This summer we were driving cross country with our car and a moving van. The car broke down in Colorado and we hitched it up to the back of the ryder truck. The cab of the truck was crowded because there was no place for our two kids to sit except the floor between the two seats. We bought them sunflower seeds and drove on crowded like that till nightfall. When it was time to stop we found that all the motel chains were full. We were in the middle of Kansas when we wandered off the interstate and found a little place called the 'K' inn.
It had a giant rotating 'K' in red neon, and signs offering a free breakfast of eggs and bacon. The office was in a bright red a-frame. The room itself was damp, but the beds were clean and we were tired. The old Zenith TV sparked and sputtered until I didn't dare watch it.
Morning revealed a small central yard with an unused barbeque pit and a small statue of St. Francis. Our family packed up, then headed to the diner next door for our free breakfast. The place was crowded and the food was good. We sat next to a table of old veterans and listened to stories of Korea until it was time to hit the road.
From: Lynnae Pulsipher
My first trip cross country was from N.J. to California in 1976. My friend Ray and I traveled in an old Cadillac Eldorado going the southern route along I-40. Because we were young and short on funds, we stayed at small motels along the way. I remember being somewhere around Santa Rosa, New Mexico in the middle of August with a tempature around 110 degrees and thinking, the next place we stop has got to have a pool. It did. The water tempature was about 90 degrees, but it was still refreshing. About 10 years later my friend Ellen told me the printer she worked for had thrown out thousands of old offset color postcards. She raided the dumpster and came away with the stash. One night shortly thereafter we got together in a local bar and over beer we went through everything, splitting up the take. I walked away with a collection of motel postcards from around the country. Mom and Pop places, the type of places I stayed at with Ray on our cross country trip.
Note to readers: this is a reprint from Robert Pallesen's visual journal - Converge. His Town and Country section contains some wonderful postcards of old motels.
Adjacent to the rumblings of Highway 99, this little cluster of rooms nestled along the frontage road. Originally built in 1952 (as I later learned), it had the feel of recent transformation. Any fears I might have had about sagging, soft beds and reprehensible interior decoration evaporated after registering and having a few words with the proprieter, who obviously had a love for what he did. Reticent at first, he briefly outlined the ten-year process of a slow room-by-room rennovation the owners had accomplished since purchasing the motel.
Once in the room my happy suspicions were confirmed: everything looked newly painted and upholstered. Over the bed, in a place generally reserved for tacky art, hung an unpretentious oil painting of a sylvan agricultural scene, postmodernist in expression. A trip to the bathroom revealed a tasteful tile job in terra cotta. The sheets were pressed and fresh and there were more than enough towels. With lights out, that familiar throbbing of midnight truckers jockeying for the fast lane lulled us both to sleep, as the sound of something eternal and omnipresent always seems to do.
In the morning, I ventured out to the van to check on our dogs and walk them. Since I had been questioned and forewarned about having no pets in the motel room the night before, the owner came out of the adjoining restaurant (after seeing the dogs but not where they had come from) and queried me. After reassuring him that they hadn't been in the room, we struck up a conversation. I told him I was a photographer that liked to shoot old roadside businesses like motels. With that he told me about another photographer who had taken his photo a year earlier, promising to send him a print. As the story goes, eight months passed and then one day an elderly gentleman appeared at the front office and handed the owner a manilla envelope. It contained the picture the young man had taken. The photographer's father explained that his son had been killed several months earlier in a car accident and he had only found the envelope recently as he begun the process of sorting through his dead son's possessions. Stamped, addressed, and on the nightstand by the bed in his son's room, it sat waiting to be mailed. The father apologized that so many months had already gone by, for he had intended to bring it sooner, but hadn't been able to. In the telling the father's eyes took on a wet glaze and the proprietor understood the significance of this final action: with this delivery he would seal away and surrender the memory of his son.
From: Jeff Brouws
Too bad you missed the nearby Anchrage Motel. I belonged to its "swim club" while I was in the 7th or 8th grade. It has a very 50's yacht-style architecture. They just began widening the road and demolished the pool in the past few weeks. :-(
From: Bob Wayland
Mom had been talking about going to Austin to visit a girlfriend all spring. She was excited and I could see it on her face that July morning. We loaded up the 1965 Mustang for our visit to the capital of the greatest state in the union. We left around 9 o'clock in the morning. Our Mustang did not have air conditioning and we were already starting to stick to the blue vinyl interior.
Our trip had hardly begun when it ended. We were only an hour out of Wichita Falls when the Mustang failed us. We were stranded in Jacksboro, Texas. I can't really explain Jacksboro to anyone who hasn't been there. All I can say is that it makes Wichita Falls look like the promise land. We coasted into a gas station. In 1967 Mom was a very attractive lady. The Jackie O. look and all that. The attendents at the station swarmed us like bees when they saw her. They told us it might be a couple of hours and to wait across the street at the Green Frog Cafe. A couple of hours turned out to be most of the day. We talked and laughed, had lunch, ate ice cream, had an afternoon snack, fought off boredom, had dinner, never leaving the cafe. Finally, we were told that we would have to take our car to Wichita Falls because it could not be repaired in Jacksboro. I can still remember the sense of disapointment covering us like a wet blanket. It was clear we were not going to Austin. The car was driveable, but not over 30 miles per hour so we limped back to Wichita Falls on the shoulder of the road.
