A roadside tribute to weird and wonderful Americana, the Pink Elephant Antique Mall in Livingston, Illinois, is a can’t-miss stop on Route 66. Housed in a former high school, this 30,000-squarefoot treasure trove offers vintage oddities, classic candy, and even a retro diner. But the real magic is outside, where a huge pink elephant, numerous fiberglass giants, and a flying saucer turn nostalgia into a roadside spectacle worth the detour.
44 In the Middle of Tulsa
By Abigail Singrey
Opened in May 2021 by passionate local entrepreneur Heather Linville, Wildflower Cafe has quickly become a Tulsa hotspot along America’s Mother Road. Set in the trendy Meadow Gold District, the vintage-chic space is more than a café, it’s a bright, community-driven haven with a story all its own. Like so many dreamers before her, Linville carries on the tradition of welcoming both locals and travelers into the warmth and charm of her inspired vision.
50 A Conversation with Taylor Kitsch
By Brennen Matthews
Before he was Tim Riggins, Taylor Kitsch was a broke dreamer sleeping on the New York subway. But grit, charm, and a Texas-sized screen presence launched him from modeling gigs to Friday Night Lights fame. This story follows Kitsch’s wild ride from small-town heartthrob to gritty roles in Bang Bang Club , Painkiller , Terminal List , and beyond. Still carving his path, Kitsch brings the same intensity offscreen as he does to every unforgettable performance. In this rare interview, get to see the softer side of one of Hollywood’s most intense, talented actors.
70 First of Its Kind
By Jake Baur
Born in 1931 as a tiny drugstore in Wall, South Dakota, Wall Drug became a legend thanks to a simple pitch: “Free Ice Water.” Ted and Dorothy Hustead’s simple but creative signs drew travelers off the highway, and over time, the place has exploded into a 76,000-square-foot wonderland of Western kitsch, and photo ops galore. This destination captures the spirit of classic highway culture—where charm, grit, and a great gimmick still go a long way.
76 Home, Home on the Range
By Eva Massey
Bob Lantis was a fixture at South Dakota’s famous bison roundup, a man who knew the Wild West like the back of his hand. What animal represents the spirit of the West—and America—more than the mighty bison? From dusty trails to thundering herds, Bob’s story is full of heart and unforgettable moments. Though he’s no longer riding the range, his legend and the bison roundup live on.
ON THE COVER
“Mega Mayor” in Uranus Fudge Factor and General Store, St. Robert, Missouri. Photograph by David J. Schwartz – Pics On Route 66.
Mo the Plesiosaur in Ponteix, Saskatchewan. Photograph by Kate Matthews.
In 2021, as the world grappled with closed borders and disrupted traditions, our annual pilgrimage down Route 66, a journey we’d come to know like the back of our hand, was suddenly off the table. For years, the storied highway had been our summer escape: neon signs, vintage diners, and weathered landmarks guided us through America’s heartland. But that year, the map changed. With the U.S. border shut, we turned our gaze inward, setting out on a road trip that would reveal to us the hidden, quirky, and heartwarming treasures of Canada’s own historic and scenic routes.
From the quiet charm of Ontario’s old stagecoach trails and its dramatic lakeside shorelines and across the wide-open prairie highways like the Red Coat Trail and Highway 2, Canada proved itself a worthy, and wonderfully surprising, substitute. Small towns welcomed us with murals, oddball statues, and museums that told of pioneers, poets, and dreamers who’d left their mark on the land. The road offered up gold we’d never expected, and nowhere was that clearer than on a sunny afternoon in southern Saskatchewan.
We were cruising west under an impossibly blue prairie sky, the kind that makes the horizon seem endless, when we rolled into blink and you’ll miss it, Ponteix. And there he was: Mo, the Plesiosaur. Towering beside the road, Mo’s long neck and smiling face were impossible to miss. He was incredibly loveable and nothing if not DIY. This prehistoric marine reptile wasn’t just a fibreglass curiosity; Mo was inspired by real history. In 1992, local farmer and amateur fossil hunter Peter Hryciuk uncovered the fossilized remains of a Plesiosaur near Ponteix. This remarkable find, thought to date back 70 million years to a time when the prairie was a vast inland sea, captured the imagination of the small town.
The discovery sparked pride in Ponteix, and the community rallied to honor its prehistoric claim to fame. With local fundraising efforts and support from regional tourism and heritage groups, the idea for Mo the statue was born. Designed to celebrate the town’s unique link to the ancient sea, Mo was sculpted to be both educational and eye-catching—a way to draw travelers off the highway and into Ponteix’s story. Unveiled in the late 1990s, Mo quickly became a beloved landmark, standing not just as a nod to the past, but as a symbol of small-town spirit and curiosity.
That day, standing beneath Mo’s gaze with the sun warm on our faces, we realized something: Canada’s back roads weren’t just a consolation prize, they were a revelation. Our borders may have been closed, but the road, like our own all across America, still had magic to share.
In this edition — our Americana issue — we feature stories both along and beyond Route 66 that celebrate the incredible journey our nation has taken, and in many places, continues to live out today. From the sprawling wonderland of Wall Drug in South Dakota, where free ice water and five-cent coffee are just the beginning, to the playful Pink Elephant Antique Mall along Southern Illinois’ stretch of Route 66. These destinations invite travelers to slow down, explore, and connect with local stories. These larger-than-life attractions are more than quirky photo ops — they’re part of the country’s spirit of imagination, humor, and hospitality, and they define the American road trip.
This has always been one of my favorite annual issues, and I hope that as you dive in, you’ll feel inspired to hit the road and discover the magic for yourself. So, as you map out your own travels, remember to leave room for the unexpected. The spirit of the road lives on in these icons and discovering them is part of what makes an American road trip unlike any other.
Blessings,
Brennen Matthews Editor
ROUTE
PUBLISHER
Thin Tread Media
EDITOR
Brennen Matthews
DEPUTY EDITOR
Kate Wambui
EDITOR-AT-LARGE
Nick Gerlich
LEAD EDITORIAL
PHOTOGRAPHER
David J. Schwartz
LAYOUT AND DESIGN
Tom Heffron
DIGITAL
Yasir Ahmed
ILLUSTRATOR
Jennifer Mallon
EDITORIAL INTERN
Sojourner Crofts
CONTRIBUTORS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS
Abigail Singrey
Byron Banasiak
Chandler O’Leary
City Museum
Diego Delso
Dreamstime
Emma Steinmetz
Eva Massey
Hustead Family
Jake Baur
John Smith
Kate Matthews
Michael Muller
Tomasz Wozniak
Editorial submissions should be sent to brennen@routemagazine.us.
To subscribe or purchase available back issues visit us at www.routemagazine.us.
Advertising inquiries should be sent to advertising@routemagazine.us.
ROUTE is published six times per year by Thin Tread Media. No part of this publication may be copied or reprinted without the written consent of the Publisher. The views expressed by the contributors are not necessarily those of the Publisher, Editor, or service contractors. Every effort has been made to maintain the accuracy of the information presented in this publication. No responsibility is assumed for errors, changes or omissions. The Publisher does not take any responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or photography.
at The Cowboy
Explore new immersive exhibits and experience the history, art and culture of the American West at the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum on Route 66 in Oklahoma City, since 1955.
Fun Times in the City
Route
66 has always been America’s most eccentric highway—a winding ribbon of asphalt where the unusual and the extraordinary feel right at home. It’s a road that celebrates the offbeat and encourages visionaries to make their claim. So, it’s only fitting that in St. Louis, Missouri, where the Mother Road once carried dreamers westward, stands one of the highway’s most delightfully bizarre attractions: the City Museum. The 600,000-squarefoot building is a giant playground with enormous slides, a labyrinth of tunnels to crawl through, and two real airplanes to explore, amongst many other exciting attractions. In other words: this massive playground is not just fun for the kids; it is a spot for everyone curious and young at heart.
2011, at a construction site in a bulldozer that had rolled over. He was only 61.
Unsurprisingly, the legacy of Bob Cassilly lives on in City Museum, and Rick Erwin, the museum’s creative director, is filling his shoes well. Erwin has many ideas to continue adding to the zany collection of the museum: a labyrinth on the fourth floor that they’ve been working on for
about six years with an 80-foot-slide inside, as well as a mini-Ferris wheel that he imagines would be fun hanging off the side of the building. Installations are made of limestone, plaster, rebar, concrete, and iron, and museum guests can climb, slide, swing, jump, and explore every nook-and-cranny of the massive space.
However, long before its debut as a museum of play, the building began its journey in 1922 as the International Shoe Company. The factory was eventually closed in 1987 and sat mostly vacant until 1993 when artists Bob and Gail Cassilly bought the old building at a price of 69 cents a square foot and breathed life back into it. Bob Cassilly was more than just an artist—he was an architectural alchemist who saw potential where others saw debris. At the age of 14, he started to regularly skip school and began an apprenticeship with renowned sculptor Rudy Torrini. Soon, with his training and untamable imagination, Cassilly would make his own mark, creating largerthan-life public installations. But it was his masterwork, the City Museum in St. Louis, that truly embodied his creative philosophy. Working alongside his wife Gail and a dedicated crew of artisans, Cassilly transformed the abandoned shoe factory into an ever-evolving playground of possibilities, where industrial salvage became artistic salvation. He had an uncanny ability to see the whimsical in the worn-out—old shoe chutes became thrilling 10-story slides, architectural remnants morphed into climbing structures, and discarded machinery found new life as artistic marvels. For Cassilly, the world wasn’t bound by conventional uses; every object held potential for wonder, if only you dared to reimagine it. Sadly, Cassilly’s life was not to be a long one. He was found dead on September 26,
Unlike a typical museum, you won’t get kicked out for touching the exhibits here. In fact, you are encouraged to be part of the art. “When people get in here and they make sound and they are the movement, that’s when it’s all jiving, and it’s all working together,” said Erwin. This was the vision that Bob Cassilly always desired. “Bob… he was always jealous of music. The idea of music is—it goes in your ears and it’s inside you and you feel it. That’s what he wanted with the sculptures and stuff,” continued Erwin. “He wanted people to be able to get inside them and feel them, be a part of them.”
Today, Erwin tries his best to keep to the original vision that Cassilly had for the museum, even as the business and demands grow. One of the first things he did when he started in 2006 was to remove the map directories. They were costly and their largest trash item, but really, he wanted people to get lost. “It was kind of the idea that Bob wanted. He wanted you to explore and find your way. We don’t wanna tell you what to do,” said Erwin. “We should just let you play and figure it out. City Museum has always been the place that lets you grow in confidence.”
Like Route 66 itself, this architectural wonderland defies easy description and demands to be experienced, promising visitors the same sense of wonder and discovery that has drawn adventurers to the historic highway for generations.
As you journey down the Mother Road, consider stopping by this unique, otherworldly adult playground, and experience one man’s enduring vision of what a museum could be.
Photograph courtesy of City Museum.
Old Skool California
Located only a halfhour drive from the Pacific Ocean — and right along the home stretch of Route 66 — is South Pasadena, California. Brimming with architecture, landmarks, and people who have stories to tell, there is one historic building that stands out among the rest in this charming town. With a pale pink exterior, greenand-white striped awnings, and an authentic neon sign, Fair Oaks Pharmacy and Soda Fountain is not simply another store along the roadway but a true multifaceted experience from the past.
Dating back to 1915, it was originally known as the South Pasadena Pharmacy; later, it became the Raymond Pharmacy and, since the ‘40s, has been known as the Fair Oaks Pharmacy. Opened by Gertrude Ozmun — a prominent entrepreneur of her time who even has a road named after her a few blocks down from Fair Oaks — it served as a pharmacy and soda fountain to the local community. It soon grew in popularity as Route 66 brought travelers through the area. Now an icon from a bygone era, Fair Oaks continues to serve up a whole host of amenities, treatments, and sweet concoctions; novelty toys and treats; custom remedies for people and pets alike, and not to mention a good deal of history on display in their small archive museum. Under the careful watch of the Shahniani family since 2005, the iconic spot is in good hands.
“My mom is a pharmacist, so growing up we’ve always owned different pharmacies. When my parents would own and operate a business, my mother would be the pharmacist and do all the pharmacist things and my father would run the front end,” explained Brandon Shahniani, the current co-owner, alongside his mother Zahra and brother Ash. “They were looking for a new business to purchase, and they came upon this really weird, really cool soda fountain that was a retail store and a restaurant but also had a working pharmacy in the back, so they thought it would be a great idea to purchase this place. It was a perfect situation for both of their careers.”
With authentic phosphate recipes dating back to the ‘40s and the soda fountain’s original operator’s guide passed down from owner to owner, the pharmacy holds steadfast in its tribute to the past. “Fair Oaks Pharmacy is a fully immersive experience,” continued Shahniani.
“The whole point of Fair Oaks Pharmacy is that we want you to be able to step inside and feel like you’re stepping back in time to something that is authentically from where it originated. We have lots of things that we do that keep it fully immersive. Obviously, the ambience is already there, but we also try to understand the lingo that they used back in the day. If an older gentleman comes in, we want him to be able to order a drink the way that he did back in the day.”
As such, it is not uncommon to hear terms like two-cent plain or black cow getting thrown around inside Fair Oaks, and every new employee learns the lingo in order to serve anything from a local favorite — a Shirley Temple — to the lesser-known Roy Rogers drink and everything in between.
Although the name and ownership of the business has changed over the decades, one thing has remained true: the undeniable, old-fashioned charm that it brings to all those who enter. “It’s one of those things where it’s so important to maintain and preserve, because the whole point is, you have something magical that you get to step into, and there are not a lot of places that [still] exist like that,” said Shahniani. “It’s crucial to keep everything as neat and preserved as possible because we care about the future. We want it to last longer.
I want Fair Oaks Pharmacy to outlive me. It was here way before I was born, and I want it to be here way after I’m dead. But I’m responsible for that happening while I’m alive.”
Fair Oaks has been a corner store staple in South Pasadena’s historic business district for over 100 years and continues to make history as it brings new generations back to simpler times. Whether you are in need of some custom-made medicines, feel the hankering for an authentic, old-fashioned milkshake, or just want to explore some genuine history along California’s Mother Road, this is an ideal place to stop and stay awhile.
Photograph by David J. Schwartz –Pics On Route 66.
HONEST JOHN
America has always loved a creative gimmick, and in the middle of the 20 th Century, the country had a good one. Muffler Men — fiberglass “Giants” manufactured during the 1960s and 70s, and designed to be eye-catching advertising for roadside businesses, towered across the American landscape. And motorists loved them, but by the 1980s, they had begun to disappear, but not totally! Some of these gentle behemoths have earned national fame: the Gemini Giant in Wilmington, Illinois; the Paul Bunyon Giant in the small town of Atlanta, Illinois; and the Lauterbach Tire Man in Springfield, Illinois. But one towering figure has yet to receive the recognition he deserves. Allow us to introduce you to Gallup, New Mexico’s largest resident— “Dude Man.”
