Those of us blessed–some would say cursed–to live in West Texas know that living here isn’t city living. You learn there is scarcity in people, in water holes, and in eating places. In fairness, there is an abundance of wind, wind turbines, and sand-coated window sills. All of which put together makes a special place on earth with special people–not too many of them because the conditions aren’t favorable to people who don’t like to drive an hour and a half to get groceries or who prefer neighbors who don’t look and sound for all the world like coyotes.
I had an aunt who found herself married to a man and to West Texas at one and the same time. She was adaptable by nature–both to the man and to that part of the map. With a dose of stoicism and an extra dose of hardiness, she’d say on more than one occasion, “You’ve got to bloom where you’re planted.” That was considerable optimism–as I see it–since there is next to nothing that blooms in West Texas except Texas sage and cacti–the former only when the drought is broken by a rain shower and the latter once in a blue moon. Still, you had to admire her spunk, maybe less so her misplaced metaphor.
The road through Dickens, Highway 114, is like most roads in West Texas. It is going somewhere else. Locals call it the Lubbock highway, because that is a common destination for travelers on the road, made up mostly of college students with Red Raider decals on their bumpers and whose vehicular speed makes it clear that they want to get somewhere else fast, and big cabbed eighteen wheelers that clearly are just passing through, also at warp speed. Neither group pays much attention to Dickens, a dot on the map, as they say, with a population of 260 (last count and counting down), with no gas station and no grocery store. Your typical driver on Highway 114 wouldn’t look twice as he or she glides through town, except maybe at the possibility of a Texas highway patrolman, who is over zealous in letting speedsters know that there is a slower pace to life in Dickens, although for most hermetically-sealed drivers it is difficult to figure out why the speed doesn’t stay 75 mph for the split second that is used up in getting from one end of town to the other end. After all, what is there to see in Dickens?
I like to stop in Dickens, Texas. Not to look at a historical marker–nothing historical has happened there, to my knowledge, at least as history is commonly understood. Not to fill up the car because there isn’t a place to fill up the car. Not to gaze in wonder at the surrounding landscape–made up as it is of sage and brush and rock and not a sprout of green anywhere in sight. I stop because of the Ponderosa.
Usually the word “ponderosa” makes me think of the “Bonanza” TV show of the 1960s with the Cartwright family, Hoss and Little Joe being the most memorable figures, at least as I ranked them in my boyhood memories. Their ranch carried the same name and it was full of ponderosa pine trees, which puts a symmetry between name and place. The other option is the Spanish word, “ponderosa,” which means weighty. But Dickens has neither pine trees nor anything weighty, so far as I can see–and the eye can see a long ways in Dickens.
But it still has the questionably named Ponderosa, which is a small walk-in cafe that serves “the best BBQ I’ve ever had” (not my words, but my sentiments). I’m admitting I don’t know why its called the Ponderosa; maybe it was the brainchild of a “Bonanaza” aficionado. An online reviewer of the Ponderosa Cafe does a nice job pitching the BBQ and offering fair warning on the lack of much of anything else in DIckens, Texas. His words are as good as any campaign a big city marketing executive could think up in his corner office with the walnut paneling. Or maybe you’ve got to like BBQ to appreciate the five stars promised by this reviewer.
“Y’all, seriously–if you’re driving through Dickens, Tx on Hwy 114 anywhere close to a time that makes sense to eat–do yourself a favor and stop at the Ponderosa and get some of their BBQ. Everything they cook/smoke is seriously delicious and served with the friendly smiles and unpretentiousness that will make you fall in love with West Texas.” Next, the fair warning. “PSA, for all travelers–since the only gas station in Dickens closed down, there is NO gas on 114 in the 88 miles between Benjamin and Crosbyton (yes, I learned that the hard way). But on the up side, there is some great BBQ.”
The other reviewers say pretty much the same thing, without the adverbs, the cheerleader volume, or the public service announcement. One reviewer–seemingly bested by a choleric humor–can’t argue that the Ponderosa Cafe isn’t “an outstanding place, a hidden gem, you would pass by if you don’t know of,” but also puts up an argument that “it looks a big shabby inside, but very friendly people and great food.” The take away, I would say, is the Ponderosa is the place to satisfy your craving for BBQ. I would agree that it is “a hidden gem,” while disagreeing that it is “a bit shabby.” I would say “a bit simple,” or “a bit plain,” or even “a bit overpriced,” but not shabby. The tables have red-checkered plastic tablecloths and the coolers have a good selection of beers.
My dad always liked a sandwich form the Ponderosa. When we had to make a trip to Lubbock, we made sure to stop in Dickens to get him some BBQ at the Ponderosa Cafe. He has long since been seated at the eternal banquet table, but I’m hopeful the BBQ in that place is equal to or even better than the Ponderosa. I’m also sure no one up there would call the place “a bit shabby.” I still stop at the Ponderosa when travel takes me to or from Lubbock, partly as a yearning for him, partly as a yearning for BBQ. I did it a few weeks ago. I was not disappointed.
The small staff–four by my count–were friendly, easy going, and lacked the rush of a drive-through that makes a person feel like he’s in a line up of hogs about to be castrated. That particular day I ordered the turkey sandwich, passed on the beans and slaw–only because the sandwich was the super-sized one. It was a good meal and I enjoyed the moment, the memory, but maybe not the mud puddle in the parking lot. Still, thank God for a bit of rain in West Texas.
I have found life as a whole has its Ponderosa moments, if you’re open to them. You can think you’re in some godforsaken place, not visited by angels since Abraham’s tent visitation, only to have a hidden gem appear out of nowhere with no good explanation for its appearance except for unexpected good fortune, which is just another way of saying the word grace. You can be in a desert–more deserted than West Texas–a desert more inside you than outside you and find yourself momentarily hit with a spring shower of drops that bounce off your dried up face and dehydrated heart like a grade schooler strung out on a surfeit of sugar babies. You can tell yourself there is nothing good left in life–and the evidence mostly agrees with you–when something so totally good pops out of nowhere like a fragile flower in the crevice of a cement sidewalk and leaves you wanting to do nothing in that moment but fall to your knees and sing hallelujah, even if off key.
These are the moments that make life worth living, remembering, and hanging onto. They are not necessarily everyday occurrences, which makes them so unexpected and so sacramental, almost like whispers from a God who prefers silence and who speaks many languages without saying a single word. I suppose these are the times that call for the kind of eyes and ears that the humble carpenter of Galilee begged us to beg for. These are the moments that–as our choleric reviewer said–“you would pass by if you don’t know of,” which is a sure way of saying there is always more that meets the eye out there. That more is the hidden God.
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 