(cheerful piano music)

♪

(narrator)

Since its inception in 1926,

Route 66 has been an icon

of the American West

and a defining element

of the American experience.

♪

From Chicago to Los Angeles,

the Mother Road

takes us on a journey

from the East

to the American West,

with its wide-open skies

and a mix of different cultures.

(Mary)

Route 66 has opened the gateway

to a lot of opportunities.

(woman)

You can still drive it?

I'm like, "Oh, my gosh,

how cool is that?"

(woman)

Where y'all from?

(man)

Germany.

(narrator)

International visitors

come by the tens of thousands,

hungry for

an American experience.

(mellow music)

(indistinct remarks)

♪

(woman)

But the most famous

person of all?

-Who?

-Me.

-Yay!

-They grew up

watching American television.

Route 66 with George Maharis,

Martin Milner.

And they're all here

to see America of yesterday.

(narrator)

Beloved television shows,

like the Route 66 TV show,

and films like Easy Rider,

have celebrated the road

from a male perspective,

in which women

are seldom in the driver's seat.

♪

(woman)

We forgot that women

were on those journeys.

We forgot that women

were working all along the way

in those businesses.

(narrator)

Despite its moniker,

the Mother Road,

little attention has been paid

to diverse women's experiences

across many different cultures

and almost 100 years of history.

(woman)

When I first got the motel

and they were

having a convention,

and they said, "Well, no--

a woman doesn't come.

There's no women."

And so,

they put this man beside me.

I don't know who he is,

but they just said,

"Well, no, you just--

just has to be a man with you."

It's a mirror

held up to the nation.

A road that can be really

a living classroom.

(woman)

She was entrepreneurial,

she was very business oriented,

and she allowed us

to live a very comfortable life.

(narrator)

From archaeologists

to politicians

and countless entrepreneurs,

women overcame segregation

and gender discrimination

to build fulfilling lives

for themselves

and generations to come

on America's most beloved road.

This is their story.

(vehicles whirring past)

Along the Mother Road,

women had spent

almost two decades

slowly building communities

along Route 66,

when World War II

launched the country

into a new era.

The first and fundamental fact

is that what started

as a European war

has (inaudible)

as the Nazis always intended

it should develop

into a war for world domination.

(explosions)

(newsreel announcer)

Overnight, we were at war,

a war we not prepared to fight.

Still fresh and bitter

are the memories of those days.

(jazz music)

(Heidi)

In the 1940s,

there's a dramatic shift,

because Route 66

is an important

transportation corridor

for both war materiel

and for war personnel.

You have soldiers

coming through,

you have equipment

coming through.

(narrator)

The war opened up

new opportunities

in the workplace for women.

Jobs that had previously

only been open to men

and required technical training

and expertise

were suddenly recruiting women.

(John)

Flagstaff at that time

was a small mountain,

tourist, lumber town.

♪

They decided

this would be one of the 16

new ordnance depots

that they would build

in the West.

Route 66 served

as a major conduit.

Workers from all around

could come into Flagstaff,

they would go over

the Arizona Divide,

they would just

drop down into Belmont,

and work was guaranteed.

The project manager out here,

a man named Captain Myrick,

knew that labor would be

at a premium.

He knew that Flagstaff

could not supply

anywhere close to

the 8,000 construction workers

that were needed.

So, Captain Myrick said,

"We have got to go out

on the Indian reservations,

and we've got to recruit

Navajos and Hopis."

Well, they approached

the Navajo and Hopi leaders

and said, "Listen, okay now,

what if we built

an Indian village

on the Army base?"

And both the Navajo

and Hopi leaders,

they thought that over

for a few seconds,

they said,

"That would be wonderful."

So, for the first time

in American history,

a large group

of Native Americans

moved onto

a U.S. Army base gladly.

(indistinct remarks)

I work at Camp Navajo

as an ordnance inspector.

That's my title.

I've been there at Camp Navajo

for 27 years.

I felt like I had a calling

to the military,

and I think it came from

when I was a child.

Here is my grandfather.

He was actually

the chairman of the tribe.

To me, I've always

looked up to my grandfather.

He also served

in the Army as well.

I have always felt a connection

at Camp Navajo,

because my people

have been there.

(John)

During the war,

there would be probably around

3,500 Navajo and Hopi families

that lived in something called

Indian Village.

So, the women came along

to help with the children,

but they really

weren't considered

for employment at that time.

When all

the construction workers left

in 1943,

they had to get women out there

for the permanent force.

You see women adjusting

the thin lock nut

on 500-pound bombs.

They did a lot of the, uh--

on the assembly line,

they did work with munitions.

Well, all of the information

that had to be stenciled

onto the green artillery shells

was done by Navajo

and Hopi women,

also Anglo women,

and they would take fuses down,

and they would

drop test the fuse

to see if it would explode

or not.

1.3 million tons of munitions

came in and out

of Navajo Ordnance Depot,

but the mission

was to store it here

until it was needed

in the Pacific,

and then they would

ship it to Los Angeles

or to San Francisco.

