Geary, Oklahoma

The sun was about to kiss the horizon, signaling the time to scratch out a place to camp in the fenced wide open spaces of western Oklahoma.  But before I had the chance to focus all my attention on finding a place to disappear to a car pulled over after passing me and an older guy in overalls popped out and waved me down.  

“Do you need a place to stay for the night,” he asked.  “I live a few miles up the road, actually 2.1 miles after you come to the only stop sign on this stretch of road.  You’re welcome to camp at my place or throw your sleeping bag down in my RV.  I’m a bicyclist too.”

“That would be great,” I answered. “I was just beginning to look for a place to camp.”

“I’ve had others cycling Route 66 stay over, so it wold be nice to have you.  I’ll call my wife and let her know we have a guest for dinner.  I’ll drive ahead and wait for you at our driveway so you don’t miss it.”

Lee was a recently retired oil worker and handyman extraordinaire who was returning from the local hardware store with fittings for a shower he was installing in his spare bathroom.  He and his wife had been busily engaged in home improvements since his  retirement in August of the house they had been living in for twenty-three years.  The property a bit off the road included a barn and workshop and pen for chickens and rabbits.  They’d once had horses but no more.  Their spacious living room and kitchen/dining room could have been rooms in a museum displaying objects of western lore.

Dinner was corn-fed beef raised by Judy’s parents, along with broccoli and tater-tots and homemade bread.  Lee grew up in Woodward, my next destination one hundred miles to the northwest. I suggested he join me, at least part of the way. He said he’d always wanted to do the ride, but unfortunately hadn’t been riding much lately so was in no shape for such a thing.  His favorite ride was the end of August Hotter-N’-Hell Century across the border in Wichita Falls, Texas.  It attracts better than ten thousand riders from all over willing to endure the challenge of riding in one hundred degree temperatures. 

 As they queried  me about my travels, they figured I had to be a very wealthy man to afford to travel to so many faraway places, not realizing how inexpensive it is to travel by bike and wild camp and not eat in restaurants, well under ten dollars a day.  I told them I could earn enough in a good day of messengering to pay all my expenses for a month in third world countries. Lee had much greater earning power than me, and could pay for a week or longer cruise if he cared to with what he earned when he worked overtime on weekends earning”stupid money,” as he called it, though they never did.  We had the Olympics on in the background,  but hardly paid it any attention as we were totally lost in conversation. 

They sent me off in the morning with an omelet from just laid eggs and bread just out of the oven with a jar of homemade mint jelly.  When I took their photo under the doorway from their kitchen to the living room, Lee said, “I hope we don’t look too much like hicks.”  They were anything but, just another fine sample of the wonderful, kindly folk the bicycle draws out.  I felt fortunate to have met them.

When I encountered, Lee it was the fourth time I had intersected with Route 66 since I crossed into Oklahoma ten days ago, as I’ve zigzagged about the state connecting the dots of ten Carnegies so far with seven to go.  I had rejoined it ten miles east of El Reno and it’s Carnegie, another fine sample of the distinguished classic revival style.  It had been renovated in 2018, but without any addition.  

The renovation hadn’t including restoring “Carnegie Library” below its roofline leaving it blank, so the building had nothing on it other than a couple of plaques identifying it as a library besides the telltale book drop out front.  The librarian on duty had only come to El Reno two years ago so didn’t know anything about the Carnegie nameplate.  She had to dig out some old postcards to confirm that it had been there.  She was as mystified as I was that it hsd been expunged. 

I began the day fifty miles south with the former Carnegie Library on the sprawling campus of the University of Oklahoma in Norman, just south of Oklahoma City.  “Carnegie” in large bold letters adorned the building.  As with just about every building on the campus a plaque out front detailed it’s heritage.  It was the first of the 108 academic libraries Carnegie funded across the US.  The college quickly outgrew it within twenty years after its construction in 1905.  It was replaced by a much larger building nearby that still serves as the library.  The Carnegie has had a multitude of incarnations in its lifetime, including serving as an education college.  It presently houses offices for a variety of departments.

A rental bike and a rental scooter were propped up near the plaque, which were even more ubiquitous about the campus than the many plaques.  It was just forty degrees, but students were bustling about in shorts, anticipating the temperature rising to sixty by early afternoon.  Some even wore masks, a site I hadn’t seen much of.  None of the libraries and stores I’ve entered have mandated masks, just suggested them.

I was able to camp in a state park east of Norman, the Little River State Park, the night before slipping into the city.  It was a little over halfway between the Carnegies in Norman and Shawnee.  It was late afternoon when paid my respects to the Carnegie in Shawnee, now quarters for the District Attorney.  As a state building, it was well-maintained, looking as gallant as if it had just been unveiled.  It was set in a park with a bit of breathing room on all sides.  It was still identified with “Carnegie Library” high above the entry.