The Mad Creek Inn

Feeling on top of the world for a minute or two, Gluten-Free Mama and I threw caution to the wind, Friday, and decided to take a spin north on The 101. We drove twenty minutes from the bottom of Bell Springs Road, and lunched at the Peg-House up by Standish Hickey State Park.

Robert

The weather was ideal, the meal was off the charts tasty and the best part of all was that we were not only allowed to keep our little rescue dog with us, we encouraged to do so. The Peg-house has a whole passel of tables in an outdoor setting, and many of the tables came equipped with filled doggie water dishes, so that Ellie Mae would have access to fresh water while we dined. To our complete delight, Ellie Mae distinguished herself beyond our wildest expectations.

As enjoyable as our excursion was, what triggered my fingers this morning was not a desire to prattle on about the Peg-House, but rather, a different establishment now long gone: the Mad Creek Inn. You see, we had to drive right past it on our way north, because as implausible as it seems, the Mad Creek is located only three miles north of the bottom of Bell Springs Road. 

Locals have always been privy to the little wind-mill that marks the spot on the highway, where the inn was situated, but the fact is that unless you are of a certain age, you have never dined there. The Mad Creek closed down some time in the late eighties.

A rambling, old gabled edifice, the floor of the Mad Creek Inn creaked when you walked across it. Your drink undulated slightly as other patrons moved past you to their table, or a waiter bustled through with an armload. It was part of the ambience.

Early on there was also an ice cream parlor included in the mix, located within the Inn, a single counter with about six or seven stools lined up along it. My memory is fuzzy, imagine that, but GF Mama backs my story up, saying that it was gone by the time our lads were old enough to have ordered a root beer float. She remembered us going down to the ice cream parlor with bro Matchu and Charlie, and their two girls.

We were not frequent diners at the Inn because that’s never been our style, but when the occasion arose, we inevitably enjoyed ourselves immensely. Among the memories is one that featured ten-month-old Head-Sod-Buster making his social debut-and killing it.

The old ranch barn

It was late one Sunday morning, following a Saturday night poker game up at the ranch house. Tradition had it that the big winner in the poker game from the previous night, was required to foot the bill for anyone who was able to stagger down to the Inn the following morning.

Jerry the rancher was there, of course, as was neighbor Rex and my folks, HeadSodBuster’s grandparents. There were a few others, probably a dozen of us altogether. I had been at the poker game too, but I was not the big winner, unless you count being only down a paltry twenty bones, a winner by default.

Some of those games could get reasonably expensive if you were a novice-at cards or drinking. Either one was likely to end up being an expensive proposition. No, the big winner was none other than me father, Robert. “It’s a poor dealer who can’t deal himself a good hand,” was an expression that rolled off his tongue, as regularly as the bourbon bottle was hoisted.

Having honed his craft while in the service, Robert was also good for the mandatory tip the following morning. With an appreciative audience keeping track of his every move, little Head-Sod-Buster proceeded to dazzle all assembled with his personality, much to our own amazement. 

We had not known quite what to expect, this being a maiden voyage. Seizing the moment, effervescent HSBuster kept the crowd in stitches with his antics, happily nibbling on an assortment of tidbits provided by a wise Gluten-Free Mama, and bubbling over with enthusiasm at being the center of attention.

There are many ways that ten-month-olds can find to occupy the spotlight, and we were most grateful of the route chosen by HSBuster, bless his blond little head. 

I know a little something/something about attracting the spotlight myself, regretfully, but the one occasion I am thinking about turned out to be more humorous than anything else. Coincidentally, it was another Sunday morning that our little family traipsed down to the Inn for brunch, along with Grandma and Grandpa. We made a party of five and we opened the joint up, both the establishment itself, and the phattie I had had the foresight to roll up and bring along with me.

The fact of the matter was that being on country time, the doors of the Inn had opened promptly at the prescribed time, but the service lagged behind by a minute or two. Robert was a paragon of patience, heaven only knows, but even he began to get just a little antsy after a time when no waitperson turned up. Having the place to ourselves, I did the only thing I thought might lighten the mood: I produced the joint and fired that puppy up.

Lo and behold, the waiter surfaced instantly, gesturing dramatically in alarm, “You can’t do that HERE,” he admonished, his voice squeaking for effect. His exaggerated indignation was delivered in a most righteous tone, to which Robert replied, “Well, there didn’t seem to be much else to do.”

We needn’t have worried-that waiter hovered over us like the elk antlers on the wall and we got great service.

The owner/chef, Mary, once hit Gluten-Free Mama up with the proposition that GF Mama should come cook for her. At the time GF Mama was providing an assortment of culinary delicacies to the Czech Lodge [er, sorry, the GrapeWine Station], six miles south along the highway, and word had gotten around.

Alas, or not-we’ll never know-GF Mama had to turn the offer down, something about our three youngsters being an impediment to the whole plan. Why that should have been the case I certainly don’t know; I should think they would have made grand pot wallopers.