I went for the namePunkin Center.
You may have noticed the town on the map and, like me, wondered about the apparent typo. The place sounds quaint, cute even. And, given the news these days, I figured we could all use some cute.
“Looking for a T-shirt or postcard? You need to head somewhere else,” said Larry Chester, one of the town’s three residents, setting me straight upon arrival.
The outpost 60 miles east of Colorado Springs sits at the junction of state highways 71 and 94. It consists of a brick house, a cluster of mobile homes and a state Department of Transportation work shed amid acres of empty, rolling high desert.
It’s 30 miles to the nearest gallon of milk.
Settled in 1912 under the name Prairie Dream, it was renamed for the orange paint that owner Howard Stevens bought for a bargain. His niece noted that the bright buildings looked like a pumpkin patch, and the name stuck, though it was misspelled on a street sign — a tradition that carries on.
For the record, no one can recall a pumpkin ever growing there.
“Ain’t nothing punkinny about this place,” said Larry’s son, Levi Chester, 29.
His dad long had driven past the old cafe and service station on his way from their home in Kiowa to his favorite fishing hole. Someday, he told his wife, he was going to own the place.
“I told him you’re gonna live there by yourself,” said Joni Chester, whom Larry appointed mayor to sweeten the deal when he bought the town for $55,000 and converted the cafe into their home in 1995.
Joni dealt with the isolation by opening the Hair Station at Punkin Center, coiffing wheat farmers and cattle ranchers who came from 50 miles away. She closed up shop after Levi, their only son, broke his neck in a 2002 three-wheeler accident that has left him a quadriplegic.
“The dream blew up in the accident,” said Larry, a retired mechanic with hands like baseball gloves, crying in his La-Z-Boy about the day his boy got hurt.
The Chesters are practical people who don’t believe in haunted spirits that others might blame for the string of bad luck that has hit their town.
Such as the shooting death of owner Howard Stevens by armed robbers in 1941.
And the day in 2001 when a 6-year-old boy accidentally killed his mom while target shooting.
And the countless semi- trucks and cars that have rolled into nearby ditches.
Not to mention the desperation of travelers who get stuck in blizzards every winter or come knocking every week after running out of gas. Larry sells them two-and-a-half gallons for $15, if they have cash.
After 13 years, Joni has come to love the clear night sky and mindlessness of mowing her 18 acres, which she does for fun.
Larry extols his ability to tear apart cars in his driveway without being bugged by neighbors.
And Levi takes comfort in the quiet isolation of a place whose only din comes from wheels rolling over the five sets of rumble bars that lead up to their intersection.
For the Chesters, there’s nothing cute or kitschy about owning their own town, even one with a funky name. These are tough times to live the prairie dream.
“It ain’t for everyone,” said Larry.
“We have a motto here,” Joni added. “You do what you have to do, when you have to do it. And then you move on.”
Barry Osborne contributed to this column.
Susan Greene writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
