10/30/2026
Voice of the Village
GUNSMOKE
by Cathy Bennett
The sky had turned all the colors of a fall rainbow and now settled into a deep evening orange. The sun was long gone, tucked behind the gold country hills. I was staying the night in Grass Valley, CA, a historic gold mining town in the 49ers’ Mother Lode. I was visiting cousins and staying at a hotel a short walk from downtown. Anticipating my morning coffee brew, I was disappointed to find the coffee service limited to the pre-packaged powder concoction some use for a creamer. I found this entirely unacceptable, so I set out to walk downtown to find a place to buy some real milk for my morning fix.
It was a pleasant walk into town. I found the local Safeway and got a small individual-size carton of milk, and as I passed the banana display, I grabbed a long straight banana that caught my eye. “Would you like a bag?” asked the checker. “No thanks,” I said, as I slipped the banana into my side pocket and took the milk.
Heading back toward the hotel, I passed several restaurants and taverns. People bellied up to the bar, drinking, talking, laughing. I peeked into each doorway, stood and felt the vibe in the room. “Nah, pass,” I thought. At another I paused. “No, definitely not.” But like Goldilocks and the three bears, I stood at doorway number 3, and it was “just right.”
Stepping inside, my eyes swept across the impressive historic solid wood bar, mirrored images reflecting bottles of every imaginable type of liquor in the antique bar lining its walls. It could have been the saloon set from Gunsmoke, and at any minute Marshall Matt Dillion might meander in. The female bartender had her back to me, and I imagined it was “Miss Kitty” who would turn to face me.
It was not Miss Kitty, but instead a petite brunette who smiled as she watched my entrance. Caught up in the moment, I moved in wide, side-angled steps and slowly sidled up to an old wooden barstool. I set down my carton of milk with a thud, reached into my pocket and carefully withdrew the banana and carefully placed it on the counter in front of me.
She looked down at the little carton of milk and the long banana on top of the bar. Then she looked up at me curiously—a white haired woman of elder years carrying a carton of milk and a long-handled banana.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
I picked up the banana and pointed it directly at her. “Just don’t get me mad. I know how to use this thing,” I said sternly, and then slid the banana back onto the bar. The bartender grinned at me, and said, “No ma’am. I won’t get you mad. Would you like something to drink while you’re here?”
“A gin martini, please. Straight up,” I added.
After a few minutes, several of the wait staff came into the bar area to get their drink orders and chat with the bartender. One cocked his head in my direction, and asked, not realizing that it was loud enough for me to hear, “What’s up with the old lady and the banana?” The bartender replied equally loudly, “Careful now. She’s not afraid to use it!” With mocked wide-eyed forewarning, he said, “Gotcha!” He nodded at me, and I somberly nodded back.
As the dinner rush calmed down, the wait staff and kitchen crew eventually made their way into the bar. This was clearly part of their closing ritual. The bartender made them drinks and they ate food brought in from the kitchen. One of the cooks brought me some left-over marinated poke salmon that literally melted in my mouth. By now, I was “one of the gang” and got to share in their stories, complaints, and amusements from the evening. Several teased me about the milk and banana, and I knew then that I would become one of the restaurant stories they told at the end of a night’s shift.
Eventually, I rose carefully from my barstool, gathered my milk carton and banana, and said my good-byes. Several of them got up and hugged me, thanking me for stopping by. I was truly glad that I had ventured in on my way back to the hotel.
As I made my final exit, I couldn’t help myself. I turned toward the group, pulled the banana out of my holster pocket, lifted its pointed end toward my mouth and blew off the imaginary smoke from a recent firing. I gave a nod and winked at them. My new friends laughed, clapped, and told me to come back again soon.
