THE INTERNET AND THE PASTRY HUT CAFE

Let people know you have an iBook and anything can happen.

There we were in the "activity room" at 3801 Grand, an assisted-living apartment complex in Des Moines. My mother-in-law's apartment was simply too small to accomodate all the relatives who had arrived that evening before her husband's memorial service, so we had reserved the ground floor room to assemble and visit the way people do.

My wife showed why grieving persons shouldn't operate household appliances (much less heavy machinery) by plugging in the coffeemaker and pouring in the water without attaching the filter bracket, with the result that steaming hot water ran all over the countertop! (No one saw, much to her relief, but now they'll all know.) None of this mattered, of course, and neither did the unfamiliar surroundings. Everyone was busy getting reacquainted with each other in that restorative ritual that naturally accompanies the death of a loved one.

At one point in the midst of the hubbub the word "iBook" was uttered, and my wife's Uncle Roger boomed out, "I have one!" Roger is retired, living in Arizona, and as far as I know has never owned a computer before. I pulled my own iBook out of its case as Roger continued, "Yes, I just got it. A turquoise one. I don't know much about it but it sure is nice," or words to that effect. We probably corrected him ("Blueberry!") and shouldn't have, turquoise being regionally relevant and a much more accurate description. But what a pleasant surprise to find a first-time user with an iBook, and in the family, no less.

Once I had it out, I remembered that our neighbor back in New Mexico had earlier that day emailed a series of pictures taken with the digital camera she'd scored at eBay. All at once the iBook became a pass-around photo album. "That's where we live! See the snow? That's her cat, and those are rabbit tracks!" (Steve Jobs would have loved it.)

The morning of the day before, barely 8 hours after posting last week's column about my father-in-law, I'd received an email thanking me for the tribute from my wife's niece at Ripon College. Other expressions of gratitude and sympathy poured in shortly afterwards, most of them from people I've never met, from places as far away as Australia. Nothing like this would have happened ten or even five years ago. Feel free to draw your own conclusions about the technology, but I'm personally quite surprised at how it's allowing us to express ourselves and be more fully human. Shopping for junk isn't the only way to use this thing, you know.

The subject was already on my mind when we left San Cristobal to head north for Des Moines. Which way to go? Interstate 25 through Denver (boo!) or the prairie-dog freeway, Colorado Route 71 through Limon? And for that matter, did we have any hope at all of making it over either La Veta Pass or Bobcat Pass, both over 9,000 feet? A wrong decision would mean backtracking and maybe an extra 150 miles. As it turned out, I needn't have worried. "Sherlock!"

Entering "La Veta Pass" produced a pile of entries, one of which turned out to be a Colorado road conditions page with the magic words in 10-point blue Verdana: "La Veta Pass (dry)." Walsenburg, Rocky Flats, and Limon were also "dry," so we opted for the most direct route (Colorado Rt. 10) to two-lane Rt. 71 and the serious adventure of heading down a road marked with snow gates and a "No Gas Next 75 Miles" sign. Ooooookay. . .

What a grand ride. We saw mule deer, antelope, and countless raptors. As we flew over the crest of one particular hill we passed a bald eagle sitting on a road sign! (They migrate through this region, and let me tell you, when you see one close up by the side of the road like that, it looks really BIG!)

The point of our tale this time, however, is not to recount the details of yet another road trip but rather to contrast our Des Moines computer-enhanced family experience with life in the Great White Spaces of the Rand McNally. For instance, does the Internet have anything to do with what goes on every day at the Pastry Hut Cafe in Limon, Colorado? Could it? Should it?

The small pink plywood structure occupies a corner on the south side of the road near the east end of town. The immediate neighborhood consists of very modest homes, a trailer or two, and several odd square prairie houses with brick chimneys protruding from the center of their pyramidal roofs. A side street runs south a block and a half before running into train tracks or a fenced motor yard of some sort. (I trust that Limon residents reading this will be forgiving and not hold me too strictly to account for this description reconstructed from memory. It certainly gives you an idea.)

Inside are perhaps half a dozen booths, a couple of average tables, and one long one of the sort commonly found in church basements or elementary school cafeterias. Above this hangs a sign that reads "Liars' Table." The kitchen area is behind a divider wall or screen, but you can pretty much see most of the action if you are seated at one end or the other of the narrow room. The cash register, adjacent to the front door, is situated in such a way that anyone waiting to pay has to move out of the way of entering customers. On the wall are several small hand-lettered signs discouraging payment by check and warning patrons not to complain. The only ornaments on the glass countertop are a sharp metal spike for impaling receipts and a toothpick dispenser consisting of a mustard jar with holes poked in the lid. Another sign in the entryway directs you to the restrooms, outside and around the back!

On the wall at the back of the room are a plastic sign with the Ten Commandments and two clocks, one advertising the local bank, the other apparently handmade with a crocheted cow as the clock face. Near the Liars' Table on the south wall hangs a marquee sort of menu with removable letters that lists the flavors of pies available that day and also announces "No chicken after 7:45 P.M."

Well sir, we rolled into town right around noon and the place was packed! Well, not completely, but dense enough for Limon, I'll wager. We sat by the window, where I had a good view of a rusty old tractor with a "For Sale" sign sitting in the yard across the street. Judging from the weeds and debris around the machine, it had been there a long time. Our waitress, a polite and pretty blonde girl with a tattooed garland of flowers around her left bicep, answered "Oh, yes!" when I asked if I should make my dessert selection when ordering my sandwich. My wife got the last piece of pecan pie! (The grilled cheese with bacon was excellent, by the way, and my hot cherry pie with ice cream was as good as it gets.) She and I watched the patrons come and go and tried to identify them: farmers, ranchers, a gaggle of widows, a minister or newspaper editor, a girl who just had to work at the local bank, a lawyer or two, etc. All in all a very diverse group of Coloradans, many of whom (including the cooks) smoked. . .

We overheard conversation about Las Vegas, the new windows and doors somebody's wife had ordered, a Denver shopping mall, and many, many jokes about eating too much. I sat there looking at the rusty tractor across the street and wondered if whoever lived there had ever heard of eBay. (You never know, there might be an antique tractor collector out there who's looking for just that model.) But other than that, I couldn't think of any way the Internet might relate to what I saw and heard. Some of those farmers were probably online at home, assuming access is available in those parts, but no one was talking about it. No, for better or worse, there was no evidence of "dot.com fever" or any sense that the Information Highway ran anywhere close to the Pastry Hut Cafe.

One treads carefully in the West. . . but what if I had gone out to the car, retrieved the iBook, and opened it up at the table? Would I have cleared the joint out or been arrested?? Hell, I might even have made a few new friends and learned a lot more about Limon. We do stop here whenever we drive through, so maybe the next time I'll set the case on the seat beside me just to hear the waitress say: "Whatcha got in there, Mister?"

And watch the heads turn!

John H. Farr edits the Apple Computer News for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. The Farr Site Archives have just been updated, so take a look. John also writes his WebFaust column for MacAddict.com and a monthly op-ed page column called "El Emigrante" for Horse Fly in Taos, NM. His personal Zoo Zone site, an animated GIF wonderland, may leave you seriously disturbed but go see anyway.

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February 10, 2012