Stepping down from the stagecoach, the passengers wiped their foreheads and swallowed hard from the dust and dry of the Chisholm Trail. A young girl ladled clear spring water into tin cups and handed them to the weary travelers to slacken their thirst.

Behind the refreshing water, another pretty waitress began reciting, from memory, without a piece of paper to assist the oration:

“Tonight, the Shady Villa Inn is serving fried chicken, catfish or steak, your choice. With each meal, you will start with cornbread, rolls and butter. For drinks, we have cold mineral water, milk and coffee. With your main course, you will be served generous portions of mashed potatoes and gravy, corn-on-the-cob and green beans. For dessert, you have the choice of apple or peach pie. Ladies and gentlemen, the entire meal is yours for only 2 cents a plate. I can take your orders now and the food will be ready in the dining room.”

That was 1867. Things haven’t changed that much at the inn, except the name. Today, the Stagecoach Inn in Salado, Texas is the longest, continuously operating hotel and restaurant in the state. General George A. Custer, Captain Robert E. Lee (son of the general), Shanghai Pierce, Charles Goodnight, Sam Houston, Sam Bass and Jesse James have stepped into the lobby and signed the guest book, along with a lengthy assortment of other notables, cowboys and desperadoes, not to mention the mess of just plain folks with a mighty hunger. Most everyone has enjoyed a meal in that restaurant without a written menu and the smiling waitress with the good memory.

Last Friday evening, we stopped by and sure enough that waitress just started talking that menu right through with nary a note and waiting for us, wide-eyed and amazed, to make our selections.

The list of entrees has expanded, with modern dishes like stuffed shrimp, chicken-fried steak and grilled tilapia to choose from. Every meal comes with cornbread fingers and rolls, a choice of shrimp cocktail, tomato aspic or fruit cup, and a lettuce salad with your favorite dressing. With your entree, the twice-baked potato, squash casserole, and Italian green beans are complimentary. For dessert, you can pick from the famous strawberry kiss, fudge pecan pie or sherbet.

Now, that is a worthy feast at the inn, and it’s all one price fixed, depending on your choice of entree. Plus, the service is quick, attentive and smiling as only a stagecoach inn can be to a weary traveler.

If you adjust for inflation, that 2 cents in 1867 is about what you pay for the meal today in 2012. So, the price is the same and the food has been excellent for as long as anyone can remember. Depending on your perspective, however, the dinner guests may be somewhat less notorious and, hopefully, more law abiding. There were no gunfights during our meal.

After dinner, we left to join the shoppers strolling the businesses and open-air stands for the annual Salado Christmas Stroll. Most of us had come by car, bus and van. The only stagecoach in site was a carefully preserved antique in front of the restaurant. That old stage is planted nicely in a flower bed not far from the old log cabin that now sells hand-designed aprons and custom-made lady’s hats and jewelry above an old black cat sleeping under the counter.

In its way, I think that old cowboy town and its new ways would make even Jerry Jeff Walker proud. In fact, I think I even heard that old outlaw crooning away on his guitar as we walked down the street from shop to brightly lit holiday shop.

Texas is a funny state. In ways, things change a whole lot. In other ways, they don’t change much at all.

Take a stroll and see what you think yourselves,

Grandpa Jim

Tea is a drink with jam and bread. I know that from the song “Do-Re-Me” from the wonderful play and film “The Sound of Music.” Maria uses the song to teach those unruly Von Trapp kids the musical scales. Talk about a successful lesson. Those kid’s great grandkids are still singing. That Maria was something special.

Pass the jam. Marmalade is a jam. It is a fruit preserve that uses pectin or quince as the gelling agent to set it up and make it all gooey and sticky so it spreads to and stays nicely on your bread and toast. From the Spanish to the English, marmalade was a special type of jam. That marmalade is a bittery orangey mixture with lemony-limey flavors, a concoction of British likability, perhaps because of its marginal attractiveness to wider audiences and an island preference for reservedness, even in their preservedness. The English bitter marmalade comes in special little jars that look somewhat weird with funny calligraphy and references to unknown ingredients that could cause you to wonder, “Should I really?”, which is why marmalade to the rest of the world is just plain sweet old jam. Still, that bitter marmalade of the Spanish coast and the British Isles is worth a visit. I especially like the more tangy stuff on the toasted almost-burnt half of an English muffin, spread with a generous portion of butter melting into little pools in the crisped bubbly-looking bread, with large dollops of marmalade liberally ladled and dripping onto the top of the warm muffin to complete the sight of the mouth-watering morning wake-up delight. Hmmmmm, good. Now, that goes very well indeed with tea and a glance through the Sunday comics.

Marmaduke is a Great Dane in one of those newspaper comic strips. He is a playful giant of a dog who towers over Mom Dottie and regales audiences with his slap-stick antics. Not fond of marmalade himself, he prefers large bones so he can dig up the backyard, producing a moon-like landscape and causing Dad Phil, who is looking out the window over his paper, to drop his muffin and marmalade and splash tea on his tie. Marmaduke is quite the character.

