Tag Archives: Buffalo Bookstore

TENDER

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TENDER

I found two one dollar bills in my dryer this morning. To find these meant they had been washed in our washing machine and cleansed by the water from our own well. This water was unquestionably drawn from the Tierra Blanco Creek flowing from the Ogallala Aquifer underneath our land. The electricity for the washer and dryer may have been supplied by Excel Energy, but as God and John Wayne are my witness I know the power was provided by the sun during the day and the moon and the stars at night.

Yep, these are my dollar bills. I know this because one is I picked these out of the dryer myself, and I know my husband never has any ready cash on hand. And two, I was washing MY clothes and not his. So I claim them lock stock and tender.

What to do, what to do. This money instantly began to burn a hole in my pocket with possibilities galore. I could use them to buy my daily soft drinks or powdered sugar donuts at Marks Chevron across the street from our Buffalo Bookstore. Maybe I can save it for popcorn at the Varsity Theater down the block. Naw. What about if I use it to purchase gee gaws at the Hideout next door or maybe I could travel down to Dollar General to buy Ginger snaps for the cookie jar in our business or candy for the goodie bags. What if I pay for printing at Hayley’s Printing on the Randall County Courthouse Square or to find some treasure at Stevens Flowers or H.R. Flowers down the road. Or there is coffee at the Palace, or ice cream at the Rock and Roll Soda Shop.

Agony! Endless possibilities! Glory be!  After pondering my dilemma and contemplating the consequences of my actions and reactions I formulated a plan. I will first put one of these precious bills in our cash register, and get change to buy both the Canyon News and Amarillo Globe News. Who knows where those quarters will go.

The other dollar I will tuck among those who have found their way into my pocket. Without a glance I will pull it out to pay for something, and send it on its maiden voyage from me to some unknown destination around our big blue marble.

I may never know, can never know where this money came from, and I have no clue where they will travel in the future, or how they will be used. Perchance they may have originated at a local bank, or a banking institution millions of miles away. They could have come from a tourist or a tramp, a child or child at heart. The combinations are not only endless but timeless.

Each time I glanced at these bills before they went into circulation, no matter how hard I tried, George Washington wouldn’t and couldn’t share any clues of his travels, and I know for a fact he had no way to document his path. I couldn’t find a “Where’s George” anywhere on his person.

So his appearance in my dryer will have to remain a mystery forever and ever Amen.

As writers we string words together and send them out the door, or the internet, or facebook, or twitter. We have no clue who or whom will pick them up and settle them in their hearts or pass them on to the next destination. This is why we write. I take this back, this is why we SHOULD write. For when we focus on connecting to one certain individual or a single interest we have lost the journey and sacrificed the story. And if we spend all our time worrying who we can link to, or who it will offend we can never fully set ourselves free to write. We just cannot choose who receives the message.

Besides imagining the other is way more fun. Happy Trails!

Sharon Stevens

THE BUS

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THE BUS

by Sharon Stevens

Years ago my daughter traveled with the Girl Scouts to the birthplace of Juliet Low in Savannah Georgia. Their bus was involved in an accident in Memphis Tennessee. They reported that their bus driver saw a light pole at the intersection ahead moving back and forth. In his experience he knew a wreck was occurring and reacted accordingly. He slowed and swerved till he could safely stop the bus. With his actions he was able to avoid a horrific and deadly tragedy. There were a few minor bumps and bruises among the girls and their leaders, but nothing that prevented them from continuing their journey. It could have been so much worse!

Dad used to drive the bus for the WTSU band kids and the football kids, spiriting whoever needed a ride to a school rivalry or athletic function.

My father-in-law and my husband both drove a school bus not only to get the kids safely to and from school, but they also drove the band bus, the spirit bus, the football bus, the fan bus to away games.

I remember the story my mom would tell about my grandfather. He would come home from working all day and see how tired grandmother was so he would send her downtown on the bus to window shop while he watched the kids just to let her get out of the house.

Servicemen stationed at the Amarillo Air Force Base rode the bus to get to town, to go to dances, to go to the movies, or just to see the sights.

I rode the school bus, my sister and brother rode the school bus, our daughters rode the school bus, and our neighbors rode the school bus until such time as we could afford a car to make the journey. Precious cargo!

