A Different Drummer: Then came Cicely at the Toasted Owl

If you’re just tuning in, this is installment two of – four old people journey across America’s South in a pickup. My friend Gino was at the wheel. I was the shotgun navigator. The fems, Susan and Patricia, were stuffed in the back, arms on bundles, supplying us with food, beverage, navigation tips, and enough political solutions to end the infighting. In the truck bed were carpenters’ tools under a tarp and a bicycle headed back to Pennsylvania with Gino.
“If someone steals everything, it’s fine by me,” was Gino’s attitude.
Susan and I were riding along as far as Memphis, then flying home, while Gino and Patricia continued east.
In the first episode, we’d left Benicia, got lost in the Pacheco mountains, slept over in Barstow, met the colorful proprietor, Roger, and his dog, Spike, and were just now pulling into Flagstaff, Arizona early afternoon on I-40, having knocked off 350 miles since breakfast.
Everyone was hungry. A “Welcome to Flagstaff” sign reminded us to search for restaurants on our phones. I’d been bragging about my Find Craft Beer app as an alternative to Google and Yelp. “Wherever you find craft beer, you’ll find good food,” I always say. My app sniffs out any craft beer within 25 miles. I searched and discovered the Mother Road Brewery right up ahead.
Directly across the street was the Toasted Owl diner. First we walked into the brewery. It was small, cramped, and crowded, with no clear place to stand. No way for tenders to tell if your status was NEXT. You had to hope for eye contact.
Gino, Susan, and Patricia gave up and exited the busy brewery. “We’re going to the Toasted Owl to eat,” they said, and left me there. I was determined to taste a local Arizona beer and waited an extra ten minutes. All the while, Susan and Patricia were sending me texts from across the street. “Come now.” “It’s nice here.” “You won’t regret it.” I ignored their taunts and waited stubbornly for my pint, which finally came, and was tasty. Then, and only then, did I walk to the Toasted Owl.
What was the big surprise? The Toasted Owl not only served a multitudinous menu in a quaint setting with abundant seating and attentive staff, but they had Mother Load beer on tap, no waiting. I hadn’t ordered any food, but the waiter brought a Reuben sandwich. “I think you’ll like it,” he said. It was world class.
“This restaurant is funky, and the food is so good,” I said to the waiter. “Why is it called the Toasted Owl.”
“You’ll have to ask the owner. That’s Cicely, sitting up front, the big blonde.”
The waiter went to Cicely and pointed back at us. She got up and came over.
“You had a question?” she asked. Her white hair was combed back. She wore a button-down checkered blouse and jeans, work attire.
I wiped the essence of Ruben from my lips. “I just wondered how your restaurant got its name.”
She laughed and took a breath to share the story she’s likely told many times. “People like to say it’s because we serve breakfast like an owl and because most folks in Flagstaff are toasted.” She paused for the laugh. “That story’s half true. The whole truth is when I opened my first restaurant a long time ago the only appliance I had was a toaster. I made everything on the menu with it. Then slowly I bought things. And here I am.”
She’d sliced out her slice of life one slice at a time. We complimented her on the eclectic décor and funny staff. She thanked us, went behind the counter, and came back with a gift – an orange ball cap for me with the logo of a Toasted Owl across the front.
“Wow. Thanks!” I said. “But why do I get the hat?” I asked. “We all gave you compliments.”
Gino jumped at the opportunity. “Look at your hair,” he said.
We paid our tab. We’d been on the road for 350 miles that day. When would we stop? In 350 more miles, at Spring City, New Mexico, where Gino’s cousin Tommy lives. Up ahead were the Petrified Forest and the Gila National Forest, two world wonders worthy of wondering world wanderers like us, but we didn’t see much of them.
It was late. We were greeted at the petrified forest roadside rock exhibit with two terse words, “We’re closing.” They let us use the restroom because we were so old. We got to marvel at a few displays while we waited on each other.
Gila National Forest is full of awe-inspiring vistas and mind-boggling rock formations, all of which we missed in the dark. We couldn’t tell what was outside our windows. It could have been a dense forest, open prairie, or a stampede of Gila monsters. The elevation was high. We saw snow. We saw a winding road for 120 miles. We saw no other cars.