They were always

short of people,

and consequently,

there was considerable pressure

on Flagstaff women

through the newspaper

and through the clubs

saying, "You've got to come out

to the depot to work,

and we have

a good-paying job for you."

(narrator)

While the jobs at the depot

were civilian jobs,

to make them

more attractive to women,

a uniform was designed

that conveyed the importance

of their work and position.

(John)

Hundreds and hundreds

of young Hispanic women,

they went out to the depot

and got a good-paying job

at a very good wage

for the first time

in their lives.

(melancholic music)

(narrator)

The dangerous work at the depot,

handling all kinds

of ammunition

from 50-pound bombs

all the way down to artillery,

took its toll.

One of the most hazardous tasks

at the depot

was digging explosives

out of a shell

-using a wooden tool.

-So that gunpowder

could be saved

and used in other shells.

(narrator)

Women were frequently involved

in serious accidents

that required hospitalization,

and they had to juggle work

with their role

as wives and mothers

in a way that the men of the era

did not have to do.

♪

(Joe)

You know, Molly,

I've been thinking.

(Molly)

Yes, Joe?

(Joe)

Maybe some of those women

and girls coming into the plant,

well, maybe they have

home responsibilities, too.

(Molly)

Could be.

(Joe)

Maybe--maybe they really do

need time off.

(narrator)

Over 19 million women

worked during World War II.

What made

the Navajo Ordnance Depot unique

was the high percentage

of Native American women

who were integral

to its success.

(Mary)

Here, the reason why

I put them there like that,

to me, it's like

me as a Native American,

and me as a--an Army person.

In the Navajo way,

they have a saying

about changing woman.

Changing woman, she had to adapt

through certain things,

you know.

She had to change,

and you know,

as a girl, you change

to become a woman.

These photos right here,

I was very sad when I left,

and this was

my first deployment,

and at that time,

you know, my children

were crying after me,

um, my son wouldn't let me go

in this photo,

and we had a lot of casualties

in the first deployment.

I put this up here because...

(uplifting music)

...I greet the morning

every morning

when I get to work,

and there is the chapel

at Camp Navajo.

I've always felt blessed

that I'm able to stay

near the reservation,

even though I'm away from home,

and every time

I look at the sacred mountain,

which we call Dok'o'ooslid,

I've always

remembered my prayers,

and, um,

and always had that connection

that I am home.

Route 66 has opened the gateway

to a lot of opportunities,

especially to

the Navajo reservation.

♪

(narrator)

World War II

invigorated the railroads,

which were

of paramount importance

to the war effort,

and run parallel to Route 66

in the Southwest.

This created additional

job opportunities for women

from many different backgrounds.

(Stephen)

You have

an enormous number of troops

that are going through

the Southwest,

so the restaurants, which are

these very high-level

restaurants,

where everything's

supposed to be perfect,

and the tables have white linen

and really nice china

and all this kind of stuff,

they basically

take the restaurants apart,

put long boards

over all the tables,

and they turn them

into dorm eating

for as many people

as they could fit in there,

and then everybody

they can't fit in

they serve through

the windows of the cars.

It was run more like

a culinary army

than a restaurant chain.

(Katherine)

I was a Harvey Girl

at El Navajo

in Gallup, New Mexico.

A girl from Acoma and I

were making these sandwiches

for the troop trains.

(honky-tonk piano music)

So, the next year I went back,

and I actually got a job

in the coffee shop.

(narrator)

The Harvey Girls, who were part

of the civilian workforce

during World War II,

wore an immaculate white uniform

that commanded respect.

(Rose)

And then, they had

a little black bow

and they had their number

on it in silver,

and my mother's number was four.

My mother's father

came from Japan,

and her mother came from Mexico.

(Virginia)

I remember working

with Mary Montoya in the '40s.

Her Japanese name was Toki.

And we've been friends

since before we started there.

I started making beds,

and the--

then the second morning,

the bedrooms were upstairs,

and I was making up the bed,

and I guess I have

a lot of electricity in my body,

and it shocked me,

and it threw me

clear across the room,

and I almost

went out the window.

So, that frightened me

and I ran downstairs,

and I told them,

"I'm through, I quit."

And so, the manager, he said,

"Would you like

to work in the kitchen?"

I said, "Sure."

So, I started making salads,

and then one of the girls

didn't show up,

and we were short,

so he put me out front,

and that's where

I started my career,

working as a Harvey Girl.

I worked a lot

of troop trains, yes.

(mellow music)

A lot of 'em, they came

one right after another.

And we had to have the--

the tables all set

when they came in.

When we were a Harvey Girl,

we had recognition

from a lot of people,

because all the troop trains,

you know, that come,

I got a lot of mail from them.

(Rose)

They had everything ready to go.

They honored 'em so much.

Well, with the train,

they--they just saw everybody.

♪

These guys knew these were

probably the last women

they were gonna see

before they went off to war,

so they were always

sneaking them notes,

and asking

if they could write them,

and you know, the women

were overwhelmed by this,

because it's just like,

you know, it's like 50 guys

ask you to be

the last person they're with

before they go,

a day.

