Woody & My IBF

There ought to be a GPS function that says "shit for brains, you're going the wrong way." After my mistaken trip through Appa-latch-ya (see, Jim Mitchell, Curator, I've learned), I have become wary of taxing my GPS battery too much. Thus, I turn it on only when extremely necessary, usually finding a B&B in a city (note to self: don't stay in any more cities). So, I read the directions on the green bar thing and if it says next turn to I-whatever in 119 miles, I turn it off until then.

Well, today I pledged to go from just outside Lexington to Louisville. I would make a stop at Berea, the Kentucky crafts place. It wasn't quite between the two but... I'm getting ahead of myself here. I hit the highway in the rain and decided to go where the brown attraction signs might take me. The route had that same bright sun in patches between the dark clouds as I experienced in the Alleghenies.

Quite soon, a blue sign for Historic Ruth's Candies showed on the list of gas stations and fast food at an exit. It was a must-see. I pulled in the post office parking lot and looked for Historic Ruth's. They are one and the same (see the back counter with the modern grey front and blue and white eagle, also see candy counter, left). I went to the back counter and the nice old ladies asked if they could help me. I said yes, what makes Ruth's Candies historic? Crickets chirping. I've been working here so long I don't know. This wasn't a gosh I should know that moment but a I probably knew it some time in the past, but oh well. The other one turned around with a lightbulb over her head. They make the candies right here. Oh. As it unfolded, it turns out that the real, original, famous candy factory was down the road. They don't use it any more. He bought the business from Miss Peck. "Miss" down here doesn't necessarily mean unmarried. It is an honorific, like Bwana Kubwa (spelling?) in Swahili. Big boss. I am accustomed to being called Miss Amy, but my father's wife is Mrs. Gale and my dad is Mr. Henry (his first name). Miss Peck's children weren't interested in the business. Miss Peck's mother started it. I guess she was Ruth. He (I still don't know who he is, and will never find out; clearly, he is not a bwana kubwa) has decided to bring a lot of Kentucky-made goods into the store. There's a whole shelf of John Deere merchandise. My fair hostess showed me how he also brought in old timey candies. There were dots on paper, the ones that you kind of picked off to eat, and part of the paper stuck to the dots and you ate it anyway. There were pink bubblegum cigars. We used to beg our grandmother to get these from the stationary store after the two times a year we went to St. Patrick's with her. And then we got to the actual Ruth's candies. Boy, you're lucky it's not next weekend. Oh, Valentine's Day. We make chocolate dipped strawberries. They're this big (she forms an open O with her thumb and forefinger). The lines are everywhere.

We decided that this year we're going to make enough before we sell them. I picked up a bag of caramels. They looked pretty good, having waxed paper wrappers and all. I really didn't want any candy though, because I still have an enormous box of Tootsie Pops and I have to eat my 41.77 pops a day to have a balanced diet as part of a healthy lifestyle. She showed me the cream candies. Here these are samples. I liked the individual wrappers. I asked if they were like divinity (they were white and light), and she said no, divinity is chewier. I had to take her word for it since divinity is basically meringue and that's not very chewy.  Sensing I might be a willing customer, she took me to the display. The cream candies come plain, half and half (one end dipped in chocolate), or chocolate-dipped. I asked her which ones she liked best. She whispered that she didn't care for them at all. I bought a tin anyhow. I bought the smallest one, although they also came in 16 and 24 ounce sizes. Later, I noticed that it was covered with Valentine's hearts. Oh, my imaginary boyfriend got them for me! Thanks, Brad. I'm sure he'll be looking for the quo to go with that quid. Then my guide told me I should get some of these marshmallows covered with caramel. I did. And some bourbon balls. I did, even though I know very well that chocolate and the replacement ivory sweater do not go well. She then threw in a Blue Monday and a postcard. I asked what a Blue Monday is. She said it is a candy bar with the cream candy in it but mint. Later in the day, I'd see Blue Mondays for sale everywhere. Historic Ruth's Candies are pretty historic, I'd say. So is my hostess (I wish I had asked for her name).

Closer to Lexington, I saw a sign for Rebecca Ruth Candy Tours. Was this the dastardly daughter that didn't want her mother's business but side-stepped her for her own greedy needs? I looked it up. Rebecca  Ruth has something to do with Ruth Hunt Candies, famous for their bourbon balls. I have no idea how this relates to Historic Ruth's. Neither one of them have anything to do with Baby Ruth candy bars. I passed a sign for Transylvania College.

At the first non-60 exit, I found a brown official "attraction" sign for Henry Clay's Ashford. Sounded like a good idea so I got off at the next exit. Plus, I'd break the shackles of that nasty Route 60 once and for all. I drove a long way, passing Chi-Chi's and an Olive Garden. I really didn't want to chase Henry Clay's pad any further so I made a left hand turn into a shopping center. I have it figured out now. You always want to make a carefully selected left to ask for directions, so that you go right to go out, and then have a light to turn left. The tricks for the turn signal handicapped. Anyhow, I pulled into this shopping center and saw one of those Vietnamese manicure places with NAILS in neon in the window. You don't need an appointment. That was actually a pretty good move as my nails were definitely the worse for wear. A darling girl who told me when asked if she had children, lowered her head, looked around and whispered no. They take too much time, like 18 years. She's right.

