The last thing I remembered about Amarillo was the wind. The wind would blow so hard that the dirt and sand would sting your eyes and skin as it gathered in small little tornadoes in the road.

I remembered Stanley Marsh, the local eccentric, who would prance around at every one of the city's parades in a white suit and his troupe of young boys following behind.

He was hardly the local hero, but he made things interesting. He also made interesting things and one of those things was a exhibition of discarded Cadillacs buried face down in the dirt in the middle of a green field.

I used to live in Amarillo when I was in high school. Local understanding dictated that there were only three things you could do in Amarillo for fun: go cow-tipping, drinking in the canyons or in a field, and hangout at Cadillac Ranch. Cadillac Ranch is hardly a ranch per say. It's more of a field surrounded by endless nothingness not far from the Historic Route 66. You can't really see it from the road. But, during the day, you can see the cars lined up down the road with tourist walking to the Holy Cadillac Grail.

On our trip westbound, I brought my children into this life I once knew and let them take part in art in history as they tagged Cadillacs with their mark from discarded spray paint cans.