James Kelleher

The Dixie Truckers Home in McLean, Illinois, off Interstate 55 and alongside what used to be Route 66, may not be the first American truckstop. But it's definitely one of the oldest -- and one of the most revered among aficionados of the old cross-country highway.

Opened in 1928, just two years after Route 66, the Dixie Truckers Home survived the federal highway's decommissioning in the early 1980s and continues to serve as a home away from home for long-haul truckers and other road warriors and travelers.

If there's a downside, it's this: The original owners sold the Dixie a few years back and the new owners seem more interested in making the place a comfortable one for modern travelers than in preserving the old ambience (though they have opened up a Route 66 memorabilia room.)

That said, the Dixie is still worth a stop, if only to breathe in the diesel fumes from the idling big rigs and to reflect on how many drivers over the nearly 80 years have enjoyed a quiet moment here before hitting the road again.

Just one piece of advice: Think twice before ordering a fruit cup to go at the Dixie Truckers Home. It's big and and it's a bargain. But it throws the staff for a loop.

When the Route 66 Team visited this week, we watched as a hapless bus driver, who had filled up a 16-oz Styrofoam cup with fruit from the buffet, tried to pay for the item.

The trouble: The Dixie's staff, apparently used to ringing up hamburgers, chicken-fried steaks and other artery-clogging fare, had difficulty understanding what the driver had served herself -- and then had no clue how to ring it up on the computer terminal/cash register at the central checkout counter.

In the end, it took two Dixie employees about seven minutes to figure what the bus driver -- whose passengers were boarded and were waiting to get to Kansas City -- owed.

The grand total: $1.91 with tax.

The Dixie Truckers Home in McLean, Illinois, off Interstate 55 and alongside what used to be Route 66, may not be the first American truckstop. But it's definitely one of the oldest -- and one of the most revered among aficionados of the old cross-country highway.

Opened in 1928, just two years after Route 66, the Dixie Truckers Home survived the federal highway's decommissioning in the early 1980s and continues to serve as a home away from home for long-haul truckers and other road warriors and travelers.

If there's a downside, it's this: The original owners sold the Dixie a few years back and the new owners seem more interested in making the place a comfortable one for modern travelers than in preserving the old ambience (though they have opened up a Route 66 memorabilia room.)

That said, the Dixie is still worth a stop, if only to breathe in the diesel fumes from the idling big rigs and to reflect on how many drivers over the nearly 80 years have enjoyed a quiet moment here before hitting the road again.

Just one piece of advice: Think twice before ordering a fruit cup to go at the Dixie Truckers Home. It's big and and it's a bargain. But it throws the staff for a loop.

When the Route 66 Team visited this week, we watched as a hapless bus driver, who had filled up a 16-oz Styrofoam cup with fruit from the buffet, tried to pay for the item.

The trouble: The Dixie's staff, apparently used to ringing up hamburgers, chicken-fried steaks and other artery-clogging fare, had difficulty understanding what the driver had served herself -- and then had no clue how to ring it up on the computer terminal/cash register at the central checkout counter.

In the end, it took two Dixie employees about seven minutes to figure what the bus driver -- whose passengers were boarded and were waiting to get to Kansas City -- owed.

The grand total: $1.91 with tax.

As the Route 66 Team traveled from Los Angeles to Chicago, celebrating Route 66 and the allure of the open road, we drove past a lot of reminders of the carnage that automobile travel entails.

Yeah, we're talking roadkill.

Here's a handful of the poor critters we came across during our the 2,500-mile journey.

As the Route 66 Team traveled from Los Angeles to Chicago, celebrating Route 66 and the allure of the open road, we drove past a lot of reminders of the carnage that automobile travel entails.

Yeah, we're talking roadkill.

Here's a handful of the poor critters we came across during our the 2,500-mile journey.

You won't find Times Beach on any up-to-date map of Missouri. And all references to it have been taken off signs on Interstate 44, the major east-west highway that replaced old Route 66 in this part of the country.

But 25 years ago, Times Beach, located about 25 miles west of St. Louis, was Missouri's best known -- the right word is notorious -- city after the waters of the nearby Meramec River rose more than 20 feet above flood level, inundating homes to near ceiling level and spreading an oil that the city had sprayed on its unpaved roads.

Unfortunately, that oil, applied to keep the dust down, wiped Times Beach off the map.

