48 Hours in the Gateway City

Our first experience with St. Louis comes by accident. On our way to the hotel, the GPS takes us the wrong direction and we end up in a residential neighborhood south of Downtown. The homes are all made of red brick and uniform in shape with front steps leading to the sidewalk. It looks like a scene from Archie Bunker. A man sits outside his door and reads a newspaper. I wish to get out and explore this new world I have briefly entered, but can't. Within five minutes we have corrected our route and are back on Interstate 44 toward our hotel.
 
We lodge in the area of Laclede's Landing. Our balcony on the third level sits nose-to-nose with a double-decker conduit of traffic. To say the least, it is very noisy. Yet our view extends beyond the din, toward the skyscrapers of Downtown and the stadium for the St. Louis Rams.
 

Flooding on the Mississippi River from Martin Luther King Bridge.

We waste little time and return to the streets for exploration. Near our hotel is the Martin Luther King Bridge. It will soon be under construction and is currently closed to vehicles. We slip past a concrete barricade and walk onto the bridge. We find ourselves looking down over the Mississippi River. Other than a group of people in the distance, we are the only humans on the bridge.
 
The river is well above flood-stage, with an entire street completely submerged in the slow-moving water—street signs poking above the surface. The St. Louis skyline is inescapable. The Gateway Arch and skyscrapers form a perfect silhouette. The overhead steel beams give the bridge a picturesque appeal. Jenelle comments that she would love to do a bridle-shoot here. We watch a train that appears to be at least a mile long creep along the edge of the river and under the bridge and through a small tunnel.
 
After the bridge we walk back toward Downtown and manage to cross the barriers of traffic. Skyscrapers surround us. In spite of all the buildings, I feel like there isn't much to see. No stores, no shops, no places to eat unless it is upper-end. A lot of nothing. At least that is how it seems.
 

Within minutes we begin seeing groups of people wearing Cardinals jerseys walking in our direction. They appear sullen. Soon, the entire sidewalk is flooded with Cardinals fans. Busch Stadium is just up the street and the game must have just gotten out. From a parking garage above, an antagonistic man yells down, “You guys can't even win a game!” Everyone ignores him and continues to walk.
 
We know that many will soon be looking for a place to eat. We make a split-second decision to find a place before lines get out of control. We choose Hamburger Mary's, an eatery on Washington Avenue. We walk in just before 7 pm and can tell that some sort of show is about to begin. They seat us in a section away from the stage where we can watch the show on a screen and perhaps catch glimpses through the bar. In the end, I am glad we don't have a front-row seat. The spectacle ends up being a drag show, with men dressed up as women and showing their moves for tips.
 
Aside from the hedonistic vibe of the restaurant, my hamburger is very good, although overpriced. On our way out, we make sure that none of the drag queens are in our way.
 
We stop at a small grocery store to buy food for breakfast. The prices are more in line with that of a gas station. By now, it is dark and it feels as though the thugs are coming out. Things are getting a bit sketchy. I can't help but to remember that St. Louis is the homicide capital of the United States. Whiffs of marijuana fill the air. Everyone, aside from us, is buying smokes or alcohol. We feel an urgency to get back to our room.
 

Old Courthouse from the Gateway Arch.

The following morning is our best day of weather in Missouri. The sun is out and skies are blue.
 
Our first stop is the Gateway Arch. You can't help but to be mesmerized by this gigantic structure. At 630 feet high, it is the tallest man-made monument in the Western Hemisphere. It seems to be ubiquitous. At every new turn there is a new perspective.
 
We spend about an hour near the arch, just admiring it's majesty and finding new angles for photography. You can pay money and take a ride to the top, but we have neither the time nor budget.
 
The arch was completed in 1965 and meant to memorialize St. Louis's history as the gateway to the Western frontier. It is hard to believe that this city was once the border of the wilderness, with terra incognita beyond its limits. It is the city from which Lewis and Clark set out on their epic exploratory mission.
 