I wonder how many college students make ends meet by driving a school bus every week, back and forth, to and from, day in and day out?

Our Canyon High School drama group traveled to Dallas one year to see Our Town performed by the Dallas Theater. A sweet memory I will carry with me forever. The Randall and Canyon High School choirs rode a charter bus to Dallas to take a flight to New York City to see the sights and perform at St. Patricks Cathedral and several other venues. One of the highlights was to sing the “Star Spangled Banner” at Shea Stadium for a Met’s game. What a journey that was.

My mom rides the bus at the Craig Retirement Center to go to the doctor, to get groceries, to eat out with other residents. The bus driver is always gracious and helpful as they get on the bus as well as when they exit.

Jodi Thomas, our local best selling author and Writer-in-Residence at WTAMU told me her dad used to drive a city bus in Amarillo.

Countless times I have watched across the street as school buses from around the panhandle as well as those from the charter bus companies unload passengers to tour the Panhandle Plains Historical Museum.

Rosa Parks and also The Freedom Riders will forever be linked. Their memories of riding a bus differ from mine.

I was reminded of all these stories when I heard that members of the TEXAS Musical Drama were traveling to The Gaylord in Dallas Texas to perform for the opening ceremonies for the American Bus Company.

What an opportunity! What an experience!

TEXAS has been named for several years as one of the top ten destinations for the bus companies. Here in the panhandle this means they visit our restaurants, our museum, our shops and our TEXAS.

But more importantly when they get back on the bus they take a little bit of our heritage and hospitality home with them.

Can you imagine the stories that are shared between the passengers after each stop? Many have some tie or connection with either our community, WTAMU or the history of our area.

I will never forget standing in line at Luby’s in Amarillo several years ago. Ahead of me in line was a group from Kentucky traveling by charter bus. One of the men stepped out of line and made his way back asking if anyone knew about the area. Always the tour guide I spoke up. He shared with me that he was working on a book and was wondering where he could do research in the area. He was scoping out places he could return to later on.

The bus had visited the museum, but this man didn’t know about the archives and their rich storehouse of information for every aspect of pioneer life from architects, ranchers, cowboys, business and writing. I told him about the Cornette Library and their special collections, and I racked my brain for all the out-of-the-way spots where he could find information.

I also pointed out that we were home to the Panhandle Professional Writers, one of the oldest continuous writing groups in the nation and that every year we sponsored the Frontier in Writing conference in conjunction with Amarillo College. He was excited to say the least! In one moment he had scored a hit just by getting off the bus.

This last year a tour bus from England stopped at the museum. Several tired of walking the halls and wandered across the street and came into our Buffalo Bookstore. One of the women visited quite a while with me and shared her story. Later I encountered this same group when I went by United and Hastings here in Canyon to run an errand. They had just been to Feldman’s for lunch and wandered over to visit the shops next door. The same lady who had talked with me for so long was excited to see me again. With a twinkle in her eye she smiled and said, “Isn’t it ever so nice to have a chat.”

And this brings me to the crux of my blog. A bus driver drives the bus. They may travel hundreds of miles from their home on their journey. They have a life, a family, a story. Who knows when they might recognize an adventure at hand or a tragedy about to unfold.

I have a great deal of respect for bus drivers. When passengers get on the bus they are putting their life in the hands of an experienced man or woman, trained to deliver them safely to their destination.

Who knows who they will bring to visit our community and what memories they will take back with them.

So many times as writers we are so focused on the story itself we can’t see all aspects surrounding the tale. We want to make our writing fit the page, the paper, our visions, our ideas and can’t bear the thought that we might have to go in an entirely different direction than what we anticipated.

If only we could gaze out the window at the scenery passing before us, by us, behind us and let the bus driver drive the bus.

He knows the way.

Sharon Stevens

VISIONS

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VISIONS

by Sharon Stevens

My husband and I were readying our college bookstore for the onslaught of students we hoped would come and buy their textbooks for the fall semester. We had vacuumed and dusted the best we could, and made the store as presentable as possible in the outdated building that housed our business. We try our best to make it homey to welcome the generations of families who stream to Canyon to attend our university, WTAMU. There is always tables covered with bright tablecloths ladened with a bounty of homemade cookies and simple snacks and even popcorn donated by the Varsity Theater just down the block.

