Get your kicks at the Boots Court

Gregory R.C. Hasman photo

 

The Boots Court was a wonderful place to stay during a 2014 road trip. Here is what happened.

Bobby Troup's hitting the high octave as the wheels gently glide along the asphalt on the mother of all roads, Route 66. Nerves are on edge from a terrible rain storm back east outside of Springfield, Missouri. 

The vehicle continues on MO 571 until it turns left onto the Double Six. Immediately, a sign. Boots Court. The vehicle pulls in front, and it is time to check in. 

The screen door leads to a reddish brown wooden door. The hand twists the knob. A slight creak occurs. In front, Boots Court t-shirts stand up and say "Welcome, friend." On the left is an RCA with Howdy Doody waiting to be turned on. Nostalgia fills the senses as Debye Harvey, one of the two new owners of the court, attends the counter. "Can I help you?" she asks as her blue grey eyes are magnified by her silver framed glasses. 

I drove around, passing carports before parking by the front door. Suitcase hits the ground. Keys enter the knob. As it turns the flux capacitor transports the body to 1949 where Harry Truman has begun his first full term as president, and the local favorites, the St. Louis Cardinals, led by Stan "The Man" Musial are battling the Brooklyn Dodgers for the National League Pennant. As the door shuts a dark amber, bordering on brown, desk with a copy of Keeping You on the Mother Road, a yellow pages for Route 66, greets the tired soul. To behind, and on the right, is a Philco radio sitting atop a simple night stand. The dials stare straight at a full size bed decorated in chenille bedspreads.

The bag hits the floor. The wooden floors creak upon each step. The air conditioner dial ramps up as the humidity has taken a drain on the weary soul. Moments later, the brown door opens, the light comes on, and light beige monogrammed towels with traces of black beg for a massage. Above the toilet is the sheet music to the Pennsylvania Polka performed by The Andrews Sisters. A box shaped shower with black porcelain tiles laced in thin white strips of McDonalds shaped fries lies straight ahead. 

Creak. Creak. 

The radio goes on and The Carpenters, "Goodbye to Love," provides the relaxing soundtrack from a day of chaos along the highway, as the mind begins to unload. Then, breaking news interrupts the broadcast and a Paul Harveyesque voice begins speaking:

"The Boots Court, named after Arthur Boots, who relocated to Carthage from Kansas City, began to be built in the height of the Great Depression, 1938. According to the court's brochure, his son Bob recalls his dad 'poring over maps, looking for the perfect location, and choosing the site near the intersection of Garrison and Central Avenue in Carthage, Missouri, because it was where U.S. 71, running north and south, and U.S. 66, running east and west, converged and ran together for a few miles'." 

Gregory R.C. Hasman photo

 

He goes on:

"The Boots Court opened in 1939, and for the past 74 years has welcome locals and travelers alike. Rachel Asplin and her husband Reuben bought the place in 1948 from Pleas Neely, and his wife. Reuben died in 1974 and Rachel operated the place until she passed away at 91 in 1991. At which point, the property was sold to John and Jane Ferguson who converted the front two units into a managers' resident and ran the motel for 10 years, only to sell it to a man only interested in the property for financial reasons.

"In 2011, the establishment was put on the market by the bank, only to be 'snapped up' by  Debye Harvey and Priscilla Bledsaw. While there is no television set and the owners have kept to the rooms to 1949 standards, not everything is original. For example, most of the original bathroom fixtures are gone while others were in porous condition, as a result, they had to be replaced. Also, the gable roofs, which were put in during the 1970's were removed, and flat roofs were reinstated using a matching grant from the National Park Service Route 66 Corridor Preservation Program."

Slowly, the voice fades and it is time to feed the stomach. The door closes and the present re-emerges.