They also served prisoners.

I mean, Japanese prisoners

being taken to

prisoner-of-war camps

came through these towns

and had to be served

by the trains.

At that time,

it was pretty rough

for the Japanese people.

When we were in grade school,

my sister and I--

and they--they knew that,

you know,

my grandfather is Japanese,

so we were taunted a lot.

But, believe you me,

my sister stood up

and she fought.

(narrator)

Farther west, prejudice and fear

resulted in Japanese Americans

being incarcerated

for much of World War II

in what were called

internment camps.

(Rose)

Our American citizens

were put in camps.

(contemplative music)

Anybody that was

half Japanese on

would be placed into a camp.

♪

It was around 1942

that the FBI,

via the Monrovia

Police Department,

knocked on the door one evening

and took my grandfather

to be interrogated

to the camp in New Mexico

in Santa Fe,

where he was interrogated there.

They took mostly the--

the leaders

of the Japanese community,

or businessmen.

There were posters

that were plastered

on telephone poles that,

"If you are Japanese

that live from this street

to this area,

you will report to Santa Anita

with just what you could

carry by hand,"

your suitcase,

one suitcase, that's it.

(newsreel announcer)

Santa Anita Racetrack,

for example,

suddenly became a community

of about 17,000 persons.

The Army provided housing

and plenty of healthful,

nourishing food for all.

(quirky music)

(Keiko)

My cousin Bacon

was there in Santa Anita,

and he remembers

the horse stalls

that some of them

had to be housed in

before the barracks came,

and the smell was just horrible.

When my mother

and my grandmother

went past Santa Anita,

and they noticed barbed wire,

the guards facing in,

and all of these Japanese.

(somber music)

♪

For my mother

and my grandmother,

when they went to

the Pomona Fairgrounds,

waiting to be processed,

my mother remembers

how humiliating it was.

At that time,

she was about 18, 19,

had just started

at Pasadena City College,

and my mother--

they had a ceremony,

"Goodbye to the Japanese."

(narrator)

In Route 66 communities

across Southern California,

many Japanese-American families

lost what they had

worked so hard to build.

♪

(Keiko)

My grandfather had a gas pump

on the property,

and Mr. Good

was a representative

for Standard Oil,

but he was just a lovely man,

and my grandfather and Mr. Good

just really hit it off

and became very good friends.

And when the executive order

that Roosevelt had issued,

because of the Japanese

being a threat,

he most likely

contacted Mr. Good,

and gave him power of attorney.

Mr. Good rented out

the property,

and during the time

that my mother

and my grandparents

were in the concentration camps,

he sent them the monthly checks.

But many families

lost everything.

(somber music)

(narrator)

Wartime work

on the domestic front

was dangerous.

Between 1941 and 1945,

in the Air Force alone,

there were almost

14,000 fatalities

within the continental U.S.,

often leaving women bereft

and with the responsibility

of mourning the dead.

♪

Miami is right here

where we are.

World War II, in many ways,

has become a romantic era.

We look back on it

as a golden age of ethics,

a golden age of sacrifice.

The war is also

a pressure cooker for romance

in the sense that

you have relationships

between individuals

who may not

see each other again.

Well, a little slice

of Britain right here.

-Mhm.

-Yeah.

(Andrew)

For all intents and purposes,

this is British soil.

(Nancy)

The British were here to train

because the skies

were so dangerous there.

There were so many fatalities.

They--they're--

while they were training,

they would get,

you know, shot down,

and they were losing

so many cadets

before they could ever

get 'em trained.

So, the United Kingdom

made arrangements

with the United States

to place training facilities

here in the States

for their boys.

The most intriguing part of this

is the--the way

the city of Miami

just reached out

to these cadets

and embraced them

with open arms,

and welcomed them,

and welcomed them

into their homes,

and, you know,

took 'em to church,

and had Sunday dinners

with them.

(Andrew)

Here we are

on Route 66 behind us.

You had a--RAF soldiers

living here

amongst this small town,

and the small town took to them,

like, it was unbelievable.

In fact, one of the stories is,

the boys were busy

every night of the week

with constant invites.

In fact, if you look through,

there's a nice advertisement

for "The Coleman Theater

welcomes the RAF pilots."

(narrator)

Some of the young Brits

who traveled to Miami, Oklahoma,

were confused

when they got there,

having thought they were

on their way to Miami, Florida.

(engine whirring)

♪

Frances Hill's story actually

is fairly well known to Miami.

(Nancy)

Her daughter fell in love

with one of the British cadets.

-Wow.

-And he finished his training,

got his wings, and then, um,

from that point, you know,

he left and went on to war,

and it wasn't but just

a very short time after that

he actually died.

-His plane crashed.

-In the English Channel,

-correct?

-Yeah.

So, it devastated her daughter,

and she also, in the meantime,

had grown such a fondness

to all the British kids,

you know, British cadets,

because they--

she would welcome them

into her home,

and gave them

that little piece of home life

that they missed

from being over here.

