View from a Truck Stop

When Rural Ways is at home in Parowan on a Saturday morning, we always go out to the TravelCenters of America truck stop near the freeway for a snack. Ellen and I drive the Chev over the highway, park by the feedlot, and walk across the five acre parking lot to the store. Besides truckers, what we mostly find there are people from Vegas and San Bernardino. It is one of the interesting things about having I-15 in the Parowan Valley: You park in a feedlot, in a valley with more sagebrush than people, get out of your vehicle and find yourself in suburban California, which, from what I can tell, is mostly about hip-hop clothing and tattoos. Anyway, inside the truck stop there is a little food court with some tables. Ellen and I grab a sleeve of crackers, a bottle of juice, and a diet Pepsi; give our money to Jennifer, who works every Saturday morning; and go sit at one of the tables. Along with the loud people from elsewhere there is always, at one of the other tables, a pair of old men—friends—sitting quietly. They are locals, with the same habit that we have. Every Saturday, they go to the truck stop, buy a pint of milk, and sit at the table together. They don't say anything, they just sit there. Occasionally one of the employees will come by and the men will ask after so-and-so's mother, but mostly they are quiet. After a while they get up and go out, leaving their chairs for truckers and families with sullen kids dressed like gangsters. Pretty soon, we, too, finish our snacks, cross the overpass, and return to southern Utah.

Alta, Utah

After a Mountain Man breakfast and a couple of shots from the flask, I wasn't sure Mark would be up for skiing. I needn't have worried. It turns out he's pretty good. We skied Wildcat for a while, and then took two laps through the Gunsite. After a run on Alf's it was time for a beer and some sausage in the parking lot. The next stop was Lone Star. Unfortunately, it was closed. Fortunately, Mark is a pretty good cook, too. We had fish tacos in Summit Park, an Argentine Malbec, and a little ibuprofen. Another good day on the crik.

Garden Starts

At Rural Ways we've started planting for the 2011 growing season. The problem that we frequently have with this process is a lack of space. The seeds are tiny, the germinants are small, but the seedlings can be large. Where shall we put them? They can't go outdoors because they would freeze, they can't go in the back room because they need sunlight, they can't go on the chairs because we need somewhere to sit. It seems like a good idea to start the garden from seed, but it is awkward to share one's living space with flats of tomatoes.

Meadowlark

Usually, about this time of year, the meadowlark returns. With its throaty call, the lark promises that spring is coming soon. This year, however, the song of the lark has remained absent. I realized this the other day when I awoke from a dream in which I watched a female meadowlark build her nest. Winter is, of course, not over, but we've had some days in the 50s, and the robins are settling in—I heard them scolding the cat yesterday as she wandered beneath one of their nesting shrubs. I think the lark should be back. But, if he is not perched on my fence post, where is he?

Cornell University calls the meadowlark a "bird of open country," which is probably why I like him so much. And what is more open than the Parowan Valley? So, Ellen and I went out to the Valley to find the lark this morning. We stopped to listen at some hay fields, empty but for the sagging wheel lines: There was nothing but the sound of a few crows. We went on to the unplowed country, full of sage and rabbit-brush: Nothing but crows. Does the meadowlark know something that I do not? Has spring been postponed?

Small Town, Idaho

Keith sent me a note about McCall, Idaho the other day that reminded me of one of the times I broke-down in the area . . . the other times can wait for another day. On this occasion, circa 1990, I had bought a 1966 Ford for a friend in Cottonwood. I was headed for Boise with it, and I made it past Riggins, I think, before it quit. I got it going again and limped it into some little town—New Meadows, Council, Cascade?—before it quit for good. It was after business hours, but I was able to find a mechanic to help me. He came in, drunk, to his shop in the evening, and figured out that I was sucking rust out of the gas tank and into the engine. We pulled the gas gauge out of the tank and went in through the hole to rig a filter and tube system that by-passed the plugged fuel lines. He charged me nothing for his help and I spent the night behind a Grange Hall, smelling like gasoline and sleeping on the seat of the truck.

Those were the days when you could wake in the cold dawn, rub your face—sticky from the vinyl, get the truck going, and find some greasy spoon that opened at 5:30. The waitress would grab the Folgers off the Bunn warmer and pour you a cup without a word. Usually, for not much more than about $2.50, you could sit there and eat eggs and toast. The coffee would keep pouring, a few truckers would come and go, and you could warm up. After a while, you'd look around, realize you felt almost human, and go out to see if the truck would start again.