The note simply said to find The Garden of Eden. This wasn’t too tempting and I didn’t have the best track record with religious stops so far. Since God gave me a wake-up call in Effingham, I was afraid if I stepped into a place called The Garden of Eden I would spontaneously combust.
The sun gently stretched its arms over the horizon. I felt the first warm rays of daylight touch my face through the car window. The subtle heat was a welcome change from the chilly interior of my car, parked in a truck stop at what I hoped was far enough away from the club. You would think I learned my lesson and wouldn’t be parking in random lots anymore, but I was determined to reclaim my mission and check off as much of this list as I could.
I stretched my legs out, gave myself a good yawn and debated on going inside to grab a cup of watered down coffee. Since I didn’t have any repair bills, by the time I reclaimed my earnings from Jersey, I ran away with an $362 when the whole fiasco was all said and done. This was a much needed boost and I was confident I would make it all the way to the roaring ocean if I wanted.
Coffee can wait, I decided. The ocean was more important.
Merle and I carried on with the windows down, the radio off, and the sounds of silence whipping in and out on the crisp morning air. I spotted the exit for Lucas and veered from the highway, finding myself on the same road I had found myself on so many times before. I passed the same small houses with cluttered lawns and trailers with rose bushes disguising the platform. I had come so far to only be surrounded by the same thing over and over and over again. Is this all America had to offer? I could have sworn Google showed more interesting sites. Where were they hidden?
The road opened before me and I puttered along the side of a lake melting in to subtle hills. Merle and I wrapped around the glassy water, continuing over a bridge. I was caught by the quiet beauty and small changes subtly taking place. The hills were new, the grass was a slightly different shade, and the air didn’t have the slightest hint of dust when I breathed it in.
Note to self: Don’t get selfish and expect all the changes to happen at once. Sometimes they happen slowly and present themselves in different ways. If you forget this, remember Kansas.
We continued past perfectly maintained white farmhouses and manicured fields. I saw a farmer starting up a bright red tractor with wheels taller than me. I wondered if I could be a farmer. Farm country was what I was running from, but for some reason, out here the familiar looked peaceful. What would I grow? I racked my head with crops but eventually decided I was not meant to be a farmer. Farming involved things like bugs, math for mixing chemicals, and canning.
I eventually came to a T in the road, and thankfully, there was a large metal sign that said Lucas across the front in stone and mosaic letters. Some sort of sculpture resembling a flamingo with an arrow through the body sat on top, pointing the way. I cringed when I passed another disc type object covered with a mural, also stating ‘Lucas’. Dread filled me when I realized I was in another place having to do with art.
Note to self: write Tyler another e-mail. Tell him his list sucks and I need something like dinosaurs, a shooting range, or anything except history and art.
I drove through a small town only a shade sadder than mine, with the exception of the funkiness and embracing their weird. Maybe I wouldn’t write Tyler a letter stating I think all art sucks. I started to find Lucas intriguing; the entire town was embracing their oddities instead of just having an odd man out who everyone whispered about.
After moseying down street after street, I found my destination. The wooden house was surprisingly simple in construction: wooden logs with a green roof. Around the house was a different story. Bare logs towered over the modest frame and were topped with statues of carved people in a variety of situations: a cowboy, a frantic woman, and an Indian shooting a bow an arrow. The logs were joined in the yard by signs proudly proclaiming I had reached the Garden of Eden— also made out of wood. My jaw dropped.
I parked Merle on the side of the simple road and climbed out to read the informational sign. I quickly learned a Civil War veteran named Samuel Dinsmoor painstakingly built this house between the years of 1910-1930. The sign told me this labor of love was Dinsmoor’s vision of the Garden of Eden, but I had a really hard time trying to figure out what in the world cowboys and buzzards had to do with The Bible. Even worse, I learned he was safely tucked inside, eternally sleeping in a glass mausoleum for every visitor to greet.
“Oh, hell no,” I said out loud and quickly turned towards Merle.
“Greetings!” A voice called out. “Are you here for a tour? We don’t open until 10 a.m.”
I turned around to see a friendly-faced woman leaning on the closed gate, just shy of the Indian who would have shot her through the skull if he were real. Her hair was slightly weathered and fell heavier on one side than the other, despite being parted down the center. Her clothes screamed park ranger, but her apron sang Grandma in the kitchen baking cookies.
“No, I don’t think I’m in for a tour. I was just driving by and got confused. I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said, trying to politely decline. “Is his body really inside — in a glass coffin?”
“You bet it is. Displayed proudly for all to stare at and ponder what makes a man so self absorbed he thinks everyone who stops in this two-bit town would want to see HIM. But, everyone who stops by does want to see him. This house, it’s something, it’s really a sight for sore eyes, eh? You’re not from here. I know every face in this town. What were you looking for?”
“Well, do you have a WorldMart?” I replied quickly, thinking of the only business name I knew.
