My dad was born in 1918. When he was a child, about the age of Coco in this photo, he traveled with his family from Oklahoma to California. His father matriculated at Stanford and completed all but the dissertation of his PhD. They drove a Model T down section lines and over craggy mountain passes. There wasn’t a system of highways or interstates. When he told the story, the road was barely more than two ruts for wheels. I can’t be sure if that’s true, but that’s the story. Along the way, they stopped in Santa Fe where Native Americans sold jewelry and art in front of the Palace of the Governors.
“Trinkets,” he said.
Every summer, we still go see what’s for sale.
CRISPLY SPOKEN 