Even the dinkiest town in Texas had a movie house downtown, not to mention a diner or two. If the town was on the railroad, it was sure to have a big hotel. In Eastland, the hotel was called the Connellee. It's a Mediterranean palazzo/Spanish baroque/Art Deco thing with a tower on top that conceals the hotel's water tank. It wasn't the only hotel in town, either. The 301 building in the foreground was a hotel. Now it's empty, too.
In the lobby, the windows were covered with plywood, which someone had painted with scenes from the Connellee's heyday: people sipping tea and dancing and the bellman standing at attention. The day I showed up, a guy was yanking down the plywood. Suddenly it was revealed that somebody had been painting stuff on the inside of the windows, too; scenes from the hotel's dark days.
The plywood guy wouldn't let me go upstairs. I guess he was wondering why I was creeping around the hotel in the first place. When he wasn't looking, I snuck into the old coffee shop. Everything was covered with an inch of white dust, like snow, or non-dairy creamer.