Working on the Album in The Common Room

I’m still working on an album about a long vacation Husband and I took. His failing memory has wiped out much and hearing the story while looking at the photos helps him remember. Doing this is difficult with very little vision, so I’m slow. Here’s the beginning:

It’s 1983 and a good year for us. In the beginning of the 80s the distribution of profits to stockholders instead of reinvestment in research has not yet begun to take its toll on Kodak. The company is riding high and treating its employees well. We have four weeks of paid vacation and can take three of them contiguously.

Gran is deeply into the rock hound thing and thinking that he wants to get a travel trailer and travel around selling rocks when he retires. I am not, but I have graduated and have a good job at Mountain View College, in which I believe most strongly. It is after summer semester II and Inter term has not yet been invented; meaning that I can also take three weeks. I’m feeling strong and confident and as adventurous as I probably ever will. So… we have decided to embark upon an adventure.

In this less frenetic decade, Interstate Highways are good, well-kept roads. Most are straight and four-lane divided. They are made to bypass cities and towns, although there are exits to most things one might care to reach. Speed limits are reasonable and one feels safe traveling on these highways.

Making use of the Interstates where we can and leaving quite early, we head in a generally northwest direction, toward Amarillo, Texas. We are young (although we would have rejected that idea if you told us.) We eat sandwiches from the ice chest and do not require a bathroom frequently although Husband and I have long ago come to an “understanding” about men watering tires by the roadside when women can’t). Nor, do we need to stretch our legs frequently. Late afternoon finds us well past Amarillo, blasting through the dusty Dumas/Dalhart area with our radio blaring appropriate country music, laughing and feeling well. Husband rejects the idea of stopping yet. Without telling me, he has decided to combat my fear of heights by entering the mountainous area in the dark.

Along about Clayton, New Mexico, the light begins to fail, and so do I. Husband assures me that we will soon reach Raton and will stay the night there. It’s been a long time since Husband was in this area and he believes, on the basis of old knowledge, that reservations are not necessary.

I do not see in the dark, but know that Husband has cat eyes. Still, I question his statements that we are traveling on flat land. I feel that we are going up – and up. The lights of Raton seem to call his veracity into question, but I am very tired and am searching for lodging. No Vacancy. Everywhere, No Vacancy.

We stop to see if the Motel People can give advice. They laugh long and loud. It is horse racing season. They advise us that we have made a serious mistake and warn that sleeping in a park or along the roadside will bring a heavy fine. We travel on to Trinidad, Colorado. I know we are high and the road is narrow and curving now. I am most unhappy and can see that Husband is tired. He admits that he is seeing “ghosts” in the road.

We reach Trinidad, after what seems hours. It is packed solidly. We make for Walsenburg, down a highway that is steep and has places where guard rails are under repair. By Walsenburg,(after 18 hours) we can go no further. We pull into a dark parking place in front of a small all-night diner. Husband will have pie and coffee and I will have tea. We must look about the way we feel, because the employees of the diner are not welcoming. They shy away, although they take our order. When the waitress comes to “warm” Husband’s coffee, he tells her that we are tired beyond ability to continue and asks whether she knows of any place we might stay the night. I think that they believed we were indigents, because, after a group huddle, the middle-aged, male, cook comes to tell us that the local Mennonite minister sometimes allows people to stay in his home. Husband looks at him as though he has grown horns, but I understand and explain that we have the means for moderate lodging, but can’t find any available.

Things loosen up a little and someone remembers that the area over a mechanics garage down town has been turned into rooms for rent and may be open. They make a phone call for us and it turns out that the new hotel is open, although not quite complete. We can lodge there, but no food is available. Hurrah.

We find the place and are met on the pavement by the proprietor. We are his first customers. He leads us upstairs and down a long hallway. The floor is covered in orange carpeting that laps up the wall for a couple of feet on each side. The ceiling lighting is not finished, so the hall is a little dim. Fatigue makes me feel as though I’m climbing down the maw of a giant creature. I’m further disoriented by a strange worn trail-like pattern running the length of the hall, about a foot and a half above the floor. What on earth has run along there often enough to wear down the carpet pile? Horror story things buzz in the back of my brain, but I’m too tired to care..

The tiny room and bath are a little rugged and the furniture is a little old, but all seems clean. From the room, we can see down on our car and know it is safe, parked on the tiny side street. We fall into bed without even changing. I complain to husband that the room tilts toward the street but he assures me that it is just a symptom of fatigue.

We sleep well and well into the morning. We wake, shower and refresh although I still complain that the room tilts. In those long ago days, I wear eye makeup. Husband looks up from putting on his shoes as I exclaim, having dropped my eyeliner pencil. It rolls across the floor, gaining momentum as it approaches the window. He stops it with his foot. Neither of us says anything.

The proprietor greets us as we carry our bags down and I ask about the carpet trail and tell him of my wondering what ran there. He looks alarmed. The explanation is simple. The carpet was used and they tried to cut out the worn portions. I get the feeling that he is about to recut that carpet, ‘cause now it’s going to make him nervous.
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When we reach our car on the street, and look upward toward the room, it is plain that the building leans rather amazingly toward the street. Husband looks at me and I look at him. Rested and with the resiliency of our years, we exit Walsenburg toward Alamosa Colorado without regret. We will return to Colorado many times, but our route never includes Walsenburg again.

Last updated January 17, 2016