The city contractor had used waste oil contaminated with a toxic chemical called dioxin. Even before the flood in late 1982, researchers were scrambling to figure out why animals in town had been dying mysteriously. But by the time the lab results came back identifying the culprit, the waters of the Merrimac had tuned what might have been a manageable clean-up into a full-scale environmental disaster.

Two days before Christmas 1982, the 800 residents of Time Beach received a letter from authorities: "If you are in town, it is advisable for you to leave and if you are out of town do not go back."

In 1983, the federal government purchased the whole town. Over the next two decades, in fits and starts, the buildings were razed, the contaminated soil incinerated and the debris piled up and buried in what became known as the "town mound" (left).

Today, Times Beach is a memory. In its place is a 410-acre park run by the Missouri Department of Natural Resources that's known as the Route 66 State Park. Though it bears the old highway's name and features both the old Route 66 bridge across the Meramec and some portions of the original road, the park itself is essentially a nature preserve, with the town's old street's now serving as hiking and biking trails. The visitor center, located in a roadhouse inn, has memorabilia celebrating both the old highway that ran trough town and the 1982 flood that destroyed it.

A quarter of a century after one of the most notorious environmental catastrophes in U.S. history, there are encouraging signs. The Department of Natural Resources says the area is now home to healthy deer and turkey populations and other animal and birds have been sighted here.

And the town mound? It's still there, covered in grass, but easy enough for the visitor to spot, eerily reminiscent of the Indian burial sites that dot the state.

You won't find Times Beach on any up-to-date map of Missouri. And all references to it have been taken off signs on Interstate 44, the major east-west highway that replaced old Route 66 in this part of the country.

But 25 years ago, Times Beach, located about 25 miles west of St. Louis, was Missouri's best known -- the right word is notorious -- city after the waters of the nearby Meramec River rose more than 20 feet above flood level, inundating homes to near ceiling level and spreading an oil that the city had sprayed on its unpaved roads.

Unfortunately, that oil, applied to keep the dust down, wiped Times Beach off the map.

The city contractor had used waste oil contaminated with a toxic chemical called dioxin. Even before the flood in late 1982, researchers were scrambling to figure out why animals in town had been dying mysteriously. But by the time the lab results came back identifying the culprit, the waters of the Merrimac had tuned what might have been a manageable clean-up into a full-scale environmental disaster.

Two days before Christmas 1982, the 800 residents of Time Beach received a letter from authorities: "If you are in town, it is advisable for you to leave and if you are out of town do not go back."

In 1983, the federal government purchased the whole town. Over the next two decades, in fits and starts, the buildings were razed, the contaminated soil incinerated and the debris piled up and buried in what became known as the "town mound" (left).

Today, Times Beach is a memory. In its place is a 410-acre park run by the Missouri Department of Natural Resources that's known as the Route 66 State Park. Though it bears the old highway's name and features both the old Route 66 bridge across the Meramec and some portions of the original road, the park itself is essentially a nature preserve, with the town's old street's now serving as hiking and biking trails. The visitor center, located in a roadhouse inn, has memorabilia celebrating both the old highway that ran trough town and the 1982 flood that destroyed it.

A quarter of a century after one of the most notorious environmental catastrophes in U.S. history, there are encouraging signs. The Department of Natural Resources says the area is now home to healthy deer and turkey populations and other animal and birds have been sighted here.

And the town mound? It's still there, covered in grass, but easy enough for the visitor to spot, eerily reminiscent of the Indian burial sites that dot the state.

On the outside, Steve's Sundry, Books & Magazines on South Harvard Avenue in Tulsa's midtown neighborhood, doesn't look like much. But just as you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, don't write off Steve's because of its modest curb appeal and its location in an aging strip mall.

Step inside, and you quickly discover why, in an age of Amazon.com, Borders, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million, locals love this quirky, 60-year-old independent bookstore.

It's called Steve's Sundry, Books & magazines, so it's best to take things one by one.  

First, the sundries. Steve's stocks all kinds of items you wouldn't expect to find in a bookstore, including denture powder and a variety of products for the feet.  "As long as it's legal and our customers want it, we'll sell find it and sell it," says Joanie Stephenson, the wife of Steve Jr., the founder's son. The foot-care products -- some of them hard to get -- are there, Joanie says, because someone once asked for them and Steve's obliged. Then area podiatrists found out and began specifically referring customers to the store.

Also in the sundry category, the old-fashioned soda fountain in the back of the store, which serves shakes and simple sandwiches all day.  Hence the store's motto: "Whether it's Shakes or Shakespeare, Steve's is the Place."  

