Midpoint
I kept trying to hop on and off the main highway because I was hoping to find another treasure trove of some kind. Maybe old books, maybe old pocketknives, maybe something that was collectible, or maybe something that was just interesting to me.
In Tucumcari, I stumbled into the most incredible deal for a motel, a place that was $19.95 [plus lots of state tax> for a night. Considering the places I’ve stayed before, I thought this was a quite a deal. Overlook the dubious sanitation, or the name on the motel phone, obviously a second-hand deal, and it was okay for a weary night. Not the best linen, but it was clean, if slightly scratchy from starch and chlorine. Not the best room, but with the AC fan on, I couldn’t hear the highway noise. Not the best bathroom, but as long as I didn’t touch anything, I felt safe.
I gassed up the hybrid Toyota vehicle [Pa Wetzel’s toy car>, just as the sun was rising, and just as I was headed into Texas. I put on some Hank III [first album on Curb Records>, and rolled on to I-40, aiming for Amarillo. “Listen to the Opry in a small cafe, when you stop to get a bite along the way, whenever I hear the wheels being to whine, it takes me back to another time.” [Thunderstorms and Neon Signs by Butch Hancock, on Hank III’s \\Risin’ Outlaw\\>. Passing the Texas border on I-40, I turned off on Historic Route 66, following my intuition. A decrepit {{popup cafenonneon.jpg cafenonneon}}sign suggested a cafe – in perfect tune with the road and the Hank III song.
Two girls run the place, an Aries and a Capricorn [gratefully, that Cap didn’t have red hair>. Breakfast was good, bacon, eggs, toast done right [on the griddle but dry>. Perfect ambiance. Then, the girls started chatting.
It’s that familiar, “Are you a musician?” question and answer game. No, I’ve never been on Austin City Limits. Just once, I want to hear about a guitar slinger who gets asked if he writes horoscopes for the web. Just once. Is that too much to ask for?
They were arranging the furniture, the Lion’s club had just been in, and a group of cowboys [real guys who ride horses and work on a ranch, not urban or computer variety> were headed in for lunch. The {{popup midpoint.jpg}}cafe is located at the geographical center of Route 66.
It was just the coolest place in the world. Thee was a small gift shop, full of the usual trinkets, but there was also something different and even more special about the place. It was old and new. It was a historic location, and it has seen better days, but it’s in loving hands now. Recent thunderstorms left the prairie lush and green, almost feeling soft.
Then there’s that West Texas hospitality, the gregarious and open feeling that everyone’s your friend. No pretensions. Life’s too hard and too close to the edge up yonder in the Panhandle. There’s sky, lots of sky. That morning, a few clouds drifted by, it was raining someplace. Looked like moisture blown up from the Gulf.
It’s a little cafe, in the middle of nowhere [55 miles or so west of Amarillo>. I lingered for an hour or more, right at the western edge of Texas, listening to the stories about the lives, the loves, the lies, the tales from that portion of the country. Really a good place to stop. Highly recommended. Good people. Food’s good, too, not that it matters as the company and conversation really sparkle. It’s located out there on the edge of nothing, the western terminus for Texas’ Route 66, just off Interstate 40 – the \\geographic\\ middle of the Mother Road. But there’s nothing average about the place or the people.