29 years later, I found myself passing through Jacksboro with my two small children. I could not believe it when I saw it...the Green Frog Cafe. I had to stop and go inside. It had been remodeled to an up-to-date 1978 look. I turned and looked to the corner booth where two little boys and their young mother had spent the day 29 years earlier. Time is such a strange concept and the speed at which it passes is frightening. Even thought that day long ago was one of disapointment I would love to have it back. I would love to sit in that booth, knowing what I know now, and just stare and listen to my mother and bother as they exchanged small talk to pass the time.
"Two small ice creams." I said to the waitress. I drank an iced tea. There was no way I could explain my feelings to Katie and Matthew so I just watched them enjoy their treats. I took a picture of Katie and Matt in front of the Green Frog Cafe sign when we left. They thought I was silly. Part of a childs job description is to think that their dad is silly. They do their job well.
From: Gary Daniels
What a great site, it brings back a lot of memories for me.
Growing up in Jacksonville, Florida, our relatives all lived in Michigan and my Mother would not fly, consequently we made the trek at least once a year by car, staying in some great motels along the way.
Those trips are full of fond memories of The Smokey Mountians, horses and some beautiful countryside. One particular motel stands out over all the rest. After a few years in various towns and motels, we all became attached to a beautiful little town called London, Kentucky. It was cradled in the Kentucky foothills of the Smokey Mountians with a bubbling mountian stream running through it. There was a small motel along the main street and since this was thirty years ago, the name escapes me. There was comfortable old wooden house on the property which was a restaurant and had the best hot chocolate in the world.
I've often been tempted to visit London to see if this motel still exists but I'm afraid that modernization may break the spell and prefer to keep these memories intact.
From: Michelle Christie
It's been eight years and that week long trip has become a perminent part of me. In celibration of my graduation from High School, I feel I need to go on a road trip and vist, A LOT OF MOTELS!
From: CRAYOLAbob
We just returned from a fantastic visit to Michigan's Mackinac Island. This despite a rough start with the Comfort Inn in St.Ignace! We had made a reservation using the nationwide "800" number and were quoted a special rate on a "spa" room. With confirmation number in hand, we arrived in St.Ignace after a beautiful drive from St.Paul MN. The desk clerk (and management) quickly made it clear that they would not honor the rate quoted by the reservation system! Clearly, Comfort Inn's communication between their motel and reservation system is poor. Since Comfort Inn would not honor the rate provided by their agent (the 800 number), we left and found an excellent room at the Holiday Inn Express. Lesson: confirm your reservation specifics with the actual property! In this case, the St.Ignace Comfort Inn's refusal to honor the quoted rate resulted in some very bad publicity!
From: Lee Schreck
i'm not a nut about nostalgia, but to me there is nothing like the neon light of the motel flashing through the drapes at one of my favorite old motels.
i am a nut about florida as i never want to leave this state.
thank you.
From: Christine Schultz
As I recall, I wrote that on or about 1957, the Mackinaw bridge opened, connecting the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. A crossing that once was sometimes a 10-hour or more wait for a ferry (particularly during hunting season) became a short drive.
Possessing some of the most beautiful scenery in the Midwest,including miles of Lake Michigan beaches,the area experienced a boom. As a result, mom and pop motels sprang up, especially along highway U.S. 2. The boom eventually slowed, and a lot of these places went out of business. Yet, many still hang on despite the poor economy and encroaching chain hotels. Bearing names like "The Beachcomber", they still sport their period neon signs that proclaim "Color TV", and "In Room Telephones". Interestingly, with the coming of Indian-run casino gambling, a few of these places have found new customers, and look like they will thrive into the next century.
If your readers are interested, all they need do is travel between St. Ignace and Escanaba on U.S. 2 and take their pick.
Happy Trails
From: Ken F.
Anyway, after the show, at about 4am, we made our way to the hotel for a few hours of sleep before heading off to the next gig. We were given keys to two rooms. Our drummer had gone to the hotel earlier with one of the keys and was presumably in the room already. We banged on the door with the matching room number and tried to get him out of bed to unlock the door for us.
Meanwhile, our lead singer went up to the upper balcony to his room, put the key in the door, unlocked it, and walked in chewing on the pickle.
Much to his surprise, there was a couple in the room and he dropped the pickle on the floor! The couple said, "This isn't your room!" and the singer proceded to crawl around in the dark on his hands and knees looking for the pickle. At this moment, the guy from inside the room where were were banging on the door came out in his underwear and started yelling at us for waking up the whole motel.
It turns out we had keys to the motel across the street. Somehow, the key worked in the door to the room upstairs - it was part of the same motel or it was already unlocked or something.
Anyhow, you could say we got ourselves in a real pickle.
From: Jackson
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