In South Missouri, we stopped to get gas in Anderson. Many people approach the Brougham at gas stations. A giant, blue, be-finned spacecraft does merit a “howdy,” and everyone seems to smile when they see it. Well, except Prius drivers. But a lot of Prius passengers give me a thumbs up and probably wish they were floating along in my Detroit Dinosaur rather than their souped-up toaster oven.
While at the Conoco, a friendly woman approached and we chatted about the car. When she discovered I was on a road trip across America she immediately said, “Well, my family is having a big reunion with a tent, music, and beer just over the hill here. Take Mud Spring Road and you can’t miss us.”
That did it. Linda Jefferson (for that was her name) said the magic word: beer. So Charlie, Bebe, and I loaded up the Caddy and floored it for the crick. Mud Spring Road is a road for about 100 yards. Then it turns to a hay field, which might have scared the average classic-car owner. Not me. My car spent its life bouncing over the oil fields of Oklahoma, so no hay field was going to stop me from a family reunion. Sure enough, the Brougham took to that field like a woman to chocolate. We didn’t feel anything. The air suspension wouldn’t let the car bottom out and if we ran over a cow or two, we never knew it.
Down by the creek, we were greeted by the Pearcy family. What a great bunch of people. I love a reunion, even if it isn’t my own family. Shoot, maybe it’s more fun if it isn’t your own family. This could be a movie: Reunion Crashers. Men were cooking all kinds of deceased things: fried turkey, fried fish, Elk, and ham. A pair of pretty cousins sang the national anthem in harmony and everyone paused to put their hands over their hearts and listen. Aunts and nieces clucked over babies. Young children played in the crystal-clear spring. Grandmamas complained about the heat and the potato salad.
You can’t get more American than the Pearcy family. In fact, the property where we stood has been in the family’s hands for generations. Great-grandad Pearcy homesteaded the place in the 1800s. Developers tried to buy it a few years back, but Judy Rickett and her daughter Julie wisely managed to avoid a sale. Julie, a former Navy boatswains mate, was married here last year in a swimsuit and t-shirt. When her father, an avid Civil War re-enactor, passed away, his wish was to have his ashes spread across the property by being blasted from a cannon. Naturally, his family fulfilled his wishes. So we were on hallowed Pearcy family ground and the Murphys and Buggs felt very welcome, indeed.
In fact, the reunion was so big, half the clan didn’t know the other half. Charlie was greeted with, “Why, I haven’t seen you in 30 years!”
“At least that long,” Charlie replied.
One family member, clearly the Pearcy family rebel, was going by the name Pocahontas for the weekend, perhaps in a protest to all the name tags.
“I’d wanted to be Sacajawea, but that #*$% was too hard to spell,” she told us. Her husband, Chief Rows-a-Lot, nodded along. Pocahontas, as it turned out, was a motoring enthusiasts. She’s hoping to expand her “five wheel” to mount their motorcycles.
Then I chatted to TK, who owns a 1959 Cadillac (my kinda lady). A banker and a style mavin, TK introduced us to the Voodo Daddy musical group and gave us a copy of their latest CD for the road. Truly, it’s a fantastic group.
With afternoon creeping upon us, we decided to load up the Cadillac and make tracks for Tulsa. After another four hours of driving, with the Cadillac running 75 mph the whole way, we arrived at the hotel by 9:15 p.m.
