It’s a slow day. Quiet, rainy and slightly painful. I have this compulsion inside me to do something other than sit here and work. I want to . . . do something. What, I don’t know.

Gertrude is currently asleep, which is frightening. She slept all night long. In fact, she woke up two hours ago. This means that by 3 p.m. when I’m ready for the crash cart, she’ll be bouncing off the walls.

Tonight I have to send out reviewer letters for the textbooks I’m developing. Let’s just say that this is my least favorite portion of the process. I love working with the authors, love getting manuscript in, love processing artwork. Love turning over the manuscript and reviewing pages. Getting reviews is almost like measuring the wall you’re about to paint. Important to the end result, but doesn’t appeal to the creative instinct.

These thoughts came to me as I was writing an email (note official eMaritz spelling . . . I can't get rid of it) today.

A few weeks ago I came across the website of a local photographer who has traveled across “America’s Highway”, or Route 66, in search of the remnants of a bygone era when highway lanes could be counted on one hand and pulling off the highway didn’t always require a cloverleaf and three hours of prayer. Fewer people owned cars, teenagers rarely, and Mom and Dad held the magical powers of the combustion engine.

It’s still fun to try to find these examples of archeological significance when you’re driving. Naturally, you have to leave the interstate and drive down highways that don’t receive regular attention. Except for the periodic angry young man with a loud, thumping penis in the shape of a car zooming past you, it’s easy to forget the franchised, corporate, rarely locally owned businesses that dot the highways, and sometimes our communities.

These photos remind me of hot summer days spent in my father’s red Chevy Impala station wagon. And I mean red. There were at least six kids piled in the back, along with luggage, snacks and drinks and a pop-up camper being towed behind us. One brother would invariably be asleep, with his head resting on the back of the seat, nose pointing straight up at the ceiling. His mouth was always open when he slept.

We usually tried not to put gum wrappers in his open mouth. But it was hard not to.

We were crammed into the car as close as could be. It was summer, so we were all wearing shorts. How many of my childhood memories involve peeling my sweaty skin off of the vinyl seats of the car? How many involve peeling my skin away from that of a brother or sister? We were packed so tight that we’d often stick together. Literally.

We’d take the scenic route to our destinations. Often because a) the Interstate freaked my mother out, b) it was more relaxing, c) Dad was lost but wouldn’t admit it, or c) our destination was in the middle of nowhere. Often the destination would have some sort of historical significance. . . and a pool or a lake. Most often, a lake. Camping was the most affordable way to house up to eight kids on a vacation. Sometimes we’d meet cousins with the same predicament. Once, in Shelbyville, I think we had 140 blood relatives roaming around the campsite. When swimming, we drove off the rest of the campground. Forget the Hell’s Angels, Helen Kremsreiter’s kids and grandkids had just invaded town.

“What are you rebelling against?”

“Nothing. Do you have an Rocket Pops in the freezer?”

We’d see these dead signs, in obscura, partially hidden by trees or scrub. Most of us missed out on the days when the secret destinations lauded by these signs were flourishing. To us the Skyview 66 had the same personal significance as the great library in Alexandria. It was an ancient memory. The Skyview had more weeds.

I see fewer of these remnants these days. Either their memory has become obscured, or their physicality has. But, the truth of the matter is, I spend my time on major interstates these days.

I don’t often venture off into the road less traveled. Maybe I should.