#A Road Home Along the Lincoln Highway

[williammarksommer]

Sacramento 6

Sacramento, California

A Road Home Along the Lincoln Highway series

Hasselblad 500c/m

Kodak Tmax 400iso

[cdt-toomi-vangrizzle]

Lincoln to Helena, Helena Lewis & Clark National Forest

July 20-22

July 20

We hitched out of Lincoln with a man named Caleb, who keeps cattle up on the Lewis & Clark Pass. We hiked smooth switchbacks up and out of Roger Pass and cruised along some rolling mountains/hills. We had a 13 mile water carry to start the day; the thing about the Continental Divide is that it’s known for water flowing away to either side of the continent… so there isn’t a lot of water there. We got to Flesher Pass and had to go a quarter mile down a highway in order to get water. That’s when Greg showed up in his Toyota sedan. He was eager to help and to learn where the water source was, so he drove us to and from the water. He had a skeleton sitting in his backseat named Bernie, because he’d gotten him at or for Burning Man. Thanks, Greg!

After getting water, we ate lunch and hiked another 10 miles to water and camp. I was still having issues with my Achilles and wrapping my ankles in ace bandages. (Happy birthday to Liam and Zach!)

July 21

We got up and out early to go to High Divide Outfitters, a “gear shop” that a man named Dave runs out of his house that’s right on trail. That place was tiny and CHOCK FULL of gear! I bought new shoes — altra Olympus 2’s, so they were the model from before altra sold to VF. Owen bought a new pack, because his had been bothering him and was misaligned from his hip issues on the AT. We shipped our old gear home.

We decided to take some dirt roads as an alternate rather than take the ridge. That shaved 6 miles and skipped a 16-20 mile water carry. It was quite hot out — in the 90s. My ankles got sore midday but the pain subsided. Overall the new shoes were working out. We hiked a while with new friends Danger Dave and Wonder. The washed out road back up to the trail was STEEP! Owen exclaimed, “this is ridiculous!” and we heard a bellowing moo of agreement from one of the cattle ranging nearby. Well-timed.

We, Danger Dave, and Wonder all camped together back near the official trail. 

July 22

We hiked out to the highway in order to hitch into Helena. On the way, we saw a big, old wooden railroad truss with blown down trees resting on it. We also saw a caves in old cabin and outhouse. We assume these are remnants from some kind of mining operation. We walked out at Priest Pass Road and hitched into town. 

We resupplied and ate lunch at the Safeway. Then we went to the Montana Inn, which was a multi-room Airbnb with shared common spaces. It was a cool old building with many additions and a colorful history including suicide, nuns, unwed mothers, former convicts, and the elderly. There were lots of fun Knick knacks and antiques. I took a nice, hot shower; as I was finishing up and opening the shower curtain, the whole metal curtain rod came crashing down on me. I thought I broke my nose on impact! luckily it was just a big bruise and cut. The proprietor had to come back and close down that bathroom. Biggest injury wasn’t even on trail!

A woman named Lauren who works for the CDTC and, who Owen knows from the DTV / CDTC sock design, picked us up and we went out for beers and ice cream. Downtown Helena includes a “walking mall,” where there was a Grateful Dead cover band and a bunch of dancing boomers — very Burlington vibes. Lauren also drove us by the Montana Capitol building, which was lovely.

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 22: Sunday January 22, 2023 - “Oregon Coast”

I felt like a ghost. Haunting my younger self, re-running these roads from Ecola State Park on down to Newport, through Tillamook and Corvallis and back up to PDX.   Out here where I spent a Christmas Eve before I knew even what I was doing, with a picnic basket and an idea and a bundle of firewood on the sands outside Netarts with ghosts of Christmas Past and Present dancing with me in the blowing sand - very green, then, and really up to something but not ever really sure,  but now with a grey beard and experience to know that the road does always provide, and now, as I drove out hoping to catch a sunset that would move me in some important way, out over that powerful ocean where the clouds always break for me, remembering that familiar feeling of hoping that was true again, and then there it was finally - the Pacific, the ocean that I dreamed into on so many lonely nights and empowered days, thinking about that old Primo Levi quote about feeling strong...  this is a powerful place, a place that I’ll always be drawn to.   I wound down the road, recognizing things and remembering things from a place I hadn’t seen in almost 13 years, and other places like Newport that I came back to over and over, as a waypoint on my Aesthetic Voyage.  I wondered, as I drove by, if Luke would remember guiding me to that Shell Station, the one coming up right before the road takes a 90 degree right, back before I had a smart phone of my own.  “Hey are you by a computer?”  Feels like a different life ago, and it was, but the timeless place is unmoved, unchanged.  The sea is still there, with its constant flow; harsh blows, what a gift.  So familiar and Close to the heart, Running running, born to run, like Christmas Night in Lincoln City, before the photo blog even existed, and how The Boss sings me through every time - “you signing that to me? - One Night Only!”  A runaway American Dream and Wild Oats.   Id like to think the place still knows me well too; that I havent been gone too long, the different chapters, the different lovers, the different times I came here looking for something - that restless cowboy up and down the 101- the path of paradise for me forever and always.  An Important Place that always knew the winding path I was on, and how I’d get there, and now I come back “home” like Christopher Robin to remember with delicate nostalgia and pride for how it was, and even what wasn’t -  Like that sad lovers resort at Depoe Bay, the first time I really remember my heart being broke - how I screamed out at the Gratiot Airport into the night over that place right there, as I rolled by it again, dark as it should be;  Stories untold, never written, right there - important more for maybe what didn’t happen here 17 years ago so it could be just mine, how here at this state park I pull into, I sat and burned divorce papers in the campfire, that was a sad night, and it was only mine, endings here too; and how just miles down the road there is a girl with a tattoo marking a path I chose not to go down as I verbed my way back East instead, and how the gift of that story came out of this mist.  The mist, thats always sent me home with many gifts, and made me work for most of them, which this wildman always appreciated.  So many things to tell out along these mile markers, of Chili Bombs, and running for mayor, and beer boiled clams, and sleeping on the sand, and me haunting them all in my rental, enjoying the green views of a pacific northwest forest highway, as if I was driving with my own self there in the backseat, in the rearview mirror the only difference between us is the miles  “The difference between love and happiness is you.” And maybe there is a wink from the universe and a nudge that I am figuring it out, as I cycle back through the places and the stories and the people of that time and space - that the adventure needs to come back, and the fire, and the blurry eyed idealism that the world worked, now with age and wisdom to truly enjoy how the story unfolds, where I used words like soulful, and supplication, and I didnt feel so much pressure and I laughed, and didn’t worry so much about the hurts, though itd be easy to.  “Welcome back old friend.”  I see you, I recognize you.  This is an important place.  A place that knows me.  And the treasure I left here, and the treasure I took away.  A place that is mine, again.

Song: Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run

Quote: '...Ah, life is a gate, a way, a path to Paradise anyway, why not live for fun and joy and love or some sort of girl by a fireside, why not go to your desire and LAUGH...'  ~Jack Kerouac

[aestheticvoyage2024]

Day 210: Sunday July 28, 2024 - "Mother Road"

"Drive all day and call that shit pure bliss."

Woke in Jefferson City and crossed the Missouri River for the first of 5 times and then followed the Missouri Wine Road knowing that I would drive all day today to pull into my parents driveway sometime after dark. I had destination but no itinerary. I would drive all day and call that shit pure bliss. And it is - nothing cures the blues like that wide open road, and running new track on the map. I would flow through the new and different roads of four states today, each contributing their own important share to the roads home. I would keep up the game of collecting beer and souvenirs from each state and would end the day sharing and telling each one's story.

“So go down the roads, boy, that you need to go, but you’ll need to understand, that there ain’t no home and there is no cure for a no good ramblin man.”

Drove the wine road down from Jefferson City through Augusta, stopping in Hermann to get Missouri's souvenir for my Mom - a Germantown Wine. Familiar places, shred of my history here - remembering being drawn to this beautiful road that follows the Katy Trail and Missour River. Bliss as I swam right then left, up then down. Run like a river. The best road of all of them, on the way home, Missouri highway 94.

