First Stop: Longbranch Saloon

Quaint wooden rails still adorn the sidewalk in front of Lanello's Longbranch Saloon. Back in the day, a thirsty rider could sling the reins of his horse around that rail a time or two, then head inside to throw back a couple of cold ones before clip-clopping on down the road.

I knew the bar well. Best friends from the moment we became stepsisters, Lynda and I used to frequent it nearly every Saturday throughout the summer. Sometimes, more often than once a week, if our masters (otherwise known as our parents) granted us a reprieve from chores beyond those we were regularly assigned.

Elated to be free from the drudgery of pulling weeds from the garden, slopping the hogs, or helping with the canning, we'd ride our horses nine miles from home, a farmhouse nearly as old as the saloon. Lynda's mount was a would-be sedentary palomino named Chico, while I was stuck with Beauty, a she-devil quarterhorse. How much of a she-devil, you ask? Well, the hellion once ruptured my appendix with a swift kick in the gut when she was in a particularly unpleasant frame of mind. Not that she was ever in a pleasant frame of mind. True story. Darned near killed me. Or at least it felt like it did.

But I digress. I'll save any other horse-scapades for another time.

I should mention that Lynda and I were in middle school throughout the era of our weekly excursions. There's no need for anyone to get their knickers in a bunch worrying about a bar serving children, though. The cold ones we tossed back were strictly Dr. Pepper, Coke, or Root Beer. No alcohol ever passed through our lips. Not in those days, at least.

We always made sure to bring enough money to end our day-long outing with licorice or some other sweet treat like M&M's, or Baby Ruths (yeah, the Longbranch sold candy, too. Cool, huh?), to snack on during the ride home. That way, we could truthfully tell Mom we'd already eaten, and none-too-sadly miss out on the liver and onions for dinner... a Saturday staple at our house. Yuck!

After frequenting the Longbranch, if we hadn't spent too much time jawing with the slightly—or in some cases, overly—tipsy older patrons of the establishment, we'd visit the equally quaint General Store on Main Street to see what trouble we could drum up there. We usually found some, since many of the kids who lived in town were either there or at the saloon on Saturdays (and the Longbranch didn't put up with any shenanigans). At the very least, one kid or another usually wound up with torn clothing from a somewhat good-natured brawl. Worse was when the brawl was altogether unfriendly. That happened regularly and practically guaranteed a call to parents. When a parent entered the picture, often so did the willow tree. And when it comes to willow trees, let me assure you, the bark is definitely not worse than the bite.

A quick fun fact for the old-fashioned at heart, by the way. Back in those days, Main Street was a dirt road, as dusty as Sakomo Road, the route Lynda and I traveled back and forth to and from town. I haven't been back home in many years to see if they ever discovered asphalt. But, I confess, I rather hope they didn't. There's a certain Old West charm about a dirt Main Street. And, too, there's something to be said for a town holding its infrastructure budget to a minimum, don't you think?

When we finished causing mayhem at the General Store, or when there were no other kids with whom to cause mayhem, we'd begin the rustic journey back toward the distinct smell of liver and onions.

Whatever we did or didn't do, we made sure we were home before dusk, so there was sufficient light to throw hay down from the hayloft. That was our going-to-town curfew. It only took one go-around with switches from the aforementioned tree on tender backsides (when we were late and Dad had to feed the cattle), to, from that evening on, abide by that particular rule. To this day, I'm not a fan of willow trees. The memory still lingers.

On the occasion we weren't in danger of violating curfew, we'd make one more stop. Another of our favorite haunts lay about halfway between home and Lanello: a long-abandoned, one-room schoolhouse. For reasons I can't remember—beyond once finding a handful of old coins stashed in a worn leather pouch under a loose floorboard—we had a blast hanging out in the little red schoolhouse on Sakomo Road.

After the animals were fed, dinner dishes washed, and the dirt road dust showered off, Lynda and I would 'camp out' in our screened-in front porch to spend the better part of the night rehashing the day. You know, the juicy stuff. We speculated on what kids might've been grounded, gossiped about who ended up with a black eye, and laughed ourselves silly over the raunchiest jokes told that day. And sometimes, we'd even bet on whose husband would have to sleep on the couch for getting home late with an empty wallet after a long day at the Longbranch.

Believe it or not, living in, or horseback distance from, a small, Old West sort of town can actually be quite entertaining, especially to a couple of twelve-year-olds with nothing better to do.

It was a far simpler world back then, but as I understand it, Lanello remains one of those rare places where time remains standing still. So, if you're ever traveling cross-country and happen on a Lanello exit sign, stop for a bit. You don't have to be on horseback to have an icy mug of ale and some stimulating conversation from some good ole boys and gals at the Longbranch Saloon. Watch out for those rowdy youngsters at the General Store, though. If life is still that simple, they're probably still hanging around looking to make a little mayhem.