(Andrew)

Most of the deaths,

obviously, are accidents.

I think I read

some of them were at night,

but do you--

is there an overarching...

(man)

We've had some at night.

We had two planes

actually crash into each other.

(Nancy)

Mhm, and killed all four.

Whenever they,

you know, would pass,

she would always go

to their funerals.

She would walk

the railroad tracks

that run along through here

from her house,

and carry flowers

from her garden,

and come out

and decorate these graves.

(mellow jazz music)

(man)

She tended it--them

up to her death.

She was awarded, uh, a medal.

-The King's Medal

-King's Medal

from King George VI

for basically

taking care of these boys

for 40 years.

(Andrew)

"Frances May Hill of Miami--

Miami, buried alongside

voluntarily tended

these 15

British airmen's graves,

and helped their loved ones

from 1941 to 1981."

(Nancy)

I believe they called it

a selfless human action.

♪

(narrator)

Even after paying

the highest price

for one's country, however,

soldiers were not guaranteed

equal treatment.

(Judith)

The ultimate sacrifice

was, of course, the death of--

of Juvenal,

uh, in the Second World War.

(Ruth)

I remember

I was in a dead sleep,

and all of a sudden

I heard my mother screaming

and hollering and crying,

and I got up, and, uh,

it was a phone call

letting my mother know

of the, uh,

death of my brother, Juvenal,

and I remember jumping up

and going up there,

and my dad was there

with my mother,

and they were both crying,

and I didn't know

what was going on.

He was a cadet

in Des Moines, Iowa,

in the Air Force, and he died

in a boating accident.

When his body was brought home

to San Bernardino, California,

and arrangements

were being made for his burial,

my father went

and made the arrangements

for the funeral.

My father was fair-skinned,

so they thought

he was maybe something else

that he wasn't.

My mother comes

to make the final selection

of the coffin.

My mother's a bit darker.

And according to my mother,

they asked me, "What are you,

are you Mexican?"

And she said, "Si."

And they said, "Oh, we're sorry,

Mexicans cannot be buried here."

There's another section

for Mexicans,

which was behind the fence.

So, my father,

he was strong-willed person,

principled man,

fought for what is right,

and he said, "If my son

can't be buried here,

we're not burying him,"

and we took

my brother's body home.

I remember he was

in our living room.

-Oh, yes.

-It was just, kind of you go by,

and there's, you know,

your brother

sitting in a coffin,

open coffin.

Um, it seemed forever,

but I guess it was

maybe a week or so.

It was just unusual,

but then I also understood

at that young age

the courage that my father had,

because my mother

wanted him buried

at a certain spot,

and he was not allowed

because he was Mexican,

and he had to be

in another part of the cemetery.

So, I--I was really proud

of my parents

taking that position.

And then, Mike, you remember,

he contacted Harry Sheppard,

our congressman,

so then Harry Sheppard said,

"Okay, we'll take him

to Arlington," right?

Arlington in Washington.

My mother was devastated.

She says, "No, no, no,

I want my son buried here

in his hometown."

So, he was not buried,

he--he didn't go to Arlington,

and ultimately

he integrated the cemetery.

And the parents

who lost a son in the war

received a Gold Star.

So, my mother

was a Gold Star Mother,

and this is the letter

that she received

from Franklin Delano Roosevelt,

who was the president

at the time.

"Freedom lives,

and through it, he lives

in a way that humbles

the undertakings of most men."

Signed President

Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

My mother treasured this.

(Ruth)

I was so stricken.

I do remember

saving my--my money,

and, uh, wanting to do

something very special

for our veterans.

(ghost of a soldier)

The value of these things

can't be measured

in ordinary ways,

but must be paid for

in dollars and cents,

and sometimes in lives.

Freedom comes high.

(Ruth)

And so, when I had enough money,

I remember asking,

"Do I not have enough

for a bond?"

And, uh, I remember being told,

"Yes, you do."

And so, I was in school

at that point,

and I remember these reporters

coming to the school,

and they had me put my--

my piggy bank there,

and they wanted

to take pictures.

And so, as a result,

there I am, there,

ready to, uh,

break my piggy bank,

which is that one,

to get this special bond for--

to help our veterans.

(narrator)

The end of the war

challenged the advances

women had made in the workplace

along Route 66.

(mellow rock music)

(announcer)

Each trip upstairs

is the equivalent

of lifting

her own weight 12 feet.

And at the rate

of 20 trips a day,

that's lifting

about 12 tons of weight.

Who said "weaker sex"?

(narrator)

Women were expected to resume

being full-time homemakers

so that men

could take back the jobs

they had previously enjoyed.

♪

(Lyndia)

My uncle joined

the United States Army

just before Pearl Harbor.

My mother, she ran the business

until the end of World War II,

alone.

She was chronically exhausted.

It was such hard work.

She was in the store

seven days a week.

She had to take trips

to New York periodically

to get merchandise.

She was dealing with people

who didn't have very much money,

so that was layaway.

