Spencer. Soon, inside the road, a bridge with paint stripped halfway appeared.











'Johnson Creek Bridge(1926) is a stately steel truss bridge located near the hamlet of Spencer.'

It was written in the book we just bought at Sinclair. Very simple editing of the book with only pictures and dates. It served  the purpose within less than an hour from the point of purchase. "It already paid for itself $1 worth out of $35," I said to Sumi. From the name of the bridge, I figured the small stream running under the bridge was Johnson Creek, and the bridge was the gateway to the small town Spencer. It wasn't much of an attraction coming in through the winding road, but with the bridge, suddenly created a wonderful view. However, this intimate landscape was also the reason for its disregard. The highway that opened just a few miles away cut off traffic into this town. This town didn't create enough reasons to be stopped in place of giving up speed.













All it was in hamlet of Spencer was a small store building. In the boom of travel on the Route 66, it would've been all travelers' stopping point with all the necessities like gas station, food store, barber shop, and even post office. It must've been hard to compete with the big highways. The entire Route 66 was losing its charm because of the highways, a small town would've suffered the most. The outcome from the battle was a few random visitors like us holding a map which was drawn by a shaky hand. Sumi and I started collecting the remnants of few things that went out of fashion long ago. Pepsi Cola adverts that looked to be over sixty years old, gas pump, and building facade were collected in our cameras. The desolate surrounding was collected in our eyes. And the things that we couldn't collect by the two methods, we collected in our hearts--curiosity, awe, and excitement of the things that are two generations before us.









The roads in the past connected a town to town, but the highway system made towns disappear. Then the road that connected the towns also disappeared. A generation had passed and even highways became the thing of the past. Then a new stream of travelers began driving on this road instead of on fast highways. We were one of them. "You are once again being acknowledged and remade now. Hurry and get up. Make a new album, a movie, or anything. Here is the contract." I wanted to tell the old and run-down refrigerator and gas pump and the barbershop sign that people started to come around here again.

When the next traveler crossing the Johnson Creek bridge was in sight, we got in our car and on the road again, with the map that Gary drew in our hand.









   





  



    

Sunday, January 11, 2015

[Sketch Trip America] Episode 14: Drive to any place in life, 1966 Ford Pickup Truck




Before we left Sinclair, I looked at some old automobiles strewn on the station ground. I sure remember seeing few of them in American movies or photographs. They certainly looked different from the ones at the museums which had shiny coat of bright colored paints. These here must have been driven on the road around this area until they ran no longer. One of them was looking down on a fallen headlight in front of it. Perhaps, old things that hadn't been thrown away get even older and become antiques. These cars that surpass one or two generations before me were as romantic as they can get and were whispering to me to reminisce the memories that did not exist in me. I was a blank sheet. I've never spent time in these before. So I wondered what they could ever mean to me.

As we were leaving Sinclair, I found another old Ford truck someone had driven here parked on the side of the road. A Missouri plate, must belong to someone from around here. I don't know about cars much, but looked like it ran for several decades. Is everything, even the trucks that people drive around here antique? I thought briefly, but that is just a nonsense a city person thinks up. It is just that the things around here exist longer than those in the cities. They are stronger and healthier, and there are plenty of apt care and maintenance around for them, so they thrive without the worries of getting thrown out or stopped working. I could not start calling these antiques simply because they are thriving longer than the others. So I did some research online. They were 1966 Ford F-Series pickup trucks. If it was bought the first year it came out, it is running in its 49th year between the cornfields in the Midwestern United States. Now I knew the model of the car, but that didn't mean that I had particular feelings toward it. Staring at it certainly wouldn't bring out any emotions, either, however, I looked around and around at it. I looked at the back of suspensions of rear wheels and underneath the oil pan as if the non-exsistant sentiment is hiding under the car. Then a couple of men wearing blue jeans hopped in the car, noticing me looking at their car, talked to me,

"Where are you from?"
"New York… no, Korea."
I almost said the word that would get myself killed the next scene.
"Are you traveling?"
"Yes, your car is very nice."
"Thanks, it got a lot of work done on it."
"Does it run well?"
"Good enough to pass onto my son."
"It looks like it"

Two men in jeans drove away bidding me a good travel in the truck that looked older than themselves. Heavy metal sound and dirt cloud from the disappearing 1966 Ford truck again told me to go search for the memories. So I decided to think of the memories of past few days driving through the Midwestern states.




It's a crack of dawn. Sleepy eyed, I'm driving my 1966 Ford pickup through the cornfields. Twenty years had passed since I was able to drive by myself. Loading and unloading this truck countless times. I went to the large corn contest and county fair with this guy every year. Baseball games and football games were with him always. We went to Indiana for the Popcorn Festival and dodged tornadoes. It was beautiful and exhilarating looking at lightning strikes out front of the windshield. Numerous camping trips with friends and looking at star studded night sky with my girlfriend next to me on the hood of the truck. My young son sat in the seat next to me smiling at me. Looking back, this truck was my best buddy that was with me at any time and any place in my life, a part of me. Once again, I'm driving through the cornfields toward the sunset.


This was what 1966 Ford F100 meant for me.







Click here for Jingoogk's blog in Korean.
Follow this blog on Tumblr!