Nearby is the Basilica of Saint Louis, also known as the Old Cathedral. Because of it's historical significance, it was allowed to remain standing while the rest of the buildings in the area were demolished with the construction of the arch.
 
We visit the basilica and then the Old Courthouse, which is in perfect alignment with the arch. The courthouse is free and is famous for being the setting of the Dred Scott case before it went to the United States Supreme Court. The building is similar in appearance to the United States Capitol Building. It's dome is modeled after St. Peters Basilica in Vatican City.
 

Basilica of St. Louis.

The Old Courthouse was home to the Dred Scott Case before it went to the Supreme Court.

St. Louis is a beautiful city, with ample parks and statues. The trees are in bloom during our visit. We manage to find a bite to eat, then make our way toward Busch Stadium to root, root, root for the home team!
 
Our seats on the third balcony provide a panoramic view of the city's skyline. I think we are the only people in the stadium without some sort of Cardinals memorabilia (and I'm not going to pay $89 for a hoodie!).
 

We sit next to a father and his two boys. The sibling next to me (about 12-years old) is the most energetic of the two and never shies away from asking questions. At least twenty times, from the bottom of his lungs, he tries to begin a chant: “Let's go Cardinals, let's go!! [Clap, clap.] Let's go Cardinal's, let's go!!! [Clap, clap.]” Only a couple times does anyone join in. “What's wrong with everybody today?” he complains.
 
He asks where we are from, but has no idea where Utah is located. Then he asks, “But you ARE a Cardinals fan, aren't you?” When I tell him I am not a Cardinals fan, he becomes bewildered, wondering how a person like me could exist in the world. But then I tell him that neither am I a Padres fan, but hope that the Cardinals will win, since they are the home team. He is reassured by that.
 
In the end, the Cardinals lose. They fall apart in the top of the eighth inning.
 

Stan "The Man" Musial.

After the game we stop for pictures at the entrance of the stadium with a statue of Stan “The Man” Musial. For the next hour we wander the streets, not finding much to do, but enjoying the beauty of the city. About this time a St. Louis Blues hockey game gets out, and suddenly we find that we are “the only ones in town” without a Blues jersey.
 
We take the Metrolink back to Laclede's Landing and find a place to eat called the Old Spaghetti Factory. Our wait time is one hour. Jenelle is worn out so she kicks back in the restaurant while I wander about the city on foot.
 

The Old Spaghetti Factory in the area of Laclede's Landing.

Not only is there a Cardinals and Blues game in town today, Comic Con is here also. I also learn that in St. Louis it is only optional for a car to stop at a red light. Many cars brazenly push their way through traffic, to the point I am a little scared to cross the street.
 
Back at the restaurant I enjoy a plate of spaghetti. Although once again overpriced, our meal is very good and service is excellent. We return to our hotel with a final night of rest in St. Louis.
 

The next morning we check out of our hotel and immediately drive across the Mississippi into Illinois. I have long been fascinated with Native American history and culture and was pleasantly surprised when I learned that the remains of an ancient city of the Mississippi mound-builders was just five miles away.
 
Cahokia was once the largest city in America north of Mexico. Collapse came before the arrival of Europeans and the reason largely remains a mystery. Today, several of their man-made mounds still exist, including the largest, Monks Mound. Archeologists speculate that homes and temples of the leaders were built upon these heaps of earth. Some of the smaller ones are burial mounds. With such a small percentage of them having been excavated, most of what lies underneath remains a mystery.
 
Admission to the grounds and museum are free. One could spend a full day wandering the extensive trail system. In addition to several mounds, there are groves of trees, swamps and whitetail deer. We only have a couple hours to spare, so we barely scratch the surface.
 

Monks Mound is the largest mound at Cahokia.

St. Louis skyline from Monks Mound.

Back on the Missouri side of the river, our time is winding down. As stated earlier, I really hoped to see what life is like in St. Louis beyond the traps of tourism. With this pursuit in mind, we take an exit off I-70 into Old North St. Louis.
 
