(well, Route 66, it ain’t)
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For this week’s column, I want to tell you about the road that runs between where I live and my home town. I do this for two important journalistic reasons:
- It’s a captivating, rambling snapshot of rural life in the American South
- Earlier this week, I forgot to write this week’s column
You might be saying to yourself, there’s very little to be said about a stretch of inter-county road, but don’t be too quick to cast stones; after all, you’re sitting there talking to yourself. As it turns out, however, this patch of paved passage is full of surprises. For example, there are at least six signs along this single 50-mile section of motorway that point to a town called Belton – and at every Belton-bound turnoff, the signs say the same thing:
BELTON 10
It’s like some weird Twilight Zone episode. No matter where you are, Belton is ten miles away. It’s as if the little burg of Belton was a singularity, and I think I can safely guarantee you this is the first time in literary history that the words Belton and singularity have appeared in the same sentence.
So, in order of appearance, here are some of the stars to be admired along my 50-mile chunk of Highway 25 in Upstate South Carolina – along the road home.
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Godiva’s
As you drive away from the town where I live, one of the last businesses you pass is a boldly painted windowless building bearing a large silhouette of a reclining naked woman. Almost always, there are cop cars in the parking lot. I guess Reclining Naked Woman bakes a mean doughnut.
Moonville
Moonville (Population: 6) used to be a town so tiny, there were only four Starbucks. But then the nearby town where I live built a toll road bypass, with twin off-ramps in Moonville. Suddenly, fast food franchises were springing up faster than allegations in Hillary’s inbox. As a result, Moonville can now proudly boast just as much crime, sloth, and greed as any other American town.
Moonville is conveniently located ten miles from Belton.
No Mercy School Zone
About ten miles outside of Belton is a public school. During school hours, flashing yellow lights define a 40-miles-per-hour zone. This is non-negotiable. If you should still choose to exceed 40 miles per hour, you will be chased down and forced to donate some money to the police, so they can buy doughnuts from Reclining Naked Woman.
There are no exceptions to the speed limit in No Mercy School Zone. Don’t ask how I know.
The World’s Safest Traffic Light
In the middle of throbbing, pulsing Ware Place (Population: eventually) is an intersection with the longest red light in the history of transportation. While waiting for the light to change, two people in the car behind me met, conceived, gave birth, and taught the kid how to fish.
Happy Cow
I think this is a dairy, but it could be a farm animal conceived in Ware Place.
The Eventual Flea Market
A few miles from the Jovial Bovine is a church named Lickville Presbyterian, despite the fact that there is no Lickville. Huddled under the pines next to the church is a cluster of empty wooden tables, optimistically identified by a hand-painted sign promising FLEA MARKET SOME WEEKENDS.
Good luck. Whatever weekend you eventually reckon on, be sure to leave early so you avoid the traffic from Belton.
The Ex-Tree
For most of my memory, this towering landmark along the road home was the king of trees. A magnificent, monstrous, spreading oak, alone on cleared land inside a non-descript chain link fence.
Finally, of course, the tree died, as all things do, except Keith Richards. But the property owners left the tree’s massive trunk in place, some fifteen feet high and easily ten across. And there the huge thing still sits, like a very tanned Marlon Brando, until time or an overzealous toll road zoning committee marches by.
Trail Life USA
I’m not sure what goes on at this place. It used to be called the Boys Home of the South. Maybe all the boys grew up and starting managing hedge funds.
Faith Baptist Church
This tiny brick and wood structure is allegedly a house of worship. But never in my entire life, not once, have I seen any activity on the property. I’m pretty sure it’s a CIA front.
Twin Chimneys
Okay, this is the dump.
The Hot Spot
This popular gas station features a disturbingly large number of food-type items that are mesquite-flavored. We can only assume that, one day long ago, the Hot Spot was visited by an extremely effective mesquite salesman.
The Hot Spot is ten miles from Belton.
Spotless Drag Racing
Partially obscured behind a whitewashed concrete block wall is a drag strip. (In the South, a drag strip is a place where guys gather to race cars, as opposed to the West Coast, where a drag strip is a place where guys gather to do very, very different things. Don’t ask.) As you drive by on Highway 25, you can just make out the dual racing lanes, but what really sticks out in my memory is the army of blue trash barrels. The things are everywhere – this must be the cleanest loud place on Earth.
I’ve never actually been to a drag race, so I can’t explain the correlation between loud, fast cars and trash cans. Maybe we can ask the guys at Twin Chimneys.
Road 47
At an exit a few miles from the drag strip is a sign pointing to a sad little road named simply “47.” And that, citizens, is a textbook example of what’s wrong with America. Surely, when the lazy lout from the Road Namers Union lamely settled for “Road 47,” he knew that a neglected road orphan like that is going to have issues its whole life. That poor street will be teased by all the properly named streets, like Main, Elm, Easy, and Della.
It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that poor shunned Road 47 was named by the same idling sloth who coined the bizarre lyric, “Jimmy cracked corn. And I don’t care.”
That’s a heck of an attitude.
The Dog Food Factory
Ladies and gentlemen, it is a stench you can not fathom…and that’s from way out here on the highway. Imagine the unmanageable funk inside the place. This is what it must be like in Hershey, Pennsylvania, except bathed in Milk-Bones.
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By the way…Hershey, Pennsylvania?
Ten miles from Belton.