Between Amarillo and Dallas lie a string of old Texas towns strung out along the highway like beads on a necklace. Many, if not most of them, have seen better days. Drive into their main squares at noon and you’ll see at most one or two people walking by, often coming out of the courthouse or the thrift store. These are sometimes the last occupants of the square. And yet the towns still have an eerie presence that whispers of their history. They have grand mansions, seven-story granite courthouses that were clearly meant to last for hundreds of years, and churches modeled on Monticello. One town was made entirely of red brick from the streets to the sidewalks, and even to the buildings. Set against the blue sky, it looked like an abstract sculpture.

The problem is, unlike the architecture, these towns haven’t lasted. They are typical of a national trend that has been accelerating since World War I. The nation’s towns have been deserted for its major cities, themselves expanding into megalopolises. As manufacturing dries up, so too do well-paying local jobs. People remaining in town either find jobs at the fast-food strips lining the highway or in local government. Some towns don’t even have local bank branches or grocery stores—a stunning collapse of even the most basic of businesses.

One such town, Quanah, has the feel of a community that looked the brink in the face and decided to do something about it. At first glance, Quanah seems no different from a score of other towns: the downtown is quiet, and on your way to find a sandwich, you pass several empty storefronts. However, most of those storefronts are owned by a local foundation that is carefully and methodically incorporating them into a larger vision.

The Three Rivers Foundation for the Arts and Sciences proposes an alternative future for Quanah, built around educational programs for children already in operation. The idea is that while children spend the day at an astronomy camp, their parents would browse through the shops on the square in downtown Quanah. Once momentum builds, and businesses return to the downtown to serve these visitors, visitors might want to stay for a bit longer or come to the town when the camp is not in session.

Fred Koch, a member of Three Rivers and a lifelong resident of Quanah, points out that Quanah has a tremendous stock of affordable, sound homes close to the downtown. Parents who send their children to the camp could afford to buy a get-away home in the town, and enjoy the adult side of Quanah on the weekend while their children are in camp. Their presence would support new businesses, which would mean jobs and a new future for the residents of Quanah.

Downtown Quanah is a surprisingly extant sample of small town America as it looked like in the first half of the twentieth century. At the former rail depot, now Quanah’s museum, there are ghostly relics of the past: artifacts from Chief Quanah Parker, the last Comanche chief; a 1930s sporting outfit with mud still caked to the cleats; photos of one of America’s first astronauts, from Quanah; a red, horse-drawn delivery wagon; and the area for whites to wait for trains and the area for blacks. Two blocks away is the original movie theater, much abused on the inside but still standing. One block from it is an auto showroom from the 1920s with twenty-foot tall ceilings. Behind it is a former apothecary store.

For sheer aesthetic surprise, Quanah packs an understated punch. Close to the courthouse is a miniature Monticello, a small church. Just past it, one storefront holds a private car museum, their fins close to the glass. Next to it is a small teahouse and confectionary, producing an extraordinary creation of toasted sandwich, powdered sugar, and jam. Across the street is the white polar bear. Turn into an alley, and one sees the rear facades of the buildings, constructed from rubble stones and as austere and elemental as an Italian hill town.

Three Rivers owns many of these buildings and has plans for most of them. A former jewelry store is now a ballroom, complete with stage, antique Grand Steinway Piano, and polar bear. The bear, white, furry, and stuffed, pauses in one of the store windows, startling most visitors by its strangeness. The space inside is sweeping, with a wood floor and new offices close by. Next door, Three Rivers plans to put in a slow-food movement restaurant.

It’s hard not to wish that a place as full of eccentricities delightfully American will survive. There is also a precedent for this kind of approach to small town revitalization. If Three Rivers succeeds and Quanah becomes a weekend destination, it will become part of one of the more curious role reversals in American cities. America’s cities were once the center of high culture, entertainment, and population. Now, with the cities becoming megalopolises, and the population centered in low-density suburbs and exurbs, Americans often go to small towns, or re-creations of them, for vacation.

Of famous example of this is Chautauqua, NY. Originally a Methodist summer camp, it has evolved into a small town with its own post office, security force, restaurants, movie theatre, orchestra and churches. In the summer it offers biweekly concerts, weekly lectures by world figures such as Bill Clinton, plays, and classes. It hosts several summer fine arts schools which attract talented students from around the United States.

There are other examples, such as Seaside, Florida, not a historic town, but one built with a layout and architecture which mimics historical precedent closely enough that casual visitors are fooled. This suggests that there is something about the small town that satisfies some basic yearning people have.

One wonders if it will someday be Quanah’s turn to become part of the reinvention of America’s towns—a place people no longer escape from but to.