Surveying downtown Gallup from his lofty perch, the cowboy stands tall atop the roof of John’s Used Cars. Wearing a Western hat and a holstered six-shooter, his square-jawed, broad-shouldered appearance channels the classic heroes of old Hollywood Westerns. Yet there’s a hint of melancholy in his expression as he stares solemnly at his empty palms.
“He once held a rifle in his hands—someone told me he had a rifle up there—but I’ve never seen it,” said John DeArmond, the previous owner of the used car dealership. Rifle or not, Dude Man fits perfectly into Gallup’s iconic Western identity. The town—often referred to as the heart of Indian Country—is a place where hats, boots, and turquoise jewelry are part of everyday life. Historic downtown Gallup lies just south of Route 66, the BNSF Railway, and I-40, all running parallel through town.
“It’s the Indian capital of the world,” DeArmond said. “[And] Richardson’s Trading Post down the street has the best Indian jewelry.” From his rooftop post on West Coal Street, Dude Man enjoys the best view in town—a sweeping look over Pueblo Revival architecture, busy streets, and the daily mix of tourists and locals.
DeArmond, a Gallup native now retired and living in Arizona, left school after seventh grade to enter the working world. By the 1970s, he had become a self-made businessman with a used car dealership and a business partner. “The Dodge dealership [where he was, in Gallup] went out of business, so we bought
the big man at the auction,” he explained. “That Dodge dealership was only ten blocks away, and I had to pay a company to take him apart… in three pieces. They hauled him on a flatbed trailer and then they put him back together. It’s been good for advertising, and it’s just been an eye-catcher,” he continued. “All my customers— most of them are now Hopi off the reservation—they love him to death.”
In over fifty years of ownership, DeArmond has only had the big man repainted twice, each time at a cost of about $2,500. “He had to be painted while he was on the ground, and I went back to the original colors of red, white, and blue,” he said. “But there is a bullet hole right in his head. Someone shot him with a .22 [caliber], but that bullet hole happened years ago. I just left it alone. It’s not very big.”
Locally, in a nod to DeArmond’s reputation, the giant became known as “Honest John” after losing his original “Dodge Man” moniker in the 1970s. But in 2013, a Roadside America blurb referred to him as Dude Man, and the name stuck with travelers ever since. But whatever you call him, he’s a popular figure. “People come from all over, asking questions and wanting to know more about him. They get out of their cars and take pictures. We have a population [in Gallup] of 20,000 during the week, but on the weekend we’re at 100,000 because all the Indians come off the reservation to trade.”
DeArmond sold the business to his children in the early 2000s, keeping it in the family. His son has since passed away, but his daughter Evonne has continued the legacy.
“She’s done a real good job with it,” he said. “Evonne likes [the statue] there because it draws a lot of traffic. I had an offer one time, around ten thousand dollars, and I said, ‘It’s not for sale.’ I’m just kind of sentimental about him after all these years.”
Standing sentinel over Gallup’s distinctively Western downtown, the Dude Man does what all good Giant Men do best—lend a protective air to their surroundings and hold still for photos.
A vivid reminder of a bygone era, this gentle giant has stepped comfortably into the 21st Century—still smiling, even if only in spirit. After all, as everyone knows, cowboys seldom show their real feelings.
Photograph by John Smith.
A LASTING SLOGAN
Along Route 66 and Interstate 40 through the High Plains of the American Southwest, if lucky, travelers might still catch sight along the sometimes lonely highway of one or two remaining signs adorned with the reassuring words, “Tucumcari Tonite!”
This wildly successful slogan campaign once put Tucumcari, New Mexico, on the map as “the Gateway to the West,” with many miles worth of advertisements championing the little city’s 2,000 available motel rooms. Although Tucumcari later experienced economic hardship due to the interstate bypass and the loss of commercial tourism, its rich history is encapsulated in the quirky “Tucumcari Tonite!” slogan that still welcomes weary travelers. It’s a slogan that refuses to die, as dedicated community members of Tucumcari work diligently to reinvigorate its use.
Tucumcari began its status as a national crossroads and hub for American travelers when the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad founded a construction camp there in 1901. In the early 20th Century, the camp grew into a town, using the names Ragtown, Six Shooter Siding, and Douglas before settling on Tucumcari, which became a regional railroad center. Tucumcari then became a popular motorist stop after the original alignment of Route 66 came through in 1926. Nicknamed Route 66 Boulevard, the Mother Road ran east-west right through the center of town, where dozens of motor services such as motels, restaurants, and gas stations sprang up to welcome travelers.
It was the plethora of neon-draped accommodations that inspired the “Tucumcari Tonite!” signs though, and it didn’t take long to gather notoriety. In the mid-20th Century, the signs began to pop up along the long miles approaching Tucumcari, with an invitation for tourists to stop, relax, and rent a room for the night. As the largest stopping point on the highway between Amarillo, Texas, and Albuquerque, New Mexico, motorists took comfort from the catchphrase with a collective sigh of relief that there would be motel rooms ready and waiting for them after a long day on the road. “It was miles from anywhere, so back in the day when people couldn’t travel as far, Tucumcari was the most logical place to spend the night,” said Connie Loveland, director of the nonprofit organization Tucumcari Main Street. In tandem with the vintage charm of some of the town’s neon-kissed
motels themselves, such as the famed Blue Swallow Motel, and ever popular Roadrunner Lodge Motel, the “Tucumcari Tonite!” signs themselves became a memorable attraction for highway travelers. However, the success story of the “Tucumcari Tonite!” campaign has not always been linear. In the 1950s, following President Eisenhower’s development of a new interstate highway system, I-40 passed through the fringes of the city limits. An original alignment of the Mother Road remained in use, still funneling some travelers through the downtown area, yet, even so, the city suffered a drastic drop in tourism, with the local population declining slowly but steadily ever since the 1950 census. Tucumcari during the second half of the 20th Century began to resemble a ghost town, a hub of decaying Route 66 cultural artifacts enduring a long economic downturn. And yet, even amid downswings, the spirit of Tucumcari endured, partly due to the continued fascination with the fading but iconic signs leading to the town’s borders.
In 2008, members of the Tucumcari Main Street organization voted to replace the former “Gateway to the West” slogan with a revitalized promotion of the “Tucumcari Tonite!” catchphrase, in the form of four new billboards. In addition to the endorsement of colorful murals, the renovation of vintage motels, and the restoration of neon lights downtown, community supporters continue to promote Tucumcari’s endurance and long-term association with Route 66.
“Tucumcari is one of the few places that has embraced Route 66 and worked to keep the neon and to keep that traditional feel, which continues to draw people in. Local businesses have done such a good job of preserving their buildings and preserving the spirit of Route 66,” said Loveland. “I’ve always said that the communities along Route 66 are really like an extended family, and the places that have embraced that have been really successful.”
As the 2026 centennial of Route 66 approaches and the momentum breaks through the quiet of the past couple years, travelers and inhabitants alike along the Mother Road are celebrating those communities that have endured through all the ups and downs. Tucumcari is undeniably one of these gems, and “Tucumcari Tonite!” reminds us that there are still comfortable, vintage (and renovated) motel rooms a-plenty to draw us back to the picturesque little High Plains city along the Route.
THE PINK ELEPHANT
By Jake Baur
Opening photograph by David J. Schwartz - Pics On Route 66
As Historic Route 66 begins in Chicago and winds its way through approximately 300 miles through Illinois to the Southwest, it passes through dozens of little communities, each with their own charm and draw. That is one of the things that makes the iconic road the quintessential Great American road trip. And one of these towns is Livingston, where an unmissable roadside gem awaits travelers. The Pink Elephant Antique Mall stands as a vibrant testament to the Mother Road’s golden age of quirky attractions and roadside magic.
Onwards and Upwards is the Dream
Like many towns along the Midwestern stretch of Route 66, Livingston’s history is rooted in farming and mining. It was a Southern Illinois destination that worked hard to offer motorists everything that they may require when on the road. Today, the Pink Elephant continues this tradition of welcoming road-trippers, though instead of gas and provisions, it offers something even more precious: a perfectly preserved slice of mid-century roadside culture.
These eye-catching outdoor features aren’t just Instagramworthy photo opportunities — they’re thoughtful homages to the wonderfully weird and kitschy attractions that once dotted America’s historic highways.
And the man responsible for capturing and preserving the very spirit of Route 66’s golden age of roadside entertainment in Livingston? Davey Hammond. An entrepreneur, a gogetter, and a visionary, Hammond worked hard to make something of himself. “I worked for the city in the water and sewer field; I didn’t make a lot of money, but I always had side projects,” said Hammond. “Dad and I used to flip houses. We did like 20-something over the years.” Along the way, Hammond also invested in some bigger properties.
“I originally bought a building in Hamel, Illinois. It was also on Route 66 and we called it the Princess Antique Mall. That was in 1997. About a year after we opened the Princess, we bought the Colosseum Ballroom in Benld, Illinois, in 1998. We had it as an antique mall, also,” continued Hammond. The Colosseum had notoriety; it had served as a dance hall in its heyday and hosted big stars like Duke Ellington, Chuck Berry, and Ike and Tina Turner. Plus, it was a lot larger of a building at 10,000 square feet. Hammond sold the Princess a year after purchasing it and focused on maintaining the Colosseum.
Things were going well for Hammond and the antique business. Then, in 2004, an opportunity presented itself.
“A guy I used to do some work for, Gary Levi, left a message on my cell phone saying, ‘Davey, the Livingston High School is going up for sale. You can probably get it cheap. See ya.’
That was the message,” remembered Hammond. “So, I went and picked up my dad, Dave — who was my partner
in everything I did — and we go and drive around the building a few times. He finally asks, ‘What are we doing?’ and I tell him, ‘I’m gonna buy this building!’ He started laughing and goes, ‘Well, do what you want.’”
Who Wants to Own a School?
The school was built in 1926 but closed in 2004 because there weren’t enough students in attendance. Located just off of Interstate 55, the school had great traffic and visibility, so when it went to auction in 2005, Hammond jumped and placed his bid. And they accepted his offer at just over $64,000 — a steal!
“Shortly before I bought it, they’d just spent $750,000 putting in a new gym floor, a new roof on the building, new furnaces, so I really lucked out,” said Hammond. “The bleachers were hand-built and bolted into place. Sturdy. You could’ve parked a diesel truck on them. We had to tear all that out. So, then we had them both going for a while: the Colosseum in Benld and the school in Livingston. But man, it was just running us so thin. The power bills at both places were just astronomical. So, we ended up putting the Colosseum up for sale and moved everybody to Livingston. That was the summer of 2005,” said Hammond. It was a beneficial move from the get-go, with sales almost doubling thanks to the newfound traffic along the route.
Now, with over 30,000 square feet at his disposal, Hammond had a vision to make this property something special. “Me and my late wife, Cheryl, would always go to Branson, Missouri, and different places. And we wanted to make our own tourist attraction. Get a lot of people to come out and put a smile on their face, basically,” recalled Hammond. While the antique dealers settled into their new booths in the old gymnasium, Hammond got to work collecting all the weird, kitschy stuff that he would need for outside.
We Need Some Attention Grabbers
“The pink elephant was at a Mexican Restaurant in Granite City, on Route 66, believe it or not. Well, my late-wife bought it for me for Christmas when we still owned the Colosseum. She put a big red bow on it and everything,” reminisced Hammond. The rest is history: when they made the move to the old high school in Livingston, the pink elephant found its
new home on the front lawn, and the place finally had a name.
“You can see the big pink elephant a mile down the interstate, and that really started drawing people in.”
The surfer dude, now proudly standing next to the building, was the first statue Hammond actually acquired for the property. “I was calling around trying to find something for sale: a [muffler man] giant. I found the surfer dude in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. He’s a statue that was used in the movie Flatliners with Kiefer Sutherland and Julia Roberts. We eventually get him on the trailer, which of course he’s bigger than by at least six feet, but we got him strapped down and headed home,” said Hammond. The trip home highlighted what Hammond already suspected: people were captivated by giant statues. “We’d be going down the interstate and people would start passing us, except then they’d slow down and let us pass them again so that they could get a good look at the statue. They’d start laughing, wave, and give us the thumbs up, stuff like that all the way home,” Hammond laughed.
Big Boy.
Photograph by Brennen Matthews.
A rare Futuro UFO house on the grounds.
Photograph by Dreamstime.
It was Hammond’s desire to make the Pink Elephant Mall a kitschy Route 66 roadside attraction that drew him to collect the many other statues that occupy the old schoolgrounds. Collecting and transporting these statues was both a chore and an adventure. The Twistee Treat ice cream cone building? Hammond’s late-wife found it for sale on Craigslist for $25,000 in Livingston, Ohio, in the winter of 2007. Upon arrival, however, the 25-foot-tall cone was in far worse shape than promised. “This thing literally has saplings, about six inches in diameter, growing in and out of the window openings, which are all busted. The back’s all rotted off, and there’s rabbits living in the top of it. And the whole thing is frozen to the hillside,” recounted Hammond. With his excellent negotiating skills, Hammond got the cone’s price down to $13,500. But driving that decrepit, extra wide, 14-foot load through icy, winter storms was an experience. “There’s at least a foot of snow on the ground, and while I’m going down the road, the [cone’s] insulation is flying out and sticking in my brother-in-law’s radiator and wrapping around his antennas on his truck, cuz he’s following me with the other parts,” continued Hammond. They managed to get all the pieces safely back to Livingston, although when it was time to rebuild, the whole back of the cone had to be handmade again due to its rotted wood.
Hammond then had the vision for a diner. He searched for one of the old stainless-steel diners, but never found one in decent enough condition. So, he built one. Designed it and laid out the plans, too. The diner, a 1950s-style spot serving supreme burgers and delicious ice cream, is now attached to the Twistee Treat ice cream cone building.
As for the Muffler Man statue, now painted as a Harley Man, Hammond bid on the statue on eBay, but it didn’t pull enough money, so the owner kept it. A year later, the same owner called Hammond and asked if he was still interested, and even offered to deliver it; this was a proposition Hammond could not refuse.
What about the Futuro House, one of the less-than100-made flying saucer homes designed by Finnish architect Matti Suuronen in the late 60s? Through tireless investigation and his entrepreneurship spirit, Hammond found the owner of one in Springfield, Illinois, asked if they wanted to sell it, and got the spaceship in 2009. Each section of the UFO weighs about 1,200 pounds. “Those pieces were huge. We kind of stacked the pieces inside each other for the drive home,” recalled Hammond. There’s now a plexiglass door installed so mall goers can peek inside. The easiest statue to pick up? The 13-foot tricycle that a local craftsman, in his 90s, built. Alvin and the Chipmunks are another giant addition. There are other giant animal statues, as well: a giraffe, hippo, and rhino can be found on premise. And there’s a giant Donald Trump statue. The Pink Elephant Mall isn’t making a political statement with this figure; they’re using it as an opportunity. Next to the statue is a sign that reads, ‘Love him or hate him, it’s still a good photo-op.’ Where else can you express your political opinion while standing next to a 20-foot statue of the 45th and 47th President? These attention-grabbing features do more than just entice passing motorists to stop for a photo opportunity; they serve as loving tributes to the wonderfully wacky roadside attractions that once characterized America’s historic highways.