Nicole decided that I should have no nail polish and instead have this thing called Shine. I was skeptical, but they put this pinkish stuff on you nails and then take a thing that looks like a Dremmel and buff them to perfection. It took 2 minutes, lasts three months (or something like that, oh, I think she said two weeks), and you can "wash your hands like a hundred times a day and it still good". Plus you don't have to wait for it to dry. Looking at my gnarly hand skin that had been washed like a hundred times a day (and continually exposed to petroleum products), she told me I needed a hot lotion massage and a paraffin treatment. I had plenty of time to waste, and besides it was snowing outside. Snowing! I didn't know it was supposed to snow. I put my fingers in my ears and chanted na-na-na-na-I can't-here-you. Then I put my hands in boiling wax. Three times. I looked like something from Madam Tussaud's. She put them in plastic bags and waited. After about ten minutes, the whole thing was pulled off with the bag. Wow! Nice hands. I looked out the window and the snow had stopped. I asked the other customer how long it takes to get to Ashland. About 2 1/2 hours! Then I figured it out, I didn't mean the city. Then she got it and said it wasn't too far away, on the left. When I got back to Woodie (who didn't need a manicure just yet), I looked at my guidebook to make sure she was right. Closed in January. Back to I-whatever. I passed a sign "Walking Dead for sale," then I passed under Aphid Road. Later in the day I saw a giant billboard that advertised GIANT FLEA.

Finally I reached Exit 77 for the crafts place. I went right into town, past a perplexing half-erected carnival. I went through town and followed the tourist information signs. The tourist information office had relocated across the street. By this time, it was so windy that it was a relief to return to my freezing cold car. Woodie has a hard time keeping her body to herself when it's windy like this. I can sometimes hide to the side of a semi. It helps a little. I look like a mad woman, frantically turning the steering wheel this way and that and careening into other people's lanes without that intention. Anyhow, I ran across the little park to the new tourist information place. The park was full of big hands, decorated in many ways. I liked the one that looked like it was rusty and had been riveted together. It was one of those paint the dinosaurs or paint the eggs or whatever that municipalities do these days. It makes them art centers. So I went into the new place. It was a woman behind a glass partition like the ones the guys in 7-11s in bad neighborhoods have. She had six brochures. I asked where the Kentucky Arts and Crafts Center was. She had no idea what I was talking about. This was a highway exit called "Kentucky Arts and Crafts Center." Hmmmm.  She stood up and gave me a map. If you want the artisan place, go to this four-way stop, this light, then go past the school that looks like a space ship (so this is what that carnival was) and turn right. She pointed to all the streets on the map. All of them. You can go this way if you get turned around. Now how would I know that I got turned around if I got turned around? Anyhow, found the place. Beautiful building housing a large gift shop. Their big hand: Anything's Possible If You Beleaf:

I did find a nice knife for my son's eighteenth birthday (he is obsessed with weapons; Columbine?). I was looking forward to my nice lunch at the cafe, as advertised. It is open until 9:30 at night. Not so in January, I found. Nothing is so in January. It was 2:30. I had half a bowl of vegetable soup (passable) and a grilled cheese sandwich (pretty good). I didn't get derby pie or jam pie. I wanted to try them but no soup for you.

I have a tendency (at least lately) of not getting on the right ramp to the I. I thought about this very hard. I was sure that I got on to continue to Louisville. I popped the GPS on just for a sec. 110 miles to the next exit. Estimated time of arrival 5:25. I went my merry way and after an hour or so checked the GPS to make sure I should go to Richmond instead of Knoxville. You know, they have a lot of Virginia envy here. Georgetown College. Yes, Georgetown Kentucky. Anyhow, the bottom corner said 146 miles left, estimated time of arrival 6:59. 146 miles! I just went 110 miles. I should be there by now. I missed my turn by 50 miles. This is when the GPS should have said "shit for brains, you're going the wrong way," even as it was being turned off, sort of like the "I'm mellllltinnnng" from the Wicked Witch of the West. She stole Dorothy's slippers. GPS stole three hours of my life and 15 gallons. By the way, I smell like petroleum, and I can't figure out where. It's not my sweater, jacket, pants or shoes. It must be my hair. From sticking into the fuel tank to make sure I don't overfill it. I will not wash it. I have curls.

Eaten today:

• Smart Coffee
• A very small imitation muffin
• Half a cup of orange juice
• Half a cup of vegatable soup
• A grilled cheese sandwich
• 8 cream candies (these are about three inches long and look like white turds)
• 6 caramels (brick shaped, not those little square ones)
• 4 caramel covered marshmallows
• Another 8 cream candies
• A bag of Fritos from the bed and breakfast
• One small Hershey's mini chocolate nougat truffle bar

Oh, the cream candies are great. I should have bought the 55 gallon drum size. They're made with sugar, butter and half-and-half, and a little water, you know, the lady told me. I know that caramels are made with sugar, butter and half-and-half. I'd like to be the half-and-half guy. Historic Ruth's is putting his kids through college.