There are a lot of roadside memorials to people who have died along our highways. Most commemorate young men, but there are a few to females, seniors, and even the occasional child. They typically are found on curves or at intersections. Some are well tended and maintained, but most have illegible, faded lettering with tattered, plastic flowers. Like the pharaohs, we want to immortalized our loved ones after they die. A lasting monument provides comfort, validation, and a sense of continuity. In reality, that is just a fantasy. We can't keep alive the person, or even the memory for very long. After our short lives, these memorials will all become faded, tattered, and ultimately forgotten. The memorials degenerate into a passing curiosity to succeeding generations. Eric's remains are in a jar, we don't have a grave or a roadside memorial for him. In spite of the intellectual futility, I think I'll make one when I get back. It does give sense of comfort.
The ride today stared an hour before sunrise to avoid the headwind. I finished the easy 56 miles before noon, and checked into a family owned motel in tiny Sanderson. Many of these non-brand name motels are wonderfully unique places filled with love and charm. So often we overlook them, choosing a predictable and recognizable, but sterile chain brand. We are really missing out on vintage Americana.