Greetings from Amarillo

Picnic table at Oklahoma rest area, Route 40.

We are on the 4th floor of the historic Fisk building in downtown Amarillo, Texas.  Amarillo used to be named Oneida, and when the name was changed by popular preference, many inhabitants painted their doors yellow in honor of the meaning of the Spanish word.  Looking down Polk Street, we have a view of two great neon signs:  the Paramount theater and the Acapulco Mexican Restaurant.  The streets are as empty as if someone hollered that the gunslinger was comin' into town so everyone should hightail it into the nearest saloon. But it's just that it's Saturday afternoon in a city center, and about 104 degrees outside.  Oh, there was one guy going into the tattoo parlor earlier. Let us hope that Tatums Night Club, just below, is not too happenin' on Saturday nights.

Tim and I pretty much agree that the only city we've seen that might have long-term appeal is Asheville. Maybe it was just because it was the 4th of July. Maybe the low mountains reminded us of the Flat Hills of our New England Homeland. But there were lots of people with baby carriages.  Street musicians.  "Arts" neighborhoods.  Music galore--as accessible as it was in Nashville. 

One of the highlights of our trip was the story we heard about the veteran Bluegrass Boy, Ralph Lewis, age 83, whom we saw play the mandolin with astonishing facility at an Irish-esque pub with "The Sons of Ralph."   They'd played at the wedding of the daughter of a guy in a baseball cap, sitting next to us at the bar (whom we later learned was a prominent Methodist minister). One time he asked Ralph how he liked traveling around the world as a performer.  How was Japan?  He liked the food.  How was England--what was his favorite part? "Buckingham Palace," Ralph said.  "Oh, did you take a tour?"  "No, we played for the Queen."  "You mean she came to one of your concerts?"  "No, we played for her, in a room."  "A personal audience? Did she like it?"  "Well," said Ralph, "she was tappin' her foot.

 The tour of  Thomas Wolfe's house was absorbing, since I started the intensely autobiographical Look Homeward, Angel in honor of the visit. Alas:  the actual angel (from his father's workshop) now resides in another town, and the door knobs were nondescript metal.  But it looked just as it did when it was the boarding house, Old Kentucky Home, that the fictional Dixieland was modeled after.

Another highlight was the view from the Sunset Terrace at Grove Park Inn, an historic resort where once Helen Keller, FDR, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Bill Clinton, the Obamas, and other celebrities found repose.  As we sat calmly eating salad in the stone fortress, open to the air, a storm swirled and lightning flashed in the distant mountains. 

I'll now sign off, and Tim will interrupt his reading of a history of the Dust Bowl, in order to get supper at a nearby splurge-y restaurant.  The outdoor seating at the Acapulco might be a little toasty this evening.