I feel like we have just entered the hood. I find my red-brick buildings. Most of them are tall and skinny. Several are vacant and partially destroyed by fire. As a geographical reminder, our location is not too far from Ferguson, Missouri, the site of riots in 2014 resulting from the shooting of Michael Brown by a white police officer.
 
I pull over a couple of times to take pictures. Nearby a man of color has a verbal altercation with his girlfriend in an alleyway. Behind me a truck speeds through a stop sign. Jenelle feels unsafe and stays in the car.
 
Around the corner is the beautiful Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church. It looks out of place in this neighborhood. It makes me wonder the nature of the neighborhood at the time of it's construction.
 

Home in Old North St. Louis.

Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church, as seen from Mallinckrodt Street.

Our next stop (on the way to the airport) is the Calvary Cemetery. I could spend hours here. This graveyard is gigantic and contains some of the most important burials in the city. The blooming trees and rolling slopes make for a beautiful setting.
 
General William Sherman and Dred Scott are buried here and we visit both of their graves. It is interesting that pennies are placed on Dred Scott's grave, supposedly honoring Lincoln as the great emancipator.
 

Calvary Cemetery in St. Louis.

Near the end of our rope of time, we now look for a place to eat before going to the airport. We drive down West Flourissant Avenue and into the boundaries of Jennings (which, in turn, borders Ferguson).
 
What we find is Lee's Famous Fried Chicken. When we enter, we are the only whites inside. Everyone else is as black as ebony. But there is a different feel to this. I quickly notice that everyone here is dressed in their Sunday best, the men in suits and vests, and ladies in a dress, pearls and lipstick—some with a wide hat for shade. We hear them talking about singing in the choir. They have just got out of church. The girl behind the counter must be in her early twenties and has smooth skin and hair made into a hundred tight braids.
 
Rather than feeling like I am in the hood, I feel as if I have just stepped inside a room with Aunt Chloe and Uncle Tom, “whose truly African features [are] characterized by an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much kindness and benevolence.”
 

Fried liver at Lee's Famous Fried Chicken.

For me, this is one of the most pleasant surprises of our trip. I find myself in their world, well off the beaten path.
 
Jenelle orders chicken strips, which I will admit are better than KFC. As for me, I order fried liver and Cajun rice. It isn't too bad either. ♠ 

Historic Route 66 in Missouri

Our excursion of Route 66 began in the heart of the Ozarks on Roubidoux Creek.
 
The rain had persisted through much of the day and everything had dampened. The water that flowed beneath the arches of the bridge had swollen higher than normal. Although the limbs on the trees had yet to render their leaves, the foliage on the ground grew lush.
 
The Cherokee camped here in 1839 on their long march to Oklahoma, otherwise known as the Trail of Tears.  Nearby Roubidoux Spring discharges a large amount of fresh water, making the site ideal for camping.  Reverend Daniel Butrick, who traveled with the group, recorded: “We traveled about 12 miles to a settlement . . . on the banks of a beautiful stream, named Rubedoo. Here we had a delightful place, on the bank of the river convenient to wood and water.”
 
We were here with may daughter, Kaitlyn, who had just graduated Basic Training at nearby Fort Leonard Wood. She was still attired in her dress blues and was very careful as to where she placed her finely polished shoes. We spent an hour here, walking on a trail to the springs and then downriver to the bridge where we crossed beneath and found a fisherman with his three-legged dog.
 

Route 66 passes over Roubidoux Creek in the Ozarks of Missouri.

Route 66 continues east through Waynesville and past a sculpture of a frog on the hillside, created from an existing boulder. It enters St. Robert where it crosses Interstate 44 and draws close to the military base of Fort Leonard Wood.
 
The Uranus Fudge Factory is located on the east side of St. Robert and is one of the most bizarre places I have ever been. The entire lot is filled with old cars and structures painted in bright colors to attract the passerby, typical of many Route 66 stops in the country. What is not typical—although memorable—is the general store at the west end of the lot.
 

