The dust had barely settled again, when we drove past and stirred it up. A hazy cloud of dirt swirled fiercely behind and around us, making it difficult to see out the back window, though there was nothing to see in the distance anyway. Something was growing; slowly, out in the fields. What ever it was, it couldn't have been larger then a paper clip. The Historic Route 66 ran parallel to the road we had been driving on for a decent stretch of time.
My mother, who was driving, sang along to a popular country song that was playing on the radio, she didn't know the words, so sounded more like a mumble. My sister had her feet propped up on the dashboard and tuned out my mothers' dreadful singing voice. Her face seemed to reflect her boredom and I was sure mine did too.
A Toyota Frontier and a Pontiac Solstice passed us going in the opposite direction generating more dust to dance through the air. I was fairly jealous of whoever they were because they were going in the direction I desired to go in: Towards home.
I never wanted to leave Minnesota. I never wanted to spend two weeks on the road with my mother and sister, but my mother insisted. Kayleen would be leaving for college soon and mom thought we needed to spend more time together. I never wanted to leave my boyfriend, my cat and above of all, my own bed. I never desired any of those things, but my mother didn't care. The fact that I was not willing to go with them with out intense force never seemed to register in her consciousness. To her, it was non- negotiable, and to me it was inevitable.
I could feel the warmth of the sun on my arms and my face as it beat down through the open window. The sky was clear and beautiful. Yet, somehow, I couldn't register an emotion beyond sadness and misery. I began to think this dirt road led to nowhere.
The dirt road had no signs, no mile markers and no evidence of civilization besides the occasional car. It had no turns or curves but only proceeded endlessly into the distance. I glanced at the clock. For a period of time that seemed like an eternity; only five minutes had passed. I surrendered all hope of seeing something beyond blue skies and obscure little shrubs.
Before we had left home, my mother told me this would be one of the most exciting trips of my life. I had to disagree. Dirt, rocks, shrubs and cows are not exiting?not the slightest. I conceded that this wasn't going to just end. I would have to deal with it. So I laid my head against the sill of my window and stared outwards to the sky.
It sort of popped out of nowhere, a multi-colored iron fence that bordered around a large section of the open fields and then disappeared off into the distance. On the side of the street, pressed up against the fence, sat a large dumpster that was originally green but now resembled a mix between tie-dye and contemporary art. But to me it looked more like a collage of all the bad paintings I had done in kindergarten.
A few yards away, built into the multi-colored iron fence, was a generic size doorway with a small metal sign hanging loosely above it spelling out " Cadillac Ranch" in faded, block letters. The rusted nails holding it up looked older then the Egyptian pyramids and each of them had been bent and beaten.
We pulled over to the side of the dusty road, grabbed our cameras and sprang out of the car. Everything was similar to the view from the car, except it all seemed more real since I wasn't looking out of a tinted window. Before, it all had seemed like painted scenery unraveling itself relentlessly around us, swallowing the earth whole. The landscape had seemed untouchable, as though it would've disappeared underneath your fingertips. But this was real, it was right in front of me, behind me and beneath my toes.
I could hear different noises too, things that had been silenced by my mothers' pandemonium. I listened to the angelic symphony of the wind as it danced freely through the tall grass and swooped around the cars parked by the road. My senses danced with the black-capped chickadees as they sang their song towards the sky.
It is not in my memory, however, that any of this held any comparison to the Cadillac Ranch itself.
I had seen pictures of it in the past, but only remembered a playground for vandals. Ten Cadillac's half buried, in a row, with their bumpers rocketing into the sky. Spray Paint had long been the only visible attribute. It covered every inch of the surface, layer upon layer, until nothing else seemed to be holding the cars together.
Thousands of visitors flocked here yearly to leave a piece of them behind. I had read love notes, memorials, self-dedications, cries for world peace, birthdays, phone numbers, prayers, dates and personal stories. And although some were more meaningful then others, they are all unified. Each piece was part of the person who placed it there, part of their memories, connecting to who they are or who they once were. All of the pieces belong to a community of different pieces. Although they are all completely unique in every way, they all hold that one thing in common with one another.
As I examined each Cadillac I realized no two people would ever remember it the same way. I knew that any traveler who stopped to visit would experience something completely different then any person to follow. People would always come to paint there, but someday it would begin to chip away leaving room for more stories, more memories and different experiences. It was beautiful.
Then, too soon, it was time to leave. I snapped just one more picture before heading back. We all reconvened back at the car and started to drive towards the highway and away from Cadillac Ranch.
I felt as if though I was looking through a different pair of eyes. My trip had been boring and pointless, lacking any enthusiasm up till then. Now excitement came easily when I thought about the drive to Sedona or visiting the Grand Canyon. My attitude had done a complete three-sixty.
I hadn't been optimistic about anything. I came to understand that if I could find immense beauty in the most unlikely of things then I could find it in anything, even those that don't follow the worlds definition of beautiful. Because each person is a piece of art, every landmark has its own history and purpose, and even a trashy looking Cadillac is somebody's treasure