July 23 did not start well. It was my first full day in Ogallala, Nebraska, and I was coming off of three nights of very little sleep and two days of intense spiritual/healing work. Instead of being energized and uplifted by it all, I was exhausted and generally feeling pretty down on myself. I hadn’t had a real, substantial, in-person conversation with another human since leaving North Carolina. I’d been using way too much weed, eating way too much sugar, and watching way too much YouTube. I was uninspired to write or paint, I was bored and restless. It was one of those mornings where I just wanted to go home, but home was a metal box in a strange land.
That morning, grouchy as hell and not happy about it, I found an article on Substack about feeling joy and positivity, how we respond to things, and the energy we put out into the world. About how, although it doesn’t always feel like it, we ultimately have the choice about how things are for us. It wasn’t new information, but it felt helpful. I did not want to be in whatever fucked up headspace I was in. I need to change this, I thought to myself. Where is my gratitude? Where is my joy? Where is all the hard-won peace and calm from all the work I’d done over the past two days? It was like it had all been a dream.
Then it hit. A wave of emotion so huge that it knocked me to my metaphorical knees. When I get these huge influxes, it often feels like it’s not even my own feelings I’m dealing with – it feels like I’m being hit with someone else’s grief or despair. This time, though, it was my own. I let it come, because I had sort of been expecting it.
It was my wedding anniversary.
It would have been our 25th - that’s the “silver” one. Had Randy and I still been together I probably would have insisted we do something awesome to celebrate, like a family trip to Disneyland or something. Instead, it marked just over three years since our marriage had ended; two years since I signed divorce papers and left for Illinois that same week; and a year since I’d moved into my sweet little house that I had just left behind.
But when I sat with it, I realized that wasn’t what was wrong. It surprised me. So what was it, then?
I do go through bouts of that particular kind of nostalgia – the Portuguese word for it is saudade: a deep, melancholic longing for something or someone that’s gone and knowing you might never have that again. I feel it pretty regularly – not usually about my marriage per se, but about time passing – missing the richness of my life when my kids were growing up and everything that went with it. It’s not even a longing to have it back – it’s just the overarching realization that time is slippery and fast. Maybe my wedding anniversary was just the perfect catalyst for saudade. That would explain the suddenness of these feelings.
But that wasn’t it, either.
As I sat there on my little bed, slumped forward, belly-sobbing and overwhelmed, it took me a minute to figure it out. It was so startling and so simple: I was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Isolated. And feeling lost. Not a common feeling for me – I am generally content in solitude, I enjoy my own company, and being a hermit is just my natural state. Things were different now. I couldn’t just go for a stroll over to my sisters’ house if I wanted familiar company. I didn’t have a job I could go to, patients to care for. It’s just me. And my unhappy cat.
I let myself cry for a while – I try to keep the wracking sobs to under 15 minutes during these flash emotion attacks – washed my face, drank some water, and asked myself “Okay, so, what can I do to feel better?”
I desperately wanted to go for a walk – wanted trees, a path through the woods, nature. I knew it would help ground me and help me get back to myself. But, a thunderstorm was due to roll in around 3pm, so I couldn’t go far, and I wasn’t up for a strenuous hike, so it needed to just be a walking path. There was a massive lake nearby, McConaughy Lake, and it had a historic trail, but from the photos it looked virtually treeless. Hot day, no trees? Nah. At the far east side of the lake was a dam, and on the other side of it was Ogallala Lake, which hosted a campground and “hiking trails”. There weren’t many pictures, but there did appear to be trees. The KOA host confirmed that I could walk around the lake, so I grabbed a hat and a water bottle and headed out.
McConaughy Lake was one of the strangest pieces of landscape I’ve ever seen. It’s a reservoir, built in the 30s/40s by damming up the Platte River. As I drove across I could see the shoreline was scalloped with sandy beaches. I don’t know how the sand got there, but the fact that right there in Nebraska were beautiful sandy beaches was astonishing. The more you know!
Ogallala Lake, where the water rushed through the dam, was a completely different landscape. Trees! There were trees! I was very excited. I followed the map they’d given me at the visitor center and drove through the tree-filled, shady campground to the trail head at the far end. Got my hat, got my water bottle, got my little bag with necessities. A walk in the trees! Yay!
Friends, it was not a trail through the trees near the water. It was the opposite. It was ruts of a dirt road, which led around a field and away from the water. Out into the hot, treeless open. I kept walking, though, hoping the rut would take a turn and head towards cooler temperatures. It did not. After about a half-hour I gave up and walked back to my car. Okay, I thought, I’ll just walk toward the campground. Surely there is a path that’s just right along the water… But no. The campsites went right to the water’s edge – and to walk near the lake meant walking through the sites – many of which were occupied. If there’s one thing you don’t do while camping/RVing, it’s walk through someone’s campsite. I had hit another dead end.
