Shamrock. Texas. Monday night. What cold peace. After we traveled the icy service road from the east side to the west side of I-40, negotiated a spot that Andre thought we could drive out of this morning, pulled up and plugged in. Big deal. Piece of cake. As I walked through the snow, ice was falling from the trees and the picnic tables with a delicate clink. Beyond the rows of electrical posts stretched a fence and then snowy fields.

We were the only guests, but in the vast emptiness I felt the presence of others, and the passage of time. From the brilliantly lit billboard, to the faded VCR boxes in the office, past the orange plastic-cast- chair-hair-drier, to the rows of picnic tables outside. Cars and trucks passed, so close, but they felt far away.

There were photos placed on the walls and shelves around the office of Texas sunsets behind windmills, flowers, scenery, and at the desk, postcards of Shamrock's famed Tower Conoco Station & U-Drop Inn Cafe, on old Route 66. Our cordial host, Mr. Norbert Schlegel, had created the photographs and cards. I need to describe him, perhaps because he so appealed to me. He was short-ish, had thinning gray hair, a mellow face and quick smile. There was a lilt lifting his soft Texas accent, and a lightness about him that had nothing to do with his size.

After dinner I tramped across the snow into the bright deserted office to ask how to get back to the highway in the morning. I rang the little bell on the desk, and he came through the sliding doors from their den carrying a load of laundry. My comment about an object next to the driers led him to say he was repairing them, and he pointed to the exposed chains on the drier backs. I said, "do you fix everything around here?" He laughed and said, "yes." He said he had also been a farmer.

When I asked how long they'd had the park, he told me that they had opened it in 1967. At that time there were tents, pop-tents and pop-up campers, truck campers, the occasional Airstream—and families. With children who filled the heated pool, climbed the slide, and played on the swings. Summer was the busy season. Now, there are no tents. His big business is "motor homes with two air-conditioners, slideouts and 50amp plug-ins. And the only children we see now are with grandparents." The busy season now "is when the snowbirds come through: October and November, April and May."

His family came over from Germany in 1905. He said he always thought that would take so much courage, coming to a new country like that. They farmed in Shamrock. The state of Texas gave them formal recognition a few years ago for running the family farm for 100 years. He, his four children, and all of his grandchildren graduated from the same Shamrock schools, and he recognized that as special. He grew cotton and wheat, raised cattle—but no longer. He has planted grass, and lets others graze their cattle, "for the gain." That, as I understand it, is a share of the profit from what the calves gain after they have matured to full size. "If it makes $100, I make $50." But he doesn't have to take the risk that buying the calves would bring.

We looked over at the rows of prints he'd hung on the wall opposite the two large turquoise clothes driers. Photographs he'd made of what other campers had written on the small blackboard that hung among the lowest row of photos. People from as far as Belgium and Australia; the single woman with her dog, Molly; people who said it was peaceful, hot!, who liked the cows, the pool, the friendly owners—so many I couldn't read them all. In the back of my mind I started to think what I might write about this deep-running pool of a place. But I said goodnight, went back into the office and took a Frank Slaughter paperback novel from the mostly romances on the take-a-book shelf—it just fit. Returned to our cozy home—the one with two air-conditioners, a slide-out and 30 amps.

This morning, the sun rose and cast pink light onto the snow. We prepared to leave. I grabbed Graham Greene's The Tenth Man—I just wasn't in the mood for it—ran to the laundry room, opened the door, and put the book on a table. Andre was waiting for me to stand out by the road to be sure he could pull out without stopping. But I wanted to leave a token; words in exchange for the ineffable gifts of West 40 RV Park. I knew I had something to leave, but nothing right came. Still, I went to the blackboard and picked up a piece of yellow chalk, then quickly wrote. This is a wonderful place. Peaceful. Stay well. From the hills of Massachusetts. P.S. You should make cards of that orange chair.