With permission from Robin Leach
“Leaves the color of ‘Fruit Loops,’” my mother used to say. She’d sigh wistfully as we drove along Missouri highways each fall, filling her eyes with autumn’s colors and filling the car with sighs of delight.
But after a dozen or so miles of tree viewing, the thrill of it all would begin to wane. “Wonder if there’s a fast food place around here? I sure could use a soda.” She began scouring the hillsides for those familiar planks of publicity: also made of wood and full of colorful hues.
The billboard. “Litter on a stick.” “Visual pollution.” A traveler’s best friend.
It’s not that I prefer advertising to aesthetically pleasing scenery. I love trees: I live in a house made of trees. I burn trees in my fireplace for warmth. I used to climb trees when I could still lift my body weight. Grass is good for picnics and cows, and the hills of Missouri are filled with beautiful fields.
But when my family is traveling, meandering along miles of pavement in search of adventure and whatever comes our way, the thrill of reading a tacky, familiar billboard surpasses any delight found in nature.
There are definite uses for billboards beyond providing information. All parents know what a lifesaver the letters on a billboard can be. How could you play the “Alphabet Game” without them?
The kids are bickering, whining for leg room and watching for roadkill. Wise, travel-savvy parents know the value of a highway flanked by billboards. “Why don’t you see who can find all the letters of the alphabet first? OK, watch those billboards! Go!”
Peaceful moments follow, with only occasional spurts of, “A!” “D!” etc. Educational as well as time consuming. Sure, Mom could point out elms and oaks. But where’s the competition? And when the back seat is full of busy eyeballs, all looking for a “Q” (as in quiet), the front seat occupants are afforded a serenity more soul stirring than a pasture of poplars.
Without billboards, how would we find out where Jesse James hid his loot? I want to know the temperature of the cave before I get there, so I can shiver in anticipation. Wooden bowls? Let me at ’em.
And if I’ve “Just Passed” a tourist stop, I’m darn glad a billboard stood out there by the road to assure me I can “Turn Back At The Next Exit.”
I can see bushes and weeds in my yard. But how would I find my favorite roadside restaurants without those peeling letters and flashing arrows? Food like that doesn’t grow on trees, you know.
Some say billboards are obstructing the beauty of our highways. Spotlights glare on buzzing lampposts. Time and temperature flash like fireflies from wooden commercials. Words three feet high scream at us, making us hungry and thirsty and eager to spend our money.
But those billboards are the graffiti of our generation, written with paint and panache, and we see our world in their messages. No field of fescue can match their appeal.
They say, “We Have The Loosest Slots.” “Buckle Up.” “Jesus Loves You.” And even, “Vote For Me.” Billboards offer a cornucopia of messages that not only tell us where we’re going, they tell us who we are.
I grew up in a town along Interstate 44. From the time I was tall enough to peek from a car window, I have seen billboards. And trees. I have no idea which trees or grasses are most prevalent along the highways of Missouri.
But I know how to spell “ONONDAGA.” And when I’m on the road, in search of “Ice Cold Soda,” “Bathroom” or “Great Deals On Used Cars,” I know where to find them. I just watch for the right billboard, and hope the trees won’t block my view.
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