During the summer,

she would store fur coats

in a separate building

that was cold storage,

and it was the Dust Bowl,

so she had to clean

the shop every day,

clean the dust off the windows,

which was a lot,

and then manage her household

when she came home from work.

Her brother, he met a woman

in New York City

as soon as he came back

from the war,

so he returned to Amarillo

in 1945

with a wife.

Now...during the time

he had been gone,

my mother,

even though she was

running the business,

really didn't have access

to credit in her own name.

She was doing everything

on behalf of her brother.

As soon as he came home

with a wife,

he looked over the books,

and said, "Thank you

for taking care of the business

while I've been gone.

I'm going to take over now."

He decided how much

her half of the business

was worth,

he wrote her a check,

and he gave her

a one-way bus ticket

to her father in Los Angeles.

(honky-tonk piano music)

My mother was not really happy

about the way her brother

had negotiated

the "sale"

of her share of the business.

In spite of being

a decorated war veteran,

my Uncle Saul could not join

the various

veterans' organizations.

He was excluded from

the chamber of commerce.

There was major anti-Semitism

in Texas.

There were some stories

about loans

either not being available

to maintain the business,

or his interest rate

being higher

than it would've been

if he had been

a church-going man.

And that was similar

to what would've happened

if he had been

Hispanic or Black.

(newsreel announcer)

All this can't keep a fellow

from putting down his ideas.

Something is going

to add up here.

(gunshot)

His own air conditioned castle

with a deep freeze,

cooler for beer.

(narrator)

While the Nazis

had been defeated,

anti-Semitism had not.

Despite this obstacle,

along the Mother Road

in Albuquerque,

there was a well-established

Jewish community,

in which women entrepreneurs

played a prominent role

in business.

(Helen)

I was born

and spent my first 18 years

in Albuquerque,

and I lived very close

to the Downtown,

which was my, uh, hangout.

(mellow piano music)

(Ann)

We moved here in 1940,

and had a store

Downtown Albuquerque.

(Sharon)

This became

an important spot for you.

-Now, why is that?

-Well,

this was Everitt Jewelers.

(Ann)

We bought it from

the original Mr. Everitt.

We sold jewelry.

We still had

a dollar-down,

dollar-a-week type thing.

So, you got to know

your customers pretty well.

Oh, I washed the glass windows

in the morning

and swept the floor

and kept the books

and waited on customers.

Did a little of everything.

(Helen)

Well, my parents moved

to Albuquerque in 1933.

It was the height

of the Depression,

and my father went to work

for Maisel's,

and he worked for Maisel's

for several years.

(Sharon)

This building

was created in 1939,

and it was in its time

the largest trading post

on the route, and it is

particularly distinguished

on the exterior for the murals

that were painted

by the young students

at the time

of the IAIA,

the Indian art school

in Santa Fe,

and many of the best-known

Indian artists,

people who went on to become

groundbreaking Indian artists,

actually painted these murals.

This is the only building

on the Mother Road

decorated by Native Americans,

and among the murals

that are here

is one by Pablita Velarde,

who became the matriarch

of a very, very well-known

Indian artist family.

(mellow music)

(Helen)

My father turned out to be

a wonderful salesman,

and with a real knack

for Indian jewelry,

and he opened his own store

about a block away,

across from the KiMo Theater,

called the Navajo Indian Store.

There were several

Jewish merchants

in Downtown Albuquerque.

One of them was a woman,

Mary Cohen,

and, uh, they had a wonderful

women's dress shop

in Downtown Albuquerque

called Jordan's,

and that was the main store

where I did my shopping,

and bringing things home

on approval.

And then, there was a woman

named Jean Marcus,

and she and her husband

had moved to Albuquerque

from New York,

and she had a store

on Central Avenue

called Accessories by Jean,

and it was all costume jewelry

and handbags and accessories.

And she was a woman

of great style,

and the fact

that she was from New York

was very impressive to me.

(narrator)

Success and business on Route 66

did now, however, translate

into being able to buy

the house of your dreams.

Discrimination by banks

against women,

and anyone who wasn't

considered white,

-was commonplace.

-Then, in 1953,

Second Street became

Eastbound Route 66,

and just to the north of that,

Third Street

became Westbound Route 66.

Historically, Winslow did have

a degree of

de facto segregation in housing.

Banks would only make loans

to people of color

to live in

certain parts of town.

(Spencer)

A realtor wouldn't sell

the property to my dad

unless we went around

to all the neighbors

in about a three-

or four-block radius,

and asked if it was okay

for a Chinese family

to move into the neighborhood.

At that point, though,

I think there were

probably about 14 or 15

Chinese families in Winslow.

My mother Linda

moved to Winslow,

uh, with my father

shortly after they were married,

right after World War II.

It was an arranged marriage,

and so they came over on a ship

in, uh, 1947,

I was born in 1948.

Route 66 was a source

of livelihood for the city.

Brought in all the tourism.

The railroads

had a big maintenance yard

in Winslow.

So we grew up,

um, in a grocery store

that was on First Street,

which was right across

some railroad tracks.

