Can't sight media.

There's a mythic quality to small town America.

When we say those words now, it calls to mind a particular moment in history.

In the 1950s, in early 1960s.

You know, at that point in time, Marfa, it was kind of innocent, I would think.

And a particular look, neat longs, white picket fences, big oak trees.

You went to school and you played with your friends and went to the football game every

Friday night.

You know, you knew you wanted to grow up and be in the band and those kind of things.

When Martha Stafford talks about her childhood, in the town of Marfa in far west Texas,

I can see it.

No one really walked in Marfa.

Everybody drove, I think, you know, and the kids on their bicycles.

Usually, the youth of Marfa, you spent the majority of your free time riding around.

There's a bustling main street, mom and pop stores, ice cream, soda fountains, barbershops,

big, fast, luxurious cars parked out front, tail fins, bench seats, V8 engines.

At the four-way stop in the center of town, you would turn right and go down to where Colomos

was.

It was the only convenient store we had for a long time.

And turn around, turn left, drive up past the high school, then turn left again, down

by the swimming pool over the railroad tracks.

When you drove through town, you knew who tended every shot.

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