“So let me go down the line. I want to feel it all. Joy pain and sky.”

Beautiful blue sky day - perfect weather for this drive, aside from a little rain in New Mexico, where I'm sure they needed it. Stopped for lunch in Fast Eddie's in Alton, MO where the nice barmaid helped me order - a big elwood, chicks on a stick, homemade bratwurst, and jumbo shrimp you-peel-ems. Unbelievable 90 minute fill up that was worth it for a little taste of that past life, before getting back out on the road. North of Alton, I found the track I chose was the modern day Route 66 with several historical turn outs for the original road as I traversed little Illinois towns.

The beating heart of The Mother Road, can be found on a 1 mile stretch in Auburn Illinois, where the original bricks of Route 66 sing under the tires along corn fields and oak trees, happily one of my roads home. 

“No phone no pool no pets. I ain’t got no cigarettes”

Kings of the road - this blue highway ramble I’ve been accompanied by track. Maybe this one is that midnight train to Bangor Maine, or that same one that followed through the rain storm in nowhere New Mexico. The veins of the homeland and so much more. Means by no means we keep ticking along. Last two nights I found some stars to sleep under and through a buzz of cicadas I heard the trains, persistently pumping, not slowing for sleep, doing what trains were out here to do. To ramble. 

“If I’m proof of anything, it’s that God sure loves troubadours.”

Cut across straight East, on some country road that might have been called Lincoln, or Barry, or Wisner, for all I knew. With green fields, silos, and windmills it looked a lot like the place I grew up. I turned north in Reynolds IN and randomly drove through my Aunt Barb's old hometown while the sun went down. I had driven all day long - down that wine road in Missouri, the brick road in Illinois, and now the sunsetty road to take my home to Lake Michigan. The sun, setting on my left, was in my face for the first time on this drive. Crossed into Michigan near New Buffalo, and slapped a Live A Great Story sticker on then followed the Red Arrow Highway north to Holland where I finished the drive down the same track thatd been my runaway ten years ago. FInally got a pull on an ETA once I got to Holland - only a littel further to go to that one last nav point. Ludington. 1:15am. Blue Highway Ramble in the books.

Song: Zach Bryan - No Cure

Quote: "My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad." ~ Jack Kerouac

[roomchailimited]

The Great American Road Trip: Coast-to-Coast Adventures

The allure of the open road and the diverse landscapes of the United States make a coast-to-coast road trip the ultimate adventure for travelers. For Bangladeshi explorers, this journey offers a unique opportunity to experience the vastness and variety of America, from bustling cities and quaint towns to stunning national parks and serene coastlines.

Starting Point: New York City, New York

Begin your epic road trip in New York City, the bustling metropolis known for its iconic landmarks and vibrant culture. Stroll through Central Park, visit the Statue of Liberty, and immerse yourself in the art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Don’t miss Times Square’s dazzling lights and the diverse culinary scene that spans from street food to Michelin-starred restaurants.

Heading South: Washington, D.C., and the Blue Ridge Parkway

From New York City, drive south to Washington, D.C., the nation's capital. Explore the National Mall, home to monuments and museums such as the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian Institution. After soaking in the history and culture, head towards the Blue Ridge Parkway, a scenic route that winds through the Appalachian Mountains. Enjoy the breathtaking views, hiking trails, and charming small towns along the way.

The Deep South: Nashville, Memphis, and New Orleans

Continue your journey into the heart of the Deep South. In Nashville, Tennessee, experience the birthplace of country music with visits to the Country Music Hall of Fame and live performances at the Grand Ole Opry. Next, head to Memphis, home of the blues and the legendary Graceland, Elvis Presley’s former residence.

Travel further south to New Orleans, Louisiana, a city known for its rich history, vibrant music scene, and unique cuisine. Explore the French Quarter, enjoy jazz music on Bourbon Street, and savor Creole and Cajun dishes like gumbo and beignets.

The Heartland: Texas and the Southwest

Drive west through Texas, where you can experience the distinct culture and landscapes of the Lone Star State. Visit Austin, known for its live music scene and eclectic vibe, and San Antonio, home to the historic Alamo and the beautiful River Walk.

Continue into the Southwest, stopping at Carlsbad Caverns National Park in New Mexico to explore its stunning underground formations. In Arizona, the awe-inspiring Grand Canyon awaits, offering breathtaking vistas and numerous hiking opportunities.

The West Coast: California’s Pacific Highway

Head towards the Pacific Coast and drive along California’s iconic Highway 1, also known as the Pacific Coast Highway. Start in San Diego, with its beautiful beaches and vibrant nightlife. Make your way north to Los Angeles, where you can visit Hollywood, stroll along Venice Beach, and explore the Getty Center.

Further up the coast, experience the charm of Santa Barbara and the dramatic coastline of Big Sur. Finally, reach San Francisco, where you can walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, visit Alcatraz Island, and explore the diverse neighborhoods like Chinatown and Haight-Ashbury.

The Final Leg: The Pacific Northwest

Your coast-to-coast adventure concludes in the Pacific Northwest. Drive north to Portland, Oregon, known for its lush parks, coffee culture, and craft breweries. End your journey in Seattle, Washington, where you can visit the iconic Space Needle, Pike Place Market, and the beautiful surrounding areas such as Mount Rainier and the Puget Sound.

Conclusion

The Great American Road Trip is more than just a journey from coast to coast; it’s an exploration of the diverse cultural, historical, and natural landscapes that make the United States unique. For Bangladeshi travelers, this adventure offers an unforgettable experience of discovery and excitement.

Plan Your Great American Road Trip with Roomchai Limited Roomchai Limited specializes in creating customized travel packages for Bangladeshi travelers. From planning your route to booking accommodations and providing expert travel tips, Roomchai Limited ensures your coast-to-coast adventure is seamless and memorable. Embark on the ultimate American road trip with Roomchai Limited and create memories that will last a lifetime.

[greyshn]

Pink houses in brooklyn

#PINK HOUSES IN BROOKLYN FULL#

"John Mellencamp: No "Pink Houses" for NOM".

^ Mellencamp Asks McCain to Stop Using Tunes Archived June 20, 2008, at the Wayback Machine.

"Mellencamp Music for McCain? Like Paper & Fire".

^ a b Amy, Argetsinger Roxanne Roberts (February 6, 2008).

"Pink Houses, Black Lives, and John Mellencamp's Misunderstood Legacy". "The Real Meaning Behind John Mellencamp's Song Pink Houses".

^ "Talent Almanac 1985: Top Pop Singles".

Joel Whitburn's Top Pop Singles, 14th Edition: 1955-2012.

^ "John Mellencamp art exhibit set to open in DeLand".

^ Classic Tracks: John Cougar Mellencamp's “Pink Houses” Archived at the Wayback Machine.

^ a b Pink Houses: John Mellencamp : Rolling Stone.

