No Place Like Home
It was the middle of March, but the weatherman was still forecasting winter. My husband and I were visiting Chicago, and when we woke that morning to a clear sky, it gave us hope that the predicted weather was hours away.
Maybe we could outrun a snowstorm.
Soon, we were on the famed Route 66, our preferred highway home. Traveling to Chicago, we had our kicks on Route 66, leisurely stopping along the way to eat, see, and do all the things.
Now, we needed to get home.
A few hours down the road, the day darkened, and the snow started. At first, the flurries were sparse and sporadic, but very quickly, that changed. Snow began swirling, not in flakes but in blowing drifts. Our visibility was disappearing along with the highway. We couldn’t see the lines or the signs or anything in front of us.
We were in trouble.
Randy knew we had to be close to Springfield, Illinois, and finally, I spotted an overhead McDonald’s sign glowing in the blowing snow. By now, the March storm had turned into a blinding blizzard, causing sliding cars and jackknifed trucks to litter the roadway.
“What were we thinking?” I asked my husband, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
We managed to locate the exit sign that took us to the McDonald’s sign that led to a lighted Marriott sign. Randy slid in and parked; his broken sigh and white knuckles said it all. The chaotic hotel lobby was warm and welcoming and, lucki- ly, had a restaurant and a bar inside.
Outside, the blizzard raged.
Randy and I settled in our room and soon found our way downstairs. We took seats in the open bar area and watched the place fill up. The TVs were all tuned into the same station, and that’s when I realized, in the middle of this March madness of a snowstorm, there was going to be a March Madness basketball tournament, and that night, Illinois was playing.
Things were about to get rowdy.
The stranded travelers in that hotel represented a cross-section of America. Seasoned truck drivers, empty nesters, and pharmaceutical salespeople. A farmer and his wife, a gaggle of fraternity brothers, and teachers returning from a conference. Every person in that bar came together to forget why we were there. We ordered food and drinks and cheered and laughed and lingered like we had no worries and nowhere to go.
Let it snow!
At the end of the night, everyone pitched in to clean up, and even though Illinois lost that March Madness game, each of us in that noisy hotel bar went to bed feeling like winners.
That unforgettable night, strangers from every walk of life came together, not to protest or talk politics or find our kicks, but to simply make the best of a perilous situation. Thrown together in that crowded space, no one criticized, complained, or fussed at the staff. No one asked what party I was affiliated with or who I voted for. No one judged or demanded or was anything but kind and gracious to each other, so very grateful to be where we were.
Imagine that.
One unexpected night in March, I found the true treasures of Historic Route 66. It was the people, the caring staff, and thankful travelers who shared a highway and a hotel that turned strangers into teammates and a snowstorm into a story worth telling. A blizzard, a bar, and basketball.
Magic in the madness.
This column was orginally printed in the February 2026 issue of Missouri Life.
