It¹s five after ten on a Wednesday morning in late October. The leaded glass sky is an artist¹s study in the many shades of gray, and the trees along the highway, just starting to turn orange and red, are muted and blurred by a light rain and the somber weight of clouds. It seems colder than it really is.

I¹ve just visited a woman in a nursing home in Valley Falls, Kansas. Too young to be there, she lives in her own version of October -- without the trees, the moving clouds, the hints of color -- a perpetual autumn of bare walls and industrial grade floor tiles.

Eight miles and a gas stop later, I stop in at a cafe in Nortonville to shake off the chill. Right on the main street, it¹s almost unnoticeable, except for the neon beer sign and handwritten lunch menu in the window. I push several times on the quirky door handle and go in.

It¹s not very crowded this time of day. A young waitress and five or six older women sit at a round table near a wall covered with a large assortment of rustic farm implements, chatting and catching up on the news. Across the room, three men sit in a booth and talk business.

The cafe is called Mike¹s Place, but it should probably be called Mike¹s Wife¹s Place, unless this guy Mike is into antiques and plastic knickknacks. The decor is an odd but somehow harmonious mixture of competing elements, an expression of the women who work here and the men who eat here. Bordered farm-and-tractor wallpaper, glass Mason jars, nostalgic Coca-Cola memorabilia, a pair of white figure skates, a child¹s cowboy boots, and a collection of ornate coffee cans, are offset by a flashy poster of a Coors beer babe, displaying the required quota of cleavage, and a brightly colored electric Budweiser sign, installed above the counter.

I slide into a booth in my own section of the room and check out the menu. It¹s comfortable in here, and I¹m glad to be down the road a few miles, but I still feel a shiver or two from the wet weather outside. Pulling up the collar of my denim jacket to get warm, I make eye contact with the waitress as she heads into the kitchen, and she seems a little surprised by the presence of someone else in the cafe.

According to the Bud Light clock on the wall three booths down, it¹s eleven thirty-two. It¹s funny how slowly time moves in small towns. In Lawrence, we turned our clocks back an hour on Saturday night, but in Nortonville, it¹s still Daylight Savings Time. I get the definite impression that Mike¹s wife will get around to changing the clock when she damn well feels like it.

The waitress approaches and takes my order. It doesn¹t take long to get my food and a cup of coffee. I¹ve been looking forward to a good cup of java to thaw me out, but unfortunately the coffee has a slight soapy taste. On the other hand, the biscuits and gravy are surprisingly tasty, even if they have been microwaved without mercy. It¹s not a bad meal for under two bucks. I¹ll tip the waitress a dollar, since she is really good about keeping my coffee cup full, whether I really want her to or not.

Eating slowly, I stay as long I can, still trying to get warm, then pay my tab, and walk out to my car. After backing out on the empty brick street, I drive around the corner past the faded-into-powder-blue Farmer¹s Coop, the auto repair shop, which has its garage door open even on this cold day, and the aluminum-sided Knights of Columbus. I make a couple of stops and turns, and find my way to the rainy two lane highway that heads drearily south to Oskaloosa and Lawrence.

The wet road whooshes by, and my windshield wipers make a squeaking sound, like the rubber tires on a wheelchair in an empty hallway.