Cookie Cutter Cities

In a time when we are in danger of all towns beginning to look just alike, please save the individuality of our communities. Don't let the urban planners cover the old charm with new shiny, plastic, cookie cutter sameness. For every mindless tourist you might make comfortable, there are hundreds who have the mental awareness to appreciate visual evidence that the old has evolved into the new. Our alleys and backyards are evidence of our history. The rock walls and the ivy represent our beginnings. The front facades of our downtown buildings have changed many times over the years, and will change again in years to come. But true beauty is found with a few cracks, a rock wall, a screen door, and a connection to how we arrived here. The identity of our children is built by a connection to their community. When all communities look just alike, then what connection will be made? How will they develop community pride if everything is the same everywhere? There is nothing wrong with cleaning and painting; there is nothing wrong with updating the facade of some buildings. But please, save what little historic corners and crevasses that are left. These small differences that make our town unique will cling in the memory of our children and the tourists passing through.

Where I'm From

I am from backyard swing sets, from Ivory soap that floats, Breck shampoo, and stories that end with happily ever after.
I am from tumbleweed snowmen, roly-poly bugs, horny toads, and freshly mowed grass.
I’m from roller skates, playing jacks, hula-hoops, and Barbie dolls. I had my very own John Deere pedal tractor and my big girl, fat-tire Schwinn.
I am from the Beatles and the Monkeys on 45s spinning on a record player, orange juice can hair rollers, trading disks to go steady, going to the picture show on Friday night, and meeting boys at the skate rink on Saturday mornings.
I am from bright yellow daffodils that bloom on Daddy’s birthday, colorrama purple and orange desert sunsets; the Llano Estacado, the yucca, prickly-pears, cottonwoods, and mesquite bushes.
I'm from black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, "big girls don’t cry" and “until your better’s best”; from Voncile, and AJ, and Ida.
I am from “clamming up”, and “not counting your chickens before they’re hatched”, and “hit the deck, you’re burning daylight”.
I’m from Blue Birds, Camp Fire Girls, Rainbow, MYF, Sunday school, and Student Council.
I’m from Camp Skyline in the Guadalupe Mountains and Camp Mystic on the Guadalupe River, swimming lessons every summer, and those damn piano lessons every week.
I am from “slow and steady wins the race”, and “nice girls don’t…”.
I am from Methodists backbenchers, and rebel Campbellites, going to Church in your Sunday best, after dancing in the kitchen on Saturday night.
I’m from Bobbie Brooks pant suits, Villager sweater sets, penny loafers, and Keds with a hole in the toe. And cutoffs that lasted for years and years.
I am from Carlsbad, from Texas, Tennessee, and North Carolina, from England and Ireland; from fried chicken, pot roast, collard greens, cornbread, and pecan pie.
I’m from “turn out the light when you leave the room”, “don’t comb your hair in the kitchen”, and “the work isn’t finished until the cleanup’s done.”
I am from snow-cones at the ballpark, giant pickles at the movies, wax lips and pixie sticks walking home from school. I’m from swimming in the Pecos, at the flood gates, and Diving Rock. I’m from partying at the Cottonwoods, or the sand dunes, and running the quarter on the Hobbs highway.
I’m from Daddy, a roofing contractor who invested in the bogus uranium mine, and Mother, who bought her own ladies ready-to-wear business without asking Daddy and made it a success. They didn’t always agree, but they stayed married for 59 years. And they loved each other and me. I will never forget who I am, or where I’m from.

Carlsbad Treasure

This 1990 photo is my dad and another member of the coffee clatch codgers at the North Y Drive-in on the bend where Canal Street turns into Pierce right next to the Fire Station here in Carlsbad. Daddy was 77 when this photo was taken. The problems of the world have been solved in this diner - more than once. Sometimes more than once a day. The coffee and the ambiance are about the same today. Good coffee, good conversation, good people. good service. Not much has changed in the last 30 years.

My dad drank coffee at the North Y twice a day for the last 20 years of his life. He passed away in 2002 and I took some money down so he could stand for the coffee for a couple of days. He would have liked that. This place gave him a social life after my Mom passed on. The stories told here are the true heart of a small town, and more accurate than the local paper.

I mentioned Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon in an earlier post. Least Heat Moon rates local eateries in his "blue highway" travels as one, two, three, or four calendar diners. The North Y is a three calendar diner. Homemade pies, breakfast anytime you want it, cooked to order, the best cheeseburger in town and if what you want is not on the menu, just ask. When the regulars pull up in the drive way - the cook starts their order. Almost no one needs a menu. Most of the coffee drinkers have their own cup. They take turns tricking each other into paying. There is even a second generation, or third - and a seating hieracrchy. If I came in to visit with Daddy, I got a seat at the table. If I come in with my kids - I get a booth.

These days I try to stop by about once a month. You can go in and eat and not worry about eating alone. Ocena, the owner, will come out of the kitchen and sit with you for a few if you are alone. She is in her eighties now. I think the North Y Drive-in is an endangered state treasure. It will be a shame when all the local diners turn into Golden Arches. This little corner of the world will be less bright when places like this disappear. I hope it doesn't happen for a long time.