On a cross-country trip some years ago I spent a week in Doniphan, Missouri. I met Dode Williams, an older gentleman with no teeth who lived alone in the Ozark Rooms in the middle of town. Inside his apartment was a bust of an Indian, a kerosene lantern, a horseshoe, an owl clock, and a shotgun.
I sketched the entrance to the Ozark Rooms with a pen and gray marker while sitting at the top of the stairs.
Dode took me down to what he called the “Sin Center,” a long smoke-filled room with eight billiard tables used for a game called “snooker.” Each table had a glaring fluorescent light above it. One wall was covered with the fox hunting trophies of Ernie Caldwell, who was then 93 years old. The rest of the old-timers sat on the benches behind the hand painted checkerboards, occasionally swatting flies.