The Art of Tetman Callis Verandah Elk City to Springfield

Elk City to Springfield

Springfield, Missouri — Green.  I’ve spent most of my life in the deserts of the southwestern United States and I always marvel at how green the landscape is nearly everywhere else I go.  And here in Springfield, where it rained heavily last night, it has just begun to rain again.  I hear the drops hitting the window of the room Owen and I have taken in the Holiday Inn.

Tired.  Having driven about 850 miles in two days, I am tired.  It’s been, and will continue to be, freeway all the way, following what was once Route 66.  The road has been good and fast, the great Penske land-caravel a reliable machine.  Bright yellow, too, for easy visibility.

Many stretches of the freeway have had lane closures and speed reductions due to work being done on them.  If I am figuring right, this is the application of federal infrastructure money.  It is nice to see it at work.

As with the Texas panhandle, Oklahoma’s plains are also sprouting wind farms.  A car dealership in Tulsa had two huge flags, one American and one Oklahoman.  The Will Rogers Turnpike was straight and smooth and not terribly expensive, and well-patrolled by the Oklahoma State Police.

People all along the way have been good.  Owen has been a great help, watching the truck’s blind spots, managing the truck’s music, helping find lodgings, conversing with me, and keeping me on an even keel.  I would not want to be on this trek alone.

Tomorrow’s goal: Bloomington, Illinois.

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