“WorldMart,” she scoffed. Even her scoffs were lined with candy and sweetness. “Why in the world would you want to go to WorldMart?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story. I’m sort of moving. Someone broke into my car and burnt all of my clothes…in a parking lot…while I was eating my lunch.”
“Oh, my. Now that’s a story,” she drawled. “Well, we don’t have a WorldMart around here. We have two boutiques and a thrift shop just next to The World’s Largest Things.”
“What things?” I asked.
“The World’s Largest,” she smiled proudly.
“The world’s largest what?”
“Things.”
I stared at her blankly. I wasn’t sure how to proceed without going in circles. “How, exactly, do I get to these things?” I asked as politely and non-judgemental as I could.
“Easy. Turn right there on Kansas Ave and it’s about three hundred feet.”
“Okay, great. And the thrift shop?”
“That’s easy as well. Keep going down Kansas Ave, turn right on South Harvest, Left on Third, and then follow Third around the bend.”
I looked at her quizzically. She just told me they were right next to each other. “I thought the thrift shop was close to the things?” I asked, once again trying to remain polite.
“Well, sweetie, it’s a small town. Isn’t everything technically close to everything?”
I nodded my head and chuckled. She was right, after all. When you’re in a small town, you’re in a small town. Even she knew I wasn’t from here because she didn’t know my face. At first I thought I couldn’t imagine living somewhere like this, where everyone knew you, but this is exactly where I came from. How quickly we forget.
“Well, I’m going to walk down to the ‘things’,” I air quoted, “and then venture to the thrift shop. Is my car okay for a few minutes?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. No one is doing much this early in the morning.”
I thanked her and took off down Kansas Ave, just behind the Garden of Eden. Parked in a small driveway was what looked to be a minibus with red and white striped paint. The side of the bus said, ‘The World’s Largest Colle
ction of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things Traveling Roadside Attraction and Museum”.
“What does that even mean?” I said to no one in particular.
“What the hell does what mean?” an old man in oil stained coveralls asked and slid out from under the minibus on a tattered wooden board on wheels.
“Well, what does The World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things mean?”
“Just what it says. In that bus is the World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things. I think the sign says it all. It’s pretty clear,” he said, the words whistling through his teeth. He slid back under the van and started banging on the undercarriage.
I stepped up and peeked in the window. There they all were, in all of their miniature glory: The World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Babe the Blue Ox, The World’s Largest Frying Pan, and more.
“Did you make all these?” I called out.
“Did I what?” the old man whistled. “I’m not rolling back out there, speak up.”
“Did you make all of these little things,” I screamed.
“Lord, no. I don’t have the patience for that,” he replied. “I’m just here beatin’ and bangin’ around some things. The young lady who lives in that house made these. She’s not around today, though. You’ll have to come back later.”
I was afraid to tell him that I wasn’t going to come back later. The last thing I wanted to do was offend someone in a small town who was connected to someone in the same small town who owned one of the world’s largest collections of something that brought fame to said small town. I felt a little like I was in a Twilight Zone episode and I felt a little jealous my home wasn’t full of weird and wonderful roadside attractions. Maybe Franklin did have something, and I just didn’t know because I never took the time to find out.
Note to self: When you settle down, research home. No, not home, back there.
Note to self: Send that sweet old lady a postcard and tell her these are not, in fact, the world’s largest things but the world’s largest miniature collection of the world’s largest things. Small difference. Pun intended.
I shouted out a thank you to the old man who gave a gruff grunt in return.A smile crept on to my face as I approached Merle. I still wasn’t sure why Tyler sent me here, unless he simply wanted to feed my weird and realized I could accept my own personal weirdness.
“Okay, Lucas. I get you,” I said to no one in particular, walking back towards Merle.
“Who are you speaking to, sweetheart?” a familiar and delicate sweet voice called out, seemingly from no where. The Garden of Eden welcome woman stood up, wiping her hands on her apron, holding a spade up in one hand and a handful of dandelions in the other.
“No one in particular, Ma’am. Just myself,” I replied with a growing smile.
“You’d fit in around here just fine if you decided to stay. The world is a weird and crazy place out there. Be careful on your drive, you never know who you’re going to meet,” she said with a straight face and a nod of her head.
She was right. I’d already met some of those devils, and only just a day ago, I was still under their power. I did need to be careful and I appreciated her sweet, innocent, and humble soul.
I climbed into Merle, unrolled my list, and opened the glove box to pull out a pen.
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered. The small red camera tumbled out, hidden underneath the rest of the paper. I pressed the small power button and was beyond ecstatic to see the battery still worked. I quickly popped out, took a photo of the sign, and called out to the sweet old lady.
“Yes? Something else I can help with?” she answered.
“Yes! Can I take a photo with you?”
“With me? Or you mean you want me to take one of you and the house?”
