After years of searching—even with my mother’s help before she passed—this photograph eluded me. Then at our family Christmas gathering, my sister handed me a thumb drive of family photos. It sat on my desk until, on a whim, I opened it just the other day. Almost immediately, this photo appeared.
There it was—Walker’s Cafe, my dad’s place, standing proudly on the corner of Main and State Streets in Rigby, Idaho. The red-and-white striped mansard roof ran along both streets, a beacon for anyone passing through town. Back then, Highway 191, the Yellowstone Highway, funneled all northbound traffic to Yellowstone right past the cafe. The highway turned sharply at Main, forcing every driver to slow at Rigby’s only stoplight. It was impossible to miss the cafe—and unforgettable for anyone who stepped inside.
Most around town called it Walker’s Café, pronouncing it “ca-fay” occasionally, but “cuh-‘fay” most of the time. My family still uses “cuh-‘fay,” and for all the right reasons.
Walker’s was famous for its scones. Hot, deep-fried, and dripping with honey butter, they weren’t just food; they were tradition. Every table got a basket, a warm welcome for locals and travelers alike. Even now, if I meet someone who lived in the area back then, they’ll light up and say, “Home of the scones!”
I was nine the year Dad decided it was time for me to learn the art of frying them. I can still see the dough rising on the long stainless counter, smell the hot oil, and hear Dad’s calm instructions as he handed me an extra-long set of tongs: “Flip them when the edges turn golden.” That first night, I cooked a few dozen. By the time Walker’s closed forever in 1975, I’d cooked a thousand—and eaten nearly as many. Always with extra honey butter.
Walker’s wasn’t just a café; it was the heart of our family and a cornerstone of Rigby. Locals came for coffee, conversation, and a sense of belonging—gravitating to the swivel stools at the long counter or a corner booth with its own jukebox. Travelers passing through kept things interesting. My dad, M. Clyde Walker, was at the center of it all, greeting every customer with his signature warmth. After delivering a basket of scones or refilling a coffee cup, he’d check in with every guest—whether first-timer or regular. It wasn’t just polite—it was sincere, a reflection of who he was and how much he cared about everyone who walked through the door.
The photo captures so much of that time. To the left, the Royal Theater still stands, its marquee casting a soft glow that complemented the neon tube lighting of the cafe. The marquee dates the image to 1971, when Plaza Suite (Walter Matthau) and WUSA (Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward) were playing. I didn’t see either—and still haven’t, but the Planet of the Apes preceded those—an unsettling movie I saw then and still revisit in my more restless dreams.
Then there’s Grandpa Mike, crouched by the wall of the cafe, tools in hand. He was always inventing something, like a contraption to slice a head of lettuce into perfect salad pieces in one motion. If Dad was the soul of Walker’s, Grandpa was its bones, supporting everything in his quiet, tireless way—except when he was off fishing with Maple.
But nothing lasts forever. Walker’s closed in 1975, and my family left town in a sudden move that felt dramatic to me at the time. The keys were handed over, but the new place was never the same. By the late 70s, Highway 191 had been replaced by Highway 20, bypassing Rigby and towns like it—but shaving at least thirty minutes off the drive to West Yellowstone. The traffic through town dried up—perhaps not the intended result, just the quiet inevitability of progress.
In my mind, the theater and cafe are still there—the community’s hub on Friday nights. Dinner with Santa. Prom night gatherings. After-funeral lunches. But both are gone now—the theater burned down, and the cafe was razed a couple years back.
Still, the memory of Walker’s endures. The scones, the hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs on the linoleum floor—they’re as real to me now as they were then. Dad behind the counter, asking, “Can I get you anything else?” Grandpa Mike somewhere tinkering with something ingenious. The steady rhythm of a family pouring their hearts into a small-town cafe.
All gone now. Except for the lingering taste of honey butter.