This year we had an added bonus to catch the student’s eyes.

A dear friend of ours had recently given us a four-foot tall wooden chalkboard in the shape of Santa Claus complete with cutouts of redbirds and green Christmas trees. With the attached piece of chalk you could write holiday menus, shopping list for ingredients, or count down the remaining days of Christmas.

This jolly old Saint Nick had belonged to her parents and been brought out for decoration when they hosted Christmas parties at their home. As her mother had been ill our friend knew they would never again have the opportunity to display him for holiday festivities so she gave him to us knowing that at our business he would have a good home.

As usual my husband was mortified. Why display an object that represents the END of the school term instead of the beginning. I admit I did have some misgivings with bringing him out in August during the hottest year in recorded history, in the middle of a drought where farmers and their families were loosing their crops and their livelihood.

It wasn’t Christmas for heavens sake.

And that’s where Scrooges missed the point. As the kids would come in to our sweltering store to purchase textbooks I pictured some of the them laughing and rolling their eyes, as if we were so ancient and outdated we didn’t know what day or even what season it was. I could also imagine parents writing out checks draining their life savings to pay for the books. This would give them an excuse to cry tears of fun while hiding the tears of pain not only with depleting their bank account, but also at leaving their child behind for the four or five or six years or more that they attended college.

I also put the chalkboard front and center because sometimes the students needed a reminder that even though they were leaving behind family and friends, embarking on a new adventure, they could still find the holiday spirit to swirl around them. And though the experienced students had no doubt that the semester would come to an end, this silly Santa would confirm a break was just around the corner.

To us our Santa fit right in with the environment of mismatched carpet and silly knick-knacks scattered throughout our store. But more importantly I think we provided proof for all the kids that when Christmas Eve came, our community, our town, our university would celebrate.

Not to worry that St. Nicholas would either find his way to their new home in the dorm room, or follow them back to where “visions of sugar plums would dance through their heads”.

More importantly, as we were miserable in the heat that fed wildfires and destroyed homes and life, and even though this year might remain bleak, Father Christmas would be a nudge that there would return a time where we bundled up in layers upon layers of coats and mittens, sweaters and scarves with no doubt that family is all that matters.

But I had more ulterior motives under the tree. Kris Kringle’s rosy red cheeks and cheery smile hidden within his beard was a gentle reminder to me that it was time to write Christmas memories to send to publishers to include in memoirs and stories. With a six-month lead time designating summer “the most wonderful time of the year” that magazines and publishing houses welcomed well-written articles for the upcoming holiday issues.

This fall semester our wooden Santa held court beside the table ladened with homemade cookies and goodies. His smile never wavered, not like the scowl my husband showered me with after each customer left the store. Bah humbug! I wonder what Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick has to say about that on his naughty and nice list.

Nevertheless…

After textbook rush is over I plan to place St. Nicholas in our front window for passerby’s to enjoy. I will put him on display again when we decorate our store for Christmas as the kids begin to pack up to return home for the holiday break. But I plan to dust him off and set him back up for the rush of the spring semester in January.

I believe he represents the future. A simple reminder that without commercialization the holidays will come again and again and ever again, no matter where we travel or the steps that take us farther away from home.

On second thought I just might even display him amid chocolate sweets for Valentines Day. His never ending smile will be just the thing to warm our hearts as we face the prospect of February blizzards with taxes following close behind.

And I just might bring Him out again for Easter weekend…because I know HIS spirit still lives.

Sharon Stevens

ROLLER SKATES

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ROLLER SKATES

by Sharon Stevens

In honor, memory and celebration of

Jerry Williams and Ruth Holladay

Who says, “you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd”? Just because Roger Miller celebrated this fact in a song he wrote and performed doesn’t mean it can’t happen. It’s just not a good idea. One, it disturbs the buffalo and two, skates don’t skid well through patties.