As soon as you walk in, your are welcomed by a chorus of, “Welcome to Uranus!” echoed three times, in high-pitched tones by the three ladies behind the cashier's desk. In front of the desk is a short replica of an alien. The entire store is full of merchandise that seems out-of-this-world. Immediately you realize that here they take the term “Uranus”seriously, and everything in the store revolves around butt-puns.
 
They sell t-shirts, hoodies, taffy in two-dozen flavors, Trump figurines, Jesus mugs, postcards, candy made of bugs. And, of course, it is no accident that Uranus is a fudge factory.
 
Jenelle couldn't stop laughing while in the store. She was insistent on buying herself a hoodie with print on the front: “Union Fudge Packers Union. Local #2. Proudly packing fudge in Uranus since 2015.”
 
When we had paid for our goods and were leaving the store, the lady gave me my receipt and asked, “How did you like Uranus?”
 
“I liked it quite a bit,” I replied.
 
“Everyone else likes Uranus, too” she shot back without blinking an eye. I didn't know how to respond. As we walked out the door I heard her chime out, “Thanks for picking Uranus!”
 

Uranus Fudge Factory.

Back in the real world we continued on Route 66 for a couple more miles where we crossed the Big Piney River (which flows north and soon empties into the Gasconade River, which empties into the Missouri). We took a dirt road on our right that brought us to a tight bend in the river known as the Devil's Elbow. Here there is a small tavern and a picturesque bridge that crosses the river. There are houses scattered throughout the dense growth of trees. Everything was green and lush.
 
The road makes a loop and eventually connects back with the highway. We pulled over at a small lookout point where one can see a railroad bridge that crosses the river. We had the view to ourselves and admired the daffodils that grew along the stone railing that flanked the road.
 

Bridge over the Big Piney River.

BBQ pit at the Devil's Elbow.

This was as far as we could travel with Kaitlyn. Jenelle and I continued the next morning east through the steep rolling hills of the Ozarks. The route traverses several communities and occasionally passes from one side of Interstate 44 to the other. Near Rolla the steep hills give way to gentler slopes. After passing through St. James we found several vineyards. Nearby is a winery museum. The name of the town is Rosati.
 
I pulled over to get a picture of one of the vineyards. Being early April, none of the vines were growing leaves, let alone grapes. I got out of the car and finessed my way around the muddy road that led into the vineyard when a man in a minivan pulled alongside and rolled down his window. He was the owner and was baffled as to why anyone would be out here taking pictures of barren vines.
 
We had a little conversation and he explained that the original settlers to this particular area were Italian and they are the ones who planted the vineyards. Later, the Welch company came in and bought them out and replaced many of the vines with concord grapes. But in the 1990's the Welch company decided it was too far out of the way and sold it back to the locals. Now, they have a hard time making a living on it. The man will wholesale some of the grapes, but also sells a lot from a street-stand up the road. Harvest time is between August and November.
 

Vineyard near Rosati, Missouri.

Just a few miles down the road is another inconspicuous town-site. There isn't much here other than farmhouses, and of course, Fanning Outpost. This is a smaller version of the Uranus Fudge Factory. They have a modest collection of souvenirs, with food up front and animal feed in back. Outside is the world's second largest rocking chair.
 
Jenellle and I were the only people in the store. They offered us a sample of fudge. We enjoyed perusing their selection of soda, which came in about 100 different flavors such as apple pie, peanut butter and jelly, bacon with chocolate, butter, worm ooze, Martian poop, monster mucus, buffalo wings, Stalinade, and Fidel Castro's Havana Banana.
 

Fanning Outpost is home to the second largest rocking chair in the world (shown on the left side).

One thing I enjoyed on our drive was unexpectedly coming upon a cemetery. We saw several cemeteries as we drove Route 66, but the smaller ones caught my eye. We stopped at three of them, each unique in character. Meramec Hills Memorial in Fanning was distinguished by a large cross in the center of the cemetery. All the headstones were flat and I noticed that the font on many of them was of a Gothic nature. It was an interesting place that deserved much more than the five minutes we gave it.
 

St. James Veteran's Cemetery.

Meramec Hills Memorial in Fanning, Missouri.

