8:25 PM |
The devil made a deal with Route 60. And that deal was to drive me bonkers. I got on the much-ballyhooed Midland Trail to Huntington WV. Unfortunately the good part went the other way from Charleston. There were some amusements to be had, however.
After the wash and the parts, I set out on Route 60 to find St. Albans. Apparently I was in St. Albans getting parts. This was not boding well. Three in a row: Strip joint, Order of the Moose, and sign saying the drinking age is 21. Motored a bit. Strip joint, VFW, no drinking sign. This was the cute little town everyone said I should see. It was only later on my tour that I realized none of these cute towns were on Route 60. You have to take a "side trip," according to the Midland Trail brochure.
On to Hurricane (her-a-kin). The town welcome sign that usually has the rotary club sign attached to it instead listed 14 churches, 12 of them Baptist. The town turned out to be 6 blocks long. Do these places of worship rely on God to bring the Sunday parishioners? There sure ain't enough in Her-a-kin. Just outside Her-a-kin were four more signs, within 5 feet of each other (really). Baptist churches. I'm beginning to get the picture. Half a mile later, sex shop. I guess all this sinning requires all that praying.
I came upon a rickety pastel hut, positioned at the end of a pond with various pastel benches encircling the water. Trout fishing. But no one was fishing, and the hut had a lot of smoke coming from it. A lot of men, too. Can't tell if it was BBQ, moonshine or another strip joint. Or all of the above. Also saw Lewis Coffee. Must Be 21. Hmmmm... more, uh, coffee?
Wow! A huge pink elephant in front of an insurance company building. A huge pink giraffe with green spots in front of a used car lot. A TV repair shop: Magnavox, RCA, Zenith.
Give 'em a Brake, Men HARD at Work. A real sign. Must be my hormone replacement therapy, but come on. HARD.
Ignored rest of small towns until Milton. Milton makes the famous West Virginia glass. So famous I didn't even know they made it. I understood that Blenko was more avant garde (well as far as that goes on Route 60) than the other one. I was blowing through one of those hideous Hardees, Tudor Biscuit World, and dueling gasoline stretches. Suddenly I saw the Blenko St. sign. I turned left from the right side of the four lane road and tooled up the hill. Hmmm...was this the commemorative road, or did it really go somewhere? There were lots of big tractor trailers on the tiny one lane, the kind that haul logs or some other agricultural or industrial product. To the right was one of those listing steel buildings with the sooted over windows that are common to these all but abandoned mills across the country (curses, China). A tiny gravel road went over the railroad track and straight down. Now that we've learned our grades, I'd say about 12 percent. A sign: Visitor's Center. Closed. But someone was walking out of what looked like the gift, uh factory, shop. It may have been open, may not have been. But no one seemed to care. I took myself on a tour of the place and found the actual glass blowers. This is not one of those pretty glass blowing shops you seen in resort towns, the kind that make swirly Christmas ornaments, and have special children's demonstrations. This was the real deal. The place was a giant, dirty warren of furnaces and rods and an old guy on a chair doing the hard part. They had stairs which he went up when the glowing blob on his rod needed to be put in the mold on the floor. I watch through four pieces. I was mesmerized. Most people watch for about a half a piece so that they feel good about bringing home their glass souvenirs. They throw a lot of miscellaneous ends and scraps and so on in piles outside the factory. They were beautiful. Here they are:
After the wash and the parts, I set out on Route 60 to find St. Albans. Apparently I was in St. Albans getting parts. This was not boding well. Three in a row: Strip joint, Order of the Moose, and sign saying the drinking age is 21. Motored a bit. Strip joint, VFW, no drinking sign. This was the cute little town everyone said I should see. It was only later on my tour that I realized none of these cute towns were on Route 60. You have to take a "side trip," according to the Midland Trail brochure.
On to Hurricane (her-a-kin). The town welcome sign that usually has the rotary club sign attached to it instead listed 14 churches, 12 of them Baptist. The town turned out to be 6 blocks long. Do these places of worship rely on God to bring the Sunday parishioners? There sure ain't enough in Her-a-kin. Just outside Her-a-kin were four more signs, within 5 feet of each other (really). Baptist churches. I'm beginning to get the picture. Half a mile later, sex shop. I guess all this sinning requires all that praying.
I came upon a rickety pastel hut, positioned at the end of a pond with various pastel benches encircling the water. Trout fishing. But no one was fishing, and the hut had a lot of smoke coming from it. A lot of men, too. Can't tell if it was BBQ, moonshine or another strip joint. Or all of the above. Also saw Lewis Coffee. Must Be 21. Hmmmm... more, uh, coffee?
Wow! A huge pink elephant in front of an insurance company building. A huge pink giraffe with green spots in front of a used car lot. A TV repair shop: Magnavox, RCA, Zenith.
Give 'em a Brake, Men HARD at Work. A real sign. Must be my hormone replacement therapy, but come on. HARD.