Mellencamp's views on same sex-marriage and equal rights for people of all sexual orientations are at odds with NOM's stated agenda" and requesting that NOM "find music from a source more in harmony with your views than Mr. At Mellencamp's instruction, his publicist sent a cease and desist letter to NOM stating "that Mr. In 2010, "Pink Houses" was used by the National Organization for Marriage (NOM) at events opposing same-sex marriage. In January 2009, Mellencamp played "Pink Houses" at We Are One: The Obama Inaugural Celebration at the Lincoln Memorial. Mellencamp contacted the McCain campaign pointing out Mellencamp's support for the progressive wing of the Democratic Party and questioning McCain's use of his music in response, the McCain campaign ceased using Mellencamp's songs. "Pink Houses" along with "Our Country" was played by Senator John McCain at political events for his 2008 presidential campaign. The song was also used at events for Edwards' 2008 presidential campaign. In 2004, the song was played at events for Senator John Edwards' presidential campaign. Ironically, the song came to be used in political advertisements and campaign rallies, especially by conservatives. The repeating line in the chorus of "Ain’t that America" was meant to be sarcastic and cynical. Mellencamp had intended Pink Houses to be a lesson on race, class and survival in America. At an October 2014 press conference, he stated: "A long time ago, I wrote a song called 'Pink Houses.' Now when I hear that song, all I can think is: 'Why didn't I do a better job on the last verse?' If I had written it today, the last verse would've had more meaning." Charts Chart (1983–1984) Mellencamp has stated many times since the release of "Pink Houses" that he is unhappy with the song's final verse. "He waved, and I waved back," Mellencamp said in an interview with Rolling Stone. There was an old black man sitting outside his little pink shotgun house with his cat in his arms, completely unperturbed by the traffic speeding along the highway in his front yard. Monroe Houses, 805 Taylor Avenue, Apt.Recorded in a farmhouse in Brownstown, Indiana, the song was inspired when Mellencamp was driving along an overpass on the way home to Bloomington, Indiana, from the Indianapolis airport. 6D, Bronxīutler Houses, 1330 Webster Avenue, Apt. 8B, BronxĬastle Hill Houses, 635 Castle Hill Avenue, Apt. 6B, Bronxīayview Houses, 2115 Rockaway Parkway, Apt. 10A, Brooklynīrownsville Houses, 345 Dumont Avenue, Apt. 1C, Queensīaruch Houses, 90 Columbia Street, Apt. 2F, BrooklynĪstoria Houses, 3-10 Astoria Boulevard, Apt. Red Hook West Houses, 82 Dwight Street, Apt. 3C, Bronxĭouglass Houses, 830 Amsterdam Avenue, Apt. Red Hook West Houses, 416 Columbia Street, Apt. Queensbridge South Houses, 41-05 10th Street, Apt. BC, BronxĬarver Houses, 1545 Madison Avenue, Apt. Mary’s Park Houses, 550 Cauldwell Avenue, Apt. Patterson Houses, 314 East 143rd Street, Apt. 4D, BrooklynĬampos Plaza, 205 Avenue C, Apt. 9D, Manhattanįiorentino Plaza, 2211 Pitkin Avenue, Apt. Ocean Bay Apartments, 54-81 Almeda Avenue, Apt. Patterson Houses, 271 East 143rd Street, Apt. Williamsburg Houses, 167 Ten Eyck Walk, Apt. 3E, Brooklynīerry Houses, 801 Manor Road, Apt. Van Dyke I Houses, 372 Blake Avenue, Apt. Grant Houses, 430 West 125th Street, Apt. Mott Haven Houses, 340 Alexander Avenue, Apt. Union Consolidated Houses, 819 East 167th Street, Apt. The following are the people, with their former addresses, excluded as of November 11-December 9, 2013.

#PINK HOUSES IN BROOKLYN FULL#

The full list can be viewed at on.nyc.gov/nychanotwanted. See reviews, photos, directions, phone numbers and more for Pink House locations in Brooklyn, NY. This list keeps residents informed of the Authority's ongoing efforts to improve the quality of life for New Yorkers in public housing and to allow for the peaceful and safe use of its facilities. Find 177 listings related to Pink House in Brooklyn on YP.com. Below is a partial list of names of individuals who have been excluded permanently from NYCHA's public housing developments.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Oh, no they did not! Normally, I wouldn’t bother to post this house, but I expected to see an historic colonial home- the epitome of old Americana, but I actually backed up in shock. Look at how they modernized this house. It’s an abomination. 

It’s in Harrisonville, Pennsylvania, and is the former  "Green Hill Tollgate house" that sits along Historic Lincoln Highway and was once part of the Chambersburg to Bedford Turnpike Road. Asking $249K. 

Are you fuckin’ kidding me with this kitchen? Well, whoopdee doo, they left a fireplace that used to be the cooking hearth, and made it look like a pilgrim hat. 

How authentic- they hung a bucket, not even a pot, in the hearth. 

They do make old brick and stone to simulate the original. All they left was the floor. This makes me sick.

Even if that closet is original, what were they thinking with that sink????

At least they left this alone. 

Nope. This bedroom looks like it’s in a modern McMansion. 

A horror. I can’t even say it’s a pretty bath.

I guess this is the main bdm. All this reno and they leave the bathroom open, w/a curtain. 

Terrible.

I’m sorry, but they could’ve done way better, especially in the kitchen.

https://my.flexmls.com/CodySmith5/search/shared_links/7UkwC/listings

[rolandopujol]

They say today is National Take Down Your Tree Day.   I actually get around to doing that a day later, on Jan. 7. That’s because it’s tradition in my household to keep the Christmas decorations up through Jan. 6, the final day of the 12 Days of Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany, or Three Kings.   So around here, it’s National Post Photos of Your Tree Signage Day, and I present a sampling of the signs I’ve shot over the years that feature what could pass for a Christmas tree. Fortunately, you can enjoy these places 365 days a year! I’ll begin with The Blue Spruce, a former motel in Keeseville, New York, in the Adirondacks. I adore the script on COLOR TV. Next, we head to Wilmington, New York, and the North Pole Lodge, down the road from the historic Santa’s Workshop theme park, which I profiled on Christmas day.  We stay in the Adirondacks and drive to the evocatively named Northwood Cabins in Tupper Lake. This place is so darn cute, and every time I drive by, I want to stay here. Let’s now head south to the Catskills, home to the Catskill Motel in Liberty, New York. I’m partial to its hand-painted highway sign down the road. Next, we jet down to Reddick, Florida and admire the sign for Pine Grove Trailer Park. What a neon beauty it must have been in its day. Now we’re off to the heartland and the Cedar Lodge in North Platte, Nebraska, along the Lincoln Highway.  Our tour next takes us to another Blue Spruce, this one the Insta-famous lodge in Gallup, New Mexico, one of the great stops of Route 66.  Let’s hightail it to California, and drive up into the San Jacinto Mountains west of Palm Springs, where the Hicksville Pines Chalets and Motel, a treasure of Idyllwild-Pine Cove, California, awaits. Next, we’ll go to northern California and grab a bite at one of my favorite greasy spoons in San Francisco, the Pinecrest Diner.   And we conclude our tour with The Cedars. This neon sign is all that’s left of what was a beloved restaurant in Detroit, Oregon. The building and much of the community was tragically wiped out in a forest fire in 2020. What a remarkable survivor, and symbol of hope amid such devastation. #retrologist (at United States of America) https://www.instagram.com/rolandopujol/p/CYaPfYnLN-e/?utm_medium=tumblr

[williammarksommer]

Shakes

Pinole, California

A Road Home Along the Lincoln Highway series

Hasselblad 500c/m

Kodak Tmax 400iso

[route22ny]

"The empty stretch of road goes on for miles, nothing but the occasional sign or the passerby as the pavement beneath my tires breathes the melody of past motorists. The Loneliest Highway is my lyrical journey across Nevada finding solace in the emptiness along the Lincoln Highway in the wake of the Covid-19 Pandemic. This melancholy song is driven by the feelings of isolation that conveys the essence of the stay at home orders and the loneliness that came in seclusion afterward. Through these discoveries in loneliness along the road I was able to develop catharsis of the moment and empowerment to show this current time. Along this lonely road the lines move like a day in wait as I pass through the forgotten towns that align the highway, nothing to be said or heard but the whispers of what came before and a hope in betterment of tomorrow."

More: https://monovisions.com/william-mark-sommer-the-loneliest-highway and here: https://www.tumblr.com/search/%23The+Loneliest+Highway

[blackswaneuroparedux]

“Woman can, if she will”: the Van Buren Sisters as the road warriors of Americana

In the summer of 1916, the United States was poised to enter the First World War. Two New York sisters, Augusta Van Buren, 24, and Adeline Van Buren, 22, were eager members of the Preparedness Movement, a campaign dedicated to strengthening American military readiness at home in anticipation of joining the conflict in Europe. Gussie and Addie were born into privilege and a life of high society but nevertheless had a pronounced adventurous streak. They learned to fly airplanes, could handle themselves in a boxing ring, raced horses, and rode motorcycles. The sisters decided that though the military wouldn’t allow women weren’t near combat lines, they would make excellent dispatch riders - motorcycle couriers, basically - racing between intelligence outposts and the front lines to deliver necessary communications. Gussie and Addie figured this would be a way into serving the military during wartime, as they’d free up men for combat duty.

