“What the hell is that?” the hubby wondered aloud as we drove Route 66 through Erick, Oklahoma. He swerved towards a weathered wooden building that looked like a tornado had sex with an antique store. Route 66 signs, license plates, and seemingly random objects were plastered, glued, nailed, or precariously balanced on the exterior walls.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time
– Jack Kerouac, “On the Road“
Welcome to Part 4 of our 73-day,10,000-mile road trip, where we continue driving The Mother Road the “wrong” way, West to East. Missed the previous parts? Well, catch up!
- Part 1… Arizona?, where we searched for Winona,
- Part 2: New Mexico where we met the King of Villa de Cubero
- Part 3: Texas where we legally vandalized some Cadillacs.
Day 7
Harley Russell: Meet the Route 66 Legend in Erick, Oklahoma
We stumbled upon the castle of Harley Russell’s just past the Texas-Oklahoma border. I am already unbuckling my seatbelt, my curiosity always three steps ahead of common sense.
A “Crows Re-sale shop” sign, a metal bucket and a big bell hung over the entry. I gingerly pull on the doorknob. If you’ve ever wondered what the inside of a hoarder’s brain might look like, this was it. Wall-to-wall stuff—a space clearly curated by a beautiful madman.
Every surface was covered by four decades of collected Americana—signs, trinkets, photographs, instruments, and objects that defied categorization. And there, holding court from a worn wooden chair in the middle of this magnificent chaos, sits an old, bearded man in jean overalls, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, looking slightly pickled and entirely at home.
“Well, get on in here!” he calls out, his voice carrying the gravelly texture of whiskey and smokes. “I’m Harley! And who the hell are you?”
No ticket booth. No welcome mat. Nothing to sell. Just pure “mad kingdom” vibe.
As we wandered wide-eyed through his collection, Harley narrated stories behind random objects. “That’s the first-ever Route 66 sign posted in Oklahoma, in 1926!” “See all those posters? My wife Annabelle painted all those!” “You say you’re from Slovakia? Well, look what your neighbors left here for me a while ago!” – says Harley sticking a flyer announcing the European Route 66 festival in Prague.
Mark spots the guitars. “Do you actually play or just collect?”
“You think these are just for show, sweetheart?” Harley’s eyes light up. He grabs a guitar, and—Holy shit! His stained fingers strum this beautiful, soulful melody, like he’s channeling some ghost of music past. I’m feeling something stir in my soul.
It’s a piece he’d been composing for the 100th anniversary of Route 66. Just as I was processing this surprising depth, Harley shifted gears into his rendition of “Kicks on Route 66”, in which Mark is the “LA stud” and I, apparently, “the nymphomaniac from Slovakia.” We burst out laughing, the brief moment of reverence shattered.
“My wife Annabelle,” he says, dropping the guitar, “wrote 500 songs. Even wrote a book! I have the manuscript in a briefcase,” he gestures in a vague direction, “I’ve never read it though.”
“You ought to read it!” I urge him.
“Nah,” he says with palpable nostalgia. “She wrote it for other people. She didn’t write it for me.” then he adds: “I’ve been married four times, you know? Three of them in Vegas! But now, let me freshen my breath.” he reaches for the whiskey, takes a huge gulp, swishes it around his mouth, gargles with it for a few seconds, and swallows. He tells us to look around some more.
“So, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve got in this whole collection?” I ask.
His eyes glint with mischief: “Oh, I can show you something, I doubt you’ve ever seen one like it!” and vanishes into the back—sounds of metal clanking and stuff falling. Muttered curses. He returns with something wrapped in cloth, looking like he’s about to reveal a sacred artifact.
“Guess what this is!” he plops a two-feet-long object in my hands. After a thorough fondle, I’m thinking… maybe a musical instrument? Then it dawns on me:”Is this… a switchblade?”
“You did pretty good!” he chuckles as he unwraps a “pocket” knife the size of a small sword. “Made in 1875! Walnut handle. Never used, never sharpened.”
“I saw it in a shop and the guy wanted a thousand dollars for it. I said I’d buy it, but I had to go to the bathroom first and while I was there, my brother bought it! So, then I wound up buying it from him, for $1300!!”
Our jaws dropped with disbelief: “Your own brother? That’s horrible!”
“Naah, it’s okaaay” he smiles.
Before we leave, I ask for a hug. His overalls smell of cigarettes and history. “And make sure you drive around the block to see my ‘Redneck Castle and Sanitarium’! Next time I’ll show you around there, too, that would be something for your blog! So now you have a reason to come back.”
The ‘Sanitorium’ is where Harley lives, right behind his ‘shop’ on Route 66 in Erick, Oklahoma. And yes, it looks just as crazy as it sounds.
We pull away, one thought lingering: Can you even say you’ve done Route 66 if you haven’t met Harley?”
Stay tuned for Part 5, where we:
- Cross a 100-year-old, mile-long historic bridge
- See a Czech queen watching over a flour mill
- Are touched by the silent glow of 168 empty chairs in Oklahoma City
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Driving Route 66 trip (and back, and around and around some places), we covered 10,259 miles in 73 days. It cost us $2,894, or $20 per day per person. Curious what we spent money on? Peek into the September issue of my (free) Mappy Monday newsletter.
Yes, you can sleep for free at rest areas in the USA. And yes, you will survive a long-ass road trip with your partner. How? Look here: Free Car Camping in the US Rest Areas and 10,000 Miles and Still Married