Equally impressive as the giant statues outside, but hidden from the public, was a side project Hammond was working on. “And then I made a four-bedroom house on the third floor. There’s about 5,000 square feet up there. Me and my dad did all of it: wired it, plumbed it, put all the walls in. Turned out beautiful. Really, super beautiful. I had big columns, and I put a lot of crown molding in the place. The rooms were huge—huge! The master bath even had a garden tub.” The Hammonds finished building the house in 2011 and lived on the third floor off-and-on until they sold the property to Tonia and Wayne Pickerill in 2022. “During chemo, Cheryl couldn’t make it up the three flights of stairs, but when she was better, we’d move back in.”
Keeping the Mall Afloat
“I started working for Davey, running the ice cream shop, [around] the end of 2008,” recounted Tonia Pickerill, current owner of the Pink Elephant Mall. “Then he added the diner on, and I took over managing that for him. I hired, fired, ran it, advertised, all of it. It was like my baby. And then I did bookwork for him for the antique mall, as well.” Tonia’s responsibilities ramped up working both sides of the business, and her love of the building and business grew. In 2020, she took over leasing the diner from Hammond, right as the world was shutting down due to the COVID pandemic. The two worked out an agreement, but times were
tough for everyone. Then in December 2022, the Pickerills bought the entire business.
After selling, Hammond moved, and currently owns and operates a restaurant and bar, Pirates of the Mississippi, with his wife, Bernice, in Batchtown, Illinois. When Hammond sold the Pink Elephant, he made sure to take the giant Uniroyal Gal statue with him, one of about a dozen left and modeled after Jacqueline Kennedy. She’s now painted as a pirate and is proudly displayed at their restaurant, along with several other life-sized pirate statues.
But the mall is in excellent hands, and the Pickerills plan to continue Hammond’s legacy of making the Pink Elephant a worthwhile stop. They’ve already extended the patio in front
Life-size pink elephant.
Photograph by Brennen Matthews.
of the diner to provide more outside seating. And they’re also part of Harvest Hosts for any motorhome enthusiasts who need a place to park in Southwest Illinois overnight. The Futuro House will soon be more than just a picture-op.
“We’re going to start converting it into an Airbnb.
The interior will be retro and furnished with 1960s aesthetic and memorabilia,” said Wayne. Their ideas expand even further than the Airbnb, though, with hopes to eventually build a Route 66 putt-putt golf course on the property, with each hole representing a different state and the things that they’re known for down the Mother Road. They know what they have is special, and they plan on capitalizing on it.
“We’re the landmark for the town. The Pink Elephant put Livingston on the map,” said Tonia.
Antique Anyone?
And then there’s the interior of the Pink Elephant Mall: a treasure trove showcasing wares from more than 50 antique dealers, with items thoughtfully arranged from floor to ceiling. This expansive marketplace offers an impressive selection of antique furniture, vintage jewelry, rare collectibles, classic glassware, and nostalgic memorabilia. Beyond antiques, visitors can discover modern home décor, artisanal candles, and unique home goods. The mall takes special pride in supporting local vendors, ensuring a diverse
shopping experience that appeals to both serious collectors and casual browsers alike. “Of course, we have antiques, and there are collectors for these items. But it’s the stuff from the 1970s and 1980s that really sells here because its people coming in and seeing their childhood: ‘Hey, I remember this!’ or ‘My grandma had that!’ Yea, that nostalgia moves better,” added Wayne.
As relators have said for decades, “Location, Location, Location,” and both the original and current owners of the property recognize the significance of the mall’s enviable spot. “I’m extremely proud to have established something that’s now part of America’s history on America’s Mother Road. Yeah, it means a lot to me,” said Hammond. “Everything about this place makes you smile.” He accomplished what he set out to do: he made the Pink Elephant a must-stop destination for anyone seeking to experience the true spirit of Route 66. “And they work really well together, being a Mother Road destination and an antique business. Most of the people that are doing old 66, they’re wanting to explore the United States and see hometown America. A lot of them celebrate the 50s and 60s and coming here is a flashback to that for them,” continued Wayne. In this way, the Pink Elephant doesn’t just preserve antiques within its walls — it preserves the very spirit of the Mother Road’s golden age of roadside entertainment.
Fantastic DIY giants of President Trump and a dinosaur.
Photographs by Brennen Matthews.
THE GOLD STANDARD
Photograph by Tomasz Wozniak
In the unexplored reaches of Nevada’s silver territory, Tonopah’s story began with a wandering burro and a frustrated prospector. In the spring of 1900, Jim Butler picked up a rock to hurtle at his stubborn, straying pack animal, only to find himself holding a piece of destiny. This humble rock would transform this quiet stretch of desert into one of Nevada’s most significant silver discoveries, as Butler learned his find contained ore worth more than $200 per ton (equivalent to about $7,500 per ton, today). Within just one year, the area yielded $750,000 in silver and gold, earning Tonopah its nickname as the “Queen of the Silver Camps.”
The period between 1901 and 1921 marked Tonopah’s golden age of mining, though silver was its true treasure. During these two decades, the region produced nearly $121 million worth of ore, establishing itself as Nevada’s secondmost productive silver location after the famed Virginia City mines.
As Tonopah’s silver wealth transformed the desert landscape, the need for sophisticated accommodations grew. In 1907, a group of local businessmen — George Wingfield, Cal Brougher, Bob Govan, and US Senator George Nixon — funded the construction of the Mizpah Hotel, a venue that local newspapers would soon herald as ‘the finest stone hotel in the desert.’ Construction began that year under the guidance of renowned architect Morrill J. Curtis, although George Holesworth, a Reno architect and contractor, designed the building. The resulting five-story masterpiece showcased both architectural ambition and engineering innovation. The building’s structural integrity was ensured by 18-inch-thick granite walls and reinforced concrete, while its aesthetic appeal was achieved through a sophisticated combination of stone veneer on the main facade and brick on the side and rear walls. Stone piers marked the street-level entrance, with symmetrically grouped windows adorning each floor above.
When the Mizpah Hotel opened its doors on November 17, 1908, its $200,000 investment was evident in every detail. The five-story, Victorian-styled hotel stood as Nevada’s tallest building until 1927 and was a true testament to Tonopah’s prosperity. The hotel boasted modern Victorianera luxury amenities: solid oak furniture, brass chandeliers, hot and cold running water, all-electric lights, steam heat, ceiling-mounted fans, and notably, the West’s first electric elevator. Unlike the town’s numerous rooming houses that catered to miners and laborers, the Mizpah offered an elegant setting where business titans could negotiate deals and political leaders could forge alliances. Its opulent rooms and finely stocked bar created an oasis of sophistication in the desert, serving as both a symbol of Tonopah’s success and a catalyst for its continued growth.
The Mizpah Hotel’s prosperity ebbed and flowed with the mining town’s volatile boom-and-bust economy. And as the 20th Century drew to a close, the grand hotel finally succumbed to the town’s declining fortunes; by 2000, it was shuttered. The property went on to spend the next 10 years with its windows boarded and doors chained. Then the Clines, of Cline Cellar Winery in Sonoma, purchased the property and dove into renovations.
For Fred and Nancy Cline, the 2011 restoration of the Mizpah Hotel was far more than a business venture — it was a homecoming written in silver and stone. Nancy’s deep family ties to Tonopah stretch back to the early 1900s, when her grandmother Emma Bunting served as the first postal matron of nearby Goldfield and her great-uncle Harry Ramsey answered the siren call of the silver rush. Their commitment to Tonopah extends beyond the Mizpah’s careful restoration — they’ve also established the Tonopah Brewing Company and undertaken the renovation of the historic Belvada Hotel (across the road), too.
“The Mizpah is beautiful. [The Clines] wanted to use all authentic fixtures to keep it as close to the way it was when it was first built, while still making it current,” said Al Karsok, general manager of the Mizpah Hotel. “In a lot of the rooms we have claw foot tubs, which are original. All the plumbing fixtures are a Rolex brand that was manufactured back in the early 1900s; we went ahead and reworked them so that they meet today’s standards. A lot of the fixtures in the hotel are original antiques that have been reworked and brought up to code. It’s a Victorian feel with today’s amenities.”
“Tonopah is 230 miles from Reno and 215 miles to Vegas, and there’s nothing in-between. But here is this gem of a hotel that offers reprieve and comfort,” continued Karsok.
“And you can sit in the Long Shot Bar and know that 100 years ago there were people in that bar doing the same thing: unwinding with a drink and meeting and talking with fellow travelers… It’s pretty cool, the history. And it’s a magical thing, too, how [the hotel] draws people in.”
Another claim to fame? The Mizpah Hotel was voted the #1 Haunted Hotel in the country by USA Today in 2018.
“Our most famous ghost is ‘The Lady in Red.’ Her name was Eleanor. Her working name was Rose, and she was a prostitute,” explained Chavonn Smith, the Mizpah’s Sales and Front Desk Manager, who also facilitates the ghost tours. “Rose was stabbed and then strangled on the 5th floor by a client who believed that she belonged to him.” The Lady in Red has her own suite, which coincidentally is the hotel’s most popular room.
Other remaining spirits include a pair of children that haunt the 3rd floor and basement, as well as the ghosts of two miners who dug a tunnel, snuck into the hotel vault and stole everything, but were then shot by their third compatriot who got away with all the gold and was never found. “We also have a ghost book in the lobby where guests write about their supernatural experiences,” said Smith. “Overall, our ghosts are very friendly.”
All sorts of demographics are drawn to the Mizpah: historical connoisseurs who seek a glimpse of the past, paranormal aficionados searching for the adventure of a good haunting, weary road travelers who are simply looking for a delicious meal and comfortable place to lie their heads. Whatever the reason for your visit, the Mizpah welcomes you warmly. “It’s just the feel of it; you’ll have a story to tell others about. It’s not just a stay — it’s an event,” said Karsok.
More than a century has passed since its addition to the Nevada landscape, but in many ways, this is a historic venue that appears trapped in time, in all the best ways.
ROLLA’S STONEHENGE
Photograph by David J. Schwartz - Pics On Route 66
Tucked away in the quiet town of Rolla, Missouri, there’s a roadside surprise that doesn’t blink, flash, or wave, yet commands attention all the same.
Here, on the grounds of the Missouri University of Science and Technology, a startling vision rises: Stonehenge. Not the one across the Atlantic shrouded in centuries of myth, but a meticulously crafted, half-sized replica of the ancient monument. As granite slabs arc into the sky, aligned in mysterious symmetry, the past feels unusually present. Surrounded by sleek academic buildings and the hum of modern life, this unexpected tribute to Neolithic engineering feels like a deliberate time portal, reminding us that wonder doesn’t always come with a signpost. Sometimes, it just rises from the ground.
The idea for Rolla’s Stonehenge first took root in the 1980s, championed by Dr. Joseph Marchello, then Chancellor of Missouri S&T. Bringing the vision to life was Dr. David A. Summers, now retired, a professor of Mining Engineering. He not only oversaw the construction but also played a key role in developing the innovative waterjet technology that was used to carve the monument’s granite stones.
“Joe was very interested in the science of early man and had already founded the Center for Archeoastronomy when he was at the University of Maryland,” said Summers. “When he came to Rolla, him and I met socially, and he mentioned that he always wanted to build a Stonehenge. We had been working with some people down in Georgia developing high water pressure means of cutting granite, so I had contacts in the industry. Before I knew it, I was on a committee, and we were designing the Stonehenge.”
The inspiration behind Missouri S&T’s Stonehenge traces back some 5,000 years to the windswept plains of Southern Britain where ancient peoples built one of the world’s most enduring mysteries. As societies shifted from hunting to farming, it became crucial to determine the best times to plant crops. Archaeologists believe that the ancient Stonehenge tracked the moon’s position in relation to four stones and a surrounding ditch to mark the changing seasons. Over time, additional stone rings were added around a central “altar” stone, aiming to improve the calendar’s accuracy. Yet, it wasn’t until the builders began observing the sun’s position, instead of the moon’s, that they achieved a calendar precise enough to identify exact days. The name “Stonehenge” itself means “hanging stone,” a nod to the distinctive lintels that cap the towering rocks.
Recreating even a half-scale version of Stonehenge was no small feat. Fortunately, timing and circumstances were on the university’s side. Missouri S&T was in the midst of building a new mining technologies facility, making it a practical choice to situate the monument on the same site. Sharing construction equipment helped reduce costs, while generous donations from alumni funded the remainder of the project, including wages for the students who played a hands-on role in bringing it to life. A professional crane operator was brought in to lift and position the massive granite slabs, but the rest of the physical work, especially operating the high-pressure waterjet cutting equipment, was carried out by students.
The granite used in Missouri S&T’s Stonehenge is a hard igneous rock quarried in Elberton, Georgia. The university
would have sourced the granite in-state, but at the time the monument was being drafted, the only granite quarry in Missouri was closed. Despite collaborating with the Missouri Department of Natural Resources, no suitable in-state alternative was found, so they looked outside. Once acquired, the granite was transported to campus by truck and rail. Missouri S&T’s Stonehenge became the first major structure carved using high-pressure water jets, developed by the university’s High Pressure Waterjet Laboratory within the Rock Mechanics and Explosives Research Center. This method marked a pivotal shift from traditional mechanical excavation to hydraulic cutting, a major milestone in mining. With only minor improvements over time, this groundbreaking technology remains largely the same today and has become standard across many excavation industries.
Dr. Summers, being a 9th-generation coal miner from the North of England and holding a doctorate degree in Mining Engineering from the University of Leeds, was no stranger to the original Stonehenge’s mining history. The replica needed to be accurate and able to stand the test of time.
“The outer ring, the big ring, was put in about six inches of concrete, and then filled in with another six inches of concrete to make sure they would never fall over,” said Summers. “Because it is a functional calendar that works, we were concerned about an earthquake, not being far from the Madrid fault, we knew there would eventually be quite a large one, and we wanted to be able to adjust it. When we cut the horizontal slab, we put recesses in the side so that you can put a jack in and move it around. That way you can adjust all of it if it goes out of alignment.”
The organizing committee was formed in 1982, the rock acquired in 1983, and rock cutting started in the fall of that year. Thanks to the university’s cutting-edge waterjet technology and the use of a crane, Missouri S&T’s Stonehenge major construction was finished in just six months and the monument dedicated on the night of June 20th,1984, in a ceremony that included John Bevan, a white-robed Druid from the Geffodd of Druids of the Isle of Britain, bringing an air of ancient ritual to the occasion.