“No, I want one of me and you and the house in the background.”
“Well, alright then,” she replied with conviction. She popped up quickly, wiped her hands on her apron and struck a pose.
“Thank you. I’m making an album of my journey. Would you mind watching Merle, I mean my car, just one more second. I want to go take a few pictures of things.”
She chuckled, nodded her head, and I took off back down to The World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things.
Lucas was a welcomed stop, but the tiny town was twenty miles from I-70 and that meant forty extra miles overall. Those forty miles could place me anywhere from two and a half to three gallons of gas away from where I wanted to be. I really wanted to check off all the places on Tyler’s list. If I did, I would prove I was responsible.Finishing the list would also be respectful; he did give me a bed for two nights, fill me up with a tank of gas from his hard-earned money, and gave me a camera to capture memories for the first time in my life. That tiny red camera was the nicest gift I’d ever received.
According to my fading checklist, I should be heading to Monument Rocks next. I squinted to try and read Tyler’s directions. This looked like another stop taking me off the main highway and costing more time and gas. I needed to honor my agreement with Tyler, but the thought of getting too far off the highway filled me with dread. Did Tyler ever stop here or was this just an Internet suggestion? More than anything, I wanted to be out of Kansas. I was sure Tyler would understand. There would never be enough dirt, pavement, or bridges between me and this state, that parking lot, or that skeezy little club preying on young girls.
When I get settled, I will figure out a way to make sure my experience never happens to another girl. I realized how lucky I was to have only been there a few nights, to be back out on my own, and to not have been roped into something more intense, like prostitution.
While I was replaying the events of the last week, I realized I never made that much needed stop for gas. My gas gauge indicted someone filled me up. While Chrome had the truck, I was hedging my bets on Norma. She knew the dirty secret of those businesses and wanted to break me free. God bless that woman.
Note to self: send Norma some kind of thank you gift.
With a full tank, the possibilities were endless. This unexpected gift added a little more to my funds, would get me a little further down the road, and made the possibility of reaching the Pacific Ocean without spending too much of Jersey’s money a more realistic outcome. I was overwhelmed by the kindness I had been shown by strangers along this crazy journey.
Note to self: be nicer to people you don’t know.
With a full tank, and no desire to see anything else in Kansas except the state line, I saddled up Merle and headed out deeper into the Wild, Wild, West. Yipee ki yi ya, all you naysayers. Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin was out to make things happen and no one would ever tell me otherwise ever again.
Chapter Sixteen
I cruised down the interstate, past the signs for World’s Largest this, and World’s Largest that. I had already seen the miniature visions of every World’s Largest this or that on my last stop. Wasn’t that good enough? I thought so.
I would pick back up on Tyler’s mission as soon as I crossed the Colorado state line and had the comfort of knowing the devil was safely behind me in Hell. Even as a naïve, small town girl, I expected more from Kansas — but life is not fiction, life is not a movie, life has no good witch to give you warm fuzzies with a tap of her glittery wand or a yellow brick road to lead you home. Life was just life, plain and simple.
Kansas was a funny little place and I wondered how people survived out here. There wasn’t much to do, or much to see. I figured the tornadoes were responsible for wiping all the good from the ground in their yearly temper tantrums over the plains. At least Franklin had trees and gardens. Of course, I reckon our highway
roadsides are pretty boring as well. Truth be told, I was so excited to leave I didn’t look twice or analyze the scenery too much.
I drove past Catharine, Russell, Victoria, Albert, Arnold, and Otis. Kansas sure did love their cities being named after people. I wondered what these folks had done to get an entire city named after them. The names weren’t even moderately creative, like lastnameville, just a first name and a road sign indicating to turn off soon, head down this or that exit ramp, and meander a few streets over.
I wondered if there were any unnmaed towns left in America. Maybe, after I got my shit together, I would do something so great Franklin would still consider adding one of those little wooden hanging plaques on the bottom of the city sign saying, ‘Hometown of Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin, world’s greatest roadtripper and purveyor of crap cars’. Becoming a famous photographer was most likely out of the question by now, and I was okay with this. I would need to find something else to secure my potential future fame.
First names turned to last names and I passed Oakley, Colby, Brewster, and Edson. Colorado was looming ahead, feeling so close but at the same time, so far away. The state line felt like an optical illusion — I would get close but miles continually stretched out just a bit further, always out of my grasp. The next time the state line let its guard down, I was going to grab hold and pull the fictional line in tight.
I saw the state sign finally approaching at seventy-two miles per hour. I shrieked with joy. I stuck my hand over the steering wheel and pushed my fingertips as far towards the windshield as I could. If my fingertips crossed the state line, it couldn’t pull back from me again. Part of me would already be in Colorado, therefore, the state would be forced to accept the rest of me. My plan worked, and Colorado welcomed Merle and I with a warm embrace into its famous lands.
The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five Page 16