I drove back to the gatehouse at the entrance and asked the kind woman there about paths through the trees, and she regretfully informed me that there was no such trail. People did, however, walk along the dirt road that meandered past day sites, which did go between trees. I could do that, if I wanted. She was very apologetic.
I drove down the road she’d pointed to until I arrived at a little restroom at the edge of a boat dock. This part of the park was deserted – so I parked and walked on the road, down to where the campground started. I stopped at one day site and sat on a bench facing the water. Deep breaths, get centered…until big red ants found me and asked me kindly to move along. Back to the car I headed. It was peaceful and very picturesque, but I was not feeling much better, to be honest.
Back at the boat ramp I decided to walk to the end of the dock, and I sat there in the sun, listening to the “pok-slorp” sound of the water bumping the dock, watching the damselflies congregate on my sandals, and just… breathing. It was tolerable by the water, the wind was stronger there, bringing cooler air to my face, and I leaned back and watched the layers of clouds roll past. I thought about clouds. And my marriage. And this weird journey I am on. I thought about how I used to lie in the sun for hours as a teenager, back in the 80s when we would coat ourselves with baby oil or suntan oil and roast ourselves to a crispy golden brown. I thought about how whenever I think about my inner child, it’s the teenager who most often comes up. My childhood is a very distant, very vague set of memories, but the years I was in high school are sharp and bitter and confusing, mostly.
I could feel the sun starting to make me a little nauseous, so my inner teenager and I got up and went back to the campground where my trailer was. Calling it a campground is being generous – this particular kind of KOA was basically a parking lot for RVs – a place people could stay the night on their way to somewhere else – not a destination. I was there for three nights. No swimming pool, no lake, no grass, virtually no trees. Just a large gravel lot punctuated by water and electrical posts, sites separated by a wagon wheel buried in the ground. Yeah, it was bleak.
As I pulled up the storm clouds were gathering, and the storm that hit was the perfect metaphor for my emotional state. The lightning was so close that the boom of accompanying thunder was almost instantaneous. The trailer, virtually alone in that part of the campground, was rocking violently in the wind. The rain was bucketing down. It felt like being in a car wash. I took video and sent it to my family members in our nationwide group chat, received appropriate responses. I marveled at the strength of the storm, watching the gravel lot around me turn into a giant puddle with rivers running through it.
My mood was not improving.
I finally got a spirit nudge. You lonely? Go find people. You wanna talk to people? Go where they are.
The Ponderosa Lounge was not far from the RV parking lot. I looked a mess, hair pulled back in my “work ponytail”, my bright tie-dye yellow and pink and orange dress. I didn’t care. The lot seemed pretty full for a Wednesday night in a small Nebraska town. As I pulled in I passed about ten white pickup trucks – maybe there was some kind of a work meeting. Found a spot at the end and backtracked to the front door.
I pushed it open and was met with precisely what I expected. Picture a small-town bar in a movie, and that’s what it was. Low light. Neon signs. Random stuff on the walls. Music from the 80s playing, thankfully a song I had no emotional connection to (a good portion of 80s music triggers me pretty badly).
The bartender turned and said hello – she seemed faintly surprised that I had come in (I later realized that the front door was the door that non-locals used – I had passed by the commonly used door, unsure if it was an entrance). A thin man with his long white hair pulled back in a ponytail sat at the bar, playing some time of lottery game on a tablet. A woman sat on the far side of him. A couple of men in their 40s sat at the far end of the L-shaped bar. They all glanced up briefly, a flicker of curiosity in their eyes which disappeared quickly. It’s Wednesday. They’re just relaxing after another workday – this one noteworthy only for the big wild storm that came and went earlier. I was nothing interesting, and that was fine by me.
Another thin ponytailed man was standing by some kind of machine against the far wall – a game? The juke box? Couldn’t tell. A few folks sat in chairs at tables in the open space. And just beyond the tablet guy at the bar was a long, tall table full of loud, laughing folks. Every single man in the place was wearing a baseball cap, with a couple of exceptions. The vibe was comfortable and relaxed, despite the noisy group.
I slipped into the barstool just across the bar opening from the tablet guy. What is that opening called? You know, the spot where the bartenders can get out? Lemme look it up.
Google AI says this: “Bars typically include a designated opening, yadda yadda… This opening is commonly referred to as a bar top counter hatch, also known as a bar flap, flip-up bar counter, service flap, counter pass-through, or trap door.”
