Just beyond the next exit

Just beyond the next exit

“Sometimes life drops blessings in your lap without your lifting a finger. Serendipity, they call it.” —American actor Charlton Heston (1923-2008)

Somewhere along Interstate 24 while traveling in southern Illinois recently, I saw something I honestly wasn’t expecting to see anymore.

A Stuckey’s.

Not a former Stuckey’s turned into a vape shop.

Not a former Stuckey’s converted into a used tire store.

Not one of those abandoned roadside buildings where only the outline of the old sign remains, like an archaeological dig for Baby Boomers.

An actual Stuckey’s.

Still open.

Still selling pecan logs.

Still standing beside the highway doing essentially what Stuckey’s has been doing since 1937, back when Franklin Delano Roosevelt occupied the White House and a roadside pecan stand in Eastman, Ga., was about to become one of America’s great road-trip institutions.

I nearly wore out my turn signal getting off the interstate at Exit 16.

If you’re of a certain age, you’ll understand.

What I found in Vienna, Ill., wasn’t one of the classic company-owned Stuckey’s of old. It was a licensed independent franchise partner Stuckey’s Express location attached to a Conoco station. But the familiar Stuckey’s signs, the candy displays and, most importantly, the vanilla nougat-filled, caramel-wrapped pecan log rolls were enough.

The moment I walked through the door, I was eight years old again.

For younger readers, Stuckey’s was once one of the great institutions of the American road trip.

Long before GPS, smartphones, Starbucks, Kwik Trip and Buc-ee’s, there was Stuckey’s.

Founded by W.S. Stuckey Sr. as a roadside pecan stand in rural Georgia, the company grew alongside America’s love affair with the automobile, so much so that Stuckey often quipped that at more than 4,000 billboards — Stuckey’s 50 Miles, Stuckey’s 30 Miles, Stuckey’s 10 Miles, Stuckey’s 2-1/2 Miles, Stuckey’s Next Exit — he had more invested in billboards than in candy.

At its peak during the 1960s and into the 1970s, the Stuckey’s chain operated 368 locations across nearly 40 states, including Wisconsin. Their distinctive teal-blue roofs became landmarks for travelers roaming America’s highways. Most locations combined gas pumps, a convenience store, a gift shop and a snack bar into one glorious, if modest, 4,500-square-foot roadside oasis.

Back in my childhood, Stuckey’s “Pecan Shoppe” locations sold gasoline under familiar brands such as Texaco, DX, Mobil and Phillips 66. You’d pull in for fuel, stretch your legs, use the restroom, browse the gift shop, grab a burger, hot dog or 99-cent breakfast at the snack bar, and inevitably leave with something you neither needed nor planned to buy.

Which, in hindsight, was exactly the point.

The sloping bright turquoise roofs and towering white, yellow and red Stuckey’s signs appeared along highways like beacons of hope.

To a kid staring out the back seat window of a ’68 Dodge Charger somewhere on a Sunday drive or a family vacation road trip, watching those Stuckey’s billboards count down the miles like a roadside Advent calendar, they promised treasures beyond imagination.

Road maps.

Postcards.

Toy cap guns and bow-and-arrow sets.

Souvenir pencils.

Rubber alligators.

Collectible state mini spoons.

Faux coon-skin caps.

Comic books.

Souvenir cedar trinkets.

Pecan logs.

And enough sugar to power a small city.

Road trips were different then.

Travel wasn't something to be endured.

It was part of the adventure.

Nobody was trying to shave six minutes off their arrival time.

Nobody was consulting an app to determine whether the restroom had earned four-and-a-half stars from people who apparently spend their vacations reviewing restrooms.

Families simply drove.

And stopped.

Frequently.

Gas stations.

Roadside diners.

Fruit stands.

Tourist traps.

Stuckey's.

Part of the fun was never knowing exactly what might be waiting at the next exit.

America used to be filled with places like that.

Places that were gloriously unnecessary.

Places that existed because somebody thought travelers might enjoy stopping.

Stuckey's was already spreading across the South before the Interstate era arrived, but the postwar highway boom helped transform it into a national roadside empire.

As the old ads used to say, “Any trip’s a pleasure trip when you stop at Stuckey’s.”

Then came the changes.

A succession of corporate buyouts.

The energy crises of the 1970s altered vacation habits.

Fast-food chains spread from coast to coast.

National hotel brands standardized overnight travel.

Interstate exits increasingly began to look exactly like every other interstate exit.

By the late 1970s, Stuckey’s had shrunk — dramatically.

Today, the brand survives largely as a candy manufacturer and distributor, while a smaller network of some 50-plus scattered licensed c-store locations keeps the heritage roadside tradition alive.

Which brings me to what struck me standing there in Vienna.

The merchandise has changed.

The highways have changed.

The cars have changed.

The country has changed.

But the feeling was exactly the same.

For a moment, the years in between simply disappeared.

For a few minutes, I wasn’t a 61-year-old guy with responsibilities, deadlines and a calendar full of things that need doing.

I was a kid again.

A kid who still believed the next exit might contain something wonderful worth discovering.

That’s what places like Stuckey’s represent.

Not merely nostalgia.

Possibility.

Wonder.

Curiosity.

The belief that somewhere beyond the windshield, something interesting is waiting to be discovered — and that the journey itself matters.

Modern travel has become remarkably efficient.

Efficiency, unfortunately, has never been particularly memorable.

The difference between experiencing America and merely passing through it often comes down to whether you’re willing to take the exit.

Nobody gathers decades later to reminisce about an especially productive stop at a generic convenience store.

But people remember Stuckey’s.

They remember buying postcards they never mailed.

They remember begging their parents for souvenir tchotchke they didn’t need.

They remember sticky fingers, pecan logs and wandering the gift shop while Dad had the full-service Stuckey’s gas station attendant pump fuel, check the oil, and wash the windows for 29.9 cents a gallon.

Mostly, they remember how it felt.

That’s why I left Vienna with a soft drink, a plastic sack overflowing with Stuckey’s pecan logs, pralines and bourbon pecans, and a smile that probably looked ridiculous.

I regret none of it.

Because sometimes the greatest joy isn’t discovering something new.

It’s discovering that something old is still there waiting for you.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s waiting just beyond the next exit, reminding you why you love the road in the first place.

Vilas County News-Review freelance columnist Eric A. Johnson can be reached at eric@fyinorthwoods.com.