A Special Piece of Pie

Circumstance brings me to a place I haven't been since 1957, to discover something again.

A Special Piece of Pie

Bang! Without warning, the number three tire just exploded, on our trailer loaded with 44000 pounds of hand Sanitizer! It didn't get the tire behind it. That sometimes happens. When it does, you are stopped! We were lucky. Still having three good tires on that side, allowing us to limp a few miles. I dug out the book that contains all the information on the country, locations of truck stops with available services. The driver accessed his little console and announced that we were three miles south of Chadron, Nebraska.

What is there? As I ran my finger along the column of available services.  I searched my memory and found a long parade of High School Bands marching down the streets. I was a child then, and Chadron seemed like a "big" town.

I remember the canteen and the college guys and gals strutting their stuff in front of all of us gawking kids. I had never seen anyone dance like that! Girls whirled into the air with petticoats flaring like carnations high in the air.

"Well, what is here?" the driver asked.

"Sorry, I zoned out there for a minute. The book says there is tire service nearby."

We limped to a small truck stop where the attendant at the counter gave us the address of Nebraska Land Tire, a few blocks away.

As we drove into the older Business District, building silhouettes triggered flashbulbs in my memory, and, like pulled teeth, there were holes where vacant lots had replaced some of the older buildings.

The young man at the tire place showed us where to park the 18-wheel truck, with the frontmost inside dual tire even with the service door. It was hot inside, but the fan helped. We had a short conversation with two young Lakota men who were traveling through and had to replace two tires. Boredom set in while we waited. We had to wait for our turn to get the tire replaced.

I asked the lady, who seemed to be the boss of the place, if she could recommend a good place nearby for a fresh cup of coffee.

She gestured up the street, "Next block up the street, Heritage Grille."She gave off a slight hint of irritation at being interrupted from her paperwork.

We stepped onto the walk and started up the street. Linden trees in planters lined the walk. Some were blooming. I smelled a blossom up close. It was faint, gentle, and soothing to my soul as I stepped backward through time, and forward toward a hot cup of fresh coffee.

It took some doing to get inside, but it finally became apparent that the entrance to the Heritage Grille was through an interior hall of a remodeled building with several businesses. I wish I had time to browse, but I let the scent of fresh coffee carry me over the highly polished wood floor to my destination.

Wondering if my truck-wrinkled clothing was appropriate, I stepped through the door. The delicious smells removed all doubt that I had found a bit of the home that I had left so long ago.  The fleeting image of the Ghost Town, just a few miles away, which is all that remains of my hometown, crossed my mind, leaving a trail of mixed emotions in its wake.

A middle-aged woman, whose bright smile made her seem much younger, took our order for coffee and soon appeared again, smiling luminously with a carafe of delicious brew. Smells like what was brewed at home when I was growing up. I wondered aloud to the driver, "Butternut?"

"I think so. It sure tastes like it."

I sipped the rich, tasty brew and let the taste carry me to an early morning long past, with my Father sitting across the table and Mother making waffles.

When the server returned to see if we wanted anything to eat, I told her I hadn't been in Chadron since 1957.

"That was the year I was born," she said.

I kept to myself that I was fifteen years old that year. She took our order, and I could not shake the feeling that I had just come home, and I was welcome. When I looked into her face, it was warm and somehow familiar.

The point is, I didn't feel like a stranger when we talked; nothing was forced. It was as if we were picking up a conversation left dangling somewhere in the ancient past. Words and smiles came easily, naturally, like they belonged, jumping back and forth between us. I do not know what makes some people glow so brightly with enthusiasm for life that their facial lines disappear, and you see the beauty radiating from within. Encounters like this are few and far between; rare and delicious like Strawberry Rhubarb pie served Hot, with vanilla Ice cream melting on the surface.

A note to our server: "You served much more than coffee, pie, and ice cream. You heaped a generous welcome on me and gave me a sense of belonging. Your smile warmed a cold and lonely place deep inside my soul. No one seemed to notice our truck-wrinkled clothes or make us feel like we were strangers. Thank you for a rare moment of bliss. I hated so very much to leave, I'd have liked to have gotten to know you and find out more about where the light that shines around you originates."

I closed the door behind us as we emerged onto the street. A block up the street, the tire replacement was finished. Minutes later, we were gone, leaving a small cloud of dust and a little empty place in my heart as if I had left a tiny part of myself in the Heritage Grille. I savored the taste of Strawberry Rhubarb pie, served Hot with vanilla ice cream, still dancing on my tongue, and I smiled.

© Copyright 2011 Dayo Moarzjasac (UN: drstatic at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.