Seattle is one of the most tow-happy cities I’ve ever encountered. If you’ve ever tried to decipher the convoluted weekday parking rules downtown here (where signs say things like, oh, I dunno, “2-hour parking except third Wednesdays in months with an “R” in them, between 3 and 6 pm, and then only if driver is wearing red hat and matching lipstick”), you’ll know what I’m talking about.
But you know, if I ever got towed by a tow truck with actual toes on it…I might be a little more forgiving.
After seeing this, I would like to propose a requirement that all utilitarian equipment and vehicles also be hilarious.
There are some roads I have traveled so often that I have permanently etched into my memory every landmark, every sign, every single geographical feature along the way. The seventy miles between Colorado Springs and Denver is one of those stretches. When I was a kid, I knew exactly how far we were from our destination by which butte we passed; the profiles of every mountain in every season; and which hill was next to appear on the horizon. Every time I go back, no matter how much farmland has been converted into brand new suburbs, the mountains never change—and my mental map gets retraced with the same lines. On this day, I sketched while the Tailor drove, but I just as easily could have done this from memory—laying out every hill and peak along the route on one long, continuous sheet of paper.
For the many days of the year, these mountains are invisible. If you showed up in western Washington in November, you might not even know we had mountains here. Our rainy Northwest climate makes these peaks disappear into the clouds on most days—even, sometimes, when you’re right there, standing amongst them.
Not in the summertime, though. The best thing about the Northwest is that in the summer, the clouds disappear for months on end—and nearly every day we’re treated to crystal-clear views and flawless blue skies.
The very same day the Tailor and I breezed by a sign painter’s version of a petroglyph, we also got to see the real thing, up close.
Of course, they were beautiful and fascinating—but what really got me was the fact that the remnants of an ancient pueblo civilization were perched above a modern suburban neighborhood…
…and that the suburban neighborhood was designed to resemble an ancient pueblo civilization.
Now, I’m already going to be on the look-out for interesting signs or bizarre billboards when I’m on the road—but I have to admit, this is pretty good way to get my attention.
What can I say? Sign says “Draw,” I reach for my pen.
I’ve driven across Kansas enough times that these signs (which are repeated several times along the road, reminiscent of Wall Drug ads) have become like old friends. I haven’t yet succumbed to the temptation to pay six bucks to see any five-legged steers, but that’s okay—that’s not why I like these so much. They remind me vaguely of another, long-extinct slice of Americana—one that I’d dearly love to be able to go back in time to sketch. So since I can’t see them myself, I’ll write my own:
Wish I’d have seen
With mine own eye
Those roadside ads
Of days gone by:
Burma Shave.
Now, commuting by cowboy hearse or by dinghy might seem a little unusual to us, but for some people, just a family station wagon would be downright outlandish…
This sketch was a complete—and happy—accident. The Tailor and I happened to pass through Amish country on a Sunday, so I figured nobody would be out and about. We stopped just so I could draw a few farm scenes, but while I was at it these folks passed by.
All I can say is I’m glad I had a pencil on me (so I could jot down a rough sketch more quickly)—and that buggies move pretty slowly.
Now, Texas might be home to an outlandish vehicle or two, it’s true, but at least it was in keeping with the whole Texas theme. In Nova Scotia’s fishing villages, you’re more likely to see boats “parked” behind houses than cars. Since it took me three times as long to drive to this spot as sailing would have done—well, it’s not hard to see why.