These were dangerous positions, as they’d be valuable targets, riding in dismal conditions, but the Van Burens were confident their motorcycle skills and toughness gave them all the experience they’d need. First, however, they’d have to convince the military that women could serve that role successfully.

The sisters decided to ride coast to coast, from New York City to San Francisco, as a demonstration that women could serve as dispatch riders as well as any man. This at a time when female motorcyclists weren’t exactly unheard of but were still rare enough that only a decade before, the magazine Motorcycle Illustrated ran a headline that read, simply: “Detroit Has a Female Motorcyclist.” As in one. In all of Detroit.

This was also long before paved highways and the infrastructure to support motorised travel existed across much of the United States, especially in the West. There were few places to get fuel, water, or food. The sisters decided to follow the newly christened “Lincoln Highway” stretching from Manhattan to the southern shores of the Golden Gate in San Francisco, but “highway” today denotes perhaps a grander road than actually existed then. Much of it was simply rough dirt tracks. They’d be on their own, left to figure out how to navigate, resupply, source petrol, and defend themselves. Bandits still held up stagecoaches in the more desolate parts of the highway.

To prepare, Gussie and Addie went on long-distance rides in New York, growing accustomed to long days in the saddle and exposure to elements, testing their gear and clothing, gradually increasing the distance they rode until finally they were ready.

On July 4, 1916, the sisters climbed aboard their top-of-the-line bikes, courtesy of Indian Motorcycles. They each rode the Powerplus model (which sold for $275), a 1,000cc machine with a top speed of 65 mph, a webbed frame that allowed for a bit more suspension travel, and gas headlights (likely acetylene), which meant they’d be able to charge ahead through pitch black nights in the still almost completely rural West. These were simple but rugged motorcycles capable of mixed terrain travel. They wore only leather caps, sturdy goggles, leather jackets and britches, and calf-high boots. From Brooklyn’s Sheepshead Bay racetrack, they set off, bound for San Francisco, some 3,800 miles of hard riding away. Just three days earlier, in France, the horrific fighting at the Battle of the Somme began.

“There were no road maps west of the Mississippi,” their great-nephew Robert Van Buren once said of his aunts’ trip. “The roads were just cow passes, dirt trails, wagon trails, things like that.”

After an uneventful beginning of their journey, things took a turn for the absurd and difficult once they reached the Midwest.

At the time, in many towns, especially in rural America, women wearing pants was a serious violation of the social order. Gussie and Addie were just out of Chicago, barreling west through the ring of small townships that radiated from the city through central Illinois, when they were pulled over by police for their scandalous dress and cited for wearing men’s clothing. This pattern was repeated several times as the sisters roared into towns unaccustomed to women on motorcycles, especially women unaccompanied by men, and definitely not accustomed to women on motorcycles, without men, wearing pants. Still, they persisted.

Though they’d hoped to reach San Francisco by August, the sisters, delayed by weather and repeated run-ins with the law, arrived in the Rocky Mountains in August, a month after they’d set out. Gussie and Addie, in a “to hell with it” moment, decided to take a detour and ride to the summit of Pikes Peak, at 14,109 feet, not an easy ride with the motorized vehicles of their day. In doing so, they became the first women to reach the Pikes summit by any kind of motorized transport. From there, they beelined as west as they could over the Rockies, trudging up isolated trails softened and slickened with mud during torrential afternoon rains. Eventually, their motorcycles stuck fast in sticky mud and the sisters were forced to abandon their bikes and walk on foot to Gilman, a mining town filled with men shocked to see two young women emerge from the hills, freezing and wearing mud-splattered leathers.

The miners helped the Van Burens free their motorcycles, which they proceeded to dump repeatedly in the impossibly wet trails, as they headed further west. The arid high desert near Salt Lake City nearly proved to be the end of them after they lost their trail in a dust storm and became disoriented, stalling their progress. A passing prospector, his horse-drawn cart loaded with water and food, quenched their thirst and pointed them in the direction of safety.

Finally, on September 2, the pair rolled into San Francisco. They’d covered 5,500 miles and taken twice as long as they’d hoped to arrive, but braving horrendous conditions and the consternation of befuddled policeman along the way, the Van Buren sisters had become only the second and third women to complete a coast-to-coast motorcycle adventure. Still, with a bit of gas in their tanks, they decided to extend the trip even further, motoring south along the coast, clear to Tijuana, Mexico.

The media cheered the Van Buren sisters upon completing their journey, but a great deal of attention was paid to the motorcycles, not the riders. Some newspapers accused them of play-acting, galavanting around in tight khaki trousers and boots to “display their feminine counters in nifty khaki and leather uniforms.”

Worse yet, for the Van Buren sisters, the military rejected their application for duty as dispatch riders. Three years before women won the right to vote, many sectors of society still weren’t ready to accept women in unfamiliar roles.

Unfazed, they went on to fulfilling lives. Gussie served as a pilot and a member of Amelia Earhart’s Ninety-Nines, a group dedicated to burgeoning the ranks of women pilots. Addie earned a law degree and became an attorney at a time few women went to college, let alone practiced law.

Still, they left their mark on motorcycling and adventuring. In 2002, the sisters were elected to the AMA Motorcycle Hall of Fame. Today, women and men go on memorial cross-country rides in honour of them.

And a line Gussie once told a reporter about their trip, is oft-printed on t-shirts and bumper stickers: “Woman can, if she will.”

[katehuntington]

Title: Black Dog - part two Word count: ±2250 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other   trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part two summary: After successfully wrapping up a werewolf case in Waco, Texas, the boys are on their way again. However, an unexpected phone call might just result in a change of course. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and  medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     Waco, Texas      November 30th, 2005 - Present Day

     “Get your motor runnin’. Head out on the highway! Lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes our way.”

     It’s early morning in sunny Texas as the black Chevrolet Impala shoots down Interstate 35, just outside the city of Waco. The temperatures are still cool at this hour, but the orange sun that’s rising in the East will change that within hours. It is exceptionally warm for this time of the year, even for this far south. 

     Dean has his window rolled down and joins Steppenwolf’s lead singer John Kay on the vocals. The hunt was pretty straight forward; after a day of traveling and three more to track the creature, the hunters were able to make the kill. He feels ten times better than he did five days ago, the night he got pulled out of the water without a pulse. But the rest, time and a high dose of antibiotics did him good. Deep breaths aren’t much trouble anymore and the cough is as good as gone. Even the sprint to tackle the werewolf didn’t set his lungs on fire. He’s off pain medication, slept horizontally for the first time in days, and is behind the wheel of his Baby; Dean feels good as new. His way of celebrating is by belting out every word of the legendary rock classic Born To Be Wild.

     “Yeah, Darlin’, go and make it happen. Take the world in a love embrace. Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space.”

     His brother, who is huddled in the corner of the door and the front seat, opens his eyes slightly and glares at his sibling through the drowsiness. He’s not sure what’s more surprising, Dean’s unbelievably good mood or the fact that he’s able to hit the notes.

     “Like a true nature’s child, we were born, born to be wild. We can climb so high, I never wanna die!” Dean sings as he drums on the wheel.  

     “Dude, I’m trying to sleep,” Sam complains. “Turn that shit down, will you?”      Dean looks aside, as if his brother just said something vile. Did he just call Steppenwolf shit? The oldest of the two shakes his head; I tried so hard to raise him right. 

