Cultural Geography is a subject which generally posits that when it comes to journeys, Americans cherish such notions as indicators to the distant past, higher elevations, and mileage, mileage, mileage to attach value to where the journey leads. And how it is remembered.

For this Sunday afternoon a rest stop outside Olancha, California on beautiful Highway 395 found me with all kinds of relatable experiences right behind me as I motored home. The previous Friday found me admiring the diminishing of the haze which dusted the classic view of the Sierras and gaining elevation on my way to a niece's wedding by Mammoth.

Now it was downhill back home and a reminder of everyday life kicking up more and more exhaust and dust with the population centers and weekdays ahead.

Midway, or that may as well do, between Mojave and Lone Pine. But this midway at least used to be the destination for the dream factories. The film and television studios which made the Gunga Din's, Sky King's and so many other shows variously set somewhere or nowhere. How about a specific place which really wasn't like "that"?

On my walk back from the, ahem, "Prime Directive(s)" of a rest stop I passed a relic of other days, the phone booth. I swore I heard something: voices? An open line tone? No, the phone etching on the shell has holes. We woodwind players are told we shape the air we produce appreciably when we produce a vibrant sound, and from the chins-up crags of these mountains and the huge chute of the Owens Valley comes a wind that has haunted so many, this time whining through these little holes.

A near obsolete appliance like this needs a catch, and inside the shell I read various numbers to push for such as "The Lords's Prayer", "Weather"----and a certain bank. The one which has my main checking account.

A checking account which took big hits from the hotel at which I elected to stay due to a family batch reservation, a transmission job which enabled Blue Bossa to definitively deliver me to and from, and speaking of which, gasoline. The Blue entity was revealed on this run not to be a mileage champ but commensurately powerful.

I momentarily took the option for the bank but as, this time, an electronic drone filled my ear I opted out.

The last time I was up this way was 31 years ago, and this time I didn't have a work week ahead. In this area where imagination has been a big business such imagination still can't deliver one from everything.

Back home for appointments, band practices and eventual bank balance.

Gotcha, podner.