It Isn't A Bus

We left the legendary Mother Road, Route 66, aka. Will Rogers Highway and the Main Street of America, at Tucumcari to cut off in a northeasterly direction. When we reached the big WELCOME TO TEXAS sign, the road changed almost magically from two rough, narrow lanes into a beautiful wide highway, smooth as glass.

"Well, this is a welcome relief," said Pat.

"Wow, what a neat road," exclaimed Dave. "How come it got so much better all of a sudden?”

“’Cause we just entered Texas, you nitwit," answered Charles.

"What's that got to do with it?" countered Dave.

"Texas is the state where everyone is a millionaire and drives a Cadillac," said Charles. "They can afford to have good roads here."

The wonderful Texas highway was like a shot in the arm to our Flxible, and we zoomed across the small northwest corner of the state, right through the western Panhandle of Oklahoma, and on into Kansas almost before we knew it. But Kansas and the surrounding territory had recently suffered one of the worst floods in its history. By the time we were well into that state, we began to see signs of devastation. In many places, water was still standing right up to the edge of the road, and the wheat was overripe because the fields were too wet for harvesting. Soon we saw signs that directed us off the highway to detour the flooded area. Bad luck. We wanted to get to Dodge City in southwest Kansas on the Arkansas River before dark. . . .

For miles we drove on a narrow dirt road. Fortunately, it was well graded and drained, so we weren’t bothered too much by mud. Realizing that even a small deviation could put us off the road onto the muddy shoulder, Pat drove slowly and kept our monster in the middle of the road, except for the rare occasions when we met a car approaching from the opposite direction. Then he would grudgingly allow the opposite driver barely enough space to get past us. We didn’t relish the prospect of our heavy vehicle sinking slowly into the mud. We had covered about thirty miles of the detour without mishap when Pat suddenly took his foot off the accelerator and pressed it onto the brake.

“Looks like trouble ahead,” he announced. “That black sedan up there seems to be stuck.”

“Gee, what a long car!” exclaimed Dave.

“Yeah, it looks like a gangster’s car,” said Charles.

“Look, Mommy, it has curtains at the windows,” added Sally.

As we drew closer, we realized it was a hearse. Its right rear wheel was off the road half buried in the sticky mud. Spinning rapidly, it sank deeper as it turned. Pat slowed down to a crawl to get past it. As soon as we were around it safely, Pat brought the Flexie to a halt and opened our door.

“I’d better see if we can help.”

“Be careful what you get into,” I warned. . . .”