On the Back Roads: Discovering Small Towns of America
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went to dealer’s school at night. Don saved his money and two years later bought a bar and restaurant. He sold that after ten years, moved here, and made a boomtown that never closes. Don is probably many times a millionaire. What’s important, he’s doing what he wants to do with his life and very much on his terms. He flies his own airplane and keeps a helicopter tied down just outside the back door of his casino. He works all the time but relaxes by walking through his spacious calino, usually
say now they can’t make it at five bucks. That’s too much for seniors. We’ve got less hair for one thing.” “You know that new guy on Kern has a deal for seniors? He gives you the first and last haircuts free.” Silence. Some thoughtful swallows, too. The same man continued, “I guess you just have to tell him it’s your first time in there to get a free one.” Just then, a senior lady-customer walked by with a coffeepot, but my attention was on the silent drama unfolding around me. One man
lived all her forty-something years in Encampment, Wyoming. Candy is a fine journalist and a true Wyoming historian. She was here alone, taking pictures. Candy knows more about the Oregon Trail than most of us know about the streets we live on. She has written books about it and has crossed much of it over the past five years on vintage wagon trains. “I don’t do it as the pioneers did,” Candy said. “For the most part, I ride in the wagon. They walked. I wear Wranglers and occasionally a skirt.
years, his family has told him what they see. The popular county attorney here for thirty-six years, John now has a private practice at age sixty-nine. He was pecking at his typewriter when I walked into his one-man office. John asked me to sit while he finished typing. Those brief moments, watching him type, brought a jarring revelation. For a person who does not see what he types, to interrupt John in the process could disrupt his continuity. You and I can stop at any point and pick up where
and knees. In the kitchen, Dorothy and a helper were busy cleaning up, putting dishes away and food in the refrigerator. I asked about the wild-truck attacks while nibbling on leftovers from a lady’s luncheon that had just finished. Dorothy had ordered it from next door, an obvious advantage of living on the same block as Wagon Wheel Pizza. “They leave the engines running in those big trucks, even when they are not in them,” Dorothy said. “Don’t you suppose things vibrate? Something gets them