Postcard History

By Wilfred “Boomer” Becker

Most people call me, “Bill” or “Boomer.” Boomer comes from my voice. Bill is a shortform of Wilfred. My mother was the only person who called me Wilfred, and then only when she was annoyed.

One of my lifetime passions is hiking. There were times in my early years – I’m now 78 – when I hiked more than 100 miles in a week. There are times nowadays that I still want to hike across a meadow, but my mountain days are over. I’m okay with that, so I joined a postcard collectors club and travel with an old friend to nearby shows.

This story is true, but it happened so long ago. It’s a little bit about hiking and a little bit about postcard collecting. I fear the details have fuzzy edges.

Sunrise near Milepost #139 was 7:02 AM that day in 1968. We agreed to be on our feet at sunrise, but no one moved. The October air was cool and the breeze, although soft and refreshing, had an icy quality to it. I asked, “Who’s awake?”

No reply. Then, with a bit more force, I asked again, “Who’s awake?”

“I am,” answered Rusty, “but I have no plan to move for another ten minutes.”

“Neither do I,” said George.

Finally, Glenn came to life and said, “Count me in for at least that long, unless I’m in charge of the fire; am I?”

“No, I have everything under control, stay where you are.”

Glenn, George and Rusty were disciplined hikers. On this day, we were three miles south of Post 139 and planned to be three miles north of it by nightfall. It may seem cheap, but six miles of the Appalachian Trail in Vermont is a worthy goal. The trail today would be straight, but directly up the mountain through a vast stand of aspen and birch.  The inclines will slow us more than the cool air will invigorate.

The rekindled campfire took so long to reach the water boiling stage, the wait with our tin coffee cups seemed endless. Eager to turn our cups into hand warmers as well as beverage holders, we huddled shoulder to shoulder for warmth. Customarily, we would take a few minutes each morning to discuss yesterday and complain of our awful night’s sleep under the stars. We would also rehash past opinions about staying in National Park Lodges.

“Not so fast,” I said, in my official capacity as keeper of group memory. “The only treat on our itinerary for today is Nancy’s Diner. We should be there by noon. And, remember, no more breakfast until then.”

After the normal quantity of bellyaches and gripes, we kicked sand onto the now blazing campfire, rolled our sleeping bags, shouldered our backpacks and headed for the trail marker.

Every Appalachian Trail hiker in Vermont appreciates Nancy’s Diner.  At Milepost 141, Nancy’s is a favorite.  Unassuming and cheap, there is always lots of good food (seconds on everything at half-price) and plenty of conversation with fellow hikers.  On the occasions when I have been at Nancy’s – perhaps eight or ten times in the last dozen years – there have always been cars and pickup trucks in the parking lot.  I have no idea why people would come here; it is at least eleven miles from the closest interstate, and much further from the closest village.

Nancy’s Diner is one of those 1940s train-car style places, where the seats in the booths and the stools along the counter are upholstered with bright-red vinyl. There is an abundance of polished chrome wherever you look, and the mirrors behind the counter simply sparkle.  Each one is a testimonial advertisement for Windex.  The reason for the mirrors was to make the place look larger but the truth is some people love to watch themselves eat.  The countertop is Formica grey and at many places along the edge, the color has disappeared; worn away by the thousands of arms that have rested there.  Over a lifetime, micro-flecks of color have gone out the door on the sleeves of the men and women that have sat at that counter since Nancy’s father, “Pop Granger,” opened the place at the height of the timber boom in 1946.

Considering the clientele who come here; mostly hikers, lumbermen, hunters, and fishermen, who are usually grimy and dirty from their activities in the surrounding forest, Nancy’s Diner is surprisingly clean.  The windows glisten and the floors shine; the wax is apt to be fifty or sixty layers deep and with a little imagination, you can see yourself. 

The place is worn from years of use, but Nancy will give you a free breakfast if you can find one speck of dirt anywhere.  On a lark, I tried once – it was in the late ‘70s – but I finally abandoned my search for dirt, paid my bill and left.

Through the years, I have been here alone and often with friends and since my first visit, I have never ordered anything other than an encore of the bacon and eggs I first ate in 1968.  The bread back then was baked in Pop Granger’s own oven and the eggs came from the hens behind the garage. A little salt and fresh ground pepper were all you needed for a memorable breakfast.  When Nancy took over sometime around 1986, she never changed a thing – not even the prices.

That day, we met a couple as we left the diner, who had walked south on this trail every October since they were married in 1960.  While hiking public trails, a safe bet is that other hikers will regale you with their preference for direction.  And they will do so with a high degree of enthusiasm. 

Hikers have certain rationales for everything they do, but their narrations frequently demonstrate that they have abandoned logic. One fellow I met many years ago was vehement that hiking north meant that you were constantly walking up-hill. I cannot imagine how it would make a difference, although as I look back on at least ten attempts at hiking this trail, I have always walked north, but I have no idea why.

***

I started collecting postcards in 2006 when a friend invited me to go with him to a postcard show in Illinois. Curiosity got the best of me and I made the rounds of the room. I found some old diner postcards. Each one reminds me of diners along the trails I once hiked. None are all that special. My friend said, “… just collect what you like.” I’d like to find a card of Nancy’s Diner, but I’m still looking.