“It was interesting because there was a lot of disbelief in the beginning with, ‘Why are you building this?’ or ‘Why are you doing this?’ and ‘It’s not gonna be that interesting,’ remembered Summers. “But then once we put it out, there was great interest, not just at the university level from the students, but also people in town. There was continuing interest, and I would be asked several times a year to talk to visiting groups.”
It’s not the neon-lit diner or vintage gas pump most travelers expect to find along Route 66, but that’s what makes Missouri S&T’s Stonehenge in Rolla so memorable. Rising from a university campus rather than a roadside field, this unexpected monument speaks to something deeper than nostalgia: the timeless drive to build, to innovate, and to leave a mark.
In the shadow of Stonehenge’s granite arcs, the past and present meet. It’s a reminder that along this legendary highway, wonder doesn’t always come wrapped in quirkiness or chrome. Sometimes, it arrives in stone, chiseled by students, lifted by cranes, and imagined by dreamers determined to make the impossible real.
Rollerz Only Car Show
Odd Lab Fire Performance
Live Music Exhibitors
Food Court Fireworks
Vendors
Family Friendly Fun
Tucumcari Railroad Depot 100 W. Railroad Ave.
Tucumcari NM
Paid for in part by the City of Tucumcari Lodgers Tax
IN THE MIDDLE OF TULSA
By Abigail Singrey
Photographs by David J. Schwartz - Pics On Route 66
Tulsa, Oklahoma, holds a place of quiet reverence along legendary Route 66. Among its famed landmarks is 11th Street, a stretch of road that has undergone dramatic transformations over the years, mirroring the rise, fall, and resurgence of the Mother Road itself. Among the new businesses riding this wave of revitalization is the Wildflower Cafe, a cozy and vibrant eatery at 1306 East 11th Street. This humble address, steeped in history and a legacy of housing various businesses, has silently stood as a witness to the ebb and flow of 11th Street’s storied journey. By opening the Wildflower Cafe, owner Heather Linville joined a vibrant wave of visionaries breathing new life into the district, transforming what was once a symbol of decline into a thriving destination once again.
The Glory Days of 11th Street
In the golden age of Route 66, which spanned from the 1930s to the 1950s, 11th Street was a bustling thoroughfare serving as a vital artery for travelers heading west toward California or east to Chicago. Lined with motels, diners, service stations, and mom-and-pop stores, neon signs would light up the night, advertising clean rooms, hot meals, and the promise of adventure. America was a much larger country in those days.
In 1934, amid the bustling heyday of 11th Street, Robert W. Brinlee, a long-time Tulsa wholesale grocer, opened the Brinlee Grocery and Market at 1324 East 11th Street. Next door, at 1302-1308 East 11th Street, James Calvin Meek and his family operated Meek’s Hardware & Furniture Company, with the space at the corner of 11th and South Peoria Avenue serving as an office building, accommodating various tenants over the years. Together, these businesses thrived, becoming cornerstones of the community, where locals and travelers alike found connection and commerce in the heart of Tulsa. Then, came the advent of the interstate system. Businesses began to shut their doors as travelers opted for the faster, more efficient highways. The neon signs that once illuminated the night were dimmed, their messages of welcome fading into obscurity. After more than 40 years, the Brinlee store closed its doors in 1975, and Meeks Furniture followed shortly after, closing during the 1980s. By 1983, the building that had housed the Brinlee Grocery and Market was demolished and the property was converted into a parking area. In the early 1970s, the office building at the corner to the west at 11th Street and S. Peoria Avenue was purchased by Elmo Ray Ferrell, Sr. and converted into a restaurant named Mexican Fiesta, which later became Mark and Mary’s Good Food Cafe until 1991. In 1994, it was reopened as The Corner Cafe. 11th Street had become a shadow of its former self with many of its landmarks neglected or demolished and soon the area gained a reputation as the Red Light District. The
Mother Road in Tulsa had lost its luster and it seemed that 11th Street’s storied chapter had closed.
But then, several decades later, a resurgence began to take shape.
A Symbol of Revival
In 2009, the iconic 1930 Meadow Gold sign was officially restored and relocated to a plaza on 11th Street and Quaker Avenue. This site was the spot that the Brinlee Grocery store had once occupied. In 2007, Markham D. Ferrell — grandson of Elmo Ray Ferrell, Sr. — and now the third generation owner of this property, learned that the Meadow Gold sign was in need of a new home and donated the property to the City of Tulsa.
The reinstallation of the Meadow Gold sign wasn’t just about saving a historic artifact, it symbolized the beginning of 11th Street’s revitalization and the establishment of the Meadow Gold District, an area that stretches between Peoria and Utica Avenue. This act sparked renewed interest in honoring the street’s history and laid the groundwork for ongoing efforts to revitalize the area.
In 2017, Aaron Meek, second-generation member of the Meek family, as well as owner of the luxurious Campbell Hotel and Group M Investment — a real estate firm in Tulsa — reclaimed his family’s legacy by repurchasing their former Meek’s Hardware & Furniture Company building, which is now home to Meadow Gold Mack’s gift shop. He also purchased the office building on the corner. After the closure of The Corner Cafe in 2019, he transformed the property into multiple retail spaces, becoming a key player in the revitalization of 11th Street. Today, these retail spaces house a diverse array of businesses, including the Wildflower Cafe, The Meat and Cheese Show — a specialty grocery store — and Southwestern Trading, which offers Native goods such as pottery and blankets. Above the storefronts are stylish rental lofts, adding to the district’s dynamic appeal.
“Investment in the Meadow Gold District over the last few years has helped elevate all of the businesses in that corridor,” said Rhys Martin, Oklahoma Route 66 Association president. “Once the building on the corner was rehabbed, it drew a lot of interest. The Wildflower Cafe is always busy; the locals love having dining there, and Route 66 travelers want an authentic, locally-owned spot to enjoy a meal before continuing down the road. That big neon sign on the corner, made possible by the City of Tulsa Route 66 Neon Sign Grant, also helps draw a lot of attention!”
A Lady with a Vision
For Heather Linville, opening the Wildflower Cafe represented a fulfillment of a lifelong dream. She has always worked in restaurants, starting with her first job at a Simple Simon’s [Pizza] in Eufaula, Oklahoma. “I made hamburgers and pizza, and I don’t know what else,” Linville explained. “Then I got a job at Goldie’s. I think every young waitress of my age probably worked at Goldie’s. Then I moved on to college and continued waitressing. It was flexible for my college schedule. And then I became a wife and mother, and it was easy to just have a couple shifts a week.”
With each restaurant that she worked at, Linville made mental notes: what she liked and disliked; and she dreamed of how she would one day run a place of her own.
Eventually, she landed in Tulsa, where she climbed the ranks to management at a local establishment. Frustrated by the limitations of her role, she began spending her free time exploring vacant buildings, envisioning the perfect space for her vision. Then the COVID-19 pandemic hit, bringing the restaurant industry to a stand still. Laid off and at a crossroads, Linville saw an opportunity to finally turn her long-held dream into reality.
But first, she needed to settle on a location. She lived in midtown Tulsa at the time and found herself drawn to the atmosphere of an up-and-coming area that was revitalizing as part of the Route 66 renaissance.
“I was very, very interested in the building across the street. It’s called The Wrench. It was a mechanic shop forever and ever; since 1989 is what it says on the sign,” Linville continued. “But it sat empty forever on that corner, and I had this vision of it being a cute little cafe with an outdoor patio. I could never get anyone to communicate with me about it, and it still sits empty five years later. And so, as I was sitting over there [in 2020], I saw some signs in the windows over here and I just thought, ‘Okay, I’m going to call.’”
When she toured the building on 1306 E 11th Street, she saw endless possibilities. As the former home of The Corner Cafe, the space had been in serious need of repairs before its closure. The current owners, Group M Investment, had gutted the interior, leaving it stripped to the studs with no plumbing or electrical systems in place. For Linville, this
presented an opportunity to start fresh and create a space tailored to her personal vision. After signing the lease, she teamed up with contractors to bring her ideal layout to life.
“It was intense. It took a lot of my time and energy, and it just consumed me really. But it was really fun because like I said, that whole year and a half when we were all stuck at home with nothing to do, I was fortunate enough to be shopping in the marketplace or online for different things and just kind of putting the whole vision together in my head; without a lot of pressure because the world was on hold at that time.”
The “Wildflower Cafe” is Born
When it came time to name the restaurant, she found herself at a loss. She spent countless hours a day dreaming, letting her imagination wander through endless possibilities. Then, inspiration struck and everything fell into place.
“I’ve always loved wildflowers, and it just seemed like a really cute thing to design the restaurant around, and who doesn’t like flowers? They make everybody happy. And that was kind of my style,” Linville reflected. “One day, my friend Carrie sent me this really nice message about how every time she hears the song from Tom Petty called Wildflowers, she thinks of me, and that was kind of sweet. It was at the same time that we were in the naming process, and it just sounded right.”
Owner Heather Linville.
Linville collaborated with Encinos 3D Signs in Tulsa to create the striking neon sign now displayed at the street corner. She envisioned a design inspired by Oklahoma’s state wildflower, the Indian Blanket, and Encinos brought this concept to life, working closely with her to finalize the colorful look. With support from a Route 66 Commission grant, half of the sign’s cost was covered, making this vibrant addition possible. In May of 2021, the Wildflower Cafe officially opened for business.
Inside the restaurant, greenery abounds. A potted succulent hangs in every window, and a gallery wall of wildflower prints — a combination of vintage prints Linville has been gifted and items she found antiquing — hangs above the counter. In the back corner, an accent wall with whimsical, colorful wildflowers adds extra flair. Linville carefully considered every detail, down to wildflower-themed light fixtures and string lights that provide extra light, though the sun-drenched space hardly needs it.
Linville focused the menu on simple, fresh and easy items, but it has also evolved over time. At first, Linville only planned to provide lunch, but her staff talked her into adding breakfast as well. The cafe specializes in made-from-scratch items such as biscuits, pancakes, waffles, and cheese grits. Her chef, Chuy Gonzalez, makes a mean huevos rancheros, so that got added as a blue plate special.
“[Gonzalez] has this extra level that he adds with. He just makes everything with love and he doesn’t want anything to go out that doesn’t make him happy or doesn’t satisfy him,” said Linville. “I don’t know how [the kitchen staff] make the eggs so fluffy and delicious. They just sprinkle magic over everything they do.”
For Linville, opening Wildflower Cafe was a chance to do everything her way. She wanted it to be more than a restaurant: she envisioned a community hub and a vehicle for
giving back, both to customers and to the community around them.
“We run it for people, not for ourselves. Obviously we benefit, because we have other people in mind and in our hearts. But when I say that we run it differently, I’m blessed to have the money to keep it going, but it’s not about that. It’s about giving back to as many people as we can, to make their day better just by coming here, or feeling seen or heard or loved. It’s not just a meal. I want people to know that they’re cared about here.”
As Linville and her staff have become invested in the community, Linville has established a Community Impact Fund, which both the restaurant and regular patrons donate to. At one point, the fund helped a local man who was struggling with his day-to-day life to get a motorized wheelchair that makes daily tasks a little more achievable.
“That was a really fun day because he was very, very surprised. I think my happy moments come from when I see other people being affected by what we are doing, and then it makes them want to do it themselves. And so, when I see that happening here, it makes me incredibly happy.”
A Road Reclaimed
Today, this storied building, where the cafe now operates, has been reborn as The Meadow Gold Shops & Lofts complex — a blend of retail, dining, and residential spaces — a fresh and vibrant addition to the uber famous Route 66 corridor. After more than a century, new investors and entrepreneurs are breathing life into the historic Meadow Gold District, reviving its charm while honoring its legacy. With each new project, they’re restoring the district’s unique character and sparking fresh energy, creating a destination where the past and present intersect.
The Wildflower Cafe, nestled in the heart of this revitalized area, is now an integral part of the District’s resurgence, a cornerstone in a neighborhood that continues to grow and evolve. It embodies that spirit of renewal and growth, welcoming both locals and travelers to experience a special little slice of history. Tulsa and towns like it are setting the standard about how once depressed communities can be renewed and lead the charge in bringing historical structures and areas back to life. And right at the center of it all is a cozy café that is the answer to one woman’s dream.
Inside of the café.
A CONVERSATION WITH
Taylor Kitsch
By Brennen Matthews
Photographs courtesy of Michael Muller
It’s not every day that an actor brings the kind of intensity, vulnerability, and rugged authenticity that Taylor Kitsch delivers on screen. Hugely respected for his breakout role as Tim Riggins in Friday Night Lights , Kitsch has steadily carved out a reputation as one of Hollywood’s most compelling and quietly versatile talents. But before the red carpets and high-profile roles in projects like Lone Survivor, True Detective , and Waco, Kitsch was chasing an entirely different dream — on the ice. Raised in British Columbia, Kitsch had one goal growing up: to play professional hockey. He was a skilled left wing with the drive and discipline to match, playing junior hockey at a competitive level. But that dream was abruptly cut short by a devastating knee injury in his early twenties. For many, such a loss might have marked a dead end. For Kitsch, it was a turning point. After his injury, Kitsch moved to New York, studied acting, and took jobs ranging from personal trainer to homeless couch-surfer while pursuing the craft. His authenticity, born from struggle, not spotlight, shines in every role. It’s the quiet resilience and inner grit that seem to pulse through every performance. Whether he’s playing a tortured Navy SEAL or a charismatic cult leader, Kitsch doesn’t just act, he transforms. Now, Kitsch is back on screen in the highly anticipated second season of The Terminal List: Dark Wolf, reprising his role as Ben Edwards in a story that expands the emotional and physical stakes of the original. In many ways, this is a role that feels like it was written specifically for him. In this candid conversation, Taylor Kitsch opens up about heartbreak, hard lessons, parenting, iconic projects, and how losing one dream led him to discover a bigger one.
Can you take me back to your early years; raised by a single mom, with your two brothers, in a trailer park in British Columbia. That must have been a unique way to grow up.
Yeah, I mean, literally. We moved from Kelowna, BC. I was pretty young, and then we moved into this trailer park… but I think we can all go into the stereotype of a trailer park… the gravel road, trash everywhere, people drinking on a patio, but it was super quaint and when you’re young you really don’t know the difference, right? I didn’t know unless I went to a buddy’s house, who’s got a trampoline or a pool or something. Then you’re like, this is insane. But yeah, every day you’re getting on the bicycle, or you’re playing street hockey… we were right on the verge of this big mountain and lake. I would just go out into the bush, and that’s where creativity lives. We would go and do adventures. We would get into stick wars and build forts and do what kids are supposed to do.
Hockey was a major part of your life for nearly 20 years. Was going pro the dream?
