By SoDak
On cold, November evenings, the smoke climbs to the moon, as it escapes from the rusting chimney that sits precariously on the roof of a ghostly wooden bar in Rochford, South Dakota. A few pickup trucks, belonging to the locals, are parked in front of the porch, where a black Labrador lays watching the mice scurry across the gravel road, which leads to a highway. From the junction that is twenty-three miles away, it is still over half an hour to the nearest city.
Rochford is an old mining town, composed of a few houses, a general store, a church, and, most importantly, the Moonshine Gulch, the bar. Some of the locals work for the U.S. Forest Service, others raise a few cattle, and almost all of them, historically, have run off developers. There are a few old timers, as well as a handful of redneck-hippies, nestled in the gullies between the rolling hills that are surrounded by the yellowed Great Plains where herds of cattle and sheep graze.
The Moonshine Gulch is the heart of this community. The building shows its age and seems quite fragile. Inside there are a few tables with chairs, a couple of wooden booths, and a small counter with stools. An old oil drum, turned on its side, serves as a wood stove. A jukebox, stocked with songs by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Willie Nelson, keeps the toes tapping on the uneven plank floor. The pool table was vanquished to make room for weekend hootenannies. Hats and business cards adorn the ceiling. The cap with the foam boobs draws attention to itself among the standard hats with names of electrical companies and other businesses printed across them. Drawings of outhouses, horses, and political satire cover the walls. A sign promoting this year’s gun raffle to raise money for the volunteer fire department is posted on the wall. A beautiful painting of this poor man’s paradise, the Moonshine Gulch, is proudly displayed behind the counter, above the door, which leads to the kitchen where Betsy, the owner, cooks homecut fries, grilled cheese, hamburgers, and Campbell’s Soup, if one desires. While food is not the reason that people head to the Moonshine, it adds comfort to the experience, as Betsy adds something extra special, a little extra seasoning. She is the pulse of the Moonshine, as she greets each person, who enters through the front door. Locals sit on the stools at the counter to catch up on happenings and gossip. When vagabonds find this out of the way place, Betsy solicits life stories and intentions from these strangers. Part of this is due to curiosity and another part reflects a tradition of hospitality in these hills, even as new folks buy up land and build big homes, threatening to undo what has long been so special about this place.
For many years, Roy was a fixture at the Moonshine. He sat at a table, next to the counter, lighting cigarette after cigarette, while drinking beer through the midnight hours. From this position, he watched the happenings of this world, rarely speaking, except to locals. Despite the appearance of disdain and disinterest on his face, he was not grouchy. As Betsy’s husband, he tended to the fire and a customer from time to time if more than a few folks drifted into the place. On a rare occasion, he would cut the potatoes and cook the fries, but this was only if Betsy had headed to town for supplies. Otherwise, until his death, Roy sat in his chair rubbing the scar on his arm, left by the metal stitches that long ago closed an injury.
Betsy remains the guardian of this sanctuary. Almost every night of the year, she is hugging friends and strangers, sharing stories, taking photos, distributing beers, and cooking meals. Her love for life and this place burns hotter than the glowing metal drum, which she feeds throughout the day, as whiffs of smoke escape, climbing to the ceiling, searching for a crack between the boards, to float towards the celestial stars, which envelope this home in the Black Hills.
