About the Newton Motel

Built in the early 1910s, the motel has seen decades of sun, dust, and stories pass through its rooms. It’s a modest place: thirty or so units, a small gas station, and a diner that smells of old coffee and fried eggs.

The paint is chipped, the neon flickers, and the air hums with a dry, heavy stillness. But it’s also a refuge. A brief pause for truckers, teachers, veterans, mechanics, mothers, lovers, strangers. Some come from the Midwest, crossing state lines on their way to California. Others from small towns in Texas, Louisiana, Illinois. Some are chasing a dream. Others are simply catching their breath.

The Newtons; Mae, her husband Walter, and their daughter June, run the place with quiet endurance. They know how to stay out of the way, but also when to ask if you need a hot meal or a bit of company. This motel isn’t famous. It’s not on a postcard. But for one night, it becomes a small part of someone’s life. And that’s enough.

Why this place?

I’ve traveled across America with no map and no plan, just the open road and the certainty that, by nightfall, I’d find a place to stop. Motels like the Newton weren’t just shelter. They were crossroads, places where stories brushed against each other for a moment before moving on. That’s why I chose the Newton Motel. Because if there’s one place that holds the spirit of the American road trip, its randomness, its beauty, its loneliness, it’s here.

Behind every room number, a story.

A veteran searching for peace. A teacher with doubts. A runaway. A mother-to-be. Each carrying a story, each leaving something behind. Meet the travelers who stopped at the Newton Motel.