I almost took it too seriously. I definitely wanted to play pro. But you can want it so bad that you’re too hard on yourself, and that was kind of me. It shaped a lot of who I am in regard to work ethic and response to failure. I’m very stubborn. I think that has gotten me a long way, even with my career. I was super green in the beginning, like we all are,
but I don’t come from an acting background, or anything like that. I had no idea you could even do this until I was in my teens. I’m super competitive still, and still play hockey. I live in Montana now, which is basically southern Canada. (Laughs) Other than that our winters are even more harsh than what I remember growing up in Canada.
You famously injured yourself when you were 20, sadly ending your hockey aspirations. Did you gradually move into the realization that you needed a new dream, or did that come quickly? Was it natural to move towards entertainment?
It was gradual. I think you mourn it for a while, and there is no path. You kind of feel like even at 20 or 21, your life is over. That’s just the stakes within yourself, intrinsically. This path that I’ve been on for so long is done. I have no options. I put all my eggs in this basket… and then it was a gradual thing. I always loved storytelling, acting class in high school, and stuff like that. But again, I didn’t think it was a viable option. My personality is kind of all in or nothing. So, once I had decided, I went to New York and I was like, I’ve got to try and see what this is about. I was very cocky. I honestly thought that it was going to be easy, but that certainly wasn’t the case. You kind of get the bug, and you love the challenge. It’s funny, in acting class, being in your early 20s, you see some amazing actors that aren’t working, which is kind of scary. I remember this one actress—she was probably late thirties, and she was incredible, but she just struggled and struggled. And you’re like, damn, if she’s not working, what am I going to be doing? But I think that there’s a commonality between artists. You get that fix of collaboration, risk, and it’s also, you know, self-exploratory stuff. And at that time, obviously, I was pretty stunted emotionally, like most 20-year-old guys are. I had a lot of stuff with my father. But it was such a great tool to have to be forced to explore.
What made you choose to go to New York rather than stay on the West Coast?
I was tricked into going and seeing a modeling agent in Vancouver. He sent my stuff over to IMG and they were like, “Come to New York.” So I went, not knowing anyone. I traveled with what I thought was a lot of money. I thought, “Oh, this will be good for at least a few months,” and I obviously ran out of money really quickly. I started taking acting classes right when I got to New York.
What happened when you got to the city?
I get to New York and I’m staying in the models apartment. There were 11 models, maybe more, in a two bedroom. So, what happens is they’re like, “Okay, here’s an apartment, but you’re gonna back pay us. Prorate it.” So, you’re paying $2,000 a month, and I’m sleeping in the walk-in closet, in between the bedrooms. There are bunk beds, but it’s a ranking system when you first get there. If I’m new, I ain’t getting a bed, and models are coming from all over the world. Then there’s some that have been there for months that have no problem paying rent, because they’re working regularly. But then I did my first casting call with Diesel, and I got it. So, I was like, “Wow, this is easy!” but I didn’t
see a nickel. I was like, “Okay, I’ll just get another job,” but another job literally never came. So, the agency sent me to do a test. They offered to pay for it and prorate it too. But by then, I’m starting to owe them more and more, and I’m not working, but hopefully I will get a job. You know, it just builds up. I left that apartment, and I couch surfed and then got a place up in Spanish Harlem, in an apartment with no electricity or no hot water. I didn’t have a social security number to get it. I remember breaking into the basement of this apartment building and trying to get to my meter, or whatever you call it, and fix it so that I could get electricity. I remember, I would go to Gristedes and head over to those big bins of nuts and things, those big orange bins (at the time) in the bulk area. I’d get a transparent plastic bag, fill it, walk around the grocery store, and eat as much as I could and then leave. (Laughs)
So, you were the stereotypical, starving model.
Yeah, involuntarily though! There were hard, f*cking moments, and I hate asking for sh*t from buddies! I had my Canadian VISA credit card and there’s a $500 limit, and obviously I regularly exceeded that. But I would just walk around New York, trying different ATMs. I’d put my code in and hope that I get a hundred bucks. And once in a while… Man, when you would hear that cash spinning out. (Laughs)
After that I worked in Barbados with my dad, digging ditches on a construction site that he was the foreman of. It was like 40-50 days in Barbados, and we worked 6-day weeks, and then I went back to Vancouver. I auditioned for a few things. I think I got maybe one or two roles, but decided to go down to LA. I bought this car, went down to LA, ran out of money, and then subletted a bedroom in an apartment.
Your breakout role as Tim Riggins in Friday Night Lights came in 2006. How did that opportunity come your way?
I was in Vancouver and my Canadian agent and U.S. management team called me, and they’re like, “Hey, there’s a pilot that we want you to audition for, but it’s very late in the game.” They knew Pete Berg personally and they told Pete not to cast the Jason Street role just yet. I read the script, and I was like, “I don’t want to play Jason Street. Can I read for Tim Riggins?” The lack of a father and that kind of stuff hit more home to me, so I put myself on tape—in Vancouver. Then, days later, they’re like, “You need to come down to LA and screen test for Riggins.” It was kind of a whirlwind. I got into this boardroom at Universal. It was NBC Universal and I’m sitting across from this guy. Jesse Plemons is on my right, and I asked him, “Hey, who are you reading for?” And he’s like, “Oh, for Landry,” I’m like, “Okay, good.” And then the guy across me in this boardroom was like, “Who are you reading for?” I’m like, “Oh, Tim Riggins.” And he’s like, “Okay,” and I’m like, “You’re reading for Tim Riggins?” He goes, “Yeah.” So, it was me against this one other guy, and that was it. It was down to me and him, and all these guys, Jesse included, had already done improv with Pete, one-on-one. So, Pete came into the boardroom, and he’s scanning it, and he points to me. We sit in another meeting room, and he’s like, “Man don’t worry about the script. I love to improvise. I love to throw direction out. Are you
okay with that?” And I’m like, “I love it.” So, we just improvised ESPN interviewing Riggins and them asking about my family. Asking about my brother, my dad, alcoholism. And just going into everything Tim Riggins. And then we walked down the hallway, and he looks at me and he’s like, “You’re gonna be just fine, but your Canadian accent has to f*cking go.”
We went into a room and there were like 15 execs sitting there, and a reader to read the scene with me, and Pete was like, “You’re out,” to the reader. “I’m going to take Kitsch. I want to be the reader with him.” So, we get reading and as we are, he just kept interrupting me and screwing up the momentum, on purpose. So finally, as Riggins, I was like, “Are you going to shut the f*ck up and let me finish, or are you going to just keep interrupting me?” And he loved that. So, I finish it. And then it’s awkward, man. You’re just sitting in this room, being judged, and no one says anything. They’re like, “Oh, that was great, thank you for coming all the way from Vancouver.” And I was like, “Is that it?” And they’re like, “Yep.” Then afterwards, I walked into my hotel room that was at Universal Studios or really close to the lot and my hotel room phone was ringing and I picked it up and they’re like, “You’re Tim Riggins.”
That
Yeah! I was told at the time that Riggins was kind of on the fringe of the lead characters. He wasn’t gonna have a massive part. But then you know, the rest I guess, is history. It’s like he just took off for some reason. People just gravitated towards Riggins and through the improv and Pete’s process, you were allowed to fail a lot. So that felt organic with Riggins. But it was a great ride.
You’ve always struck me as pretty private. What impact did the success of Friday Night Lights have on how you navigated your career and personal life?
I never wanted to move to LA, and I think, being in your mid-20s at this point, you don’t have a crazy sense of self, but I knew enough to protect that. So, I would stay in Texas… I bought a little apartment there. My management team were like, “We would love to have you in LA a little more, like for meetings, just to be a little more present around the business and stuff.” But I seldom would. I’d just feel so awkward at these parties and events, you know? I think, being a little older now, you see it for what it is a lot more. I was like, “Okay, let’s keep swinging and be more about the work, and more about getting the work and through the work.”
I stayed in Austin for 16-plus years. Now I live in Montana. It’s as close to Canada as I can be without being home. There’s a freedom there in Montana that’s wide open and there’s something infectious about it. I do bike trips and some photography up there. I’m fly fishing all the time. I’ve got this adventure van now that I’ve had for like five years, and I’m just way more active, which is big for me.
In 2010, you headed over to South Africa to do Bang Bang Club . I loved the film. What was your experience like in Africa?
We stayed in Joburg, and we were shooting in Pretoria… Thokoza… all throughout there in the slums. We would be shooting, and you’d hear gunshots. I remember there was this cab strike and… hundreds of cabs in Pretoria, just parked. They didn’t move in the streets. That was really intense, but I just loved it. It was so untamed. That’s where I got hooked on photography. I shadowed Jeff Lipsky on a film in LA and he was amazing with me. I took my Leica film camera to Austin and would shoot roll after roll.
My first meeting with my manager, I was sitting across from her, and she was like, “Okay, well, what kind of actor do you want to be?” And I was like, “Honestly, I just want to do independents. I just want to do character studies and do really in-depth roles. That’s what I love.” And she was like, “Okay.” And I was like, “Okay, what?” And she’s like, “Let’s try it. I’ll represent you and see if you want to really, really do this.” That’s what happened, so Bang Bang Club was a dream for me. I was in LA with my friend Josh when I got the role. I went to an LA Kings game that night. Got drunk, ate pizza, ate popcorn, and then I go, “Tomorrow Jay, I’m dieting, and I’m getting into Kev Carter.”
So, I went off the first night, and then I went back to Austin and started running and living off of chicken broth and broccoli. It was intense and I lost a lot of weight. But I was taking long, long breaks in between takes and I’d just go and sit down. It was tough. It was only a four-week shoot, but I
didn’t know my process very well. It was just so extreme, and then coming back was very, very tough on me. Cause Kev was suicidal and had night terrors and all this kind of stuff. I didn’t really know how to handle coming back from that. Like all of a sudden, you’re in Thokoza doing a scene where you’re gassing yourself in a van, doing a voiceover in the van, and then you’re back in Los Angeles doing TV upfronts. I was like, “What the hell is happening?”
Kevin Carter was a deeply complex figure, carrying a lot of emotional weight and inner conflict. Was it challenging for you to inhabit that emotional space?
Honestly, I felt really aligned pretty quick. Once I got to Africa… I mean, the accent work was tough, but once I locked into that, I felt really good. I mean, you just move different. Your clothes are different. You look so different. And I really knew and understood the photography behind it, which was massive for me, because you never want to be prop heavy or second guessing something that should be so natural to these guys. I still have some framed photos that I took while playing Kevin Carter, of a guy with Molotov cocktails, throwing them on tanks in the streets. I took them while filming, and I look at them, and I’m like, “Man, I f*cking pulled focus on this! This is great.”
You did a road trip from Montana out west to a Shoshone reserve on the way to film American Primeval , right, to meet with the Native community?
My character Isaac is loosely based on Jeremiah Johnson, who was a real guy. First of all, I went through Bridger, where Jim Bridger was, and then I went to Johnson’s grave site in Wyoming. There’s a cool Native American-focused museum that I went to visit on that trip. Then I went to Wind River, the Shoshone Reservation, for two days. I was lucky enough to hang out with some elders. A couple of the women were an open book for the most part and were really supportive. It was very tough going into the visit. I sat down in their school, and there was a counselor there, she’s kind of in charge of a lot of their history. And in that school, they have a whole small museum of their heritage. But I’m like, “Hey, listen, I’m going to do my best to do this justice. I’m already learning Shoshone, and I need your help, obviously, but I need to ask you some pretty heavy-handed questions, like about death. How do you guys differentiate the burials of a warrior to a child, to your own child, to your wife?”
I wanted to get this right. She took me into this small museum and this older lady came out in a wheelchair, and she was very blunt, and I started asking her all these questions. It was just a beautiful process, and she was very real and unabashedly honest. As an actor and storyteller, you really want to do this justice. So that’s where I hung my hat with Isaac. It was like, “Okay, this guy witnessed his family being murdered, and he was taken by a tribe, and then he was sold to the Shoshone at age 8-9 years old. What the hell is that about? Figure this out Kitsch.” And then it was like, “Okay, these guys accepted him and loved him unconditionally. But what does that mean?” And then, “Okay, now I’m 14-17, and I’m integrated fully as a Shoshone warrior as this young kid. What does that look like? What does death and that look like, and the honor behind that?” The woman that ended up teaching me
Shoshone, she was solely responsible for making Shoshone a written language. Still. Imagine, it’s not even a written language yet. She’s responsible — right now — and she’s in her eighties — to make it written.
While you were filming, you received a call that your dad, who you had been estranged from for decades, was dying, and you made a decision to go and see him. What was your relationship with him like at that point?
Over the last 18 years, I saw my dad twice. He struggled with alcoholism. My brother brought him down to Bozeman to visit once about a year and a half before he passed, and he had early onset dementia by that point. In his younger days, he raced cars and his nickname was Gooey. It’s funny, you’re playing a guy [on television] who is mourning, and then next
thing I know I was fly fishing up by West Yellowstone, and my brother called me and he’s like, “Gooey’s got 48 hours left,” and I was like, “Damn, okay, where are you?” And he’s like, “I’m in Kelowna.” I jump in the van and head up. Gooey wasn’t really in my life so I didn’t know that he was that bad.”
What was going through your mind in that moment, hearing that news about your dad so suddenly?
I had been working with a shaman named Luke, just outside of Livingston — he was helping me prep for the role of Isaac on American Primeval — and I hadn’t talked to him for like two months. But he had given me some work and exercises to do to try and connect more with the character. Anyways, I get over the border into Canada and I get a text from Luke.
I hadn’t talked to him in months, and he’s like, “You were in my vision. You’re about to go through something very heavy, you gotta call me.” I call him. I’m like, “Man, I’m three and a half hours out from Kelowna, and my dad is dying.” And he’s like, “You need to be there. You’re doing the right thing. Once you see him or feel him crossover, there’s going to be a struggle. All you need to do is just be there.” And I’m like, “I can do that.” So, I get there on a Friday at 2PM, and I see my brothers. Remember, he’s got dementia, and I’ve got this stupid, crazy beard, and I turn Gooey’s wheelchair around, and he’s out in the courtyard, and he looks up to me and he’s like, “Who the f*ck are you?” And I’m like, “I’m your youngest son,” and he’s like, “Why are you here?” And I’m like, “I just wanted to come say, ‘Hi!’” And he was really, really present, like zero dementia, making jokes. I was expecting a dying father, but he’s money in the bank.
Oh, wow!