My Marmaluke is a young rancher in New Mexico, who joins the army and is sent to Japan, where he learns how to make sushi. Sushi is sort of like jam and bread, but more organized. Sushi is eaten with chop sticks, often with a drink of hot tea. Marmaluke the Rancher is tall and lanky like Marmaduke the Great Dane. They both have a fondness for fun and want to help, even if they may stub a few toes and break a few dishes. Marmaluke the Rancher is good at rolling that rice and building those little sushi tubes and miniature sushi and sashimi apartment buildings, so good that he opens “Marmaluke’s Country Sushi Bar and Coffee House” in Santa Fe, New Mexico with daily readings by local writers. Tonight’s reading is entitled “Marmalade.” Marmaluke’s friend Ezra wrote the story, and there are Laramie and Sally crossing the street, and look who’s with them, where’d they find that Great Dane, I wonder what his name is?

It is amazing where a drink with jam and bread can lead you,

Grandpa Jim

US Route 20 is the longest highway in the United States. It is an east-west, trans-continental road running from Boston, Massachusetts, near the Atlantic Ocean, to Newport, Oregon, ending at an intersection within one mile of the Pacific Ocean.

Interstate 90 is the longest interstate highway in the United States. For most of its route, I-90 swiftly and aloofly parallels the slower and less modern US 20, while the older 20 with its fewer lanes wanders alongside, meandering through the centers of small towns, rather than by and around in fancy over-and-under passes and merging-and-surging lanes reserved for the fast cars and their forward-focused interstate travelers. I-90 also starts in Boston but ends in the big city of Seattle, Washington, rather than an intersection somewhere in Oregon.

From start to finish, US 20 is 3,365 miles (5,415 kilometers). From beginning to end, I-90 is 3,101.13 miles (4,990.78 kilometers). Though close in length, the two highways are worlds apart. One is a way to view the countryside, wave to the people and enjoy the trip to Grandma’s house. The other is a hurry-and-get their machine that largely ignores where you’re at, while getting you from here to a pre-determined and closely calculated there. Although both have their advantages and disadvantages, the concepts they present are markedly different.

The first Italian autostrada opened in 1924 and the first German autobahn in 1932. These two roadways started the zip-and-go craze of modern travel, and our US interstates continue that hurried and rushed tradition.

On the Italian autostrada of my student days, the lighting-bolt cars of Lamborghini, Maserati and Ferrari occupied the middle lane, which was reserved for these ultra-fast projectiles of travel. In our puttering student Volkswagen, we broke our bread and munched our calamari as we watched in awe the passing of these mechanical marvels. The hurtling engines of the fast lane were required to keep their left blinkers on, which helped because you had a chance to see the flashing light before the technological wonders hurtled past, the shock wave launching our smaller wagon to the side in mid-crunch of our lunch. Calamari is still a favorite. The shape is round and the surface breaded like an onion ring, except of course the surprise is squid, pulling a bit like a deep-fried rubber band when you bite in and chew, likely tasteless if not for the breading and salt, but still a mainstay on our wander down the autostrada. I now order the calamari in fancy restaurants and save the interstate for our more determined conquests of the miles. Back then, we probably should have been on the slower country roads, but we were kids on an adventure with food in our mouths and wonder in our eyes. Back then, there seemed to be fewer cars and fewer distinctions between those who traveled and the foods they ate.

Take a trip down your favorite byway, interstate or highway, stop for a break and grab a sampling of your favorite treats. Then, hit the road again and munch the miles away. In some ways, things really haven’t changed that much, have they? Life in the fast lane doesn’t really have to be that fast, does it? Just move on over and watch the fancy cars go by. You know, I’m getting hungry for some calamari. Must be time for a road trip.

Grandpa Jim

The 7th story in the opening series of Uncle Joe stories is posted on the Home page.

Please join Uncle Joe and his older brother Charles on their discovery of a very unusual object. Follow their efforts to unravel the surrounding mystery. Stand with Uncle Joe on that high cliff as he sees the secret of Chalk Bluff that has been hidden for so long. With the two brothers, face the question what to do with the new-found knowledge.

“Uncle Joe and the Secret of Chalk Bluff” is a story that began with Uncle Joe a long time ago, before he understood the lesson that his Mom taught him in the kitchen and before he revisited the site of his boyhood adventure for a second glance at how things might not have appeared at first.

I hope you find this story entertaining, revealing and as surprising as the quiet waters of the two rivers that have watched it slowly unfold.

For every choice, there is a consequence; and in every consequence, there is a story.

May you ponder both and enjoy this one,

Grandpa Jim

Good Morning, Hello and Thank You All for Continuing to Stop By,

On Friday, if everything goes smoothly, the 7th Uncle Joe Story in this Opening Series will publish for your reading fun and enjoyment.

“Uncle Joe and the Secret of Chalk Bluff” is a mystery that propels Uncle Joe and Charles into an old and secret realm that has excited the imagination and pursuit of others far into the past.