Hill Cemetery in Bourbon, Missouri.

Just down the road we entered the quaint town of Cuba. We parked the car and spent time strolling around the block. Cuba is famous for the murals that are painted on many of the buildings. They depict scenes of old fashioned street peddlers, pedestrians, shop-fronts, and Cuba's role in the Civil War.
 

The small town of Cuba is famous for having many murals.

Stone walls of Holy Cross Catholic Church in Cuba.

We stopped in St. Clair to grab a bite to eat. We were told that we had to try BBQ in Missouri, so we figured that now was our chance. On the corner of Main Street and Kitchell Avenue is a small eatery by the name of Bootheel BBQ and Diner. We walked in and found we were the only ones there. I think the waitress was the daughter of the owner and she kindly let us choose any table we wanted. With her suggestion I chose the pork steak, which ended up being by far the biggest pork steak I'd ever eaten. The meat came with two choices of sides and a slice of bread that appeared to come from a store-bought bag.
 
All the food was really good, but nothing over the top. The family was very friendly and soon they all sat down at another table and ate their lunch. We had a small conversation and learned that they didn't know much at all about Utah.
 

Pork steak at Bootheel BBQ in St. Clair.

Time was running low and we had to get to St. Louis. Our final experience with Route 66 came in the form of a detour near the Bourbeuse River (which empties into the Meremec, which empties into the Mississippi). We drove a few miles onto “Highway O”, and then onto “Old Highway O.” There was nothing special here to report, other than it was the rural atmosphere that typified our entire experience on Route 66. We saw modular homes, an old broken down school bus and a stone quarry. A thickly wooded forest grew from the houses down to the river. ♠

Someone's dream home during another era on Route 66 in Missouri.

Doing Hard Things

In modern America, an experience like that of Kumen Jones is virtually nonexistent.
 
At the age of sixteen, Kumen went to work delivering mail between Cedar City, Utah and Boullionville, Nevada, a round-trip distance of 225 miles. It was a lonesome job. He traveled by himself and spent nights with families from settlements along the way. Each trip lasted six days and he did this for three years.
 
Anyone who travels this same stretch in our modern era knows that it continues to be a desolate area. Imagine a sixteen-year old boy making this journey in the bitter cold of winter in a foot of snow—depending solely upon his own merits for survival. Even under ideal conditions, an experience like this would quickly transform a boy into a man.
 

Kumen Jones

At age nineteen he began work for a cattle company from Cedar City. He tells the story of spending the winter on the east fork of the Virgin River at a place they called “lower herd.” In February, he and a friend started back for Cedar on what was known as the “Shoonsberg Trail.” This would take them through the settlements of Shunsberg and Toquerville, and up the Black Ridge toward home.
 
They hadn't traveled far along the fork of the river when it began to snow. Soon, the trail was obliterated and the two men lost their bearings. For two days they wandered without food and the snow piled two to three feet deep. They prayed fervently, knowing the desperate situation they faced. Even their horses were exhausted.
 
Then, on the morning of the third day, the storm broke and they recognized the hills near their original starting point. At last their prayers were answered, as Kumen put it, “by the kind Father above.”
 
These experiences helped shape Kumen for the rest of his life. He went on to be a member of the infamous Hole in the Rock Expidition, where he played a key role in assisting with a seemingly impossible trek. He later helped build a city and became a leader in the community.
 
Stories like these aren't limited to Kumen Jones. After the violent death of his father and uncle, Joseph F. Smith was required to drive one of the ox teams from Montrose, Iowa to Winter Quarters, and later to the Salt Lake Valley at the age of nine. Many of my ancestors built towns from land that had scarcely been seen by white men. Say what you may about teenage marriage, but the truth is that many women married young and it was really hard work. They matured quickly. My Grandmother Workman buried seven of her own children before any of them passed the age of twenty-five. Our progenitors didn't have the conveniences we enjoy. They washed clothes on a wash board, grew their own food, and built their own homes.
 