Take my hat for example. I have a hat, the most wonderful chapeau you could ever imagine, made special for me to celebrate a Kentucky Derby event at my mother’s church. I had Nikki Sams at Stevens Flowers transform two cowboy hats for this. I felt like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman” when I entered their magical world on the courthouse square in Canyon. With outstretched arms I begged them to help me with an idea for my mother and me to celebrate together. Mother’s needed to be respectable while I wanted mine to represent everything patchwork. What they came up with was nothing short of miraculous. Mother’s hat was black sparkly crochet on a gold background with pearls hanging down the back. Mine was every color of the rainbow, interwoven together, connecting each hue to the next. It was covered in crochet, lace, and bright expressions of “bling.” I have never had anything with “bling” before.

We were a hit wearing our hats and had more fun. After the event my mother put hers away and I hung mine on a hook at our bookstore, and this has been a real conversation starter for anyone who comes in.

At the bookstore I wear many hats, but none more special than this one. I take it down and wear it on story-telling occasions in memory of “Patchwork.” It is my way of honoring Ruth Holladay and Jerry Williams. Both true storytellers inside and out. Jerry would wear a silk patchwork top hat while Ruth donned a patchwork vest with pockets galore. Ruth never knew what story she would tell until she got up before her audience and put her hand in her pocket. Whatever object she pulled out would determine the story she would weave.

I can’t wear my hat without being reminded of all the wonderful stories that surround all of us to be written and shared. Also, when this is perched brightly on my head it brings me courage and inspiration. Downright silly in the wrong setting, it fits perfectly for all ages with its sparkle and bling in the right one. And its not that I’m invisible underneath, but it helps to hide my sheer terror while the audience gushes over the designs and colors woven intricately together.

So I was reminded of my chapeau while running across to the Panhandle Plains Historical Museum to deliver books to the author Jodi Thomas, guest speaker for the Canyon Chamber of Commerce-Women in Business breakfast. I left my hat behind at the bookstore; it would have been out of place at a professional event such as this. I try to reserve it only for special projects at the museum, library and story time hoping to make a memory for someone.

To me this object represents a MacGuffin. When Harrison Ford promoted “Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull” he mentioned that the skulls were a “MacGuffin,” a storied item worth seeking, such as the Ark of the Covenant. This was a phrase first coined by Alfred Hitchcock in 1939 and picked up by Steven Spielburg and George Lucas. Hitchcock describes the meaning as “whatever impels the villains and virtuous characters in a movie to pursue each other through the convoluted plots. The mechanical element that usually crops up in any story…the object around which the plot revolves.” Lucas further strengthened the idea. “A MacGuffin should be powerful and the audience should care about it almost as much as the dueling heroes and villains on-screen.”

My hat, the MacGuffin, signifies thousands upon millions of precious stories I can connect together at a drop of a hat. Nikki Sams created and crafted my jewels with the artistry of her grandmother, Montene Stevens who taught her to crochet. Nikki’s mother, Debbie Stevens and grandmother Shirley White shared their passion and the heritage of beauty not just in flowers. Stevens Flowers is also a family business which will be celebrating 75 years this year in the community.

Every time I come into their store I am inspired and linked to another story and memory, and not only because of my hat. When I leave I am renewed in my faith to set my thoughts down in some form or fashion to share with generations to come.

Even though those gifted in the flower shop are not milliners, I can only imagine that Stevens continues the tradition of our prairie foremothers (as opposed to forefathers) who must have fashioned bonnets with bits of ribbon and lace, fabric and scraps to renew that which adorns our heart and soul.

Yep, I didn’t wear my patchwork hat to the Chamber of Commerce breakfast. It just wouldn’t do. I know enough not to roller skate in a buffalo herd either. But you can bet your bottom dollar I will be wearing my special “lid”, my precious chapeau, at our Buffalo Bookstore during the WTAMU Homecoming parade Saturday October 8, 2011 or I’ll eat my hat. Believe me, with all that bling it won’t be very tasty.

This year’s theme is Mardi Gras, and me and my colorful cowboy hat will fit right in, a mixture of our western heritage and silly celebration. I might even have to go next door to The Hide Out and buy some beads to add more bling. Isn’t that what Mardi Gras is all about?

Don’t look for me to lead the buffalo mascot and accompanying herd in the homecoming parade though; it’s just not my place. Wait a minute, what if I can find a pair of roller skates. Hmmmm. Can you imagine what a MacGuffin that would make?

Sharon Stevens