My dad was already

a naturalized citizen

through his service in the Army,

and so I remember

coming home one day,

and my dad said, "Okay,

your mother's

gotta speak English.

No more Chinese at home."

♪

So, one of the first things

that they did was the--

uh, they enrolled her in school.

My mother's sitting

in a 6th grade class,

learning English,

and so she learned English

for about--

I think she stayed there

for about a year.

She passed citizenship test,

naturalization test,

with flying colors, and, uh,

she would sometimes help out

in the grocery store.

My parents were determined

that all four of us kids

were gonna go off to college.

My dad realized that

working in a grocery store

wasn't gonna cut it,

so he took a gamble,

bought some property

and built a drive-in restaurant,

a hamburger stand,

Freddie's Drive-In.

And so, he said, "Okay,

I'm gonna work at the store,

and Mom is going

to run the restaurant.

Next thing I know

my mom was trying to figure out

how to cook hamburgers,

how to cook tacos,

how to make French fries,

uh, you know,

this whole thing, and then--

and how to manage people.

Remember still seeing the ads.

"Three for a dollar."

And you can buy that

and a 16-ounce drink

for 15 cents.

She actually made

a really good go of it,

and, uh, to this day,

she invented

something called

Freddie's tacos,

which is considered a classic.

So, that helped fund

my college education,

helped fund my brother's

and my sister's,

and then--but my dad said,

"You know,

we're still a little short."

So, then he--right next to it

he built a laundromat,

and so my mother

would sort of watch out

with the laundromat,

and the, uh--

and the--and the restaurant

and do the cooking there.

Their--their businesses

got a lot of traffic,

got a lot of tourism

along Route 66.

(traffic whirring)

(narrator)

Despite increased mobility

after World War II,

segregation was still

very much part of the landscape

on Route 66.

(soft guitar music)

(Larry)

The Spicer family

arrived in Monrovia in 1947.

My dad came here on Route 66.

My dad was able

to send for my mom.

(engine whirring)

From Walnut Street

to the railroad tracks,

on the north and south side,

and from Myrtle

to Mountain,

that's where

all the African Americans

were located in Monrovia.

♪

We started traveling back

to Mississippi in '65.

Traveling on Route 66,

prior to us leaving,

they would put this

burlap sack bag in the front,

because back in those days,

you know, the cars

weren't as good as they are now,

so that you needed

to carry some water,

and they would hook it

on the front of the car,

so if the car ran hot,

you had your water.

And so, we would ask my dad

about that all the time.

You know, we were very curious

about the things

that he was doing,

and he would tell--

he would call my mom--

her name was Geneva--

"Geneva, come get these kids,

I'm trying to load up the car

and stuff," you know.

We was--we were excited.

My mom prepped all the food,

you know, the clothing.

She took care of everything.

My mom would drive,

but my mom, man,

she had a heavy foot.

She drove too fast,

my dad didn't like that.

My mom would

get on down the road,

so he would drive the most.

We always traveled

with another family,

the Barneses,

so it was two families

driving behind one another

on Route 66 the whole time.

On convoy, we would get to

these gas stations.

My dad would take my sisters,

you know, so they--

'cause he didn't want them

going out in the bushes like us,

and, um, he would go

and stand out there,

you know, him and my mom,

but he made sure

that he would gas up the car,

and then he would park the car

over by the bathroom

so he can see us.

You know, he didn't wanna

leave us alone.

A couple of times, you know,

the people were

using the N-word

just over and over.

My dad was just polite,

keep his head up,

got in the car,

and then he would talk to us

while he's driving, you know,

about how bad people can be,

but you have to overlook it

because there's better people

in the world.

(narrator)

It was a new era,

and the American family,

united after years

of Depression and separation,

were eager to explore the West.

They took Route 66 to do it.

(Cynnie)

Yeah, I haven't seen

these pictures for a while.

(Jamie)

Well, my favorite thing

are the little socks.

(Cynnie)

Little socks--they were

loafers probably, right?

-Yeah.

-My thinking is,

they wanted

to come to California,

and it was February,

so it's cold.

-Right.

-Um, and Route 66

was the way

you get to California.

My mother was a debutante

in society of Philadelphia.

This Embassy Club

in Philadelphia,

they hired her

as the debutante of the dance.

She wasn't a trained dancer.

My dad at the time

was at The Mask and Wig Club,

and he wrote songs

and danced and sang

and all that stuff at the club.

He's at the Embassy and he wants

to ask her to dance,

because she's,

you know, the star,

and he walks over

and asked her to dance,

and she looked at him

and she went, "No."

And then he left,

and someone said,

"Come on, do you know

that that's Bobby Troup,

he's starring in The Mask."

"Oh," and she marches

over to him and says,

"Okay, let's dance."

That's the kind of guts she had.

No, I--I never called, uh,

my granddad "Grandpa"

or anything.

He was Bobby Troup.

And then my grandma,

I call her Namok.