Even in more recent history, my wife's grandfather, Howard Smith—at the age of eighteen—was a tail gunner in the South Pacific during World War II. My own grandfather, Claude Lacy, walked seven miles home every evening after football practice when he couldn't hitch a ride. They made-do during The Great Depression, living in conditions far below our current standards.
 
The truth is, we live in luxury. It is generally agreed upon that we, as a society, have become much softer than we used to be. In my view, we are not as often doing those hard things that our ancestors did—the things that made them tough. Even the arduous jobs of manual labor we are passing off to immigrants.
 
I have thought about this lately—a lot. Although we as adults are not exempt, I have particularly observed the youth. Anxiety rates are climbing steeply. I watch as youth and young adults get anxiety and quit over seemingly small tasks. The age that kids tend to “grow up” is continually on the rise. The first-time mother that once matured quickly at age fifteen has now morphed into the “man-child” that plays video games and lives at home into his late twenties. We have become seekers of pleasure rather than choosing to accept greater responsibility.
 

In light of all this, I would like to tell you about my daughter, Kaitlyn, who right now is definitely doing a “hard thing.”
 
For the past two months she has attended Basic Training in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. It has been the most physically draining thing she has done in her entire life. At barely five feet, she is the shortest soldier in her platoon. She trains alongside the males, where the rigors and abuses of boot camp do not discriminate by sex.
 
Through her letters we have been able to capture a small glimpse of her world—the sub-zero temperatures, ruck-marches in the dark, drill sergeants yelling in her face and a run through the gas chamber.
 
Even “chow” is no cake-walk. As she describes it: “You must be silent, keep your heels together, bring your bowl to the food when you pour something in it, and if you mess up on anything you will probably get caught and they will make you sing the Army song at the top of your lungs for 5 minutes, or repeat a phrase over and over again. For example, if you forget to keep your heels together they'll make you say, 'heels together makes the food taste better!' while everyone else eats.”
 
One of my favorite stories is of the night that one of the males in her platoon lied to the drill sergeant. Instead of going to bed, they had to go outside in the rain with rakes and “organize the mud.”
 
She wrote about another incident: “Last night once we finally got to go to bed a drill sergeant came in our bay while we were sleeping and found a weapon that was left on semi instead of safe, so we got woken up and smoked. They had us run up and down the stairs changing into different uniforms in very small time periods. Then, when we were late to change into the next uniform, we would have to do exercises.”
 
To say the least, it was a difficult two months. She was sleep-deprived, pushed to the limit physically, and psychologically tested to the max. She was almost completely cut off from the outside world. Except for a couple of brief, five-minutes calls, she had no access to her cell phone. Every minute of her life was dictated.
 

Upon completion of Basic Training, Jenelle and I traveled to Fort Leonard Wood for Kaitlyn's graduation. Families of soldiers crammed into Baker Theater and watched four platoons march into the auditorium in their dress blues, all in cadence, and all returning song to their drill sergeant. It was quite a sight to see. I was impressed with the polished professionalism of the soldiers. I was surprised at the diversity of people serving our nation, which included many from different countries and territories.
 
It felt good to talk to Kaitlyn face to face. I thought she might call us “sir” and “ma'am,” but it was still “mom” and “dad.” We could tell that she made many friends as she was continually greeting fellow comrades after graduation. We were able to spend a majority of two days together, catching up on the last two months, and enjoying our final time with her before she left for advanced training in San Antonio.
 
Kaitlyn told us that Basic Training made her tougher mentally. Her discipline and character had greatly improved. When asked what was the biggest thing she learned, she gave two answers: 1) How much she appreciated her friends and family back home and how she was raised, and 2) To have faith in your failures. This means to trust that you can overcome your failures and to let them teach you to become better.
 
This now brings us back to the original topic. How do we become a better people if we don't get out of our comfort zone and do difficult things that may involve failure?
 
We may not be forced into a situation where we have to drive an ox team across the plains, or fight a war in the South Pacific. Boot Camp may never be a thing that falls within our life plans. But all of us can accept greater responsibility and look for opportunities to do hard things. ♠