"I swing by probably once every couple of weeks," says 29-year-old Brian Wayland (left), a Tulsa social worker, who was having a shake blended up by Darren Whiteside, a Steve's employee, when the Route 66 Team visited.

"They make a better shake than Braum's (a regional ice cream chain) and there's hardly ever a line."  

The books lean heavily toward local authors, and books on Oklahoma history, and Steve's hosts signings weekly for these niche authors. "Shoot," Joanie says, "if somebody takes the time and the blood, sweat and tears to write a book, we're happy to sponsor an author event." 

That support for struggling authors has earned Steve's the love of some not-so-struggling scribes, including Elmore Leonard, David Baldacci and Garrison Keillor, who have all made a point of doing signings here when they're in Tulsa. 

And the magazines? Steve's carries over 4,000 titles, giving it -- according to Joanie -- the best selection in Tulsa. 

All photos taken in Tulsa, Oklahoma on May 22 and May 23, 2007
 

On the outside, Steve's Sundry, Books & Magazines on South Harvard Avenue in Tulsa's midtown neighborhood, doesn't look like much. But just as you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, don't write off Steve's because of its modest curb appeal and its location in an aging strip mall.

Step inside, and you quickly discover why, in an age of Amazon.com, Borders, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million, locals love this quirky, 60-year-old independent bookstore.

It's called Steve's Sundry, Books & magazines, so it's best to take things one by one.  

First, the sundries. Steve's stocks all kinds of items you wouldn't expect to find in a bookstore, including denture powder and a variety of products for the feet.  "As long as it's legal and our customers want it, we'll sell find it and sell it," says Joanie Stephenson, the wife of Steve Jr., the founder's son. The foot-care products -- some of them hard to get -- are there, Joanie says, because someone once asked for them and Steve's obliged. Then area podiatrists found out and began specifically referring customers to the store.

Also in the sundry category, the old-fashioned soda fountain in the back of the store, which serves shakes and simple sandwiches all day.  Hence the store's motto: "Whether it's Shakes or Shakespeare, Steve's is the Place."  

"I swing by probably once every couple of weeks," says 29-year-old Brian Wayland (left), a Tulsa social worker, who was having a shake blended up by Darren Whiteside, a Steve's employee, when the Route 66 Team visited.

"They make a better shake than Braum's (a regional ice cream chain) and there's hardly ever a line."  

The books lean heavily toward local authors, and books on Oklahoma history, and Steve's hosts signings weekly for these niche authors. "Shoot," Joanie says, "if somebody takes the time and the blood, sweat and tears to write a book, we're happy to sponsor an author event." 

That support for struggling authors has earned Steve's the love of some not-so-struggling scribes, including Elmore Leonard, David Baldacci and Garrison Keillor, who have all made a point of doing signings here when they're in Tulsa. 

And the magazines? Steve's carries over 4,000 titles, giving it -- according to Joanie -- the best selection in Tulsa. 

All photos taken in Tulsa, Oklahoma on May 22 and May 23, 2007
 

Carlton Pearson doesn't believe in hell. And he's pretty uncertain about heaven as well. Which wouldn't be all that exceptional, really -- except Pearson is an ordained Pentecostal minister and a former protégé of Oral Roberts, the Tulsa-based televangelist. So when the Route 66 Team passed through Tulsa this week, we spent an hour with Pearson in his offices on the 29th floor of a downtown skyscraper. 

Pearson, 54, wasnt always so unsure about core doctrinal issues. In the 1980s and 1990s, he ran Higher Dimensions Family Church, a Tulsa-based megachurch that hewed to a much more unforgiving and traditional view of the afterlife.

He also served on Oral Roberts Universitys board of regents and was one of the first African-Americans to be a regular guest on mainstream religious TV programs.

But Pearson tells Reuters that while he was a successful conservative evangelical, he was an unhappy man. "I was hating, hurting and hitting and being mean," he says today. "That's the way you function in that religion."

Then, Pearson had what he characterizes as an epiphany and he began preaching something new: God, he told anyone who would listen, had already forgiven everyone Christians, Jews, Muslims, Mormon, Hindus, Buddhists -- for their sins. No one -- not even Adolf Hitler or the devil himself needed to worry about eternal damnation.

I dont think theres an eternal consequence for doing wrong, he explains today. There are immediate ones. Pearson also backed off the idea that the Bible was the word of God. I take it seriously, he says. But I dont take it literally. I dont believe it is the inspired word of God. I believe it is the inspired word of man about God.