     Instead of honoring Sam’s request, Dean lets go of the steering wheel and plays the solo on his air guitar. Startled, the passenger reaches to take control in order to keep the car steady, after which he eyes his brother. As he does, Dean turns the volume button clockwise and sings along again.      “Born to be wi-i-ild!” he cries out.      “Seriously?” The youngest of the two shoots a look of annoyance at the driver.      “Ah, c’mon, Sammy. Why can’t a guy have a little fun?” Dean replies.      “It’s Sam,” his brother reminds him. “And for one, because I barely slept last night, and secondly, because it’s seven thirty in the morning.”      “So? You’re usually the one who’s all chirpy at the crack of dawn. This way we have the whole day ahead, y’know. Make some use of it,” Dean quips.

     Sam lifts one eyebrow and observes the driver for a few seconds. Is this truly coming from his brother, who is anything but a morning person? Bullshit, he thinks to himself.      “That’s the best you could come up with?” he confronts.      Right at that moment, AC/DC’s Stiff Upper Lip starts playing on the radio channel and Dean can’t help but to shout out when he recognizes the introduction.      “Man, I love this song!”      Sam shakes his head. All that his brother is doing is avoiding the topic of conversation. “And Erin didn’t mind you leaving before the alarm?” 

     Dean looks aside, thinking of the gorgeous brunette he picked up at a bar last night during their celebratory drink. “Not sure, she was still asleep when I left,” he admits.      The younger Winchester scoffs. “That’s just mean.”      “It ain’t my style to hang around too long, you know that,” Dean reminds his brother, defending his actions.      “Why the hell are you in such a hurry? We don’t have a lead on Dad, we don’t have a lead on any case at all. Yet you dragged me out of the motel room at 6 AM to hit the road,” Sam questions.

     His brother shrugs and fails to answer the question. Instead, he mouths the lyrics of the song while cheerily banging his head to the beat.      “Dean!” Sam shouts, trying to get his brother to focus.      “What?!” Dean bounces back, getting somewhat annoyed with his brother’s persistence. “I just wanna get to Hillsboro to pick up that lock so I can finally fix the trunk, that’s all.”

     The passenger rolls his eyes at the lame excuse. “That’s not the reason, Dean. And you know it.”      Dean lays his hand on top of the wheel and shakes his head. “You’re seeing things that ain’t there, know that?”      “Funny, though, apparently you know that I’m talking about Zoë, without me even mentioning her,” the youngest returns with an attitude. “And do you honestly think I didn’t notice that you’re driving north?”      “We’re in Texas, Sam. I can’t exactly go South without crossing any fucking borders,” Dean argues. “Not to mention that ‘north’ is a lot of square miles in this country. How the hell would we possibly be able to find her?”      “I don’t know, man…” Sam stares up the road ahead, but then looks aside. “But you did think of it then.”

     Dean sighs, realizing his slip of the tongue. Okay, so maybe he did, but he isn’t going to admit that. “You are the one who keeps calling her every day. You’re full on stalking her, no wonder she doesn’t pick up.”      “I hope to God that’s the reason,” Sam responds, worried.      “She’s probably just neck deep in a case,” the driver brings to mind. “Zoë’s a good hunter, she knows her shit. Why would you think she’s in trouble?”      “I don’t know, just the way she took off. Like she wasn’t expecting to see us again,” Sam recalls.      “You mean that she was nice?” the oldest rephrases. “Look, if she’s in trouble or not, we’d be searching for a needle in a very big haystack. For now -” He turns on his blinker and exits the highway, “- I’m gonna patch up my Baby.”

     Ten minutes later, they pull over on 526 West Elm Street in Hillsboro. It’s a quiet lane on the outer side of the city, on which a little auto shop called Ronny’s Garage and Wrecker Services is situated. It’s not a big place, just a shed, from which the Stars and Stripes flag flutter playfully. A big Chevrolet truck is parked in front of the lawn, and several wreckages fill the large yard behind the house. On the other side of the sober home next to the shed, there’s a small gas station. 

     Dean cuts the engine and gets out of the car. A largely built man with big sideburns and a slight limp in his walk shows up from under the garage door and moves into the sun. Whipping his hands clean with a dirty cloth, he smiles at the sight of the ‘67 Impala. The oldest of the two Winchester brothers walks up the driveway.      “Ronny Davis!” Dean grins as he approaches him. “Man, it’s good to see ya.”      “Long time, no see, Winchester,” the big man says, embracing the hunter.

     Dean pats him on the back and restores the space between them. It has been a while. Last time he saw the brawny guy was at a shady diner in Tampa, where he and John helped Ron out on a Djinn case. It must have been four years ago, at least. Sam just left for college around that time.      “How’s your old man?” he wonders.      “He’s alright,” Dean says, keeping up appearances. “Workin’ another case.”

     It’s not a lie. Well, technically it’s not. He will leave out the part where his father is missing, though. Not telling the truth to the old friend is not something he’s comfortable with, but he will do anything to make sure his father’s work isn’t jeopardized. Sam was eager to reach out to other hunters in order to find him and although Dean wants to track him down just as well, he prefers to keep this in the family, letting sleeping dogs lie. Who knows who, or what, might be listening in. They will find Dad, when he wants to be found. 

     The two men enter the garage, where a 62’ Lincoln Continental lays on the operating table with a bared engine bay. While Dean nods at the car with appreciating eyes, Ronny turns around to  observe the youngest Winchester for a moment, who gets out of the car.      “I see Sam is back in action.”      “Yeah, dragged his ass back into the game,” Dean replies with a trace of regret in his voice.      “He’s an excellent hunter. We can use a few good men like him,” Ronny says. “Especially now that one of the very best was sent on early retirement.”      Dean chuckles at his comment and glances down. “How are you, by the way?”      Ron pulls up the pant leg of his overhaul, revealing the bionic prosthetic.      “It doesn’t even hurt a bit,” he jokes. “Ruguru took it right off, knee and all.”      “I’m sorry, man,” Dean sighs, his sympathetic eyes meeting Ronny’s.      “It’s quite alright, actually,” he assures, smiling at the ground. “I mean, I still have holy water on my nightstand and a sixgun by the door, but instead of killing monsters I fix cars now. Life could be worse.”

     Dean can’t help but to agree on that. A small prick of jealousy pierces his heart, because deep down, he wouldn’t mind living the ordinary life. Sure, he has embraced hunting, or at least acts like he has. He finds fulfillment in the job, saving people who are in need and ridding the world of evil, but it comes with great sacrifice. Who knows, maybe when they finally find the son of a bitch that killed his mother, he can lay down his weapons. Some day.

     The former hunter has walked to his workbench on which a dissected transmission box lays bare. “So, what brings you here?”      “Passing through, just wrapped up a case in Waco,” Dean tells him. “Some scumbag tried to break into the trunk, though. The lock is busted, couldn’t fix it. And since you have six and a half a Chevy in your backyard, I figured you’d be the guy who could help me out.”      “I actually dismantled a 69’ Caprice last week, same lock as the ‘67.” He moves a few boxes around, snuffling through the thousands of parts. In this organized chaos Ron is able to find what he’s looking for and pulls the lock plus keys from a drawer.      “Let’s get to work,” Dean suggests, contented.

     As the mechanics take a look at the Impala, Sam wanders off. Not going anywhere in particular, the youngest Winchester strolls down the crooked sidewalk, taking in his surroundings. None of the lawns in the neighborhood are taken care of, no one made the effort to water the grass. The houses seem neglected, paint is coming off the wooden frames and weeds growing through the tiles. 

     With a sigh he takes out his phone. Scrolling through the list of last outgoing calls, Zoë shows on the display over and over again. Dean’s right; he is stalking her. Despite that thought, he presses the green button and puts his new Blackberry against his ear, since the last one perished in the lake in Paragould.