So, yes, that, only there was no hinged counter, it was just an open spot. Tablet guy (he does have a name, it’s Toby) was on one side of the opening, I was on the other – which made me the person furthest from the rest. It was a nearly perfect vantage point. I could see everyone, hear their chatter and laughter, and hear the music without any of it being overwhelming to my easily overstimulated nervous system.
“I’ll be with you in just a second,” the bartender said, as she made her way past me, a couple of beers held in one hand by their necks, and a third in the other hand.
“No problem, take your time,” I said, taking my purse off my shoulder and setting it with my keys on the bar. When she returned I asked her if she could make me a Southern Mule.
She tilted her head a little, pursed her lips, “I don’t think I know what that is…”
I know next to nothing about alcoholic drinks and what they are made of, but I told her it was basically a Moscow Mule made with whiskey instead of vodka. She said, “Ah, okay. I don’t think I have any ginger beer, let me check,” and she disappeared. One of the men who had been sitting at a table came up toward the bar, then walked around the far end to the workspace behind the bar, did something out of my line of sight, disappeared a moment, then returned to the floor. Owner? Off duty worker? Whatever it was he was clearly comfortable there.
She came back, “Sorry, no ginger beer. Anything else I can make for you?” I hesitated. This was a beer-drinking establishment. She was either the bartender who just wanted to hand out beers and not be bothered with fancy drinks, or she was the bartender who was very patient about only selling beer and would actually love to mix a drink. I took a chance on the latter.
“How about an Old-Fashioned?”
That she could do. A few moments later I had a sweet little drink with a little orange slice on the rim, and it was quite tasty.
“Thank you, it’s great,” I told her. “I’ve been travelling by myself and I just wanted some human company. All this is just perfect.”
“Good,” she said. “Welcome.”
The table full of laughing folks was starting to sound a little rowdy, but nobody seemed concerned. A woman came in the side entrance (the local entrance) and was greeted warmly by pretty much everyone (you could almost hear everyone saying “NORM!”)(from the old sitcom Cheers, you younguns). Anyway, Ms. Norm was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt and an oxygen cannula and the expression of a woman who is just going to be glad to get off her feet. A few of the party group greeted her, wanted her to chat, but she extricated herself quickly. She sat at the bar, probably her usual spot, and greeted Mel (the bartender) and Toby. Mel got her whatever she normally had, and things settled down again. Conversations ebbed and flowed – Mel checked in with me, asked if I wanted another.
“I would love another drink,” I said, “but surprise me. I like sweet drinks that don’t really taste like alcohol.”
She seemed happy to take up that challenge and knew just what she was going to make me. She came back with a tall glass of what looked like lemonade and tasted like summer heaven. I think it had blueberry something in it? I don’t know. It was delicious. She was rightfully proud of her concoction, and said she loved them herself. I thanked her.
“It’s my wedding anniversary,” I told her, because I just wanted to tell someone. “It would have been our 25th. We signed our divorce papers on what would have been our 22nd.”
“Wow! I get to sign my divorce papers right before my birthday in August!” she was clearly quite happy about that. We chatted for a few moments about divorce, and how weird it is, and how you don’t really expect it. Divorce is one of those things that can create an instant bond. I sighed with contentment.
From the party table came a shift in tone. I looked over to see the women taking their barstool chairs and lining them up in front of the door to the women’s bathroom. They were giggling like mad, and they kept bringing chairs – an excessive number of chairs – forming a barricade that their friend in the bathroom was going to confront when she opened that door. I glanced over at Mel: she was standing there watching these shenanigans with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, a tired mom who didn’t have the energy to stop it. The folks at the bar were watching, too. Ms. Norm turned and looked at the barricade, then turned back, looked at me and rolled her eyes. The laughter grew louder as the anticipation built. Mel started moving over toward the chairs, preparing herself for cleanup.
At last the friend appeared in the doorway, and she seemed surprised but unperturbed. She laughed, said something to her silly friends, and started pushing the chairs out of the way. Mel and the other women started dismantling the wall, and the bar resumed its flow.
Drink number two was kicking in, and I decided to text my wasband (a perfect term for the ex-husband who is still very much in your life, and the relationship is good) to say happy anniversary. “I’m here at the Ponderosa Lounge… wanted to toast us and our long and illustrious history. Lol. In all seriousness, I want to say happy anniversary. I am so glad we are friends, I am so glad we were married. It’s been a wild 25 years. Love you. <3”
Even as I waited for his reply, the front door opened – not a local, obviously – and a man walked in. Brown-skinned, black hair, dark eyes – he could be Mexican, could be Middle Eastern – he approached Mel and they had a brief conversation. He then went back out the front door and came back in followed by one, two, three, four more men – all brown-skinned and black-haired and handsome AF. My tipsy self did a quick age evaluation, with mid-to-late 40s being optimal. Lol. Sadly, as beautiful as they were, they were all clearly under 40. Oh well, a girl can still look! I watched them walk past me, laughing and chatting with each other – definitely Middle Eastern – as they made a beeline to the pool table at the far end of the room.
