Wall Drug and Whittler's Lady

We slept in today.  Or I should say I slept in.  Paul was up hours before one should be up during one's vacation.  He had his breakfast, unimpressive, according to his report, and was sitting in our room trying to be patient with me. 

I finally made it to the breakfast room of the hotel at 9:07 only to learn that when they say breakfast is over at 9:00 they are dead serious.  Everything, even the oatmeal packets, had been whisked away to an undisclosed location.  There was a box of factory-made chocolate muffins, semi-hidden in a box, that someone had forgotten to put away but my stomach flopped over at the thought of forcing one of those unappetizing creations into my mouth before so much as a cup of coffee. My lifetime in Amish Country has spoiled me. Paul assured me I hadn’t missed much, even when the hotel's version of "full breakfast" was laid out.

Keystone is a demonstration of American tourism run amok.  Trying to replicate an old western town, its two blocks are filled with one souvenir shop after another, all proclaiming themselves the best place to buy t-shirts, local jewelry made in China, and rocks from the carvings at Rushmore.  I found it all somewhat repulsive as I rushed to join the throngs of travelers, contributing a sizable sum for my own bag of memories.  

I have a compulsive need to bring back things for the grandkids.  I can’t seem to stop myself.  What three-year-old doesn’t need an artificial coonskin cap and a fake Stetson?  When you have a grandson who loves hats and you’re a granny who loves seeing him wear them, well, pull out the wallet and plunk down the money.  And that’s just one; there are six more grandchildren who dissolve my powers of reasoning beyond Paul’s ability to control.  His face turned pale as he followed me around the store and I silently wished he’d go wait in the car. 

We finally hit the road after the others managed to get me out of the shops and into the van.  I was just finished rearranging all the goods and storing them away when someone said, “Hey, let’s go to Wall Drugs; we’re going right past!”

I groaned inwardly, knowing what fresh temptations were about to present themselves.  Wall Drug is 76,000 square feet of tourism delight, of much better quality than the store I’d just left in Keystone.  In 1931 in a struggling South Dakota town of only 326 people the store was purchased by Ted and Dorothy Hustead using a $3,000.00 legacy and a newly acquired pharmacy license. I was doing a little research and found www.walldrug,com with a very interesting article by the owners.  Check it out if you want some inspiration on following your dreams and doing what you think God has called you to do.

What started out as a tiny drugstore in the middle of the prairies is now a major attraction off of I 90. Along with a spray park area, jack-a-lope photo spot, stuffed buffalo, and numerous life-size cowboy sculptures, there are countless other unique things to see and do for adults, kids and adult kids.

We ate lunch there (I highly recommend the hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes, all of it smothered in gravy).  The coffee is still only five cents a cup and very good.  By the time we finally decided to drive east toward our next goal of Elkhart, Indiana, the sun was well past its zenith and my wallet was a little lighter still.

Toward evening, in what has become a daily routine, Wade suggested we get on our phones and find a hotel.  Sioux Falls and all surrounding areas seemed to be fully booked in any place we could afford even when we exceeded our budget quite generously.  I asked at several places what was going on and always got the same answers.  “No idea” or “We’re usually pretty busy this time of year.”  The number of required stars in my search engine continued to decrease along with the slimming possibility of sleeping somewhere other than the van.  With four adults well past the age of finding a night in a vehicle a fine adventure, our standards were lowering themselves with each passing mile.

Now, with no intent to slander the people of eastern South Dakota or western Minnesota, there doesn’t seem to be any attraction around to draw the number of overnight visitors required to fill every hotel and motel to capacity. I expanded my search area as we crept across the map. 

Wade spotted a few Bed and Breakfasts on his GPS.  I felt an internal dread at the thought of sleeping in the house of total strangers but after the last hotel we’d pulled into (and right back out of without ever getting out of the vehicle), I started making more phone calls.  The first B & B was full.  The second didn’t answer.  The third said she only had one room left.  Since it was already 9:30 pm she thought it possible some of her people might not show up and she offered to track them down and let me know if they were no-shows.  

A few minutes later my phone rang.  “We’re both in luck!” she said.  “They aren’t coming so I have two rooms.” Yvonne, the very nice proprietor, directed us to a Minnesota speck of a town called Truman, out in the middle of flat nothingness and ten miles from the interstate.

Her pleasant voice on the phone along with glowing reviews online reassured me we weren’t headed for the Bates Motel.  It turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.  Whittler’s Lady B & B – who wouldn't want to check out something with that name?  Yvonne and her husband Lowell greeted us at the door with warmth and smiles, even though it was approaching 10:00 pm by the time we drove up.  We didn't see until morning that the charming house's exterior was a delightful dark shade of purple that worked perfectly.  A baby grand piano graced the sitting room and an antique barber’s chair bore the distinction of being “the most comfortable seat in the house.”  The dining room table was already set for our breakfast, minus the food of course.

The establishment’s name came from the Lowell's whittling hobby.  He showed us several pieces, both interesting, and well-done.  His sense of humor showed through.  The “chainsaw” was a carved handle like that of any common chainsaw but without the metal blade.  Instead it wooden chain dangled from its center. The “quarter-pounder” was an apparatus approximately eight inches long with a tiny carved mallet fixed to it.  When tapping the far end with a finger the mallet rose and fell, hitting a twenty-five cent piece, glued to the wooden base.

A stairway led to our cozy rooms; an antique dress form decked out in beautiful ivory lace greeted us silently from the landing midway.  Every room was inviting and filled with unique furnishings, Victorian mostly, fitting well with the woodwork and style of the house.  After we freshened up a bit from our road weary day, our hosts offered us wine and popcorn in “the breezeway” and we all spent a little time swapping our stories before turning in.


The next morning we met for breakfast at the lovely dining room table.  Another guest, a young lady, eight weeks pregnant and needing a break from her toddler, joined us.  Pastry puffs stuffed with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese sauce appeared on our plates and disappeared rather quickly from thereon. Fresh fruit, hot coffee and cold juice completed the best breakfast I'd had since leaving home.

I might have to try this Bed and Breakfast thing again sometime.