     “This is the voicemail of Zoë Sullivan. You can leave a message after the--”

     Annoyed, Sam hangs up and walks on. As he enters the small shop by the gas station, a bell rings. A middle aged woman behind the counter looks up and greets him politely. He gives her a nod and takes a few candy bars from the selves, since there is no healthy alternative in stock to choose from. So much for breakfast, but at least this will save them from starvation.      “That will be $ 3,60, sir,” the lady informs while she puts the bars in a plastic bag.      He passes her a five dollar bill and takes the bag and his change. As she wishes him a nice day, he leaves. The sun almost blinds him, still hanging low, but shining brightly already. Sam narrows his eyes and starts to make his way back to the garage, when his phone rings. A bit startled, he hastily takes out his phone, hoping it’s Zoë, but the caller ID isn’t identified on the display. While wondering who it could be, he answers.      “This is Sam.”      “Sam Winchester?”

     A bit stunned, the young hunter looks back at his display to make sure the woman on the other end of the line isn’t Zoë. The voice coming through is different, softer, with a slightly dissimilar accent. Sam digs deep down his memory, but he doesn’t recognize the person on the phone.      “Who is this?” he asks, still cautious.      “I have some information for you.”      Whoever she is, she got his attention. Sam tries to not sound too curious as he responds. “What kind of information?”       A short silence follows before the girl answers, but when she does, her words bring his heart and mind to a full stop.

      “I know where your father is.”

There you have it, the first chapter of the new episode “Black Dog”. I hope I got your attention! Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part three here

[s11e17]

wehhh so i'm working on this big spn wip and as some of you may know i abandoned a big one a few years ago (i am working on it again hopefully to finish it finally bc of everyone's nice comments but i don't want to give anybody false hope!!) so these days i only post once i've got the whole thing down. BUT i have no motivation to finish this other one so i'm just going to post this excerpt here for Validation™ lol read on if you want to see sam angst

Sam decides to take a desert route back, hopes for the bitter and blistering heat to burn out the persevering cold in his bones. On a sharp right just before Twin Falls, Sam veers southward towards the Nevada border. He keeps driving down, crosses 80 and waits for a good place to turn eastward.

From up where the eagles can see, Nevada is pockmarked with greenish fissures made of brown-green mountains and wet farmland, like mold biting through a loaf of bread. Sam’s nearly fifty year old Torino rattles down along wire-thin highways with presidential names underwritten by numbers. He wonders if the concession to American tradition came before or after the numerical classification, if Eisenhower’s real name is Route 80 or if it’s the other way around.

At the intersection of 80 and 93, where Eisenhower meets Lincoln, the Nevada State Department of Transportation makes itself known with a building and a tree the size of an anthill compared to the vastness of the desert. To the north, a farm’s sweeping green circles like radar scanners interrupt the sandy white ridges overlooking Nevada’s moldy fissures. Military outposts, all of it, strategic camps set up to surveil the unclaimable desert.

The DIY Enochian anti-possession sigil he inked in just above his hip itches. Sam shifts in his seat.

The sky darkens — or it’s been darkening, already, and Sam’s only just noticing — and Sam glances at his rearview. Dark storm clouds gather behind him, covering up the sun. The thing about flat land like this, open country, is that you can see the storm coming miles away. A column of clouds hails down twenty miles behind him. The lightning makes him flinch, and he looks back to the road, clear ahead of him.

And then, too soon, the storm comes over him. He shouldn’t be out here in this weather — good God, he shouldn’t be in anything metal in this weather, that’s for damn sure. Lightning comes down half a mile ahead of him and Sam pulls over, gets a tarp out of the trunk and huddles down ten yards away, waiting for the sky to strike him.

Rain clatters over him, loud, ungenerous. The thunder’s so goddamn loud he feels it in his bones. He peeks out of his plastic home to look at the sky.

It’s pink behind the clouds, the hidden sun, maybe. The stormclouds tower like gods, greater statues than Sam’s ever seen, than any place he’s ever been. Everything is red. That’s the trick of it, of the desert — there’s nowhere to hide on the bare and raw earth.

Rainwater rushes past his feet. The stream picks up, turns into a brook — and then into a river, barreling under that Torino, cutting a new road. Sam hides from it all, hunched under his tarp.

It's warm, but Sam's cold. That's the worst of it: that the water is warm, or rather that the water is cold on a hot day which is supposed to even out, but he's still freezing. Sam has been cold for so long he isn't even human anymore, a cold-blooded creature so low-down even the dogs won't fight him, 'cause there's nothing left to fight. Not much for anyone to chew off these bones. The water makes him ice. The water cracks down sharp on the plastic, an inch away from his eardrums, the water pours heaven down and makes him shiver, and the water doesn't make him clean.

Sam closes his eyes. It's so loud. Thunder roars and he flinches at the sound of it, the feel of it, opens his eyes and looks at his feet and sees red mudwater sluicing by and thinks, that's my blood. My blood is running across my body which is the sand. Sam's blood pools around his car's tires. His car is waiting to be struck by lightning.

He shivers under his plastic and the rain keeps coming, endlessly. An inevitable brute. The rain is his father. Lightning, and then one-two-three seconds later, thunder. "Fuck off," Sam whispers, teeth chattering together, and his face is wet even though he hasn't moved out from under his cover. What he can see of the sky is more purple than pink. "Fuck you," he says, louder, trying to speak the warmth back into himself, the heat, the fire. Dean's fire. The fire Dean has in him that makes him throw furniture when he's mad, that makes him punch walls and break bottles. The fire Dad stoked in Sam's older brother without an exit sign, the fire Sam used to have. Sam wants that fire back. Can't he have it? Dean doesn't need it, Dean doesn't want it— it's Sam, Sam's the one who needs something, anything in him that's his and his alone, see, he'll even take a hand-me-down.

The clouds die off and the rain stops. The sun comes back. Sam's blood shudders next to his car. Sam carries the tarp on the crown of his head like a businessman holding a newspaper over his head in Manhattan rain. He shakes it off and puts it in the trunk. The car wasn't even struck by lightning. He didn't need to wait outside.

Once he's inside the car, looking out of the windshield at the endless, inevitable, unclaimable desert, it hits him.

Sam is, suddenly, for the first time in many, many years, very angry.

He looks at his hands which are shaking with the residual cold despite the car's heat and he— he storms out of the car and leaves the driver side door open and he kneels down and he grabs handfuls of mud, presses the mud between his fingertips. His whole body is shaking. He's so angry. He's so angry. He didn't deserve that thunderstorm. He didn't deserve— it itches, the Enochian on him, the brand he took as the lesser curse— the sand is gritty in his palm, he's never felt the earth like this— there's no mud in the cage— he's nothing, he's nothing, he's a dog, he's less than a dog, but he's human, isn't he? Isn't he?

"Fuck!" Sam yells at his hands, his voice cracking with disuse. He hasn't yelled in years. He can't even remember it. What does Sam Winchester have to yell about? "Fuck!"

He looks up, straight ahead at the length of mud that stretches in front of him like an ocean. He looks at that horizon.

Sam opens his mouth, and he screams.

[96thdayofrage]

BEYOND THE MONUMENTS: RACE AND AMERICAN DEMOCRACY IN THE NATION'S CAPITAL

BEYOND THE MONUMENTS: RACE AND AMERICAN DEMOCRACY IN THE NATION'S CAPITAL

From schoolchildren to historians, visitors to Washington, DC, are drawn to the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, and other marble monuments to American freedom. These shining symbols of our democracy reflect our nation as we aspire for it to be. But they tell us little about who we are, to say nothing of the city in which they are located. Venturing beyond Washington’s monumental core to explore DC and its neighborhoods, you’ll see that no city better captures the on­going tensions between America’s expansive democratic hopes and its enduring racial realities. We’ve arranged four “stops” in an imagined itinerary to tell the city’s story through space and time. This is not a walking tour as such, but a visit to any of these areas will help you understand the city and its struggles for racial justice and democracy.

Stop 1: Old Town Alexandria (c. 1800–62)

Today, Alexandria is in Virginia, but in 1800 it was part of the original 10-mile square that became the seat of the federal government. In the 1820s and 30s, Alexandria was home to several slave-trading firms, including Franklin & Armfield, the nation’s largest and most profitable. Its three-story office stood at 1315 Duke Street and served as the nerve center of a massive operation that sold more than 1,000 enslaved people annually.

