It was 26 degrees and dark when I crossed Lubbock city limits. As soon as I did the cow shit stench hit my nostrils like a hammer. If you take any stock in first impressions at all, Lubbock introduces itself in a most unfortunate way. Never mind all that though, it’s a good stopping point between Austin and Santa Fe.

When I was planning this road trip, a return to LA after an extended stay in Texas, I was eyeing Lubbock because I always wanted to go to the Buddy Holly Center. I figured that would be a pleasant hour spent and then I would leave Lubbock in the rear view where it looks best. 

It then occurred to me to ask the Internet if there was a Waylon Jennings museum, seeing as he was from around those parts, too. There did not seem to be an official Waylon Jennings Museum, which seemed a real shame. But there was a place called Waymore’s, a former gas station/current liquor store and unofficial Waylon Jennings museum run by his baby brother in his hometown of Littlefield, TX, about 40 miles from Lubbock.

The next morning, I visited the memorial to Waylon’s musical and spiritual big brother. The Buddy Holly Center was worth the visit. It had the usual fare-gold records, guitars and posters. I grabbed some postcards, took my picture with the giant pair of trademark nerd glasses outside and it was time to go.

Buddy’s cool, but Waylon’s my guy. So I drove the forty miles of flat brown West Texas, where the speed limit is 75 but you can go 90 or 100 because no one is around to care. 

I pulled into the small empty parking lot. The sign out front was a little ragged around its edges but looked sharp, black with “Waymore’s” in orange script. The facade of the building was a little more homemade, the famous Waylon Flying W surrounded by titles of his most famous songs. 

Before going in, I decided to check the website again to remind myself of Waylon’s brothers’ name. James.

Inside, there were racks of candy and basic junk food. On the walls, publicity photos of Waylon but also family photos. School pictures of grandkids in cap and gown and football jerseys were beside posters advertising Waylon and Willie concerts. The customer in front of me left, then just me and an old fella sitting behind the counter in a tattered coat had Waymore’s to ourselves.

I said “Hi, are you James?” And for the next for the next hour I got a priceless tour of Waylon’s world.

I was so glad I checked his name. Probably wouldn’t have mattered too much, James was eager to tell his stories. He’s the kind of guy you only meet on road trips. You’re not gonna sit next to James on a flight from Austin to LA. But knowing his name didn’t hurt either and I think he could tell I was  enthusiastic about and familiar with the subject.

After asking me where I was coming from and pointing out a few photos. “That’s Mother and Daddy,” James Jennings led me into the back room that served as the museum. 

It was large and drafty and its perimeter was covered in all types of Waylon ephemera, a Dukes of Hazzard lunch box caught my eye and brought me back to first grade for a second. On the floor surrounded by all those treasures were big boxes of Lay’s and Cheetos. They had to go somewhere. I feel like Waylon would have approved and laughed. 

The stories spouted out of James. You could tell he had told them thousands of times, but not for any lack of enthusiasm or charisma. For a man who worked with his hands all his life, he had an entertainer’s knack for making you feel special and that somehow you were being let in on a secret. The charm gene runs strong in the Jennings family. 

Before he left me to look around on my own and scoop up some hats and t-shirts for me and my buddies, he showed me an original poster for the first Willie’s Fourth of July Picnic. I felt like it should be framed behind that fancy glass that prevents sunlight damage, but no, there it was on a box of Cheetos. 

He saved the best for last: Waylon’s Nuclear Football! It was a small heavy duty trunk that carried the contracts, cash and, probably in the 70s, the cocaine. Among the stickers on the trunk bearing The Flying W, one gave an admonition to whomever bore the awesome responsibly of handling it:

THIS IS NO DRESS REHEARSAL,

WE ARE PROFESSIONALS,

& THIS IS THE BIG TIME

I didn’t ask to look inside, I figured that might be pushing it. But I guess I have a reason to go back.

I brought an armload of goodies to the counter. James’ wife Helen had returned and rang me up. She said, “It’s expensive to have that many friends!” 

“Yes, ma’am. I guess so.”

A few days later I was hiking in the Grand Canyon. It was gorgeous and tranquil and awe inspiring at once. I stopped to catch my breath and look around. I thought to myself, “I think I still liked Waymore’s better.”

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