U.S. 66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land . . . they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.
—The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The time was the early 1930s. Dust-parched, drought-wrung, a steady caravan of humans clattered west over U.S. 66. Piled high in antiquated jalopies and steaming trucks were the precious things of their lives: children, a tacky mattress or two, tattered blankets, a stick of old furniture, cooking utensils, a...