View From the Slow Lane

Clark Byers died the other day, years after the passing of an era he helped color in red and black. The 89-year-old Byers was among the last survivors of a mobile platoon of artists -- well, all right, painters -- whose handiwork adorned roadside America for decades, providing entertainment, commercial icons and countless opportunities for parents and restless children to play alphabet games and roadside bingo.

Byers painted barns.

Back before arrow-straight highways with numbered interchanges, back when America’s winding back roads were still the front roads through Nashville, Big Timber, Rochester and Climax, Byers and a band of ladder-lugging colleagues traveled both lanes of the nation’s heartland and beyond. They painted advertisements on the ubiquitous barns dotting the rural landscape. These men and their paint jobs were everywhere, touting tourist sites and products. The red, green or black barns were as evident as the pale pronouncements of today’s Exit Ramp, Next Right, and the chained commercial clusters of eateries and hostelries huddled there -- E-Z Off-On -- against the vast countryside.

Byers painted for Rock City. See ROCK CITY. 37 Miles to Beautiful ROCK CITY. See Seven States from ROCK CITY. Never mind that Rock City was actually Freida Carter’s oversold, oversized rock garden, where much of the Southeast could be seen on a clear day from her Tennessee hilltop. For a few Rock City trinkets and eventually a few dollars, struggling farmers from Canada to the Gulf were delighted to let Byers lay a coat of fresh paint on their aging barns every two years or so. Many more people saw the barns than ever saw Rock City.

Other itinerants painted barns for tobacco: Chew MAIL POUCH. And then came Burma Shave, a shaving cream whose witty ditties brought passing chuckles to millions: On curves ahead/ Remember, Sonny/ That rabbit’s foot/ Didn’t save the Bunny -- Burma Shave.

The American roadside was an ad stage then, one that grew from the ‘30s through the ‘60s. Then interstates drew long-distance land travelers away from the back roads, federal rules curbed signs and near-rocket speeds erased time for roadside reading anyway. Speed limits and times were slower on country routes where serendipitous turns invited unlimited imaginings of sights ahead. In those days people went to meetings; they didn’t take them. Few felt driven to go 75 miles every hour. On weekends, they might have a sudden roadside picnic. And families actually spent Sunday afternoons together listening to birds while driving slowly through the countryside to nowhere and back home for chicken dinner. So, farewell to those barns, those times and Clark Byers. And hello again to FAST CITY.