Your Turn

Small-town motels

By Janet Sheridan

On a recent road trip, my husband and I stayed in chain motels that blurred together like the daily brushing of teeth: nothing special to distinguish one experience from the next. Interstate lodging is generic. I prefer the eccentricities of rural Colorado's locally owned motels, like those I frequented when traveling as a consultant to smaller school districts. Some, I'll never forget.

I entered the office of the only motel in town through the mingled odors of an overweight dog snoozing among chew toys and the floral fragrance that surrounded the grandmotherly desk clerk: "Be right with you, Hon, soon as I get old Sparky here going."

I didn't know whether Sparky was the stapler disemboweled on the counter or the work-begrimed man with weather-reddened cheeks who entered before me. As I waited, I studied the hand-written signs posted around the room: advice about paying in advance and the uselessness of credit cards; friendly warnings that your mom would be called if you tracked mud and that unruly dogs would be cheerfully shot.

I wiped my feet, paid cash, and received a pat on my hand along with my carbon-copy receipt. "You look all tuckered out, Sweetie. What you need is a good night's sleep. Just park in front of your room; we're glad you're here."

Trucks hauling battered toolboxes and an occasional dog avoiding unruliness marked several rooms as taken. The rigs of deer hunters fronted others. I squeezed my car in between a dented truck loaded with pipe and a four-wheel drive sporting camouflage paint. Light leaked into the night air from open windows. Work-hardened men and vacationing hunters leaned against their vehicles, talking to distant loved ones on their cell phones, nodding as I passed.

Inside my room, I found a plastic sack spread on the floor for my muddy boots and a homemade book of jokes for my amusement. I found no clock, no remote, no blow dryer; but also no stray hairs, no dubious odors, no over-priced mini-bar. The sheets, bathroom fixtures and floors were clean, the paint fresh, the pillows soft. I liked it.

I enjoy my memories of such motels: a manager who requested I not let his cat in no matter how much it scratched at my door; the bed that wouldn't quit shaking until I crawled under and unplugged the Magic Fingers Massager run amuck; the owner I called who said he and the missus would be gone, but they'd leave a room unlocked, and I could slide my payment under their door.

I prefer Colorado's out-of-the-way, mom-and-pop motels. I like being assured I'll feel better after a good night's sleep.

Janet Sheridan lives and writes in Craig, Colorado.

Your Turn

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