Signs of Hope: A Wyoming Story from the Road
Why I continue to believe in people
I was about a third of the way across Wyoming, heading west on a Wednesday. I-80 has its share of semi drivers, mostly moving, FeEx or U-Haul or Amazon or UPS delivery vehicles. The roads are largely open.
I top off my gas tank when it dips below half. In this part of the country it’s anyone’s guess what’s open. Leaving Colorado, where open green country is an increasing rarity and standing trees are sliced off at the base to build more apartment complexes, the windy open plains and pronghorn antelope are a soothing sight. The winters are harsh out here. The people are tough, too.
With the exception of places like Jackson Hole, where the uber uber uber rich come to play and pay a pittance to the locals for flipping burgers, most Wyoming folk are hardscrabble, hardy and Republican-leaning.
I drove off the road to a tiny, dusty shop to top off and get a cup of coffee to keep my eyes open. I had a long day to Boise.
The shop was equipped with a plastic protection sheet for the cashier, Sheila, a smallish, fast-moving woman in her forties. She wasn’t wearing a mask.
Neither were the men who moved around the coffee machine where I stood back and waited my turn.
Loaded up with caffeine and a few Kind bars, I joked with Sheila that I felt like the Frito Bandito. My dark glasses, low ball cap and mask covered everything but my nose.
Behind the plastic, Sheila cracked up as she checked me out. She told me about having to go to the hospital to see family, and what it was like not being able to see anyone’s faces. She looked tired, but moved with the energy of a woman with multiple missions.
Most folks in this part of the world juggle multiple jobs to make ends meet.
I don’t recall how we got to the topic. I told her how it was nearly impossible to find hand sanitizer in Colorado. Since coming back to the States in March, I haven’t found a single container. Not one. People have been hoarding and price gouging it on line.
Sheila reached to her left and pulled out a large container of green sanitizer which she was keeping next to the register.
“I make my own,” she said, with the pride of the self-sufficient farm woman she is, she of three jobs, three hats and a family to protect.
“Here,” she added, “You take this.”
She handed the hefty bottle to me past the plastic protection sheet.
Surprised and very grateful, I told her thanks.
She could see my smile- it was big enough to move my mask.
“Thank you so very much, Sheila.” With my whole heart.
“Think nothing of it,” she smiled back. Then she turned to the next customer, who wasn’t wearing a mask. Hardy people. Perhaps foolhardy at times, but Wyoming tough.
I strode back out to my car, battered by the cold Wyoming winds, renewed in my belief in my fellow Westerners.
I think plenty of it, Sheila of Wyoming. I think plenty of it indeed.