So, Friday was good, and then the doc came in, really good dude, and he was like, “Hey, do you want a little one-onone with me, and I can explain what’s happening?” I’m like, “Yeah, that’d be great.” He’s like, “This happens all the time. I’m guessing you haven’t been together with your father in some time?” I’m like, “20-plus years,” and he’s like, “What happens is that the brain and everything kind of aligns, and there’s a high from this, and it just starts operating like everything is good. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, but tomorrow’s gonna be a different day. Maybe it’s going to be a week, but I don’t think it will be.” And I’m like, “Okay.” After some time, it was getting late and he was starting to fall asleep and I’m like, “Okay, Gooey, what will you want for breakfast?” He’s like, “Bring me a chocolate muffin, an Oh Henry! bar and a coffee, like a really fun coffee that I shouldn’t drink.” I’m like, “Done!” Saturday comes around, I bring him a chocolate muffin, an Oh Henry! bar and a latte with so much whipped cream that it’s like a joke. He starts hammering this muffin and candy bar and drinking the coffee and now people are starting to come in, and they’re telling all these great stories. But Gooey’s fading. I called my assistant, and I’m like, “Can you call the Kelowna Bagpipes and see if these bagpipes will come play, because my dad played the bagpipes?” That’s one of my best memories. By 2PM, he was really fading in and out, and those pipes came in, and damn, he woke up just like that! And he sat there, listened to two songs, and all of a sudden, I’m bawling. My brothers are bawling, and my dad’s just sitting there listening to the pipes. End of the second song he fades, and I wake him up and I’m like, “Gooey, you got one more song. What do you want to hear?” He looks at me like 80% present, maybe a little less, and he’s like, “Play one for my mother.” He was a mama’s boy, so I asked… I didn’t know a lot of pipe songs, but this was a female piper, and she was like, “Oh, I got one!” So, she played this last one, and then he fell asleep. That was Saturday. Sunday morning, I got there, brought the muffin, brought the coffee. He didn’t touch it. I asked everyone to leave the room. I wanted 10 minutes alone with my dad. And then I said goodbye, and then I drove home. On my drive home my brothers called. That was Father’s Day, that Sunday. My bro said, “Yeah, he’s gone.” I took a few days off from work. When I went back to the set, everyone on the crew, a lot of them came up and told me stories of losing their own father.
I feel that I’ve mourned him right. I went and did a native sweat in his honor… we wrapped American Primeval , and I went to the funeral. I spoke at his funeral, and just said, “You know, if there’s anything good about this, it would be the reconciliation of my brothers.”
That was a beautiful closure, Taylor. You’ve lived such a full, purpose-driven life, has fatherhood ever been something you saw in the picture?
It’s funny, man. It’s like, now more than ever… I’m very myopic with work. I had so much to prove to myself in my thirties, of who I was as an actor. It was ego driven. I love what I do so much that it’s just very hard to have a relationship that is plentiful and good and healthy. I play such intense guys. It’s like, okay, you’re gonna go play a cult leader (Waco) that’s, you know, doing some pretty reprehensible stuff... And then you’re gonna tackle, you know, Painkiller was my sister. I took two years off with my sister. She had an issue with opiates; fentanyl and heroin, for seven years. I took care of her. She was my advisor on Painkiller, so that was heavy, but a beautiful experience. She’s almost nine years clean, and a nurse now. So, it’s like all these experiences… I love kids, but now, more than ever, like, I’ll say out loud to myself, “Okay, it’s time to have a kid.” But it takes two, so that’s kinda tough. (Laughs) We’ll see. You know, I’d love to have more of a balance in my life. I don’t have so much to prove to myself as an actor now. I still want to really challenge myself and tell stories worth telling. But I do want that better balance because I’m 44 now, man, which is crazy.
Outside of acting, where do you find fulfillment or that creative spark?
Now, I’m really into photography. It’s just like all of these things… I’m working on my foundation in Bozeman and I’m helping Navy SEALs and veterans, which is a big part of my life. I gravitate towards those stories worth telling. I love the challenge of it. When I don’t have a family, it brings me so much self-worth in my work. So, therein lies the challenge I guess; finding other things that are going to fulfill me. I do think that I’m leaning way more into that. I’ll take a break from acting, but I also go a little insane, because I want to work, and I love that purpose.
If you could sit down with your 13-year-old self — that kid who took on his first job to help out at home — what would you want him to know?
Yeah, I’m very proud of this foundation and giving back. The proudest thing I’ve probably done in my life is helping my sister, and the way I’ve handled my dad’s stuff, and helping my family. Maybe be a bit more present. Try and have more of a balance. I guess I would tell him, “I’m proud of you, because it’s gone way beyond what I dreamt of, and I’d be proud of the person I’ve become.” I’ve lived a crazy life, you know, like the experiences I get to have. You never want to lose sight of that, which is easy to do. But I think I would say that I’m very proud of the life I built, and to give yourself a little more peace. Be easier on yourself and try and allow yourself to be more vulnerable with that woman across from you. I’m getting there; it’s a work in progress.
STICKING AROUND
Seattle, Washington, is home to arguably America’s most unique and grossest attraction — an 8-foot brick wall covered in chewed up gum. Yep, used gum. Located along Post Alley, this spot has unexpectedly become one of America’s truest roadside oddities. And while it may seem a bit unlikely, why not? After all, this is one of the things that makes the country standout on the world scene. We have it all!
Today, the original brick is hidden beneath layers of knobby, sticky gum left by hundreds of thousands of visitors passing through, many who have traveled far and wide to stick their own gum to the wall. And if that were not enough, people have used gum as a means to stick a number of things to the wall in order to leave their mark: school IDs, senior pictures, notes, toys, Legos, and coins to name a few. Couples take to the wall when they are in love, stringing gum into hearts or weaving it into initials on the wall. The canvas of gum has been a backdrop for proposals and wedding photos. For better or for worse, the gum wall is here to stay.
When Seattle Seahawks coach Pete Carroll was fired, Rudy Willingham — a Seattle artist and a Seahawks fan — took to the wall to create a portrait of him made up of more than 150 pieces of chewed gum. The gum wall was the perfect place to pay tribute to the former coach who could always be found chewing gum during game days. But before, long before, the wall was once like any other brick facade found in a city alley.
gum wall has since grown into a gum alley, now consuming the wall opposite of it.
Post Alley runs through Pike Place Market, one of the oldest markets in the U.S., founded way back in 1907. In the beginning, the market was concerned about gum damaging the historic buildings and demanded that Unexpected Productions scrape it off. They attempted to keep it clean, but tourists and theatergoers were persistent, and the gum populated faster than it could be removed. The market eventually conceded the battle and embraced the somewhat odd desire that people had to create a wall of gum.
Periodically the wall gets stripped back to its original brick. The letters stretched out from Hubba Bubba, and masterpieces constructed from Bubble Yum and Juicy Fruit will be taken down. The 4-inch layers of gum on the windowsills are scraped off and the alley once again looks like any other city alley. The cleanings are not only essential to assess and preserve the wall’s integrity, but they also leave room for new creations to take their place.
In the early 1990s people lined up outside, waiting to enter an improv theater that is nestled in the alley. Unexpected Production’s neon theater signs illuminated the alley as people walked, waited, chatted, and of course, chewed on their gum. When the gum lost its flavor, people waiting in line would discard it by sticking it on to the nearby brick wall, perhaps so that they would not lose their spot in line. An act that would usually be deemed as gross and impertinent was quickly adopted by many others waiting in the queue. Over time, the gum began to spread, creeping onto more and more bricks until it strangely became a vivid, brilliant mural. The
“After the first accumulation of the gum wall, it had been at least ten years, if not more, since we stopped cleaning it. It was a long time, and it got very deep, and the issue was that the gum, sugar, and all the saliva was doing damage to the bricks,” said Ron Hippe, Outreach Specialist and longtime member of Unexpected Productions. “Since then, they will do a deep clean and really scrape it all off, but it’s remarkable how quickly it returns again. Within a few months you would never know that it had been cleaned.” Since its recent scrubbing, there is already new artwork emerging—faces with gum hanging out of the nose and mouth and stretched across eyes.
“It’s a living thing and it’s kind of an improvisational and spontaneous thing in the sense that somebody puts a design and later someone else might add something to it,” said Hippe. It seems poetic that this ever-changing wall has found its home outside of an improv theater where anyone can contribute to the mural with nothing more than a singular piece of bubble gum. Only in America, as they say.
Photograph by Diego Delso.
CELEBRATING NEON
Photograph by David J. Schwartz - Pics On Route 66
They once lit America’s roadside; bold, buzzing neon signs that danced above motels, diners, and gas stations, leading weary travelers off the road with the promise of rest and warmth. At one time, they were everywhere. But the glow didn’t last. One by one, the lights started going dark. Today, some still cling to crumbling facades; others lie buried in barns or rusting in overgrown fields, while others lay hidden in attics thick with dust. Their glass tubes, cold. Their colors, silenced. Their stories nearly lost. But not all is forgotten. In one Missouri town, the glow has returned.
Along the historic stretch of Route 66 in St. Robert, Missouri, the George M. Reed Roadside Park pulses with new life, thanks to a remarkable revival. Here, eight restored neon signs shine once again, casting their colorful glow over curious visitors by night and charming passersby by day.
The Route 66 Neon Park didn’t happen by accident. It began as a vision in the heart of a local woman, Beth Wiles, Pulaski County’s tourism director, whose passion for preserving the past collided with just the right moment in time, and a flash of inspiration that would bring a little magic back to the road.
“The entire county here is very blessed because we’re known internationally for having 33 intact miles of Route 66. A lot of times, Route 66 is broken up with the interstate, but ours is not,” explained Wiles.
In November of 2013, Wiles attended the Road Ahead Symposium sponsored by the World Monument Fund in Anaheim, California. During one session, she listened as Jim Thole of the Neon Preservation Committee — part of the Route 66 Association of Missouri — spoke about the mission to preserve vintage neon. When Thole mentioned his desire to see a neon park established in Missouri, Wiles immediately thought of the perfect location: George M. Reed Roadside Park, the state’s oldest continuously operating roadside park on Route 66.
At a banquet later that evening, Wiles took the opportunity to share her idea with Thole, and the rest, as they say, is history. By January of 2014, she was standing at Reed Park with Thole and Bob Gehl (also of the preservation committee), discussing plans for the neon park. Knowing the city was considering alternate uses for the land, Wiles knew they had to act fast. By March, she was pushing full steam ahead and had an architect friend draw a mock-up of the park to help others visualize the space.
“There is so much nostalgia for Route 66. We get a lot of attention for the route from international travelers, thousands and thousands each year, wanting to experience America’s Mother Road. So, I understand the excitement of the drive,” said Wiles. “From a tourism angle, I knew what the park could add to the community. Neon is a lost art and you want to see it at night.” Unfortunately, when Wiles and her team presented the idea to the city, officials were supportive but not ready to take on the project.
However, Wiles wasn’t discouraged by the roadblock. Instead, she launched a nonprofit, Pulaski County Route 66 Preservation, to raise funds.
Then came 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic brought tourism to a grinding halt, and Wiles had to inform her preservation board that the project would be put on hold. But in one final effort to keep the dream alive, the vice president of the nonprofit went back to the city, this time with $12,000 raised and nine signs in hand (two were duplicates). The timing was kismet. In October 2020, the city agreed to move forward with the project. Sign owners were re-contracted, and the money Wiles’ organization had raised was donated to the city’s non-profit to fund restorations and upgrade the park’s electrical system to power the neon. Previously, the only power to the park had been to light a flagpole next to a military tank that had sat in the park for over 20 years. The restoration of the signs included reactivating the neon gas tubing, repairing porcelain sign fronts and removing rust from metal elements. There were two criteria for selecting the signs: they had to originate from former Route 66 businesses, and they could not have been removed from their original locations specifically for the park. The intention was to rescue abandoned or orphaned signs. All current signs in the park come from the stretch of Route 66 between St. Louis and Carthage, Missouri.
“The first sign we physically got a hold of was actually a local one. One of the people on the presentation board knew it was in an attic of a garage here, so he grabbed it up. That was the Modern Cabin sign,” said Wiles. “A lot of the other signs came from connections with the Route 66 Association of Missouri. Jim [Thole] and Bob [Gehl] were on that committee and knew about several signs that had been donated by a group called Friends of the Mother Road. I remember when they brought down what is now the Alura [Motel], which is 19-feet-tall and in two pieces. It was rusted and had caught fire at one point, so you could see that damage. Stanley Cour-Tel was pretty rough, too. None of them had working neon.”
Even though the restoration was intense, the effort paid off. Today, the park draws not only Route 66 travelers but also a steady stream of local families, history buffs, and curious passersby, too.
The park is continuing to grow with the addition of another sign later this year and Route 66–shield–shaped storyboards to share the history of the land and of each sign. Plans are also underway for two more “pods” for future neon park collections. Admission is free. Pets are welcome. There are plenty of picnic tables for the whole family. And at night, when the neon kicks on, the spirit of the Mother Road glows once again. In St. Robert, neon isn’t dying — it’s being reborn. The Route 66 Neon Park is more than just a roadside attraction. It’s a luminous tribute to the towns, businesses, and people that helped shape the soul of America’s most legendary highway.
The Tale of Salem’s Giant Coffee Pot
From the 17th to 18th centuries, waves of European colonists embarked on the historic journey to America. Among these seafaring passengers were Moravian missionaries, followers of Germanic reformer Jan Hus, who landed on the sandy shores of the continent in 1735. They purchased around 100,000 acres of land in North Carolina and went on to establish the Old Salem village in 1776. The town would later merge with the nearby city of Winston to become Winston-Salem. A congregation town — where only Moravians were allowed in to make a living — the community flourished with businesses having unique storefront signage, from a hanging gun to a huge leather boot, each announcing the merchant’s wares. From this industrious group, two brothers emerged who would erect a monument that would represent the community within WinstonSalem for decades to come.
In early 1858, Moravian brothers Julius and Samuel Mickey moved their general merchandise store to the corner of South Main and Belews Street. That same year, to advertise their newest venture, tinsmithing, they erected, on the sidewalk, a giant cone-shaped tin coffee pot, painted silver-gray and suspended atop a wooden pole. Neither of the brothers were actual tinsmiths but hired several master tinsmiths to work for them.
The pot was huge at 7-feet-3 inches tall, and it became instantly recognizable within the bustling marketplace, resonating with the town on a deeper level. “The coffee pot is a symbol of Moravian heritage, partly because the Moravians are known for their Lovefeast [hymn] services where they serve coffee,” said Johanna Brown, curator of the Moravian Decorative Arts. From this tradition within the church, folklore emerged, leading to speculation that the coffee pot could contain 740 gallons of steaming brew that was boiled within and, during a Lovefeast Christmas service, poured for residents braving the freezing winter winds. “But it’s not a functioning coffee pot, so it would never be able to do that,” added Brown.
some of the residents got together and made whatever repairs needed to be made.”
However, kids were not the pot’s biggest problem, nor was this the first time that local government officials stepped in to intervene for the beloved monument.
“As [carriages and, later, automobiles] were coming around the corner, they’d always hit the coffee pot,” continued DeLapp. “It was just in such bad shape that [the townspeople] wanted some help in restoring it. And that’s when the city got involved and said, ‘No, we should probably not put it up at all, because it’s such a traffic hazard.’ But the historians of the area prevailed, recognizing that it should be used as a symbol instead of destroyed.”