The classic Route 66 story

that I know

was that Bobby Troup

and Namok were driving,

you know, they're in the car,

they're ready to come

to California,

and they have a map,

and Bobby Troup is gonna--

you know, he's thinking

of songwriting,

you know, he's got that

in his mind, so he's gonna write

about--a song about Route 40,

and she's like,

"No, that's not a good idea,

'cause, like,

it's only this long," right?

So, she suggests, "You should

write about Route 66."

And then, she leans over

and says,

"Get your kicks on Route 66,"

and he's like, "Ah"--

like, that's how I imagine,

so you know, in my mind,

as a kid, like,

he had a lightbulb,

and she's there.

You know, it's like

this perfect little partnership.

And here's the book she wrote.

Once I Was a Debutante.

Cynthia Hare,

she uses her maiden name.

"Driving across country,

I studied the road map

while Bobby drove the car.

We followed Route 40

for a long time.

I said, 'Why don't you

write a song about Route 40?'

'That's silly,' he said,

'we'll be on Route 66

most of the way to California.'

Silently I tried

to rhyme words with 'six.'

Six, mix, picks, kicks.

A lyric writer I'm not,

but I came up with

'Get your kicks

on Route 66.'"

And of course he used that line,

and she always thought

she should've been on

the, um, sheet music,

that she--songwriting credit,

but she didn't.

Yeah, Jamie,

you--you've seen this map,

and one of the fun things

I--I love about this,

and it kinda describes

their personality.

If--you know--you know,

well, she's so not artistic,

-me either.

-But she clearly is.

(Cynnie)

She is not, I mean, pasted--

no, I mean, come on.

(Jamie)

Look, she--she marked

where they started.

(Cynnie)

Well, no, where the--

where the lyrics are...

(Jamie)

Oh.

(Cynnie)

Yep. "Oklahoma City

looks mighty pretty..."

I mean, these are the--

you know, they're 10 cities.

The map is called

"the song map."

She obviously made it

from a road map,

must've just cut the bottom out,

and where Route 66 was,

traced it with a crayon.

(Jamie)

She's pointing, I think,

just to California.

-Oh, sure.

-I wonder where that sign is.

(Cynnie)

It must be

where you come in the state.

(Jamie)

Well, it's the state line,

yeah, so that's exciting.

(Cynnie)

They're here, they made it.

When they got here,

and he'd written some of it--

-Mhm.

-And then,

they got to meet Nat King Cole,

and they went down

to Music City,

and went into, like,

a record booth thing.

Route 66, lots of significance.

What it did for the family,

for money and support,

it, from what I understand,

is my mom always said

it bought the house

that we grew up in,

and I've reframed the map now,

showing the back of it

where she wrote,

you know,

that it bought the house,

and how much the house cost,

and what the taxes were.

(peppy piano music)

She didn't want the divorce,

she was only 35.

She dated some,

but nobody ever--

you know, he was

the man in her life,

I mean, until the day she died.

♪

You have the end of rationing,

you have the end of--

of men being posted

away from their homes

who wanna spend time

with families.

And they have

improved automobiles,

and--and everything else,

so they pack up

and they go on trips.

People wanna go vacation and see

the great national parks,

pop in the car,

and take Susie and Johnny,

and go for those long day trips

out in the desert,

and a lot of times

you had to drive at night,

'cause nobody had

air conditioning back then.

(Betty)

Traveling in August,

the hottest month of the year,

my father always wanted to leave

at 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning,

so he could--the--we could

pass the desert early morning,

but it never

worked out that way.

We would leave maybe 6:00, 7:00.

But, getting ready,

my mother did all the wash,

the ironing, the packing,

she would fry chicken

so we'd have something to eat,

and we'd be on the road.

It was six kids

plus my parents

in my dad's 1956 Chevy.

(Hilda)

This is my oldest daughter,

her name is Diana,

and this is Anna,

the youngest one,

and this is, um, uh, Betty.

We used to go to New Mexico

every year, too,

and we would take Route 66.

It was a two-way.

One this way, one that way.

It was--there was a lot

of crosses on the street

that accidents had happened

and people had died.

(Betty)

One of the games

we used to play in the car

is "counting the crosses,"

'cause there was

crosses on the road.

My father,

he drove nonstop practically,

so when he would say,

"I'm getting tired,"

he would say,

"Betty, you be my eyes,"

and I always sat behind him,

standing up,

you know, and the wind

in my face.

And especially at night,

it was so dark on Route 66,

and everybody was asleep.

He would say, "Talk to me."

I had this relationship

with my father on the road.

Of course I was exhausted

in the morning,

but I stayed awake

with him all night.

(Hilda)

We weren't

a very religious people either,

but, um,

what I remember in my mind

I would say

for the Lord to guide us safely

to our destination,

and we did for years

and years and years.

(narrator)

Even though Route 66

was known as "bloody 66"

in more dangerous parts,

there were always women

forging new paths

for themselves,

unwilling or unable

to stay home.

(JoLynn)

I met Joy when I was working

for the Hobart Tribune

as a reporter,

and she was a transplant

from Rhode Island.

In the '40s, she had polio,

and she came out here

for her health.

