The 'W'

It was odd to sit in the worn Naugahyde booth, complete with the taped repairs--the color almost matched--and the chipped formica table, without a screaming hangover.

Looking across the table at my 12-year-old son was even more strange. As he combed through the well-worn menu, he looked across the table at his 16-year-old sister.

"Do you see oatmeal?"

"No. Just get something else."

Then, as if overcome with an afterthought, she said, "Something with protein, for hell's sake."

I drank from the water glass in front of me, which spurred a 20-some-year-old memory. I looked across the little dining room at the corner booth and pictured the much-younger version of myself sitting there against the window, a ball cap shielding my blood-red eyes from the light. After sucking down the third glass of water, the waitress stopped by the table and placed a full pitcher there. My girlfriend--who would later become my wife--sat across from me, giggling.

"A little dehydrated?" the server asked. Indeed, the night before had been spent drinking hard at what was once called Timbers, a local bar just around the corner. I noticed as we drove down the main drag, the bar is now called the Tomichi Tavern, one of many changes this little town has experienced since we graduated from college and moved on. The most notable? Taco Bell. Effing Taco Bell.

The line from the waitress later became the Genesis of the joke, "I can't believe I'm so thirsty this morning when I drank to much last night."

"Dad!" Cameron said, just loud enough to penetrate the nostalgia. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. "What kind of toast should I get?"

"Sourdough," I said.

"Is it good here?"

"I don't remember. I just like sourdough."

We talked a lot about bringing the kids here one day. A Colorado road trip. Camping. Fishing. Gunnison. And we'd have breakfast at The "W." It never worked out. Our marriage fell apart before we could pull that adventure together. But today, it was "on the way" to our Cajun Christmas destination. Trying to dodge a December snowstorm, we cut south on Highway 50, but the storm dipped below I-70 and just kept coming. It was falling in fat flakes as we pulled into town, and the drive along Blue Mesa was ... white.

So we sat there, the three of us. Cameron sucked down a hot chocolate with an insane dollop of whipped cream on top, and Delaney and I kept our server--the next generation of the waitress who plopped a gallon of water in front of me all those years ago--busy with the bottomless cup of good diner coffee.

"We want to see it," Delaney said. "Show us. Show us everything."

I paid the bill and we climbed back into the FJ. A good inch had accumulated since we sat down for breakfast, and the slow Sunday in Gunnison--the college students were long gone for the holidays--hadn't spurred the plow to take action yet. I pulled onto Main Street and drove north a couple of blocks. I took a right and drove over a block to the Gunnison County Courthouse.

The venerable old building hosted our wedding just over 22 years ago. Today, where we stood and exchanged vows after a manic Thursday morning in late summer, a construction tarp draped a couple of trailers. The lawn is a construction site. Fitting, I suppose.

I drove along the neighborhood streets, pointing out where we lived on Iowa, and where their mom lived in the little off-campus apartment. I showed them my dorm room--now the university's alumni center.

The campus is only slightly recognizable. The gym is new and bigger. The union is all new. It's huge. Beautiful. We stopped at snapped a couple of photos with the Mountaineer statue out in front of the new and improved Taylor Hall.

But as we drove down Main on the way out of town, I took another look at the little cafe through the snow and smiled. The sign is the same. The food was the same. The December weather was the same.

We had breakfast at The W. The rest will come.