Ignored rest of small towns until Milton. Milton makes the famous West Virginia glass. So famous I didn't even know they made it. I understood that Blenko was more avant garde (well as far as that goes on Route 60) than the other one. I was blowing through one of those hideous Hardees, Tudor Biscuit World, and dueling gasoline stretches. Suddenly I saw the Blenko St. sign. I turned left from the right side of the four lane road and tooled up the hill. Hmmm...was this the commemorative road, or did it really go somewhere? There were lots of big tractor trailers on the tiny one lane, the kind that haul logs or some other agricultural or industrial product. To the right was one of those listing steel buildings with the sooted over windows that are common to these all but abandoned mills across the country (curses, China). A tiny gravel road went over the railroad track and straight down. Now that we've learned our grades, I'd say about 12 percent. A sign: Visitor's Center. Closed. But someone was walking out of what looked like the gift, uh factory, shop. It may have been open, may not have been. But no one seemed to care. I took myself on a tour of the place and found the actual glass blowers. This is not one of those pretty glass blowing shops you seen in resort towns, the kind that make swirly Christmas ornaments, and have special children's demonstrations. This was the real deal. The place was a giant, dirty warren of furnaces and rods and an old guy on a chair doing the hard part. They had stairs which he went up when the glowing blob on his rod needed to be put in the mold on the floor. I watch through four pieces. I was mesmerized. Most people watch for about a half a piece so that they feel good about bringing home their glass souvenirs. They throw a lot of miscellaneous ends and scraps and so on in piles outside the factory. They were beautiful. Here they are:
Back on the road, the one thing I wanted to accomplish today was to have a treat at the old soda fountain that still existed in an old pharmacy in Denton. I couldn't find Denton. My heart was broken. Just like St. Martinsville.
But I sure could find Huntington. It had stoplights and stoplights and traffic and stoplights. I am driving two tons of steel with no brakes, no power steering, and worst of all, manual transmission. I discovered bruises on my inner arms from fighting Route 60. What happened to all the cute towns? Fatty Patty's was there with "Bite Me" on the sign. The roads were much more brutal on Woody than the lost Appalachian ones.
At last, I came to the bridge separating West Virginia and Kentucky. I was to stay at the Presidents House in Cattlesburg, where your family is always the first family! Here are some of their website photos:
Here is what I found:
Okay, I'm exhausted from Route 60, so I'll just go to sleep right away and the horror would be over in the morning. Except I had had no lunch and needed dinner. I was so looking forward to eating at the great little unassuming places with terrific food cooked by Mama Peony. I asked for a recommendation. Well me and my husband like the-- I can't remember something with smoke or chimneys in the name. She said that they had a chef there. Not a cook, a chef. And nice fabric tablecloths. The rest of the places were really dives, she whispered, not what you would like at all.The directions were to right in town, on 10th Street. I asked what town. Ashland. I had no idea I was in Ashland. So I went. After about ten passes, I found it on 16th. I opened up the door and found burgundy tablecloths and prime rib. Before the girl who seats you looked up, I made a mad dash for the door. I decided that I was not staying there and I was not staying at Presidents' House. Driving back on Route 60, I discovered the smell wasn't from Woody being hot or testy, but from the refineries that lined the road.
My bags were still in the room, hostage to Route 60. I scurried about in the dark and tried to find the keyhole in the peeling ersatz brass knob, you know, the kind you get a Home Depot and keep way too long. I fumbled, I panicked. I was shaking. The key wouldn't turn. The devil of Route 60 was following me. I'd be locked in this Bates Motel. But then, a miracle. The door opened, I grabbed my stuff, and flew the coop, leaving the keys on the door sill.
Now, how to get onto I-anything. Anywhere but Route 60. I went to Ashland again. I was sure there would be an I- there. Nothing. I went back on Route 60 (at this point I was most clearly crazy). After a few miles, voila! I-64. I got on going the wrong direction. I got back on going the right direction. I drove for about five miles. Exit to Route 60. I am being drawn in to a parallel universe. About another ten miles later, Exit to Route 60. Ashland. I am trembling. And I raced as fast as Woody was able to take me away from the possessed Route 60. And the kind I-64 proffered a rest stop. Except it was closed, use side doors. Pretty scary, but the hell with it, I have to pee and somehow Route 60 is going to find me again. I'm freezing cold (again) and I can't find my gloves. I sit on my hands, one at a time. My cell phone is sliding around and I think I'm taking pictures of my crotch.
At this point, I'm delirious with hunger, sucking on Toostie Pops and mainlining Carmel Delites. I lost use of my alternate sweater. Ivory. Yeah, that was smart. I had confetti of sticky, wet, green and blue lollipop shards down my front. Chocolate and coconut at the center. I said to myself that I would stop at the first exit with a lot of cheap chain motels and fast food. You guessed it, Route 60 to Ashland.
Since I had gotten this far toward Lexington, I figured I'd be picky and wait for the delightful Holiday Inn Express with the Smart Coffee. I went by an exit with a Motel 8. I said to myself that I would be sorry I didn't stop there. I was. After looooong stretches with no exits, and then some with just Dairy Queen and Conoco, I gritted my teeth and said to myself that I would take anything at the next exit. As it approached, I locked onto the blue services sign with the logos of the hotels available. Holiday Inn Express! It was like finding an old friend. So I got off I-64 (my dearest buddy I-64) and tried to figure out how to get to the hotel. Nothing. Went through the grocery store parking lot. Dead end. Gas station. Dead end. Please god, get me something to eat and my Holiday Inn Express. I was desperate enough for fast food. There was Lee's. At least that was fast food I knew nothing about. I went in to order, and literally could not think. I fumbled with my words so much, that I think the cute counter worker thought I was stoned. It was chicken. Nice, spicy chicken with green beans and mac and cheese. They were out of mac and cheese, so I had hot apples. I groped for the chicken like a blind woman while poring over my Kentucky map. I was almost to Lexington. Except my next stop was supposed to be Louisville. I did make it to my Smart Coffee, though.