They had a friend

that had a ranch

over in the Heber area,

and, uh, she was getting better,

and that's when she started

her Stockmen's Supply company

in an old shaggy van truck,

and it was, like, 1951, I think,

um, and she went

all over Arizona with her truck.

There was lots of ranches

that are not there now.

She was an exceptional person.

She was from Rhode Island,

she went to

the Gloria Vanderbilt School,

or something to that effect,

but she said

they didn't finish her off.

She had to come to the West

to get finished.

I would say probably

late '50 into maybe '60,

whenever Dee was born, you know.

I don't know how old Dee is.

But, um, anyway,

she had married Dotch.

He had a ranch

out at Dead River,

which is adjacent

to the Petrified Forest.

Today part of that

is Navajo land,

but anyway,

they had a ranch out there,

and, uh, a trading post

up on 66,

and that's where

some of her experiences

with tourists on 66

came into play.

Of course they sold gasoline,

and cold ice, beer,

soda pop, snacks,

uh, curios, you know,

Route 66 flags,

or lots of

kitschy little stuff back then.

She figured out that

that plane was flying low

'cause he was, you know,

signaling or whatever,

and so she sent somebody

to stop traffic at the one end,

and he landed going west,

and just short

of the river bridge,

Dead River Bridge,

right past her place,

and they filled him up

and he took off.

She picked up on stuff

that other people

wouldn't pick up on anyway.

I see a pattern arise

when you look

at the different women.

These women contributed

to the financial success

of their families.

They were able

to put a Christmas present

under the tree that

might not be there otherwise.

(mellow music)

(Marshall)

Today we're in, um, my hometown,

Ash Fork, Arizona,

right here on Route 66.

And when we moved up here

in October of 1947,

I was eight years old,

and, um, my dad

was new to the railroad,

so he was not--he was

unemployed most of the time.

Dad was gonna have to

provide food,

and we didn't have enough money

for, uh--for meat,

so Dad wanted a hunting rifle,

and Mom,

she decided to get a job.

She was a farm girl,

so she had never worked,

always been a housewife.

She had three boisterous boys.

She was in a family way

when she was 16.

So, by the time

she's about 22, I think,

she had had four children.

And all of a sudden now

she's working in a restaurant

and had a job,

and it was really neat,

'cause she put on

a lot of makeup,

and she really looked great.

And she wore

this fancy waitress dress.

If you'd left L.A.

and had gone through

Barstow and Needles

and Kingman and Seligman,

by the time you got to Ash Fork

to eat,

you're ready to kill somebody,

and they didn't leave much--

much for tips.

She always had in her--

in her apron pocket,

was--it was always

full of change,

and me, a nickel

was a lot of money,

and I'd come in and bum

a nickel or a dime off of her.

The Depression

was still kinda going on,

and after--after the war,

uh, at least for us.

When you walked downtown,

you saw businesses,

there was a post office,

um, a movie theater

that had films

four nights a week,

and, um, let's see,

then there was a barber shop,

and a drugstore, and, uh,

after the drug store

was the old opera house,

which was now a cafe

where my mother was a waitress,

and one of her waitress gigs

was there.

Then, there was

a little alleyway,

and then there was another cafe,

and that was

the Dewdrop Inn Cafe.

The other hospitality place

was--was down by

the railroad tracks,

and that's where, um--

that's where the, um,

the--let's just call it

hospitality

for single girls.

I delivered papers there, too.

I had no idea,

I was only 11 or 12 at the time.

That was one of my other jobs,

I was a paperboy.

(paperboy)

Football scores!

Morning paper!

Morning Star!

Paper, mister?

But, sometimes at night,

the--the bus came from Flagstaff

that brought the newspapers,

and they dumped 'em off

at the Arizona Bar,

and so I'd wait down there

till the bus came in,

and if it snowed in Flagstaff,

boy, on Route 66,

it was just

a two-lane road then,

and I mean, those roads

were really dangerous.

They, uh--and these buses

would be late,

maybe two or three hours late.

I imagine myself

trudging through the snow

on a bicycle

and delivering papers,

and the people all saying,

"Oh, Marshall,

we were so worried about you,

we didn't think you'd make it."

They were asleep

and didn't care.

Council buys park!

Scouts find lost girl!

Morning Star!

Except at the--at the little--

the other hotel,

and, uh, it was al--

the lights were always on,

and she would bring--

madam, the madam

would bring me in

and give me chocolate.

I did not know until

my mother told me one day,

we were walking down the street,

and the madam

had bright red hair.

I said, "Hi," and she said,

"Hi, Marshall, how are you?"

I think my mom thought I was

a regular customer there

or something, I--she said,

"How do you know her?"

And I said, "Oh, I was, uh--

I'm the paperboy,

I--I deliver papers there."

(upbeat music)

'47 and '48 and '49,

they had some

of the most brutal winters

in Arizona history.

Dad was able to buy

an Army surplus tent.

We slept in there

with just blankets

and no heating, nothing.

And the next house

we lived in here,

it was the rock house,

and, um, it--it had plumbing,

but the bathroom didn't work.

My mom, she was