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.

Didn't your mother always say that? If you were cheated in your juvenile instruction, didn't your health teacher in elementary school teach you that? Well, for me yes and no. I am eating so much of nothing, not even a single good home cooking place in a week and that was part of the purpose of this trip. At B&B's the breakfast is excellent. And large. And you don't want to insult your hostess. And at the Holiday Inn Express there are bacon and eggs, biscuits, cereal, bagels, juice, yogurt, fruit and more! I think the best strategy would be to have breakfast and then an afternoon meal, as I never get to my chosen lunch spot anyhow. Unfortunately, I have not found anything suitable for that meal. Then I get pissed off at the end of the day, and I end up driving further than I had planned. No dinner. Tootsie Pops and Girl Scout cookies.

No matter, I wake up in the morning feeling absolutely sick from how much I've eaten. Not like I am worried about my appearance, but I am just plain uncomfortable. I am not buying bigger clothes. And where is this fullness coming from anyhow? Maybe it's the Tootsie Pops. I looked it up, and the Tootsie Pop web site had an entire tab called Healthy Living. See, I am eating health food. Tootsie Pops are:

• Gluten-free
• Peanut-free
• Nut product-free
• Kosher

My rolling dresser concept is working very well. I put in a new shirt, clean underwear and socks in the ice bag. Then I add the cables and power strip. And the Macbook, the iPad, the Garmin, the video cam and the cursed XM boombox. I also have my purse and the little train case that keeps all my toiletries ready to go. My grandmother had one just like this. I had to ask a pile of ebayers if theirs smelled. Old suitcases smell like old attics. I couldn't have that.

The whole deal weighs A TON. I need to get a duffel bag with a shoulder strap on it. When I get home, it can live with all the other duffel bags with shoulder straps I purchased on various excursions.

I'm very big on hygiene. I am one of those ladies who carries Purell, dispenses paper towels with her forearm, and presses the door open with the other side of her arm, hands up in front like a surgeon going into the operating room. After musing it over for a few days, I decided I couldn't live without my water pik. So I drag it along, too. And the special mouthwash that goes with it. And a tongue scraper.

Check this out. My beloved Holiday Inn  Express has this by my bed: a Clean Remote. It's aqua and kind of swirly like a Venus razor.

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:

Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sofia have nothing on the Charleston, West Virginia girls. I had spent my day viewing the Capitol and the museum and returned to the The Brass Pineapple, on whose steps, by the way, I found a penny. My mother sends me pennies from heaven. I was met by Lisa, the innkeeper (and owner). She had all sorts of stuff on the sideboard including an array of teas and a chocolate cake that looked incredible. But on the dining room table was her Aunt something's coconut bourbon cake. If you have not had one of these, you have not known anyone like Lisa's aunt who will divulge the secret. You will never, ever get the recipe from them, so soothe yourself with the taste. Of course I had a piece.

Lisa sat on the divan (old olive green velvet, if I remember correctly; if not, that would have been a good color), with her legs curled up beneath her. She had on a black beret, and had a bit of a mousy look. I asked her how she met her second husband. Her first husband passed away after a horrible, horrible cancer. Number two is a pilot, and it was a long and convoluted story. Suffice it to say that she spent an hour or more recounting it. Lisa is a gifted speaker. Her voice rolls up and down with her emotions. She is very spiritual and finds God's will to be her guide. It's worked very well. As we got further into the discussion (or monologue, because I was too spellbound to interrupt), her hat came off and she was pretty. Closer to the end, when speaking of her current husband, she became beautiful. I mean really, truly gorgeous. She talked of being lucky to have had a group of women to teach her to be a proper wife. She was a good wife. I wanted to ask her what the single best piece of advice she had, but I forgot. We never got to the end of the story because Yvonne came bouncing in.

Yvonne is from Atlanta, but not really. She is a native New Jersey girl. Her dark, dark hair surrounds her face in a big puff, and her eyes are blue. She is Catholic, so I'm guessing black Irish. Her ex-husband gave her a B&B in Maine. She still has it. He cheated on her and very abruptly left. She is still stunned. But today, in Charleston, she is in love. She reconnected with him after having a crush on him during high school. When the clasp on her crucifix turned around to the bottom, she would kiss it and make a wish. It was for Steven. God granted her that wish, just not right away. Steven lives in Charleston, and Yvonne is staying indefinitely at the Golden Pineapple. Steven is a pianist, and she played him on her Blackberry often. Yvonne can definitely see the bad side of the bottle, and she is very loud. She is like a child, in love, love, love. It is charming.

