The last time I saw the Red Horse Motel was from the backseat of a 1967 Ford Esquire station wagon. Pulling out of the motel lot sitting next to my best friend, I watched the buildings slowly disappear into the distance. Even though I was traveling as a guest of the family, I remember thinking how great it was to make your way across middle America with people you love and, in particular, how great it was to stay at places like the Red Horse Motel.
I’ve carried that memory with me for more than 35 years now.
Several weeks ago, in an attempt to retrace some of my boyhood steps, I returned to the Red Horse. Easing into the abandoned parking lot, I stepped out of my car and propped my sunglasses up on my head.
Deserted and decrepit, it was evident that the Red Horse Motel had fallen on hard times. Gone was the Main Office where we were once greeted with a smile and enthusiastically introduced to a new litter of Labrador pups. Gone was the pool and miniature golf course. And gone was the door to room 126.
I think it was Thomas Wolfe who said that you can never go home again. Looking back on the whole experience, I have come to the conclusion that it’s true; you can’t really go home again–at least not in the same way that you could when you were nine.
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