Postcard: Lewellen, Nebraska
Dec. 12th, 2005 12:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hafocWe pulled off the freeway for lunch, stopping at a little park by the interchange. Mom made sandwiches in the trailer. We ate them at the picnic table. There were no trees. The picnic table had a fine view of the freeway and a rectangular pond, all of about three acres, which had obviously been a borrow pit created when they built the freeway. It must have been the biggest body of water for miles, since it had a boat launching ramp and a sign that said NO OUTBOARD MOTORS OVER 25 HP.
Some miles further west we left the freeway and started angling northwest, along the path of the North Platte. Just before the highway crossed the river we saw a historical marker, but we were past it before we could read anything. And the big Oldsmobile, with the trailer behind, made a combination too unwieldy to easily turn around.
We were getting all of about eight miles per gallon that day, since Dad had ordered the Oldsmobile with every trailer-towing modification available; in spite of the fact that the trailer was an old, and very lightweight, 18-footer. Fortunately there were plenty of gas stations. We pulled into one in the town of Lewellen to slake the monster 450-odd cubic inch V8's thirst.
The place was gray. The white paint outside had gone gray. The inside was painted darker gray, with gray floors. The owner wore a gray pinstriped mechanic's coverall, and he was gray.
"Could you tell me what that historical marker east of town was about?" I asked.
He smiled. "We're on the old Oregon Trail here. That marker's for a place where the trail came down a steep hill. They had to let the wagons down, one at a time, on ropes. You can still see the ruts the wagons left in the rocks there."
"I wish I could have seen that."
He smiled again. "You like history, do you? Well, that's good. It's everywhere, you know. All you have to do is look for it."
He took a rock off a shelf. Reaching into a drawer, he took out a paper label, the kind you use for the return address on an envelope. He licked it and stuck it to the rock, and handed it to me. "You keep this. It's from Nebraska, here. Not brought in from New Mexico or anything."
I thanked him. And I did keep it. The rock is cut in half and polished on one surface. I don't know what it is, really, but I think maybe fossilized wood.
The sticker fell off years ago, but I glued it back on. It's still there, brown with age.
Oregon Trail Service
Box 35
Lewellen, Nebr.69147
Some miles further west we left the freeway and started angling northwest, along the path of the North Platte. Just before the highway crossed the river we saw a historical marker, but we were past it before we could read anything. And the big Oldsmobile, with the trailer behind, made a combination too unwieldy to easily turn around.
We were getting all of about eight miles per gallon that day, since Dad had ordered the Oldsmobile with every trailer-towing modification available; in spite of the fact that the trailer was an old, and very lightweight, 18-footer. Fortunately there were plenty of gas stations. We pulled into one in the town of Lewellen to slake the monster 450-odd cubic inch V8's thirst.
The place was gray. The white paint outside had gone gray. The inside was painted darker gray, with gray floors. The owner wore a gray pinstriped mechanic's coverall, and he was gray.
"Could you tell me what that historical marker east of town was about?" I asked.
He smiled. "We're on the old Oregon Trail here. That marker's for a place where the trail came down a steep hill. They had to let the wagons down, one at a time, on ropes. You can still see the ruts the wagons left in the rocks there."
"I wish I could have seen that."
He smiled again. "You like history, do you? Well, that's good. It's everywhere, you know. All you have to do is look for it."
He took a rock off a shelf. Reaching into a drawer, he took out a paper label, the kind you use for the return address on an envelope. He licked it and stuck it to the rock, and handed it to me. "You keep this. It's from Nebraska, here. Not brought in from New Mexico or anything."
I thanked him. And I did keep it. The rock is cut in half and polished on one surface. I don't know what it is, really, but I think maybe fossilized wood.
The sticker fell off years ago, but I glued it back on. It's still there, brown with age.
Oregon Trail Service
Box 35
Lewellen, Nebr.69147