Early Washington benefited immensely from slavery and the slave trade. Enslaved people worked on every major public construction project, they waited on the men who ran the nation, and they were bought and sold within sight of the Capitol. Even as slavery itself waned in Washington—by 1830 free black people were a majority of the city’s black population—the nation’s capital became America’s largest slave-trading city.

Abolitionists made Washington their top priority. The nation’s capital, they argued, should not be tainted by the sin of slavery, and they deluged congressional mailrooms with thousands of petitions calling for an end to the slave trade in DC—Congress, not the local government, retained ultimate control over the city. As abolitionists gained strength, white Alexandrians engineered an 1846 vote for retrocession, whereby the area west of the Potomac was ceded back to Virginia, taking nearly a third of the District’s land mass. When abolitionists won a ban on the slave trade in DC as part of the Compromise of 1850, the city’s slave dealers simply crossed the Potomac and continued their business in Alexandria. Slavery itself remained alive in the truncated District until April 16, 1862, when Washington’s enslaved people became the first in the nation to be legally emancipated.

Stop 2: LeDroit Park (c. 1865–1941)

Across the Potomac, north from downtown Washington, and across Florida Avenue (formerly Boundary Street) is the neighborhood of LeDroit Park, with Gothic-inspired cottages and elegant Italianate villas sitting back from narrow roads.

Now enveloped by the city, LeDroit Park was Washington’s first post–Civil War residential suburb. The segregated enclave was at the forefront of massive demographic and spatial changes that reordered DC’s racial geography in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Because all city residents, black and white, had been disenfranchised in 1874, following a brief flowering of interracial democracy during Reconstruction, real estate developers, urban planners, and congressional leaders could act without local democratic accountability. The city became a “national show town” featuring a monumental core of federal buildings surrounded by neighborhoods increasingly segregated by race and class.

When abolitionists won a ban on the slave trade in DC as part of the Compromise of 1850, the city’s slave dealers simply crossed the Potomac to Alexandria.

But the imposition of a new segregated order was never static or uncontested. By the mid-1890s, black residents began to trickle into LeDroit Park and white owners began to trickle out; by World War I, the neighborhood was almost exclusively black. LeDroit Park became home to the city’s best-known black leaders, including educator Anna Julia Cooper, poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, and activist Mary Church Terrell, whose crumbling home at 326 T Street NW is a National Historic Landmark but cries out for restoration.

Washington at the turn of the 20th century remained a magnet for black migration from the rural South. The city boasted the nation’s largest black community (nearly 87,000 people, almost a third of the city’s population) and offered relatively more opportunities for education and economic advancement than the rest of the South. Home to a small but influential black elite, a thriving black middle class, and strong black public schools, DC embodied the hopes of black America. Local NAACP leader Neval Thomas wrote, “The white man keeps the full weight of his superior numbers, oppressive spirit, and unjust monopoly of political power, hard pressed against this suffering, yet beautiful little world of striving, but we grow to fuller stature in spite of it all.”

Stop 3: Southwest (c. 1874–1960)

Successful strivers have commanded historians’ attention, but three-quarters of black Washingtonians were working people: domestics and hod carriers, janitors and nannies. Many lived in Southwest Washington. Dubbed “The Island” in the mid-19th century, Southwest historically has been isolated physically and culturally from the rest of the city, separated first by the infamous City Canal, then by a set of unsightly railroad tracks, and today by a confusing network of highways and exit ramps.  

Southwest was the home of Perry Carson, a hulking former saloon keeper whose black working-class coalition dominated local Republican patronage politics and infuriated DC elites, black and white, in the decades after disenfranchisement.

Home to 23,000 residents, Southwest remained a vibrant working-class community into the mid-20th century. Urban planners and city boosters, however, saw only “blight.” Working directly with unelected city commissioners and local business leaders, they made Southwest ground zero in a national movement for “urban renewal.”

Beginning in 1954, federal officials bulldozed all of Southwest between Interstate 395 and the waterfront, displacing essentially all the previous residents. Award-winning apartment complexes, such as Charles Goodman’s futuristic River Park development along 4th between N and O Streets, rose atop the rubble of working-class row houses. The area’s demographics flipped. In 1950, Southwest had been 70 percent black and predominantly poor; by 1970 it was nearly 70 percent white and mostly middle-class. Ezekiah Cunningham, the 84-year-old owner of a small grocery store in Southwest since 1907, summed up urban renewal’s effects: “Well, it seems like they’re handin’ out a passel o’ joy and a passel o’ sorrow.”

Stop 4: 14th and U Streets NW (c. 1960–present)

Urban renewal helped catalyze an era of grassroots activism in the 1960s and 1970s. Much of this activism percolated around the intersection of 14th and U Streets NW, the bustling transit hub of a black commercial district that offered blocks of restaurants, theaters, and clubs that catered to black customers. In the 1960s, the area was home to organizations such as the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), and Pride, Inc.  

Increasingly impatient with the slow pace of liberal reform, many black DC residents raged against local authorities and the segregationists who oversaw the city in Congress. Washington Post reporter Ben Gilbert recalled that in 1967, “street disorders requiring police action became regular, almost weekly, occurrences.” The most destructive of these conflicts erupted in April 1968, after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. The riot, which began at this intersection, claimed 12 lives, reduced the city’s black commercial districts to rubble, and required more than 13,000 federal troops to restore order.

White business owners and some middle-class African Americans fled, but a rich assortment of civil rights and Black Power organizations remained, joined by predominantly white New Left activists. They waged pitched battles against exploitative landlords, brutal cops, freeways, rats, and racism. And in 1973, they helped secure for the city the local self-government it had lacked since the end of Reconstruction.

Today the corner of 14th and U Streets is nearly unrecognizable to those who knew it during the heady, hopeful days of a generation earlier, when funk impresario George Clinton dubbed Washington the country’s preeminent “Chocolate City.” After two decades of gentrification, the area boasts high-end condos, upscale businesses, and a robust “foodie” scene. The old SCLC office on the northeast corner of the popular intersection is now occupied by a “boutique steakhouse” offering a $52 rib eye and $13 signature cocktails.

Like the rest of DC, the neighborhood is becoming younger, whiter, and wealthier. More than 70 percent black in the 1970s, Washington no longer has a black majority, and it faces gargantuan and growing racial disparities in wealth and employment—an Urban Institute study found that in 2014 white wealth in DC was 81 times greater than black wealth. Astronomical real estate values make it increasingly difficult for low-income residents to remain in the city.

These changes have rekindled questions of race, power, and accountability that have marked Washington since its inception. As you make your plans for January, we hope you will find time to visit the city beyond the monuments to explore how Washingtonians have grappled with the dilemma that is American democracy.

Chris Myers Asch and George Derek Musgrove are the authors of Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital, due out from the University of North Carolina Press on November 6.

Editor’s note: The 132nd Annual Meeting of the AHA will take place in Washington, DC, on January 4–7, 2018. In the run-up months to every meeting, Perspectives highlights aspects of local history and points of interest in our host city. Because we will convene in our hometown this year, we’re delighted to be able to present deeper takes on the Capital City’s history and culture. Welcome to DC (as locals call it)!

[cas-backwards-tie]

Nothing But A Monster

Summary: Stranded on the side of the highway in the middle of a thunderstorm with no spare tire, you’re forced to take a ride from a mysterious man and his butler. Little do you know, this man has other plans than simply getting you to your destination.

Warnings: Blood.

Words: 1,869

A/N: So this is the first actual fic I’ve written in like... a year or so. I randomly got inspired from a dream so I hope you guys enjoy this! 

Rain patters against the glass window as he looks out at the lightning streaking across the sky every few seconds or so. His assistant, Bernard, tried eliciting a conversation of small-talk earlier at the airport when he’d picked up his master. However, Kylo Ren’s never been one for small-talk. Watching the raindrops race down the Lincoln’s back window, he admires the way the distant city lights blur with all the water. As the green sign steadily approaches overhead the highway, Bernard takes the scenic route home, a road few people take as the new highway system provides routes with faster ways into and around the city.

