The Road That Leads Home

After a personal trip to Cooperstown, New York, I decided to take the scenic route back to the Syracuse Airport. Not only for the anticipated visual enticements, of which there were many. But also because it would allow me to explore an as of yet, untraveled stretch of Highway 20. Having traced it throughout much of the West, the route holds a special place in my heart. While I haven’t traversed anywhere near every mile, I consider it one of the country’s great highways -  beginning in New England and finding its terminus 3,365 miles later on my beloved Oregon Coast. Also, not for nothing, on this route I wouldn’t have to pay any tolls.

I planned to have lunch somewhere along the way in what I was sure would be an endearing diner in a charming town. That would prove to be an understatement. The name of the place I wound up stopping at doesn’t matter (Kylie’s Diner in West Winfield) as much as what I experienced there. I initially drove by the unassuming building, just catching the word “Diner” on what looked to be a wooden cow sign in my periphery. So I turned around.

What I entered was a countryside eatery out of central casting. An elongated three-sided lunch counter guarded the kitchen and was the hub and heart of the diner. A large handful of older women were seated there, engaged in casual, lively chatter. Conversations crisscrossed the counters, flowed into and out of the kitchen, and bounced back and forth between the booths and tables nestled beneath the windows on either side of the establishment’s interior. Where even more ladies had the lunch counter flanked. The staff consisted of one waitress and one cook - sisters I would later discover. Who somehow despite the number of patrons, were both floating on air and nowhere near being in the weeds.

The cordial waitress asked me to take a seat wherever I wanted. She had noticeably kind eyes that immediately reminded me of somebody, but as I write this, I still can’t pin down who. I chose one of the two-person booths betwixt two other pairs of older women. The booth, and the entire diner for that matter, were adorned in bovine-themed paraphernalia with a predilection towards the Holstein. A recognition made immediately, thanks to the fact that I live in a cow town on the other side of the country called Tillamook.

I saw Meatloaf as one of the advertised specials on the billboard out front, which settled the lunch decision for me before even breaching the diner’s threshold. I listened to the women chatter as I anxiously awaited the arrival of my blue plate. And I watched as a steady, well-paced stream of mature women continued entering through the rear entrance and into the main dining room. Where each was greeted by a chorus of voices joyfully singing the same new name each time.

The dialogue in the room was so adorable, and the warmth and love hanging in the air so palpable, that one of my broad smiles was eventually spotted and called out. “Honey, you’re surrounded by old ladies, this is just how it’s gonna be.” To which those within earshot smiled or chuckled, including myself. And despite the way I described the diner already, that was the moment I finally realized that I was, in fact, the only non-old lady in a diner of roughly 15 occupants. But these were, in some ways I could name and in many I could not, my people. So much so that I failed to realize the very obvious fact that I was the only fully bearded person in the building. And the only male.

Shortly thereafter, I was served a tender embrace on a plate in the form of meatloaf, peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Dinner roll and butter on the side. I have detailed before what actual love on a plate does to me. In this case, all it took was one corner bite of loaf to get an endorphin escort into that rarified air again. I figured that on some level, my appreciation for the moment must have enhanced my reverence for the dish. 

Could be. But I assure you, it was one of the top three diner dishes I’ve ever had. The loaf itself - exquisitely seasoned and texturally perfect, possessing a delightfully crusty exterior while retaining internal succulence. The mashed potatoes were smooth as silk, and an umami bomb beef gravy coated everything in its path with delectable, glossy viscosity. Rounded out by pale but dimple-free green peas that let you know they’d been cooked but still provided a caviar-like pop upon biting. The whole plate was unquestionably made with love during every step of each process. I told my wonderful waitress as much, and she beamed while informing me that she was the person who made the meatloaf. Because of course she was.

A woman facing away but seated in the booth next to me had heard enough and turned around to engage me under the guise of meatloaf recon. An act that quickly turned into small talk. I complimented the beauty of the place she calls home. She then detailed the route in life that led her there and just how much she loved it. 

I replied with an obvious but accurate snippet of road warrior wisdom, “It’s hard to say what connects us to a place or makes it home, but you know when you know.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Her hidden compatriot replied before sheepishly leaning out to glimpse me herself.

The conversation shifted when she asked what the impetus was for my unlikely appearance in a place like this. I informed her that the highway on the other side of the front door of this establishment connected her home to mine in Oregon. And part of the reason for taking it that day was my affinity for what is technically the road home. Her eyes smiled in unison with the corners of her mouth.

I then gave her a high-level overview of why I was there in the first place - missing my dad and the resulting desire to visit Cooperstown. Sensing the lump in my throat, she sprang to her feet with a recognizable maternal immediacy, which caused me to rise and expedite her intent to erase the space between us. We engaged in a long, genuine, and meaningful hug. Now the second of the day if you include the meatloaf.

I paid my tab, thanked them all, and left. And to think the only connection I was expecting to feel that day was with the road that leads home.