Diamoads are a girl's best friend

Diamoads are a girl's best friend

Taken somewhere along Interstate 44. I love motel signs. They remind me of the summer I spent with my parents in a cheap motel in Branson where we all crammed into one room under the window AC, the curtains were gold, the beds' headboards were flocked, and the little balcony overlooking the parking lot was barely a foot across and covered in cheap, Easter grass AstroTurf. One of the best summers ever.

 *A great email from Tom:


You're younger than me so I don't know if you remember the old Diamonds. It became the Tri County Truckstop. It is at the intersection of 100 West and Rt. 66. It was closed and abandoned about a year ago and sits lonely and quiet now. When I was a kid it and the new Diamonds were special. They meant ROADTRIP. Sitting in the backseat of my grandpa's big old Chrysler just shaking with excitement because we were going fishing at the farm in Stanton. Or going with Mom and Dad to Lake of the Ozarks or Branson. Just being on 66 with the tacky signs and the old beat up businesses with dancing chicken machines and junky toys to look at was as much fun as the place we were heading to. The whining we could do in hopes of somebody buying some piece of crap toy for us that would be broken by the time we got to wherever we were going. No AC in the car meant windows down and the smell of every farm we passed in. Dad sipping on a cold beer (because it wasn't socially irresponsible then, just part of being an American Dad), Mom wearing a scarf, maybe with curlers and my brother and I loving life in the backseat.

I live close to 66 and travel it nearly everyday. It still means freedom and opportunity. It still makes me feel like my America might be out there someplace. Just biding her time.


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