With the constant wrecking of the pot — from auto accidents to weather mishaps (it blew over in a storm) — there was talk of relegating it to the junkyard. But the townspeople continued to re-erect it back up and even at one time painted it red to make it more visible to wayward drivers.
Then sometime around 1954, blueprints were laid out for the EastWest Expressway, and the pot was dead center in the way. The old store was demolished for the highway and without a storefront to advertise, the coffee pot stood alone until 1959, when construction for Interstate 40 began, leading to more discussion on the structure’s possible removal and storage. “The Wachovia Historical Society was the [original] collector of all of the artifacts [and] tried to store the coffee pot in the [Boys School Museum] there on South Main Street, but it was too big to get into the building,” explained DeLapp.
Unfortunately, every Halloween the pot became a target for mischief by the local children who constantly knocked it from its perch. And in 1932, one prank resulted in explosive consequences. “On Halloween, some young boys took firecrackers and put them in the pot,” said Michelle DeLapp, an author for the Wachovia Historical Society. “And [they] set them off and it damaged the coffee pot. The city and
For the next couple of years, debate circulated toward finding the artifact a more permanent home. Finally, after much consideration, in 1962, Jason A. Gray, one of the founders of the historic district’s Old Salem Museums & Gardens, suggested displaying the coffee pot on a grassy island at the intersection of South Main Street, Old Salem Road and Brookstown Avenue. The idea was perfect, and in 1976, the Wachovia Historical Society placed a commemorative plaque at its base.
Today, the Old Salem Coffee Pot proudly still stands at that same spot, as a prominent unique marker within the old village, reminding all who gaze upon its elephantine spout of the centuries of history carved into one of the oldest surviving attractions in America.
Photograph by Brennen Matthews.
A Slice of Americana
Tucked in the quiet village of McLean, Illinois, where cornfields stretch toward the sky, something unexpected catches the eye. Rising five stories high from the landscape, a massive pinball machine bursts into view. But this isn’t tucked inside some vintage arcade, it’s painted on the side of a grain silo. It’s the kind of scene that makes drivers slow down, roll down their windows, and ask, “What is that?”
For Illinois native Troy Freeman, artist and owner of Free Sky Studios, that was exactly the point. Freeman felt that there needed to be something to commemorate the pride the Prairie State inhabitants felt for their 300-mile stretch of Route 66.
“It’s one of those things that is a part of your life, and you kind of take it for granted. It’s part of who you are, and you don’t realize how big and how cool it is to everyone else,” said Freeman. “We were in England talking to Londoners, and they were enamored — ‘You live on ROUTE 66?’ So it’s neat to obviously be very proud of the fact that it’s part of who I am, who we are, living in Central Illinois. It’s in the blood.”
But Freeman was no stranger to honoring the Mother Road. His work adorned downtown walls and museum interiors, including the Route 66 in McLean County mural at the McLean County Museum of History, The Villas of Holly Brook mural in Springfield, and the striking Lincoln’s Lost Speech mural in downtown Bloomington. But this time, he faced a more unusual canvas: a towering, unusually smooth grain silo located on Morgan Street, directly across from McLean Christian Church. Its wide, cylindrical surface called to him, and Freeman knew instantly that it was the perfect tribute spot.
The project began with meticulous preparation: degreasing the metal surface, sanding, priming, and finally sealing it to protect the finished mural. The artwork, measuring 45-feettall and 30-feet-wide, took a month to design and just two weeks to complete, wrapping up toward the end of June 2024.
Freeman’s inspiration? McLean’s vintage arcade center, Arcadia, which boasts coin-only arcade machines and over 25 fully restored pinball machines from the 1960s to through the 2000s.
“We knew we wanted to do Route 66 iconography and imagery, so on that design, McLean has got a pinball museum right there on the square, so I thought ‘How cool would it be to do a retro pinball themed design that integrates all the things in McLean into the pinball graphic.’
“I got a hold of the farmer who owned it, and he [Paul Kieser] was all for the project,” said Freeman. But he had one heartfelt request: that his beloved truck be included in the mural. “The state opened up this grant [Route 66 Grant Program], preparing for the hundred-year anniversary [in 2026], so people could do beautification projects by county. I talked with the people at the convention and visitor bureau for McLean County, and we submitted the applications in early February 2024. Once we were allocated the money, we were up and running.”
It has the image of Dixie Truck Stop [perhaps the oldest truck stop in the country], which used to be real famous and still is. There’s the truck [Mr. Kieser’s] and all the agriculture from the area. Stuff that would pay homage to local industry, like local flora and fauna,” explained Freeman. “Everything in there has meaning and is basically a part of the community.”
The mural also features maple leaves, a nod to Funks Grove, a family-owned maple syrup farm just outside of town. To avoid the blistering summer heat, Freeman often painted at night. Locals would stop by to watch the mural come to life, some even setting up folding chairs to enjoy the spectacle.
“I always say I love my job because it’s one of those jobs that even people from completely different lifestyles, backgrounds, and political beliefs can all look at a mural and think, ‘That’s really cool.’ It makes the town look nicer and brings pride to the area.”
What began as a local artist’s desire to honor his roots became a bold and colorful tribute to community pride, small-town heritage, and Route 66. The mural is more than public art, it’s a giant, vibrant time capsule wrapped around a piece of Midwestern industry. And like the Mother Road that runs beside it, it invites travelers to slow down and rediscover the charm of small-town America, one mural at a time.
Photograph by Brennen Matthews.
FIRST OF ITS KIND
By Jake Baur
Photographs courtesy of the Hustead Family
During the harrowing years of the Great Depression, Wall, South Dakota — a small railroad town with just about 300 residents — faced devastating challenges, including drought, dust storms, and economic turmoil. The federal government’s land purchases, which eventually created Badlands National Park, paradoxically breathed new life into the region. Amidst these hardships, Wall Drug emerged as a symbol of American resilience and entrepreneurial spirit. Over the decades, the drugstore has transformed from a struggling small-town pharmacy to a sprawling tourist destination that now employs nearly a third of Wall’s population and attracts over two-million visitors annually. Theirs is a truly American story.
The Right Location
After graduating pharmacy school in 1929, Theodore (Ted) Hustead spent two years working for other druggists before he and his wife Dorothy decided it was time to forge their own future. With a $3,000 inheritance left by his father, Ted and Dorothy drove across Nebraska and South Dakota in their Model-T, searching for a place to settle and call home. The country felt much bigger then. “As we searched, we were sure of two things: we wanted to be in a small town, and we wanted the town to have a Catholic church. We wanted to be able to go to mass every day,” Ted Hustead, who passed away in 1999, recalled in an excerpt from Guidepost Magazine. The Husteads found what they were looking for in Wall: a small town with a Catholic church and a quaint drugstore for sale on the west side of Main Street. Despite the doubts of their extended family, including a cautionary remark from Ted’s father-in-law that Wall was “about as Godforsaken as you can get,” the couple remained resolute and determined to pursue the opportunity. The warm welcome from Wall’s priest, doctor, and banker, who eagerly encouraged them to join their tight-knit community, was all the convincing that Ted needed. “When they started the business in late 1931, the Hustead Drugstore was less than 1,500 square feet, a 24-foot by 60-foot store, and my grandparents were living in the back, 20 feet behind a red curtain,” said Rick Hustead, third generation owner and proprietor of Wall Drug. “They had a four-year-old son, Billy — my dad — and he remembers the family being so broke that he worried he’d be given up for adoption.” It’s true, the Hustead faced significant struggles, as business remained slow. But it was a difficult time for the nation, so Ted and Dorothy gave themselves a five-year timeline; if things had not improved drastically by then, they would reevaluate, likely move, and try again somewhere else. Then, just months before their five-year deadline expired, a breakthrough came on a sweltering summer afternoon in 1936. The family was still living behind a curtain in the back of the cramped pharmacy, but they had managed to scrape together enough money to rent a small room across town,
next to the old school. It was a modest refuge where Dorothy, Billy, and newborn Mary Elizabeth could rest during the day. “It was a scorching July and Dorothy couldn’t sleep. There was the constant drone of cars driving US 16 out of the Badlands, but the road wasn’t paved or graveled; it was packed dirt,” recounted Rick. “And she thought, ‘How hot and thirsty these travelers must be. And here we sit with a great big soda fountain and all the ice in the world, but no customers.’ Then came Dorothy’s grand idea. She asked the lady she was renting the room from, ‘Would you watch Billy and the baby? I need to go to the store and talk with Ted. Now.’”
An Idea for the Time
An English major from the University of Nebraska, Dorothy knew the power of word play and had come up with the catchy slogan: Get a soda / Get a beer / Turn next corner / Just as near / To Highway 16 and 14 / Free ice water / Wall Drug. She rushed to the drugstore to share her idea. This may not seem like a big selling point now, but in the mid-1930s, ice was hard to come by, cars didn’t have air conditioning, and Wall was in the middle of nowhere. You get the point. People were feeling the heat.
“Billy and I went out to the highway and put up our signs for free ice water. I must admit that I felt somewhat silly doing it. We modeled them after the old Burma Shave highway signs — famous for its gimmick advertising posting rhyming poems on small, sequential road-signs. Each phrase of Dorothy’s little poem went on a 12x36 inch board. We’d space the boards out so the people could read them as they drove,” the late-Ted Hustead had shared.
Well, the signs worked. By the time Ted got back to the store, people had already begun showing up for their ice water, and Dorothy was running around to keep up. He quickly pitched in alongside her. “My grandfather thought, ‘Gee, if one sign had that kind of impact, what would 20 or 30 signs do?’ So, he kept putting up more Wall Drug signs, and soon they weren’t broke anymore,” continued Rick. By the end of the first summer, Ted had scouted other routes, worked with landowners, and erected signs more than 20 miles away from his drugstore in little Wall, and the patrons kept coming. In droves.
“‘Free Ice Water’ taught me my greatest lesson: that there’s absolutely no place on God’s earth that’s Godforsaken. No matter where you live, you can succeed, because wherever you are, you can reach out to other people with something that they need,” the late-Ted Hustead had mused. Wall Drug exemplifies how generosity and service can transform a business, demonstrating that offering kindness without expectation — like providing free ice water to weary travelers — can create lasting value. The core philosophy is simple yet profound: if you can brighten someone’s day or meet a basic need, do so. The belief that opportunity exists everywhere is an embodiment of American values and roadside travel: the intersection of hospitality and commerce allows something as simple as free ice water to become a marketing tool and a genuine and authentic service.
Becoming an Icon
Wall Drug’s iconic hand-painted billboards have been a cornerstone of the business since its early days, strategically placing signs along Interstate 90, spanning approximately 650
miles from Minnesota to Billings, Montana. “I would go on sign trips with Dad. When I was 12 we were doing it out of our pickup,” said Rick. “We’d go clear across the state and back, putting up new boards and posts, taking down smaller ones. We had contracts and would pay the land owners rent for our signs. As things progressed over the years, the roadside ads started getting bigger, too. Four by eight sheets of plywood. Bigger signs, we’d need multiple posts to hang.”
The signs had catchy phrases and clever illustrations to pique weary travelers’ curiosity. It made highway travel a little more enjoyable for road worn motorists and their children.
The commitment to hand-painted wooden signs became a family tradition, with Billy Hustead noting to Roadside America, “Dad always insisted on painted wood. Painted wood isn’t as fun to shoot as enameled metal.” And so, even in this way, the family were forward thinkers. These colorful, nostalgic billboards became so legendary that they transcended their original purpose, with soldiers during World War II and subsequent conflicts planting “Free Ice Water at Wall Drug” signs in far-flung locations across the globe. “The signs represent more than mere marketing — they are a testament to Wall Drug’s entrepreneurial spirit, familial dedication, and ability to transform a small roadside pharmacy into a beloved American roadside destination. There’s something for everyone at Wall Drug,” emphasized Rick.
But then the Highway Beautification Act (HBA) of 1965 was introduced which significantly changed the way Wall Drug could advertise. It imposed stricter regulations on
billboard placement and required the removal of many existing signs, aiming to reduce the visual clutter along America’s highways. “The HBA forced my grandparents and father to adapt their advertising approach. Signage became bigger and was spaced out differently.”
Along with adjusting their advertising, the Husteads poured their energy into transforming Wall Drug into a must-see destination. They expanded their offerings and added new entertainment features, knowing that word-of-mouth would help spread the word. One particularly clever adaptation was their shift toward creating “attractions” that would generate their own publicity: the giant dinosaur, the Backyard with its various quicky photo opportunities, and the animated goldpanning experience were all part of making Wall Drug a place worth talking about.
The Next Generation
Ted and Dorothy continued to successfully run the pharmacy and soda shop until 1951, when Ted approached his son Billy and urged him to get back into the family business.
Prior to this, Billy had served in the Navy during the final days of World War II as a combat air crewman aboard a Helldiver. Following his service, he attended college, followed in his father’s footsteps, and graduated as a pharmacist. “Well, as a pharmacist, entrepreneur, and dreamer,” laughed Rick. “Dad came back and took Wall Drug from 4,000 square feet to 76,000 square feet in his 48-year career. He had a huge vision… he expanded our little soda fountain
Ted Hustead.
to a restaurant and dining room that could seat 530 guests. He put together a tremendous Western art collection [now the largest private collection in America]. He transformed Wall Drug into an amazing attraction.” Ted and Dorothy continued to manage the drugstore while Billy focused his attention on expansion. “I remember Dad saying, ‘I had a big wish list. I just couldn’t believe my parents let me do everything I wanted to do.’” It’s that trust — trust in building something greater than self — that’s allowed Wall Drug to persevere and thrive.
In the early 50s, Ted was traveling in Southern California and stopped at a delicious donut shop in San Bernardino. These donuts gave him an idea. “Ted asked the owners, ‘Hey, can I send my pharmacist son out here to work for you for a week — for free — and maybe he could learn how to make these donuts?’ And the owner said, ‘Sure.’ So, Dad goes out there, works with the guy for a week and learns how to make the donuts, comes back, and orders all the equipment, and starts making the donuts,” recounted Rick. Ted’s business intuition and savviness paid off, as Wall Drug is now famous for its donuts.
By the mid-50s, Wall Drug was still a relatively small business but working on its expansion. “When Dad came back with the donut recipe, they had a new advertising idea: free coffee and donuts for all US military.” It’s a tradition Wall Drug continues to this day. “When I joined the family business in 1981, the first thing Dad had me do was learn how to make donuts,” said Rick. “Because we advertise for free coffee and donuts for veterans, we can’t ever run out. It’s that important.”
