Page 28 of Hauling Ashe

Springfield is the next major city, and the place is another reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. The area has some great diners and coffee shops, and there’s one place I think Mae might enjoy.

As we’ve driven along the route, I’ve noticed some of the rundown places along our path and imagine, as I suspect Mae has, that these locations were once spots for travelers to stop over night or fill their tanks with gas.

“It’s kind of sad,” Mae says as we pass yet another building that looks like it once was someplace special sometime in the past. Now the structure is unidentifiable as to what it used to look like. It’s simply an abandoned shell with lost history.

“I live in a small town, and small towns really lost out when people started to bypass them because of the interstate,” Mae offers, keeping her eyes toward the window.

What affected those mom-and-pop places, like the one we stopped at with the classic cars, were high-rise hotels built more specifically for railway travelers. Then, hotel conglomerates courted traveler bliss, specializing in resort-type visits. Chain motels took over, along with franchise opportunities, and gone were the simple locations offering a warm bed and a night’s rest. I fondly recall a few places the band slept when I was on the road with Lawson and Denton. We were three men trying to make the most of a dollar and sell our sound.

That was another lifetime, and I hadn’t meant to hint at it.

Mae chatters as we drive into the large city, explaining the history of Route 66 up to this point. She’s telling me how Springfield is considered the birthplace of Route 66, and this is a crossroads of some sort. I’m actually content to drive and give her this portion of our travels to explore. Her head whips around, glancing behind us at places we pass, or she reads signs as we near them, offering tidbits here and there. She’s a roving tour guide and an encyclopedia of information. She’s done her research and disappointment rings out once in a while when her internet searching seems to lead to a dead end.

“So where are we going again?” she asks once the route merges with the major interstate around this larger city.

“You’ll see.” My voice lifts at the potential surprise and my heart patters. I hope she likes this place. I discovered it about ten years ago when Rochelle was on a conference tour. We’d bussed through ten Midwestern cities that summer and I had escaped to this place for a much-needed hour alone.

When we pull up before the coffee shop that specializes in classic rock music, Mae smiles.

“Coffee?” she says, twisting to look at me.

“Lunch.” I press open the driver’s side door. Mae’s quick to open hers and I should have asked her to wait for me. I could have gotten her door for her. I hate that she accused me of not being a gentleman. I’m all for women’s equality and the right to open their own damn doors, but I still want to do it for Mae. Quickly, I stop her from reaching for the coffee shop entrance and tug the door open for her. I don’t miss the hint of a smile as she steps inside, and we’re enveloped in classic rock music. The philosophy here is that not all coffeehouses are quiet, and this one prides itself on noise.

At the counter, we order sandwiches and take a seat allowing the atmosphere to surround us.

“This place is so cool,” Mae says taking in the replica memorabilia and pictures of classic rockers. “You asked me about blues music. Are you a music enthusiast?”

“Something like that,” I say. “You have quite an eclectic playlist. I thought you might like this place.”

“Music is a universal language. Everyone understands it.”

My hands freeze as I reach for my sandwich, and I lower them back to my lap. I consider what she’s said and feel those words deep in my soul.

“You mentioned how some things fade away while others are preserved or given new life. Music is the same way. An old song can be revived by a new band’s rendition. Other songs just remain classic in their original state. There are fads but music never fades. When you hear a song, it conjures a memory or when you hear one for the first time, it builds a new one. Popular music shifts and changes over time, just like notes on sheet music and yet it’s something every person can read. Maybe they don’t know how to play an instrument or sing a tune.” I arch a brow at Mae, and she chuckles. “But we love a good beat. Music evokes emotion, and our bodies respond.”

I pat my chest over my heart in an iambic beat for emphasis. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. “It’s how people know how to dance.”

“Spoken like a true music lover.” Mae gives me a broad smile. “But I don’t dance.” She glances around the coffee shop once more.

“What do you mean you don’t dance? Everybody dances.” The argument is weak coming from me. I can’t remember the last time I did. Perhaps dancing is the wrong word. Our bodies react to rhythm. We sway. We tap. We nod in tandem to a beat we appreciate. Music feeds our souls.

And I wonder how I’ve ignored the hunger in mine for so long.

Looking around the space myself, noting the posters of famous rockers and bands, I acknowledge there was a time I wanted to be among them. Dreams die, though. Some things are preserved. Some repurposed. And others just disappear with time.

Mae’s been watching me, and I weakly smile at her before lifting my sandwich and taking a bite. We listen as we eat and Mae nods at songs she recognizes, grinning between bites of her sandwich. She knows nothing about music history, and still gets most lyrics wrong, but her enthusiasm for a song or a burst of memory when one plays brightens her face. Those blue eyes gleam. That smile sparkles.

I should tell her.

“You mentioned you live in a small town. I feel guilty but I don’t even know where you’re from exactly,” I say.

“Elk Lake City. It’s a small town on Lake Michigan in Michigan.”

“How did you end up there from Missouri?”

“Marriage,” she says as if that explains everything. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Mae already knows I live in Chicago.