I Go to California

Author's statement:
One-hundred years ago, when he was only twenty, my Uncle Frank and a few family members set out from Middletown, New York for Los Angeles in a Model T Ford delivery truck. He followed the route of so many who had gone before, first in covered wagons, later by stagecoach, and then by railroad--the Old Santa Fe Trail. By Frank's time the trail had evolved into a sequence of connecting roads which roughly paralleled the tracks of the railroad. Most of the roads between towns were in poor condition. In a few places, near large cities, it was a little better. In some places the roads were made with wooden planks. Most of the ones Frank and his party traveled were dirt or sand--rutted and hazardous to drive on in dry weather and slippery or impassable when it rained. America's roads weren't numbered or mapped until a year after he made the trip.
Frank's father found the money to send him to New York University for one year. He excelled there. Then, the money ran out and he was reduced to delivering groceries. He felt he was capable of much more, given a chance. His reading had opened up the outside world, but it was more a world of fantasy and wishful thinking, than fact. He hoped there were better places than where he was. California seemed to be one of those places. Frank's father reluctantly agreed to let him borrow "Sparky," the delivery truck. He made sure Sparky was in good repair and even gave Frank a little traveling money. Frank kept his Kodak handy and despite Tina's disapproval, he stopped to take pictures of scenes he liked. Frank, Tina, the camera, and some of the scenes are long gone. The pictures remain. --Frank Wright, 2025