Be ready on Friday morning to follow the trail so few have found and none before have fully understood.

Where will it lead?

Grandpa Jim

Let’s talk ducks.

In the winterlands of the Northern Hemisphere during the Holiday seasons, ducks are always a pleasant subject of conversation. Looking up, the high-flying V’s can be seen crossing the skies to migrate south or just move around the neighborhood. Honking and whistling, those ducks are heard from far off, then here, over there and everywhere. Hiding and seeking in their playful manner, the extended necks of low-flying pairs zoom by searching to glean leftovers from the farmers’ harvested fields. They are birds you don’t always see, but ducks you see and enjoy this time of year.

Biologically speaking, ducks, geese and swans are part of Anatidae family of birds. These are all birds that swim and float on the surface of water. Some even take a dive and feed under the water. These swimming bird are a very old group. Their earliest ancestors are thought to have lived at the time of the dinosaurs.

Whistling ducks are not true ducks. They are considered a separate tribe in the goose sub-family. Certainly, they are Anatidae water birds, but more goosey than ducky. Bigger than most ducks but smaller than most geese, they are their own ducks. Eight separate groups of whistling ducks are spread across the warmer climates of the world, the tropics and subtropics. They are in every continent except Antarctica — sorry, too cold down there. And, they all make a lot of noise with their clear, whistling waa-chooo calls.

My favorite local Waa-choooer is the Black-bellied Whistling Duck. This bird likes Texas and lives year-round near the warmer coastal waters of the state, at times wandering inland and upland along the rivers and streams. It is a gregarious bird, which means it likes company and socializing. The Black Belly is always ready to whistle up a party with family and friends.

An attractive bird, the Black-bellied Whistling Duck sports rich chestnut body plumage, a black belly (of course) and black tail, long pink legs, unique white wing bars, a long red bill and distinctive white eye-rings. This whistler is an eye-turner of a duck, but it’s not stuck-up. On the contrary, it’s really quite an easy-going bird, who prefers long-term relationships. They are unique among the ducks for choosing one partner and staying together for life.

“It takes a village” to raise those young Black-bellied Whistlers, so the parents work together, even in nesting and incubating the eggs of their future kids. One birder observed 99 eggs in a single nest, being tended by a number of paired adults. It appears that “It takes a flock” for these ducks, and the numbers show it’s working well. Populations have increased over the last 30 years, and the global population of Black-bellied Whistling Ducks is estimated at some 1,550,000 happy-to-meet-you-let’s-have-a-party birds.

Keep your eyes pealed for those high-flying V’s and, who knows, you may get lucky and get whistled at by a duck troop of Black Bellies on a floating frolic in the winter sun.

Join in the game, pucker your lips and whistle right back at those fun-loving birds,

Grandpa Jim

PS: Since the Black-bellied Whistling Duck is of a goose-like clan, it is appropriate that ducks and geese unite and raise their whistles and honks in support of “The Goose and the Gander,” who have their very own story of water birds and their ground-bound friends. The story is under “Mary and Other Stories.” Good reading and storytelling.

For your reading enjoyment, “The Goose and the Gander” is now published on the Home page.

Discover what happens to two geese, two young boys and their two dogs. Listen to Grandpa and Grandma and the Granddaughters as they try to understand what was that all about, what will happen next and what is Grandma doing in the kitchen?

As we, in the U.S., prepare to celebrate our annual Feast of Thanksgiving, let us reflect on the many reasons we have to be thankful.

A thought directed well and answered by those around is a wonder to behold and a gift to all.

May the season excite your imaginations,

Grandpa Jim

Tumbling Twirled Tuesday, Wondering Where Wednesday Waned, Thursday Tidy Trembles, For Friday’s Faint Refrain,

Here follows a “Sonnet To A New Story,” itself in iambic pentameter, mixed at times, of fourteen lines, a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e, c-d-e, in rhyme, for you to hear what story will be posted here this Friday morning next. It is a puzzle to ponder and measure what be the metes and bounds in its text and state?

SONNET TO A NEW STORY

Wonder Longer And Wait, Friday Day Beat,

Not Now Or Long, To See What Is In Store.

One New Be Sure, Not Seen Or Writ Before,

To Precede Your Holiday Feast And Greet.

For You, Two New Pairs Fly And Bark Too Fleet.

That You May Wonder Certain Unsure More.

What Did Happen There, In That Snow By Shore?

Were I To Know And Tell, I Would Unseat,

The Sadness Long That Troubled One Lad’s Walk,

To Cause Another There To Rush And Reach,

To Try To Help But Fall And Break Beneath.

Were That Be There The End, To End The Talk?

Further, I Can Not Now Pretend At Speech.

You Must Wait Here, To See If There Be Grief.

That is the sonnet and on Friday morning this morrow’s morrow, perhaps the mystery there will be solved by thee, if you be here to see and read.

Have a fantastic day,

Grandpa Jim