Traveling through the Midwest in 1985 on our odyssey* around the country, my family would stop in small towns for breakfast. It became apparent that Sunday mornings were a good time to be in one of those farm-town cafés. It was when the farm wives were in church and their menfolk were at the café waiting for them. From Iowa to Wyoming, we observed the same trend. Big strapping farmers would sit at tables of four, five, or more, talking about farm issues. In those small rooms, anyone could listen if you were so inclined.

One August Sunday morning, around 8 am, my family stopped in at Jimmy’s Café, in Marysville, Kansas. The sun was up, promising a scorching day. Fans were already whooshing at a steady pace, shuttling flies that rode the circulating air. The five of us sat at a table near the entrance and watched as farmers came in one or two at a time. The waitress, Kara, met them by name, and they greeted one another, taking their hats off as they took seats around a big table in the center of the room. She poured a generous mug of coffee for each one. Seven of them seemed to be waiting for another to complete the circle.  The eighth joined them a little late. He was an antique bowlegged codger, probably in his 80s, slighter in stature than the rest, with the gnarled, leathery look of someone who spent his life on the open prairie.  He had more the air of a cowboy than that of the farmers. He appeared to be the acknowledged patriarch of the group, the key that unlocked the beginning of discussions. They all ordered. Most said, “just the regular”. Besides talking about the weather and the importance of sustainable crops, they swapped stories of daring deeds associated with their arduous lives.

This is the story we overheard the old guy tell. The room was silent, spellbound.

“A few years back, I was old enough to know better, but I wanted to ride that bronco in the worst way. Every time I saw him, he eyed me with a certain meanness I knew I had to beat. I finally got my chance. I mounted him and he seemed to take it passable well. Then he collected hisself and became a dervish, whippin’ this way and that. His back buckled like a Halloween cat, and I lost the leathers. The fall would’ve been okay, but my foot caught in one stirrup, and I hung upside down, my head near touchin’ the ground. He didn’t stop, just kept a-goin’ and a-goin’, bouncin’ me up and down. I knew I was a goner. Any minute my head would crack open, and my brains would be splayed out for all to see. I was sayin’ my prayers, hopin’ God would forgive my sins, even the ones I hain’t done yet. I tried climbin’ up my leg but just as I would get near enough to catch the saddle with my hand, that darn horse would jerk to the left and I’d be thrown back down. I did it ‘bout four times and was wearin’ out. I near couldn’t breathe. Then an angel appeared. She stepped outta the K-mart, murmured something about stupid old man, and pulled the plug on the kiddie bronc.”

Silence, then loud laughter and knee slapping.

That was a hard one to top. It is the only café story of the many we heard that stayed with me through all these years.

*On August 12, 2024, I posted a wonkagranny story about a portion of the journey our family took through the 48 contiguous US states in 1984 & 1985. I will share more of our fourteen-month adventure in future posts.