We spent two nights here with water and electric hookup for free, in exchange for, well, not much to do. Except watch a Little League game or two at night and, during the day, walk the dogs around a dry, dusty sports complex we share with tumbleweed, trash, broken glass and broken fences. Oh, yes, and prairie dogs.
We can see through the beginnings of decay where things were nice, once. And the city tries, we can tell, to keep this little horseshoe-shaped park, well, spiffy. Not current, but spiffy. Tidy. Tiny.
Hand-painted signs ask for donations and suggestions (both "appreciated"). A big sign tells us the dos and don'ts of the place. Another small sign, beneath of flag pole in front, salutes a couple of fellows who thought up the idea of an RV park in the first place.
It's a very small park, with room for 10 RVs, tops. Yet, still, I find more signs.
Near the front of the park, I find a large sign, with a wood-carving of Waylon, Littlefield's most famous son. And then I see the impressions of his cowboy boots in concrete, the shape of Texas.
There's a sign for the Fannie Mae Horseshoe Court next door. Fannie Mae is Waylon's aunt.
Sweet. Simple. Connected.
But it's time to leave. Everything's packed away. We're driving out, when I turn and say "Stop!"
I see yet another sign. In front of a grassy area inside the horseshoe, where I count 13 trees. The sign says "Littlefield National Forest."
Spiffy. Tidy. Tiny. Homey. And definitely humorous.