My dad was not much of a talker, he wasn’t one of those folks that seem to enjoy the sound of their own voice. Usually two things came out of his mouth, marching orders or short sentences that spoke volumes.
For as long as I can remember every cut or bruise was followed with, “Well, there is another lesson learned.” Part two was usually something like, “Don’t be afraid of scars, each one is a lesson learned and a story to tell.”
As I lean toward the philosophical side of life, the idea of scars representing lessons learned and stories to be told took on a broader meaning than just the scars on my knuckles or chin. I began to see old roads as scars upon the land with stories to be told and lessons to be learned from those stories. 
From above the ruins of Cadiz Summit look out across the vast Mojave Desert where old Route 66 appears as a black scar upon the land. In that scar are the stories of desperate families seeking a new life, cursing truck drivers with rigs laboring to pull the grade under a broiling sun, and men like James Chambless who saw opportunity in the river of traffic that flowed east and west. In each of these stories are lessons to be learned.
It is in a similar manner that I view old trucks with their dings, scape’s, and dents. Each tells a tale and with each tale there is a lesson.
As old trucks have been an important part of my life for at least forty years it is easy to see my life reflected in them. The years may have taken their toll on the shine, they may be a bit ragged around the edges, but they still are quite capable of a hard days work, and seem to function best on the road less traveled where speed just isn’t important.
In a nut shell, that is a portrait of me. With each passing day I become a bit more ragged around the edges, the shine is about gone, but I am still capable of a good days work, and my favorite place to be is on the road less traveled where the pace is what I set and not what the world dictates.
Even though I have traveled many miles on the road less traveled with ancient trucks, many of which predated me by a decade or two, it is still my goal to blend my passion for these into a road trip of epic proportions. In this yet unfilled dream, my dearest friend and I take to the back roads of America in a 1931 Ford pick up truck, the only year for an all steel cab in the Model A series.
With dings, dents, and a desert patina on the hood and fenders, and our gear stowed in the back under a tarp, we will set out to seek the very essence of what makes this nation great, its people. As this is a dream there are few constraints, especially in regards to time or money, so, dependant on the level of frustration generated by the day, the route taken ebbs and flows from a simple jaunt west along old 66 to a grand adventure to 48 states and even Alaska.
All of this leads to another of my dads favorite lines. Have a dream, strive to make it a reality, but in the mean time, live life and don’t dream it away.
Okay, a couple of quick notes. Today’s post is a bit shorter than envisioned or promised. Excuses abound ranging from trying to catch up at the office to a cold and very sore face. Still these do not equal justification. 
This weekend we have our travel tips and book reviews. I think you will find a little something for everyone. 
The website has languished far to long and has resulted in an endless string of broken promises which is not acceptable. So, does anyone want a website or domain name, Route 66 Info Center?
Last on our list of new business is Destination Kingman. Check out the Destination Kingman page on Facebook to get an idea as to why I claim this almost magical place as my adopted hometown.