My co-lyricist and I ended up in Glen Rose, Texas because he had seen the dinosaur tracks from there in the American Museum of Natural History in NYC. While in Glen Rose, we had a great time at Dinosaur Valley State Park and also did some great shopping in town. For us, this was the start of a lifelong friendship with Deidra Cockerham. Her original store, The Junkyard Dog, is long gone now but what memories we have!

Texas Shopping

Two big cardboard boxes sat in the hallway, an insured label stuck on each. History had taught us it makes sense to insure art. Last year we got a shadow box mirror, a gem of a bargain at $30, which we bought from Deidra, the owner of the Texas shop The Junkyard Dog. Unfortunately it arrived in several pieces after its trek from Texas. It cost us quite a bit more in New York City to put that little Humpty Dumpty back together. But since the rest of that first shipment arrived in perfect condition, we were inspired to try again.

We sent Deidra some money for gifts but never told her what to buy or when to ship. Though we had talked since we first met and I had described our living space, she asked for pictures of our apartment. We snapped a picture of the plant area, a sanctuary from the world of concrete and perpetual construction that is lower Manhattan. I outfitted it with a small patio set from Century 21 to remind me of my youth in the suburbs. It was faux outdoors in a quintessential New York loft. It was as much of a real backyard as I was ever going to have here. It made me happy.

My husband took a picture of the old oak table with Green Giant legs and high-back chairs that had survived two cross-country moves and a shorter one too (a story for another time!) and the marble table adorned with fossils from adventures that now seem so long ago. More shots were taken to give a flavor of the place. We put the pictures and the check in an envelope, mailed it to Deidra, and waited. Two months passed. 

“I wonder if Deidra got the check,” I said.

“She didn’t cash it,” my husband replied.

“Hmmm … she must still be looking.”

Then one day these two big cardboard boxes appeared in the hallway. I saw that they were from The Junkyard Dog and knew we were in for a surprise. That’s the way it was with Deidra and her store. Or was before the fire. We opened the first carton to find a letter she had written to us, along with a picture of the blaze at the local theater building, which housed The Junkyard Dog. Thankfully, Deidra was safe and able to recover a few items since a large portion of the store was damaged only by smoke and water. She used a loan from her father to buy some new inventory at market and from auctions and antique shops in Roundtop, Texas, to restock and open a new place on Elm Street.

The Junkyard Dog had been located at the corner of Walnut and Barnard streets in Glen Rose, Texas. The picture was a shock. It showed flames shooting out of the roof of the Warm Country Theatre, where my husband and I had enjoyed some down-home Texas-style singing and humor during a Memorial Day weekend visit two years ago. When I saw the picture, I felt as if I’d lost something, some place I’d been and put away as a favorite memory to revisit on rainy days. The fire made our order all the more valuable.

I remember walking to every store in town and, of course, eating at the Two Granny’s—now just Granny’s, because, as Deidra explained, they don’t run the place together anymore. The remaining granny is the only one we met anyway. She hugged us, sang for everyone, and then fed everybody a fine meal. When I got home, I tried to replicate a dessert she served after having spotted it in a Texas cookbook. But, alas, it didn’t taste as good. Something was missing, and I think maybe that something was Granny. 

In addition to eating at Granny’s and scrutinizing the small town, I peered into The Junkyard Dog’s window on at least two separate occasions, but it was closed. I kept coming back to look in at Deidra’s eclectic mix of housewares, household products, jewelry, furniture, specialty books, and other diverse offerings. Finally, my third time around, the store was open.

My husband and I picked up a chicken—not a real one of course, though we could have found that in Glen Rose for sure, just as sure as we could find the local fossil hunter in a torrential downpour, which we did. The wooden chicken was painted bright red and yellow and earned a spot next to one of our favorite plants in our apartment. I bought other things too, making sure each had a home with someone else. Another chicken, which Deidra dragged out of her fully stocked back room, was for family in Oregon. Deidre mailed the chicken off for us. As she gathered our finds and we paid for them, we talked. I learned that she had worked for American Airlines as a flight attendant, and I told her I had done stints at Pan Am, Eastern Airlines, and Continental. Before I left Texas, we promised to stay in touch. We did.

A few weeks later I called and spoke to her about living in lower Manhattan. She asked if my husband had been affected by September 11, and I told her yes, he had been there, and yes, he survived it. The conversation went on and ultimately turned to her world. She told me about country life and the comings and goings of close-knit neighbors and shopkeepers. The year rolled by, and we remained in touch.

My husband and I got beyond the note and into the contents of the boxes, which we had said would be gifts for Christmas. That changed. We couldn’t part with a multicolored beaded hanging basket, just because it was pretty and glittery. Something about it lit up a lonely corner on top of the china closet. Five hand-painted porcelain milk pitchers, graduated in size, did look good in the kitchen, as Deidra said they would in her letter. Fortunately they survived the deluge of water that had rained down on the theater floor above to put out the fire. The pitchers were from England, but she wasn’t sure how old they were.

Deidra was uncertain if we’d have a place to hang the chimes, however, and she was right. Though beautiful, they got put in the Christmas box that gets assembled throughout the year. It’s as much a mystery to us as it is to our families because we never know exactly what will end up in it. A long, brown fish with tan spots on one side and lines on the other came with a story. Deidra wrote, “The man who owned it was in my husband’s family and was Elizabeth Taylor’s hairstylist. We can’t make out the inscription under it, but it might have some value. I thought it would look good on the marble table.”

A small, heavy, iron dog lifting his leg was sent simply because he was cute, Deidra said. My husband had learned not to say anything negative about dog replicas from an incident on our honeymoon in Capri: I’d picked up a garish ceramic blue dachshund; he’d shaken his head no. I’d questioned his taste until he bought it. Then months later, when I noted maybe it didn’t fit in the apartment, he wouldn’t answer me. So he found great amusement when he spotted the iron dog in the plant area near the Pooch Potty. This is a four-by-four-foot pan that gets filled (no kidding) with fresh sod every week, a highlight for our senior dachshund and shih tzu who use it daily with great zest. It’s the only grass they can find in lower Manhattan where I won’t be fined or scowled at by doormen for the dogs’ daily constitutional. Deidra also sent us an ornate frame, etched and decorated in bright red, perhaps the most elaborate one I’d ever seen outside a castle in Europe. I reluctantly put it in the Christmas box, along with a few other small items. Well, I guess we need some more stuff from Deidra for Christmas.

Even though I’ve already handwritten a note of appreciation, I should call Deidra to catch up, to thank her again for always sending us lovely items and adding a touch of Texas warmth to our lives. 

Postscript: Today the Junkyard Dog has vanished along with the old purple Volkswagen with the flowers in it, a car which had run afoul of local parking regulations. But Glen Rose has many other wonderful shops.

Granny’s Restaurant is a mere memory, too. Much fun as it was, it would have been exhausting at half her age, a third her age, a quarter her age . . .