I hoisted a pint in Midlothian, Texas earlier this week.  Actually, I consumed about 9 of them.  And, it wasn’t in a local pub either.  It was at my mother’s.

We arrived at my mom’s place on Monday evening after a leisurely drive from Baxter Springs, Kansas and its Cafe On The Route across Oklahoma and through Plano on U.S. 69 and 75.  The maze-like run through the Big D was accomplished with only a modicum of stress.  And the heat never abated.

After a great reunion with Mom and my oldest sister Mary and a good night’s rest, I went out in the morning sauna to assess the job I’d come to do.  The  previous owners of my folks’ place had enclosed a double attached garage to create more living space.  Over time, the vertical masonite siding had rotted along the cement, and there was the possibility that dry-rot had also infected the bottom plate of that wall.

In addition, there was an external “people door” that was no longer used, and was destined for removal.

I tore off a bit of the siding, actually the bottom third all the way across the 16 foot length.  There was only about 3 feet of damaged plate, and the studs were all sound.   But, because I’d slept in a bit, the sun was already beginning to have a direct shot at the reconstruction site, and I am a wimp, I tidied up a little and escaped into the cool interior.

The next day is when I hit the bottle.  I worked out there for only 3 or 4 hours, tearing the rest of the siding off, tearing off the insulation board beneath, and beginning preparations for shimming, sheathing, and residing.  It wasn’t much more than 90 degrees (listen to me talk) when I quit, but I was very nearly dehydrated and definitely exhausted. 

And this was in spite of the 4 and 1/4 quarts I managed to guzzle as I wiped the excessive sweat from my head and neck.  144 ounces of liquid refreshment, and I craved more.  A regular lush, I am.   

Care to join me for a pint?  You can have it in either green, red, or orange.  And, if you don’t like Gatorade, you can always drink water.

We’d left Kansas City in the rearview mirror for several hours, headed south through the eastern edge of Kansas on Route 69.  It was an interesting drive, quite different from the usual I-80 to U.S. 81 south to I-29 through the flat expanses of the central part of the aforementioned state.  Here trees, lots of them, were in evidence; and here the vistas were practically non-existent.

We came to the town of Baxter Springs where Route 69 intersects the fabled Route 66.  It was seemed to be one more in a forgettable series of villages that had seen their heydays before  Eisenhower commissioned the national highway system.  I was wondering where in the world we were going to eat lunch. 

“We should have made a list of those places on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives,” I said as we passed the city limits sign.  That show is on the Food Network, and it features a guy named Guy who travels around the country finding out-of-the-way eating places known for good cuisine and fair prices.

Since we had no list, we parallel-parked on the main drag two doors down from an eating establishment that advertized itself as Cafe On The Route.  I exited the car into the Sahara-like atmosphere before excaping into the more temperate zone of an insurance agent’s office.

“Ma’am,” I said to the pleasant lady behind the counter, “Do you know anything about that cafe on the corner?  What’s the food like?”  I asked this question because my spouse and I have had more than our share of total disappointments in restaurants other than ones bearing recognizeable, nationally known names.  Come to think of it, we’ve had our share of letdowns in that latter category as well.

“Oh, it’s pretty good,” she said.  “We’ve eaten there quite a bit, and it’s not bad.” 

That wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.  But the next bit of information was.

“It was featured on that Food Network show where that guy visits little cafes around the country.  I think it’s called Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.”  My jaw dropped.  “Yeah, here’s the write-up about it.  It was a year ago this month.”

I thanked her, and practically ran outside to tell Luana.  Needless to say, we patronized the place, meeting Hillary, the waitress who’d been working there a year, and Pat, whose husband was an executive chef in several Kansas City restaurants before buying this joint 9 years ago. 

The menu was extensive, with entries boasting of such things as blackberry glaze and pecan encrustments, pretty exotic faire in a building that used to be a bank that perhaps Jesse and Frank James had robbed. 

We were more than content with our choices, and with the whole experience.  Pat gave us a menu as a keepsake.  This was no dive, nor was it a drive-in.  A diner?  Naw, just the Cafe On The Route – Route 66.  Who would have thought? it?  We’ll have to find the episode of which this little town is so proud.

It’s hot!  Hotter than…than it was in Nebraska when I left there Sunday afternoon.  104 degrees Fahrenheit is what the dashboard of my car recorded for Lincoln as Luana and I were driving out of that city headed for Mosby, MO.

Why Mosby, MO?  Because that’s where one of our married children lives with his wife and son.  We thought it’d be nice to stop there on the way to h…, I mean, Texas.  Sure it’s a little out of the way, but what’s 125 miles more if it means hearing a wee voice say, “Hi, Papa,” to say nothing of enjoying good food and great company for a few hours.  

There at Nate and Jenn’s we saw old friends Larry and Jan Blowers.  Larry is about a month removed from a motorcycle accident that resulted in a severely broken femur.  Jan is about that far removed from being extremely exasperated with him about it.  Seriously, it was a joy to see them.

 After a good night’s rest, a cup of coffee with our busy children, and prayers with all, we left the KC area for the drive to Texas, where it’s hotter than…than it was in Nebraska.  But, not by much!