Keeping it in the Family
Wall Drug has grown from its humble 1931 drugstore beginnings into a massive 76,000-square-foot shopping and entertainment attraction that takes up an entire city block. The complex maintains an Old West aesthetic with wooden boardwalks and frontier-style architecture throughout. The facility houses an original drugstore section, various activity spaces for gold-panning and gemstone mining, dining options, and multiple gift shops selling Western wear, Black
Hills gold, and Native American crafts. Unlike a traditional shopping center, all the stores at Wall Drug operate under a single entity, rather than being run individually. “I’m a third-generation owner with my wife Patt. I’ve been in the family business for 44 years. Our daughter Sarah works with us and is fourth generation. You’ve gotta have heart for this business — this amazing American business — that we have the opportunity to run and be good stewards of,” continued Rick.
Rick’s father, Billy, and grandfather, Ted, both passed away in 1999 — Ted in January at the age of 96 and Billy in October at 72. His grandmother Dorothy had passed earlier, in 1995, at the age of 91. Yet, these family pillars would undoubtedly be proud as Rick and his family remain steadfast in their commitment to preserving the unique experience that ensures Wall Drug continues to thrive for generations to come.
Wall Drug’s famous free ice-water well is still out in the Wall Drug Backyard, where it can still pump several thousands of gallons of water, cooled by 1.5 tons of manmade ice, on a hot July afternoon. The Backyard also shelters a variety of photo-ops, including a mini-Mount Rushmore, a saddled, fiberglass giant jackalope, and a roaring T-Rex. In the summer months, the Backyard features a splash pad and an opportunity for kids to pan for gold. If it is not clear yet, Wall Drug is a perfect example of fun, kitschy roadside America. The exact type of destination that makes the Great American road trip so unique.
Wall Drug has transcended its origins as a small-town pharmacy to become an American cultural landmark, embodying the entrepreneurial spirit of ingenuity and generosity. From Ted and Dorothy Hustead’s initial vision of offering free ice water to weary travelers during the Great Depression to its current status as a multi-generational family business attracting over two million visitors annually, Wall Drug has transformed not just a local economy, but the very concept of quirky roadside tourism.
The drugstore’s legacy is rooted in simple yet profound principles: meeting travelers’ basic needs, creating memorable experiences, and continually reinventing itself. Through strategic marketing, hand-painted billboards, unique attractions, and unwavering commitment to service — symbolized by ongoing traditions like free coffee and donuts for veterans — Wall Drug represents more than a tourist trap. It stands as a testament to how creativity, family collaboration, and genuine hospitality can turn a seemingly insignificant location into an iconic American institution that continues to capture the imagination of travelers from all over the country. It remains a lasting tribute to the spirit of American ingenuity, continuing to enchant and inspire generations of visitors.
Stroll hand-in-hand down Galena’s Historic Main Street, where unique shops, inviting patios, and vibrant energy create unforgettable moments. In Galena Country, history meets fresh experiences in a way that’s forever original—making your escape to the Driftless Region truly one of a kind. Step Back in Time, Fall in Love Again. visitgalena.org
Vintage billboard.
HOME, HOME ON THE RANGE
By Eva Massey
Opening photograph by Byron Banasiak
The Milky Way shot across the moonless sky like a cannon of fairy dust over Custer State Park. It was the evening before South Dakota’s 59 th Buffalo Round-Up, an annual event that park officials say supports the health of this majestic species, which has slowly returned from near extinction. The next morning, multiple generations of cowboys and cowgirls would herd about 1,300 wild buffalo.
Robert (Bob) Duane Lantis has been riding the RoundUp since 1971, now a family tradition. Four generations of Lantis family and 10 horses had posted up at French Creek Horse Camp, the autumn air laced with burning wood and ponderosa pines. Lantis serenaded his great grandchildren beside the campfire. When Lantis’ gravelly voice stopped, another cowboy, Steve Olivier, plopped his grandson onto his lap and wailed Garth Brooks’ “Wolves.” These are some of the rhythms and rituals of life on the Great Plains. “He sings it better than Garth,” said Steve’s wife, Molly Olivier, Bob Lantis’ second eldest daughter. She wore an intricately beaded belt that her niece gave to her — a family custom — where the last name is beaded across the back, a passion project that takes upwards of forty hours. “When there’s cowboys, horses, and fire, there will be cowboy music. It’s an old tradition.”
A few hours later, Bob Lantis and his brood rose before the scarlet sun broke through the Black Hills, to feed and saddle horses before heading to Blue Bell Lodge for a hardy breakfast. Then, Lantis, his daughter, Olivier, and seven other Lantis family members mounted their trusty steeds to round up over 1,400 wild American buffalo.
The Gateway to the West
From horizon to horizon, the huge expanse of Dakota sky is like a door to another universe, inviting you to experience the mystique and solitude of the Great Plains. The physical beauty is at once haunting and immense, where the curvature of the earth is palpable, the vast expanse gripping you like you’re a small piece of a much larger puzzle.
This is where nature rules, where living things bend to her will, and the land has the power to change you or break you. The air is thin, the highest points reaching 7,000 feet above sea level. It’s said people live longer in these altitudes, even though the winters are some of the harshest on the continent. Longevity reigns and families stay for generations, but this open land is not for the faint of heart.
For those who know, South Dakota is essentially two states, straddling two time zones, two topographies, and two distinct psychologies. As John Steinbeck wrote, “Here’s the boundary between east and west,” referring to the mighty Missouri River, the de facto divide. Eastern South Dakota is a land of glacial lakes and low hills, home to Laura Ingalls Wilder and The Little House on the Prairie.
Driving west across the state, the scene changes like the flipping of a page. The flat landscape shifts to prairie hills rolling like tumultuous ocean waves. This is Western South Dakota, where fecund fields turn to dust, and the wind howls harder than in any other state. Tall grasslands shorten, the flat prairie morphs to twists, bends, and buttes, perfect in all of their imperfection. This is the region of the Sturgis motorcycle rally, where Custer found gold, and Crazy Horse Memorial — where multiple family generations continue to work on this great Lakota leader carved in stone, just 20 minutes’ drive from Mount Rushmore. Here, it can feel like another century, another millennium, even a different planet.
The road unfurls like a black ribbon weaving through the Lakota’s Mako Sica, the arid and primordial Badlands. Otherworldly, these rose and gold-striped mountains feel lunar. A portal to the raw, untamed American West, these 30-million-year-old peaks, and spires crumble in your hands, made of clay and dust.
This cinematic stretch of land meanders towards the Lakota’s Paha Sapa — The Black Hills — some of the most sacred of all Sioux land. This is where the Sioux Nation and wild beasts once dominated the northern Plains, where they followed herds of 80,000 buffalo.
“It’s like God took his fingers and punched it up through the bottom, rolling these hills right out of the prairie,” said Olivier about the land where she was raised with her three siblings. This is where her father taught her to ride, where he still lives in the ranch house built over half a century ago.
The Early Days
Known to some as “Buffalo Bob,” Bob Lantis is months shy of his ninetieth birthday and still wears worn, red cowboy boots, rides horses, and unloads 1,600 pounds of feed from his truck on quiet mornings. Surprisingly, Lantis wasn’t raised on the prairie and the Lantis family hasn’t always been cowboys. “My dad is first-generation cowboy,” Olivier said. “[People] can’t believe that because of how cowboy [he] is.”
Reared in Sioux City, Iowa, Lantis grew up in the rolling hills beside the Missouri River. His parents ran a restaurant called Ted’s Café, where they served up hot pancakes, eggs, and coffee. At home, Lantis and his younger brother, Will, would listen to “The Lone Ranger” on the radio. “They’d pin string to the front of the arms of the sofa so that they could ride the range with the Lone Ranger,” Olivier said.
Lantis discovered South Dakota when he was twelve, when his family road tripped to the mountains. “I spent some time in the [Black] Hills and, boy, was I hooked,” he said. “I fell in love with it. It was wild and wooly to me. That’s what I was evidently looking for because that’s where I came. It was something that had been building in me.”
In the University of South Dakota, where he studied drafting, Lantis befriended Larry Thompson, a member of the Lower Brule Sioux Tribe from the Lower Brule Indian Reservation. Thompson and his friends were headed to a rodeo, and they let Lantis join. “Larry was the person to set me down on my first bareback bronc,” Lantis said. “We went to the rodeo, and I made five dollars mount money and I was hooked. I rodeoed for the next three years, and never got another nickel.”
In 1959, Lantis met his future wife, Julie, at a dance at her school, Mount Marty University. Two years later, the pair married and started collecting horses, gradually making their
way from the eastern side of South Dakota to the western side, a radically different kind of wilderness. The Lantis and Thompson families became close friends. “We’d go out for wild horse roundups. Our families grew up together, gathering all the time,” Lantis said. Thompson named his son after Lantis and that son grew up to marry Lantis’ oldest daughter, Sarah, their families forever tied.
Lantis possesses an intrinsic prairie wisdom with a cosmic sense of place. Throughout the years, he’d take his children riding — his wife, Julie, sometimes choosing not to ride, as she’d broken her back twice falling off horses.
“Us kids lived for Dad asking us to go riding. It’s not like plickety plunk across the prairie. We’re bushwhacking through stuff,” Olivier said. “We were raised to go off the beaten path.”
In Yellowstone, where Lantis outfitted for 52 years, the Lantis family would ride 22 miles into the backcountry with 20 horses and family friends, a caravan of cowboys. “We kind of absorb people into our family, our guests. They feel like part of the family, because nine times out of ten, they are,” Olivier said.
“My dad has a photographic memory and a natural ability to know where he is at all times. I’m mesmerized by his sense of direction,” Lantis’ daughter continued. “He’d teach us to find signs, look at the footprints. My biggest takeaway from my father’s knowledge is… Nature is different from the front and backside. Whether you’re on foot or driving, anything: Stop, look behind you on the trail, find a marker of something — like a crooked pine tree, a certain rock that wouldn’t be in another place — make a memory note of it, so when you’re on your way back the back country trail doesn’t look different to you and confuse you.”
Once while riding in Yellowstone, a horse dragged Lantis for about 150 yards, crushing three of his ribs and puncturing a lung. Lantis rode two and a half hours until he could find a spot in a meadow where a helicopter could land (he flew helicopters in Korea and knew the amount of space they would need). When he got to that meadow, they called in a helicopter on their SAT phone and were airlifted out of Yellowstone. “He is the reason they got a basket, so they could drop into tight areas for rescue,” Olivier said. Bob Lantis says this is the way he wants to go. When a cowboy passes on, there’s an old cowboy tradition, called Ridin’ On ‘Em. “When a cowboy friend dies, we take their horse, saddle him, then hang his riding gear — usually chaps and bridles off of the saddle horn. My dad usually is the person who will then lead this horse in behind the hearse,” Olivier said.
“In most recent years, a group called the Western South Dakota Buckaroos, have a horse team and wagon that they use for their group. So, they stop at the cemetery gates and carefully transfer our cowboy friend to the wagon,” Olivier continued. “Then dad falls in behind riding his horse and leading his friend’s riderless horse… Dad recites a poem that he wrote about why we are doing the traditions. Once the poem is finished, dad lopes off with the riderless horse out of sight. It is quite moving for the family and is usually requested by the cowboy’s family. We will do this for my dad when that time comes.”
To this day, Bob Lantis lives in the Black Hills in the home he designed on a paper napkin. Eventually, Olivier said she and her husband will move into this family home. As they built the house in the 1970s, the Lantis family lived in the
basement. “One morning, I woke up to ‘ca-clump, ca-clump’ upstairs in the unfinished portion of our house,” Olivier remembered. “I went to climb the ladder to get upstairs and my horse, Flash, was looking down at me. I yelled to dad and said, ‘Flash is in the living room’ and he said, ‘Don’t spook him, we don’t need him in the basement!’ When we got upstairs, we had seven horses in the house! Dad was quite proud about how stout he had built the house, that it could hold seven horses.”
With their great love of horses and buffalo, more and more members of Lantis family have been participating in the annual Round-Up. “Everyone on the Buffalo Round-Up truly has a love for this animal,” said Olivier. “Many of our family members decorate with buffalo images. I paint buffalo images and incorporate them into my quilt designs.”
The Buffalo Round-Up
“My wife used to say, before she passed away, ‘I would skin skunks to chase buffalo,’ meaning ‘I’d anything to chase buffalo,’” Lantis recalled. “It’s an adrenaline kick that’s hard to match. You talk to anyone who’s done it: they get so doggone excited; they can barely talk.”
Bob Lantis and Molly Olivier
Photograph by Eva Massey.
Buffalo — technically bison, though people use both terms interchangeably — used to roam the western side of North America, between 30 million and 60 million bison in the region. Called “Tatanka” in Lakota culture, these majestic, hulking mammals were integral to these nomadic people, who would follow the bison migrations and depend on the animal for food, warmth, and protection. But due to extreme overhunting by European settlers, the buffalo neared extinction. By the late 1800s, only about one thousand buffalo remained.
Today, Custer State Park is home to about 1,300 buffalo. To maintain the population, the park staff uses a delicate balance of hands-off and hands-on approaches. For most of the year, the herd is on its own, free to roam the park. Once a year, the cowboys and cowgirls round up the buffalo so that they can be vaccinated, provided medical care, tagged, and tracked. This helps sustain a healthy, thriving ecosystem, according to park officials.
“When I first started we had about 100 people watching, and about 15-16 riders, most of whom I furnished horses for. Since that time, it’s grown,” Lantis said. Today, the event has grown to 24,000 spectators.
The sun shone brightly over Custer State Park; the cottonwood trees peppering the prairie were changing to bright yellow, the chokecherries brightening to crimson, the oak trees still lingering green. Sisseton Wahpeton Sioux Tribe member David Flute, Secretary of the South Dakota Department of Tribal relations, gave a blessing in his native tongue.
Beside Flute was Lantis, itching to ride in his black bandana and cowboy hat. After Flute’s prayer, Lantis exclaimed to the crowd, “Let’s chase some buffalo!” and mounted his 28-year-old Paint Horse, Bo, who he’s had since he was a yearling.
A team of riders on horseback crested the top of a hill overlooking Movie Draw on the Wildlife Loop, the white sun behind them, the bison in a field below. The three Roundup teams — Red, White, and Blue — rode to their designated positions waiting for the call from Head Herdsman Chad Kremer to start the push.
The horses were antsy to get started. Finally, the calls go out and the cowboys and cowgirls start whistling and cracking their whips, the calls of “Yaw!” and “Come on, cow!” Then the thunder of 1,300 running buffalo, breaking through the quiet morning air.
The Round-Up is anticipated all year long, but only lasts about one hour. “It’s an experience that’s hard to find anywhere else. The cowboy way, it’s really something. That’s what draws people to it; it takes them back to yesteryear, as they used to say on the Lone Ranger,” noted Lantis.
“Why I’m so lucky, I don’t know, but I sure am glad,” he smiled. “I’m 89 years old and it’s been one helluva ride.”
Bob Lantis passed away on February 4, 2025, at the age of 90. His life and legacy remain deeply woven into the fabric of the South Dakota prairie.
