190 The Meadow gravestones marked two generations of her Crawford family and many more who survived the dust bowl storms as today’s diesel trains bypassed the town. No need for water towers here and no more whistle stops. The moon shadows let the coyotes roam down the empty street. I stared at a boarded-up saloon, abandoned hotel, and the neon motel sign blinking—vacancy, all welcome. Tonight’s bed without the waitress by my side. The orange horizon moon was now a bright-white stone standing high over the graveyard—unforgiving crosses and memories gone. A scene etched in my memory caught by Ansel Adams some forty years earlier as he journeyed across the Southwest. Looming mountains touched by snow, small, sticklike figures of men and horses, dreamy waitresses were all that was left of these whistle-stop towns. I slept one night in that town on November 23, 1971, on my way to Big Bend National Park. The draft board letter sent to my home in Princeton, New Jersey, saying not so fast. Time to serve, not find yourself, John. Forget West Texas and literary allusions; come join us in a war that we won’t win. Join those who fight, stop running, forget that conscientious objector essay. If you don’t believe in God, the CO deferment will not fly. Come back to Newark, New Jersey, and fight. My mother opened the letter and called Bob Wren after Thanksgiving. “John’s time in Texas is up.” But on November 23rd, eight years and one day after Kennedy was shot in Dallas, I did not know that the fates were conspiring against me. Better maybe to dodge the draft, flee to Canada, watch the moonrise, and wait for Humphrey Bogart—a two-bit crook—to take the waitress to the promised land. “Escape when you can,” muttered Bogart to the Petrified Forest guests. Better to dream of other places. I woke instead to fried eggs over easy, bacon, sausage, toast, and my waitress pouring coffee. The sun scattered the clouds; Bob was quiet. Three hours later we would be hiking the rolling
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