“It’s pouring now!” You exclaim, banging your wrench against the hood of your broken-down car in frustration, “great! Just what I need.” A sigh escapes your lips and your hair begins to stick to your face as your clothes start to soak. You eye the tiny dent you’d just made, giving up you walk back to the open trunk of your car and toss the wrench back in. Without a spare tire, it’s useless to try to fix the flat. Out of all the things you could forget, you’d forgotten the most essential thing for this problem: a spare tire. Closing the trunk, you figure you can walk the next few miles up to whatever’s closest and ask to borrow their phone to call for the roadside assistance company. Just as you lock the car and turn to head for the nearest town, bright lights blind you. Raising your arm over your eyes, you can only pray that the car coming off the highway sees and doesn’t hit you.

The slowing of the car causes Kylo’s attention to drift toward the front, eyebrows furrowing a tad. “What’s the holdup?” He asks Bernard, but suddenly sees the issue itself. There’s a woman standing on the side of the road next to a car, her hair sticks to her face along with the white and polka-dot dress she wears. “There’s a young woman in trouble up here,” Bernard responds, the typical old fool’s heart showing a bit too much for Kylo’s liking. Although he’s not one for helping random humans, there’s something about this woman that strikes him in an odd, yet fascinated way. “Stop the car,” he commands Bernard.

Watching the car pass by, you lose a bit of the hope you’d had that maybe, just maybe you’d be able to stop them and ask for help. Your head hangs for a few moments before you spot the red lights of the car up ahead and hear the reversal and sudden approach of the vehicle. Whipping your head up, it’s coming fast. The car’s a few feet away so it doesn’t hit you as it comes to a stop. Right beside you now, the door opens and you stare into the fancy black car at a man dressed in an all black suit. The only real thing you can see in the dim light of the night is that he’s white. When lightning strikes again, you see his eyes are brown, and his hair is dark. The man leans forward, his eyebrows raised in a curious manner. “You know it’s not wise to be out in the middle of nowhere during a thunderstorm?” His eyes roam you up and down, and despite knowing he’s ogling you, you strangely don’t mind.

“Can you please give me a ride to the next stop? A gas station? I just need to call someone.”

The way this woman’s eyes plead, seemingly staring into his soul, is startling. Lightning brightens the sky in a flash before thunder rumbles in the distance, rain beginning to drip and splatter inside the car as he stares out at her. It’s perplexing to him, how one’s face can hold the word ‘kindness’ stricken over it almost as obviously as if it were written across her forehead. “Fine. Get in,” he gestures for her to take the seat next to him. Sliding back to his seat at the window, Kylo watches as fear and worry seem to cross her features. He pokes his head back over and smirks at her. “You’re more likely to get struck by lightning,” he threatens, knowing she must’ve been questioning the innocence of the men in the car. As she gets in, he leans back against the door on his side, his attention returning to the raindrops racing down his window.

Although it’d crossed your mind that this man may have harmful intentions for you, the fact that there’s two men allows for some sort of safeness, you think. Taking your chances; you slide into the seat and close the door. “I’m sorry for troubling you, I just… my tire went flat, and I’d stupidly forgotten the spare. Thank you so much for stopping.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Miss. We’re happy to help. It’s no fun to be standing out in the rain all by your lonesome. I’m Bernard,” the old man behind the driver’s wheel smiles at you in the rearview mirror. The British accent takes you by surprise, though you find it just as adorable as in the movies. A feeling of reassurance washes over you and you smile back at him. Gratefulness fills your chest as you know it’s not everyday someone shows human decency like they’d used to anymore.

Kylo could groan at the conversation between the two of them. ‘Stupidly’. Stupidly is right. Humans are nothing if not stupid, and it’s been proven to him time and time again. Even if something had come over him at the moment, the desire to do a good deed, to help this poor woman, the urge has faded. This is for Bernard’s wellbeing. Lord knows that if they didn’t stop for her that Bernard would chastise him for the rest of the night. As the Lincoln rolls forward and drives toward the nearest stop, Kylo can’t help but glance over at the woman, trying to get a better feel for her, a better look at her. He admires the way her nose sticks out, the round button-like look to it definitely shows personality. Though her hair is wet and stuck to her skin, the baby hairs curl up as they dry, a frizziness held in it. Her eyelashes are long and thin, though beautiful in the way they frame her eyes with a softness to them, a stray eyelash on her cheek. As he notices her about to look at him, he darts his gaze over to the window, returning to the observation of the frenzied storm outside. There’s something about storms he’s always found calming, and why? He’s yet to discover that reason himself.

Greenery passes; trees, bushes, and shrubs line the long straight road, lights from the highway and airport illuminating things in the distance. Within the car, the warm air envelopes you, causing the soaking wet cold of the water to begin seeping into your bones. The mix of warm and cool causes an imbalance in you, one resulting in sleepiness. Your eyes water slightly as you let yourself finally relax, on your way to resolving the issue at hand and heading home for the night. Resting your head against the window, the smooth ride eases your nerves. It feels all too soon that they’ve stopped at the gas-station.

“Miss, I believe this is your stop,” Bernard pipes up, giving her a kind look in the mirror again. “If you should need the information, just tell them your car’s parked off the scenic route of highway forty-five. That should be enough clue for them.” Giving her a nod, he places the car in ‘Park’ as he waits for her to take her leave. “And it was no problem at all, you haven’t given us any trouble. I wish you the best of luck!”

Kylo doesn’t mind the company of the woman beside him, if anything he ignores it almost entirely. The comfortable silence that’d engulfed the ride comes to an abrupt end with Bernard’s voice. His eyes raise to the man in the front seat, an idea coming to him as the woman begins to speak her goodbyes. Licking his lips, he turns to face the woman more head-on. “Wait!” He reaches out for the woman as she reaches for the door. “Bernard, would you mind raising the divider to give us a moment?”

Your eyes go wide as you turn to look back at the man beside you. There’s an eerie air surrounding him and although he’d offered you a ride, there’s still the lingering worries in the back of your mind of dreadful possibilities. “Yes?” Looking him over, he doesn’t seem like he has any ill will. Though as the divider to your presence of comfort raises and cuts him off, you remind yourself that in case of anything untoward, the door is unlocked.

In a moment’s notice, his eyes fade into a deep crimson red. The blood coursing through your veins speeds up a tad as fear runs through you, the temptation to scream dying on your tongue. “You will not scream,” he speaks monotonously, his voice smooth like water, “you will not fight and you will remember nothing of this exchange other than getting the ride you needed.” As her offensive stance relaxes, Kylo brushes back her cool wet hair, his fingers snaking into it as he cradles her head in his hand. Tilting her head to the side, he sinks his fangs in and feasts. A quiet gasp sounds right into his ear as she whimpers. The sweet, thick, luscious feeling of her blood coats his tongue over and over as he drinks from her. A few moments pass before he knows if he doesn’t stop, he’ll have to kill her. Lapping over the wound with his tongue, he pulls his fangs out and retracts them, his eyes returning to their previous honey ladened brown. He leans forward to reach around her, popping the door open. “Goodbye,” he says before shutting the door behind her.

Shaking off the weird feeling you’d just had, you smile to yourself as you walk across the pavement toward the gas-station’s entrance. Relief creates a warm aura around you as the gratefulness for a safe ride and helpful people had come right when you’d needed it. Now all that’s left to do is call the roadside assistance company and wait for them to come help you out.

Kylo rolls his eyes as he notices the glare from Bernard. “You didn’t have to,” he says disappointedly. There’s no guilt inside his chest as he simply shrugs in response to the old man, “I didn’t have to. I wanted to. What can I say? I was hungry.”

[williammarksommer]

Nation's Giant Hamburger

Pinole, California

A Road Home Along the Lincoln Highway series

Hasselblad 500c/m

Kodak Tmax 400iso