The response from the general public was remarkably positive. "I got tens of thousands of letters," he says, "from gays, Hindus, Muslims, Catholics, Jews and atheists. Some of the most profound letters about God came from the atheists."

But this gospel of inclusion, as it came to be known, wasn't so popular closer to home. Pearson's fellow Pentecostal bishops and other conservative Christians denounced him as a heretic. His congregation melted away. Weekly offerings tumbled. The bank foreclosed on his church.

Today, Pearsons new church -- New Dimensions Worship Center -- has a fraction of the members of his old one and is forced to borrow space for its services from an Episcopal church in downtown Tulsa.

Im 54 years old and Im somebodys foster child, he jokes.

But Pearson is unbowed. He continues to preach his gospel of inclusion and make pronouncements about the concept of hell that are likely to raise the hackles of his one-time friends in evangelical community.

He bristles, for instance, at the idea that God is a vengeful being who holds grudges for 6,000 years -- not only because it flies in the face of his belief in a merciful God but because it also creates a rationalization for vengeance and punishment here on earth.

"When you worship an angry God," he says, "you make anger good. That's what creates a Saddam Hussein or a George Bush."

The flipside of Pearson's hell-doubting theology, however, is that he sounds awfully skeptical about the existence of heaven. "We don't know what happens after this life," he says. "But we presume something good happens. So we've come up with these thrones and gates and virgins  ... But the closest to God you'll probably ever get is you." 

Carlton Pearson doesn't believe in hell. And he's pretty uncertain about heaven as well. Which wouldn't be all that exceptional, really -- except Pearson is an ordained Pentecostal minister and a former protégé of Oral Roberts, the Tulsa-based televangelist. So when the Route 66 Team passed through Tulsa this week, we spent an hour with Pearson in his offices on the 29th floor of a downtown skyscraper. 

Pearson, 54, wasnt always so unsure about core doctrinal issues. In the 1980s and 1990s, he ran Higher Dimensions Family Church, a Tulsa-based megachurch that hewed to a much more unforgiving and traditional view of the afterlife.

He also served on Oral Roberts Universitys board of regents and was one of the first African-Americans to be a regular guest on mainstream religious TV programs.

But Pearson tells Reuters that while he was a successful conservative evangelical, he was an unhappy man. "I was hating, hurting and hitting and being mean," he says today. "That's the way you function in that religion."

Then, Pearson had what he characterizes as an epiphany and he began preaching something new: God, he told anyone who would listen, had already forgiven everyone Christians, Jews, Muslims, Mormon, Hindus, Buddhists -- for their sins. No one -- not even Adolf Hitler or the devil himself needed to worry about eternal damnation.

I dont think theres an eternal consequence for doing wrong, he explains today. There are immediate ones. Pearson also backed off the idea that the Bible was the word of God. I take it seriously, he says. But I dont take it literally. I dont believe it is the inspired word of God. I believe it is the inspired word of man about God.

The response from the general public was remarkably positive. "I got tens of thousands of letters," he says, "from gays, Hindus, Muslims, Catholics, Jews and atheists. Some of the most profound letters about God came from the atheists."

But this gospel of inclusion, as it came to be known, wasn't so popular closer to home. Pearson's fellow Pentecostal bishops and other conservative Christians denounced him as a heretic. His congregation melted away. Weekly offerings tumbled. The bank foreclosed on his church.

Today, Pearsons new church -- New Dimensions Worship Center -- has a fraction of the members of his old one and is forced to borrow space for its services from an Episcopal church in downtown Tulsa.

Im 54 years old and Im somebodys foster child, he jokes.

But Pearson is unbowed. He continues to preach his gospel of inclusion and make pronouncements about the concept of hell that are likely to raise the hackles of his one-time friends in evangelical community.

He bristles, for instance, at the idea that God is a vengeful being who holds grudges for 6,000 years -- not only because it flies in the face of his belief in a merciful God but because it also creates a rationalization for vengeance and punishment here on earth.

"When you worship an angry God," he says, "you make anger good. That's what creates a Saddam Hussein or a George Bush."

The flipside of Pearson's hell-doubting theology, however, is that he sounds awfully skeptical about the existence of heaven. "We don't know what happens after this life," he says. "But we presume something good happens. So we've come up with these thrones and gates and virgins  ... But the closest to God you'll probably ever get is you."