I woke early enough to rouse a herd of tree rats from their feeding post in the Compound’s courtyard, but not early enough to catch Rooster and Hen before they headed off to the Isles of Friendly Smiles. After loading Lucile Vanderbilt, Sir Winston Woo and enough luggage to satisfy the dandiest of African safari dandies into the ATM, I set course for Allen House Denver in Colorado.
As a teenager my pal Mike Moran from Brooklyn helped his dad train for the New York City Marathon by roller skating next to him as he ran. Mike still roller skates (NOT rollerblades) every now and again on his lunch breaks through downtown Chicago and along the lakefront. His love of the skates prompted a stop at the National Museum of Roller Skating, 4730 South Street in Lincoln, Nebraska. These people are serious about their shit and display skates dating back to the early 19th century as well as two centuries worth of documentation, photographs and artwork.
Somewhere in 1985 is a towheaded brown, eyed lad who loves red Kool-Aid more than any other drink in the world. Even more than glass bottles of Mountain Dew with fruit chunks in the bottom. He is lucky enough to have just finished off the last slosh and yells from his usual perch of yellow Formica countertop, “MOM! Kool-Aid’s gone,” with the hopes of a thumbs up to make the next batch. He knows damn well that the packet calls for one cup of sugar, but loses control as soon as he unseals the canister of crystals – scooping two heaping cups into the pitcher. An orange Tupperware pitcher with a red buttoned lid that has seen nothing more than colored sugar water in five years. He loves dumping the packet of mix real quick like with hopes of inhaling the delicious clouds of flavor as they roll from the pitcher. Using a wooden spoon as pestle to the Tupperware mortar, he is melds crystal and powder into an alchemist’s wet dream. Once he is certain that the two have become one he adds water from the tap that has been running during this entire process, ensuring that it is as cold as possible. He can still hear the granules of sugar being drug along the bottom of the pitcher no matter how much he stirs.
My love affair with Kool-Aid was supposed to have been rewarded at 518 1st Street (Hastings) in the form of a spectacular historical marker dedicated to the birth of a DIY beverage. Sadly the only items worth noting at this sacred site were a couple of plaques on a nondescript building. A local informed me that an exhibit honoring Nebraska’s official drink was housed in the Hastings Museum at 1330 N Burlington Street. Being an underwhelmed fatty I jumped at the chance to actually learn its history and buy a tote bag full of merchandise. The one bit of information that the local failed to mention was that on Mondays the museum was closed, making this 90 minute detour all the more special.
To make up for lost time I bypassed the two-lane route and set course for Interstate-80. Now one would think that the spiky wreck of the Odyssey was already four too many monstrosities straddling the great American thoroughfare that is I-80, but they would be wrong. The $60 million longhouse style sweat lodge turned hovering eyesore is 200 miles and a crappy rivet’s width west of the Spiky Towers. A bureaucrat jealous of St. Louis’ Gateway to the West decided that Nebraska could also house a gateway of sorts. The Great Platte River Road Archway is nothing more than a double-wide trailer on steroids.
In need of some gas I stopped pulled off a few clicks down the four-lane on EXIT 211. Behind the gas station rests a life size buffalo being hunted down by a life size Indian riding a life size horse, all of which are constructed from life size barbed wire. Rust being my favorite color and all, I had to get closer to this lockjaw inducing vignette. I leashed the hounds and walked around the gas station to discover the world’s largest plow marking the entrance to a red barn labeled Sod House Museum.
As if everyone received the memo except for me, the museum was closed. To deter lookie loos from approaching a real life sod house and barbed sculptures the curators erected a split rail fence from one end to the other. Being a cunning chub I spotted a break in the fence hidden in the tree line. The hounds and I traversed the rugged terrain and found ourselves face to face with a swell prairie sod house surrounded by natural grasses and vegetation.
We circled each sculpture and the structure several times to soak in the history and craftsmanship. Once I was satisfied with the photos taken we headed for the ATM. Just as I opened the rear passenger door for Lou and Win I spotted the hundreds of sandburs imbedded in their silky hair. Thirty minutes and a couple hundred expletives later we were headed into Gothenburg to carve our names into an original Pony Express outpost. Keep your fingers crossed that ponies of the Shetland variety were involved.
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