Missouri: Open Road and Bygone Cities (cont.)

Somewhere around Beaufort, I am diverted by a man waving a flag. A few people calmly stand near a green fire truck by the side of the road. I stop when he bids me, and when he waves me forward I go. He shakes his flag violently and rushes up to my car. He is wearing black work boots, cut off jeans exposing skinny legs, and a trucker cap over long stringy hair. He screws up his face, looks at me as if I have three brain cells, and says, “You have to go up through town and around.” ‘Up through town’ turns out to be one block, after which there are no more roads. ‘Around’ is blocked by another fire truck, a red one, maybe brought in from somewhere else. I see no emergency workers racing to the crash, no town officials pondering the water main break. I drive the other way, thinking I can find a different route around. But the road (something like EE or YY) goes on, through green hilly country dotted with hay bales. I pass a few dirt tracks, but otherwise it is just this road, speeding me south through rural Missouri. I look at the map and it seems I can loop back on another road, but after fifteen minutes there is no sign of another road. No one who did not live here would ever drive this except by mistake, yet it is undeniably beautiful. I pass a lake, and a pick-up with four or five shirtless guys lolling in the back. And then I give up and turn around. When I finally make it back to 50, the flagman and all signs of trouble are gone.

US 50 in Sedalia is a broad thoroughfare lined with big houses with front porches.  Compared to the other towns I have seen so far, this stretch is bustling with activity. Until I turn and drive one block north. Then it is very still, and I am the only person out walking. I gape at the nonsensical architecture (heavy Romanesque Revival and Italianate on the same block as whimsical Art Deco and Classical details, plus any other style you could think of, and no two facades the same color) that somehow it all fits together perfectly in a picture of Frontier charm. A tumbleweed rolling past would not look out of place.

Sedalia looks like something archeologists might uncover in the future. They will judge the place that was America by its gaslights and its pinwheels and its ornate train depots devoid of passengers. They will imagine a civilization that conquered a continent with the persuasive power of root beer floats and ragtime, painted everything in shades of pastel, and disappeared.

And then, just before the Kansas state line, I leave 50 and drive north through suburban sprawl, both dispiriting and comforting; everything you could ever need in enormous stores on either side of roads too wide and dangerous to cross.

In the historic district of Independence, only two or three other people are outside; we repeatedly encounter each other at intersections, surprised. Independence feels like an odd mixture of various other US regions, a hodge-podge of little boutiques and vacant red- brick buildings and nostalgic references to Dixie. It is also somehow sad and faded; many businesses stand empty. Phone numbers of real estate agents are posted in front, but they give no indication of confidence that anyone will call. The city seems preserved, not in amber but in something sweet, corn syrup perhaps. Or wrapped in cotton candy and ribbons, held for safe keeping until simpler days return. If the soundtrack of Route 50 is  Country radio, then the soundtrack of Independence is a record played on a rickety Victrola, faint notes wafting on the breeze from an upstairs window.

And then there is nothing to do but turn around, drive back again on 50 to St. Louis. I notice a large billboard, somewhere on my way home, and write down its message:

Follow Me.
–God

Page 2 of 2  Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.