July 8, 2001—Day 4, Clyde, Ohio, to Chicago, Illinois

Leaving Clyde, Ohio, was a bittersweet. Although the town was clearly on the decline, there was something very likable, very American about it. The sky was overcast until 9 a.m. when the clouds dissipated, freeing the sun from any obstruction for the rest of the day.


July 8, 2001.

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July 7, 2001—Day 3, Pittsburgh to Clyde, Ohio

Kyle and I knew our destination for July 7th was Clyde, Ohio, a small town made famous by Sherwood Anderson’s novel Winesburg, Ohio. this was my first visit to the prototypical American town where big dreams die fast when the idea of being different makes you an outcast. The town where, if Sherwood Anderson had stayed, American literature would never have given birth to Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, or William Faulkner. Most of the people we met in town were a little stand-offish, and everything on Main Street was closed, but at least most of the businesses were actually all still going. Clyde can’t say the same today, 13 years later.


July 7, 2001

July 7, 2001

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The Ohio Oregon Trail

Heading west on U.S. Route 20, the 21st century moniker of The Oregon Trail, from Cleveland takes you through main streets that have seen better days—they are no longer “main” and I can assure you that lurking on the outskirts of the small former farm and steel towns of Ohio are the aluminum and concrete behemoths named Wal-Mart that are occasionally dogged by the Dollar Generals that have replaced the old General Stores where farmers would go for threads, seeds and the occasional top coat.

The Elyria Motel

There are no hotels in the downtown areas, but along Route 20 you’ll find some classic roadside Motels, such as The Elyria Motel in Elyria, Ohio, birthplace of Sherwood Anderson, author of Winesburg, Ohio. According to the local paper, The Elyria Motel is the location of an accidental suicide, so I can’t account for how cozy or clean the place is, but like many mom-and-pop motels, finding a clean well-lighted place is getting harder to do by the day, and Super 8’s are no replacement. So the road is where you find yourself in constant haze of movement, trying to get from the somewhere you just where to the where the hell are you going ahead. And every main street bleeds into the other through the veins of  short-stalked browning corn—it’s too late for many of the crops in central Ohio, so ashes to ashes and dust to dirt for next year; the corporate-sponsored farms with their corporate logo signs waving to cars as they pass by will have to wait ’til next year, which is fine because now they can squeeze and extra dollar out of consumers for every four ears of corn. Continue reading