This year we were headed for Floyada, near Lubbock, Texas. It was 1963, and he was working on a cotton gin out there, doing something with machinery, nuts and bolts. We had no idea what, but it seemed to interest him endlessly. He loved his work.
I don't think he liked staying out for weeks on end without seeing the family, but most of the cotton left Navarro County due to a change in government policy, and there was still lots of cotton in west Texas. It was the best way for him to earn enough money to take care of the family.
Neila had graduated college and planned to marry Tom in the fall. She was already working in San Antonio, Texas as a teacher. Stephen had married Mavis last year and was also living in San Antonio, where he was in the Air Force. Elton and Deanna had been married six or seven years, had a four-year-old, and Elton had reinvented himself at least three times. He started out at Chattanooga Glass Factory, went to work as produce manager for Safeway Stores, bought a plane, learned to fly, sold the plane, and now was talking about a call from God to be a pastor.
We four girls and Mother had gone to visit Daddy. We stayed in a small motel in Floydada, Texas for four or five days, eating out most meals at places Daddy frequented and where the owners and waitresses knew him by name. Other than Susan, Jan and I being taken to a billiards hall for the first time by the teenage daughter of the gin manager, the trip was pretty unremarkable. That is, until the return trip.
We got up and left around 7 a.m. before the Texas sun started beating down on the rough red sand and scrubby brush. Jan and I started saying how hungry we were by the time Mother had pulled onto the highway and stopped at the first traffic light, maybe the only traffic light, in town.
"We'll stop soon," Mother promised. "Let's get just a little way down the highway."
A little way down the highway meant until Mother saw a "suitable" restaurant or we talked so loud that it got on even her unflappable nerves. About an hour into the drive, I was suffering hunger pangs so strong that I began doubling over on the backseat like a drama queen. Jan was talking loudly about all the things she loved for breakfast: fresh canteloupe, scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, toast, jelly, maybe ham. Orange juice.
Mother kept her eyes on the road, humming quietly to herself, saying nothing, ignoring us. Susan sat up front with Neila and Mother. Who could blame her?
Jan and I had bought a sombrero, and we took turns putting it on and saying in a nasal twang: "Hey, senor, can you give me a ride? I'm hungry and I'm looking for a nice place to eat."
Susan sighed loudly a couple of times, making Neila chuckle. Mother didn't even acknowledge how obnoxious we were and really seemed not to notice our repetitive playacting.
As we passed through a tiny town called Spur, Texas, Mother suddenly pulled off the highway into a gravel parking lot (she never chose cafes with paved lots). We looked up to find ourselves face to face with the Spur Cafe, set back only a car's length off the highway. This time there were no 18 wheelers, only two other cars.
We climbed the four steep steps and entered the tiny white frame restaurant. Metal chairs with deep green plastic seats and backs sat in some disarray around four dark green formica tables, also haphazardly arranged in the small dining area. Mother quickly apprised the situation and headed for seats at the short counter at the back of the room, where a skinny waitress stood, arms folded, looking like she was daring us to order. One customer sat on a stool at the end of the counter drinking coffee, his wrinkled khakis hanging off his feet as his dirty work boots looped backwards over the metal ring near the base of the stool. That left the rest of the stools for us.
We all slid onto the green plastic, and at least Jan and I propped our elbows on the formica counter.
The lady unfolded her arms, turned slowly, picked up some white papers, walked toward us, dragging the dirty white rubber tips of her tennis shoes with each step and slung the one-page menus our way. We perused them, though she probably thought we were only looking at them.
Susan was the first to speak. She probably thought she might ameliorate any bad impressions Jan and I had made coming in loud and boisterous, with our fake Spanish accents.
"I'd like scrambled eggs, please," she said politely.
"Chickens ain't laid yet," the plaid shirted worker said, scowling.
"Oh, I see," Susan said, like it was the most understandable thing in the world.
"Well," Mother said. "I'd like a cup of coffee and a donut."
"Donut man ain't made it by yet," she said, looking as though she were enjoying this. She turned to get Mother a cup of coffee, looking angry, tapping her soiled red tennis shoes impatiently on the sticky linoleum floor.
"Hmmmm, what about some bacon and milk?" Neila asked, taking up the game of What's for Breakfast?
"Meat man ain't been by yet. It's early Monday mornin', ya know," she said, almost happy now.
She handed Mother her coffee with a frown and wiped her hands on her blue denim pants, leaving a tiny coffee stain on the right leg of the pants.
"Cow ain't been milked yet," I said under my breath, causing Jan and Susan to laugh.
"Well," said Mother, in her nicest questioning voice, "What do you have?"
"Cereal," she said. But she pronounced it "sur ruhl".
"Surreal is right," Neila whispered. "I think we're in the Twilight Zone."
"Oh you have cereal but no milk?" Mother asked for clarification. "Anything else on hand?"
"We got Snickers and Coke."
"Okay," Mother looked quickly down the row at all of us, sitting quietly on the stools, afraid to laugh, knowing it would become a tidal wave of mirth that couldn't be stopped. "Five Snickers, four cokes. I assume you have some ice."
"Of course," the lady snorted as if that were the silliest thing ever. "Who doesn't have ice?"
Mother paid for the candy and cokes and we slid off the stools and headed for the door. As we went out the front door, Mother turned as an afterthought, "Oh, I don't guess you'd have any orange juice, would you?"
The lady stared at her, incredulous.
"I didn't think so," Mother said cheerily. "Just thought I'd ask. It'd be some Vitamin C to go with the candy."
Neila was outside the door by now and started laughing quietly but hard, shaking all the way to the car. Susan was thoroughly disgusted and it showed in her facial expression. Jan and I, who sometimes almost read one another's minds, had already started a new comedy routine.
"Hey senor," I said in my best nasal Spanish.
"Do you have any food at all for breakfast besides candy and cokes?" she finished to gales of laughter from the two of us.
Mother said nothing, hopped in the car, started it, backed up, pulled onto the highway and started passing out the candy bars. "Breakfast anyone?" she asked.
"Where are we stopping for lunch?" I asked.
1 comment:
Hi-larious!
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