Sunday, January 4, 2015

[Sketch Trip America] Episode 13: Road Guide on Route 66


At a remote gas station in southern Missouri.
The battle between the meter gauge cheat dragon and the straight edge of justice had ended and a peace came upon this dry desolate place at last.




 

Rest in Peace, you wicked dragon!
Don't ever wake up again.
While this straight edge of justice keep shining, you'll sleep forever.
We knew the reality wasn't exactly so, and we wished that day would soon arrive.




Since we had fought with a dragon, naturally we got very hungry. Then we saw an old lady who seems to be the owner of the establishment selling some donuts and drinks. Hurriedly, we went over and grabbed some donuts and coffee. When we were getting ready to pay, she said we don't need to pay for them. Wow, This must be the southern hospitality that we heard so much about!


Ray's Donuts.
This must be a local donut shop. I saw the packaging and there were three of them around. Donut tasted great. Sweet bread was rolled up in a spiral shape and it was soft and chewy when I bit into it. It was better than all of donut flavors in Dunkin Donuts combined. Sort of like the donuts in traditional markets in Korea.

 
Even with the notion of southern hospitality, this seemed too much. There must be many people who pass here. We already see several people in front of us. In a day, there should be dozens, even a hundred. We looked around for some tip jar with no avail. Again, we tried to pay something for it, but the lady declined, again. Then she pointed to a direction with her chin and said, "If you want, you can buy a book, or some other souvenirs over there." Puwahahaha-. It was a marketing gimmick hidden behind the country hospitality. Sumi and I decided to buy a book about Route 66.


 

It was a book of photographs from all points along Route 66. This may serve as a good reference guide. The price was $35. Once we paid for the book, the kind old lady told us to go inside the office where we can get the book signed. She said the book was made by a friend of his. We weren't sure why we should get it signed by the author's friend, but we decided to go in anyway. There seemed to be lots of interesting stuffs in the office.
 



Inside the office was well-preserved from the time the gas station was in full operation. All four sides of wall had shelves that are filled with old stuff that even a tiny mouse would have hard time to roam about. Inside this  gap, there was an old gentleman sitting like one of the antique collections. He was signing a book brought to him by another party of tourists. While we wait for our turn, I decided to look around the shelves. Just when I thought he might be done signing the book, he started to turn the pages and explained at length which seemed to span the entire book. I looked around and around the shelves, but the story did not end. So I looked some more. Then, I started to notice something inside this seemingly random pile of antiques on the shelves--layers depicting generations and places. Different kinds of motor oils and automobile products from the time gas station was in operation were one layer. Another layer had nothing to do with gas station but things brought in to remind of Route 66. They were all old, of course. Then, there were this last layer that looked mostly like souvenirs, waiting for people looking to buy memories of old times' sake. This souvenir layer could've left bitter taste in my mouth, but being on Rt 66, this actually brought me certain warm nostalgia.

Each layers sang to me,

We were part of gas station and we were popular once
Everyone going east and west stopped here
Got gas and cared for their cars
A noble woman and Hollywood stars were no exception
It was time that we were the hipsters

Then the antiques said,

We are not from the gas station
but were popular else where in the same time period
Original Coca-Cola bottle, hand-stitched baseball, peanut vending machine...
If there is anyone on earth that lived without us, show us your face

It was souvenir's turn,

I won't say much, I'm just here to sell you memory
If you want to remember anything from the old Route 66, you'd better buy me
Who knows, after many years, I will also become an original
You'd better take me home with you

Then there was a chorus,

How about it? Isn't it beautiful?
Anything with glorious past still holds value
Everything old is beautiful
Even with a little bit of extraneous things

The last line was the souvenir's solo.
 



Speaking of the extraneous things, there were more of that in the places that had Route 66 museum signs on than Gary's Gay Parita. And those places also collected entrance fees. At least Sinclair still stands where it used to be and receives the test of time, along with Gary and Lena.

 


 

It is our turn finally. The old gentleman's name is Gary Turner.
Just like the lady told us, the book is by his friend and Gary is selling it for him. A strange system that a seller signs in place of the author. However, Gary's signature is very unique, it definitely added to the value of the book.

After signing our book with shaky hands, Gary said, "I'm not the age that I can travel. Instead, I meet folks from all over the world here on route 66. Then, he told us stories from old days, about his son's website, the friend's book, even though it wasn't his, and most of all, about the town. He told us we must stop at nearby town of Spencer and Red Oak 2. He even drew us a map in detail on a piece of paper. He then came out to the front of Sinclair gas station with us and had us hold a Route 66 flag and take picture at a pre-determined spot. I'm a bit sorry to say, but all this seemed quite manneristic. With this, we bid good-bye with self-claimed Route 66 guide, Gary Turner. As we move away in our car, watching Gary and Lena waving at us, I thought that they know very well that they are the best and most valuable collectibles and souvenirs for the travelers on Route 66. In other words, they were the professionals. They knew how to spread the message and the atmosphere of the old Route 66 more than any of the museums along the way. I was glad we stopped here. Sinclair led us into the world of the old Route 66 from being the tourists merely looking in from outside. A whole new world was about to open up in front of our eyes.











Jingoogk's original blog in Korean