At the same time as I was cougaring the boys, I was also wondering how this good-old-boy, white bread, Midwest America place would react to five Middle Eastern men strolling in. I wasn’t worried, really, because Mel’s reaction told me everything I needed to know. They were welcome. As I’d guessed, the bar went quiet for a split second, the men went to the pool table, and life went on.
The juke box was also providing entertainment. “Knock three times on the ceiling if you wa-ant me…” people sang along, and I was feeling pretty blissful. Wasband and I were having a lovely text chat, I was buzzed courtesy of a very tasty beverage, and white America was singing along with the Middle East. It was awesome. Two more men came in to join the pool players and I told the wasband. He asked me if they, too, were young and strong. “Oh yes,” I said, “Too young for me.” He said “Oh, I don’t know, if they are old enough to drink…” Oh, I love that man. He does make me laugh.
Mel came back over to me, told me about her boyfriend, her kids’ dad, her origins (Maine!). We talked about traveling, about small towns, about kids. All the things two strangers talk about, given the opportunity. Good stuff.
“Long cool woman in a BLACK DRESS” was the next song up, and more singing commenced.
“This is NOT a typical Wednesday,” Mel said. The party was leaving, and she went out to clean up. She was back quickly. “Would you like another drink?”
I considered saying no, but I didn’t want to leave. I was immersed in a world of hard workers and gentle souls, of goofy songs you could sing along to, and good people enjoying one another. It was truly beautiful.
“I would love another. Just like that one – it is SO good!”
She smiled happily, proudly. As well she should. That drink was the bomb.
Toby and I started chatting, just life stuff. A song came on that I didn’t recognize but caused an instant change in him. He closed his eyes and swayed to the music, lifting his hands up like he was conducting. It was a sweet, soothing song. Piano music, a smooth country crooner singing about angels among us. He reverently sang along, “But ain’t it kinda funny, at the dark end of the road, that someone lights the way with just a single ray of hope?”
It was truly a lovely song, spiritual and thankful, and it moved me that not only was it playing in this place, but that this 20-year army veteran beside me was fully into it. When it was over I asked him, “Who sang that song?”
“Alabama,” he said, “I love that song. It reminds me of another song I love. Seven Spanish Angels. Do you know that one?”
“I don’t,” I said, and he promptly pulled it up on his tablet and it started playing on the juke box. Ray Charles and Willie Nelson, in a steel-guitar ballad. An interesting juxtaposition of voices that somehow worked beautifully.
One of the end-of-day customers came up to settle his bill. “Did you put that song on, Toby?” he asked, knowing full well he had. Like a little ritual. They said goodnight, and the customer left.
I looked at Toby, tilted my head. “Do you believe in angels?” I asked him. He looked at me for a moment, considering. He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. Yes I do.”
That last drink went down quickly it seemed, as I continued conversations with Mel and Toby and the gal next to him, watching as folks came up to pay their tab and headed home. The pool players left, Ms. Norm headed out: soon there were only a few of us left. I was pretty intoxicated, and it was way past my bedtime.
“I need to get going myself,” I said, and Mel rang me up and brought me the receipt to sign.
I needed the bathroom. “Don’t let anyone barricade me in there,” I joked.
“Oh, don’t you worry, we won’t!” I was told, and I knew these folks had my back. Just as I would have theirs. Any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.
I took a moment in that bathroom to just breathe. I was buzzed, yes, but I was also totally aware of the gift I’d been given. One of the things I’d wondered about – with no small amount of trepidation - is how these small towns in red states would respond to my Oregon tree-hugging hippie self. I had my answer. With kindness. With friendly curiosity, and a desire to connect. With love.
I walked back toward Toby and touched him on the shoulder, told him it was really nice to meet him. “And thank you,” I said, “for believing in angels. Because, well…” I hesitated, then decided, why the hell not. “… I am.”
He took my hand in both of his. “I have no doubt of that,” he said. “No doubt at all.”
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This journey I’m on has not been what I thought it would be; I haven’t met as many kindred spirits as I had envisioned. That conversation with Toby was the most spiritual conversation I’d had since meeting those soul tribe folks in Virginia. “The Pond” – that ordinary midwest bar in Ogallala, Nebraska was a perfect balm for my lonely soul. Angels are among us. They are everywhere – especially in places you’d least expect.
Til next time,
Rhon