Sue Ellen came in next. By this time, tea is becoming wine and cheese. She is just sort-of-divorced. Sort of because she was never married. In Washington state, they don't have common law marriage but they have a thing called marriage equivalency. Who knew? Anyhow, they split. She wanted kids, he didn't. He decided to do it with someone else, and poor Sue Ellen's eggs just weren't what they used to be. She is beyond sad, beyond angry. She is whistful for her unborn children. She has a cat and a real estate license.

I got up to go to dinner because the storytelling was exhausting in its beauty, but exhausting nevertheless. My imaginary boyfriend hasn't given me much to talk about. He is rather one (or two) dimensional. Maybe my almost-real imaginary boyfriend will give me something to think about. He already has, I guess, and I have already lost it.

And this is the Senate:

I set out from Cumberland to get to New Martinsville for lunch. When I went into the West Virginia Welcome Center (very new, clean and well-organized), the very nice lady at the desk gave my the backroads brochure although I wasn't quite sure what I was asking for. I asked her if New Martinsville was that far away. Could I make lunch? Well, it was 12:30 and I probably couldn't get there for a few hours, but somehow I had very wishful thinking. I really wanted to go to the Road Food recommended buffet. So I headed on out in that direction.

As usual, I needed fuel. Or I thought I did because I am now completely paranoid about it. Each time I fill 'er up, I probably put in 3 gallons. There are long stretches of no services on I-whatever. I saw a gas sign. I exited. It was on Dog Run Road, and there was no entrance back onto 50. I broke out the GPS, a last ditch effort in my paper map world. I was to go up 23. 23 was literally an alley through the town, but state designated nonetheless. It turned into miles and miles and miles of almost two-lane roads. There were no shoulders at all. One could fall into the creek or smack into bedrock stretching at least 20 feet overhead.

Then the GPS died. I was on a road that was a long way from the last place that had any signs of civilization. There were crude metal bridges washed out all along the way. It had just rained. But, wow! The houses along here look just like the ones you see in those photos of Appalachia. Oh my god. I'm in Appalachia. By mistake.

I wish I hadn't lost my video camera. There was no way to take pictures as there was no place to pull over. The videocam just sticks to the window, so all I'd have to do is push the button and let her rip.

The shacks were spectacular. I snagged this picture off of Google images, but this is exactly the kind of stuff I saw, except they were against dense vegetation against rock or 6 inches from the road on the creek side:


Sometimes there would be sagging outbuildings as well. I imagined stills and revenuers. And still I drove. Saw more places, drove. Saw more of the fascinating same, drove. Saw nothing, drove. Saw sign for Billy's Run Road, drove. Saw sign for Elk Run Road (do they have elk here? I thought that was Colorado), drove. Saw Thompson Run Road, drove. Figured out runs are little tributories to the creek. Drove. Dog Run Road where I got gas wasn't named after the fenced in area you leave your dog. Drove.

I'm really lost now. There is nothing, nothing, nothing out here. And I need gas. I think. It's been four hours and I have to pee. I wondered if any of these houses had toilets. Outhouses would be great. A spot in the woods would have been sufficient. Thank goodness my imaginary boyfriend didn't have to pee. He would rub it in by just pissing out the window.

The road changed a little bit. I couldn't quite tell how, like when you don't notice your husband had his hair cut but know he looks different, or like when he shaves off his moustache. The center lines were painted yellow. You could see them. The surface was a little better too.  Then I saw this: Upper Ohio Conservation Area. Upper Ohio! I suppose I could've driven there as I'd been driving for hours and hours. About 10 minutes later it dawned on me that this was the Ohio River, and not Ohio. I was still driving. And drove some more. I came to a fork with two road markers and two different directions. Should I go north, presumably toward Ohio? New Martinsville is in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. Should I have dinner up there? Okay, as I have no idea where the other one goes. Then I balked. My map had shown Sistersville near the border, and that road would take me somewhere with red lines on the map instead of no lines. So I took south, but it seemed to go west. And I drove.

In my giddiness at having somewhat of a clue as to where I was, I neglected to count the Run Roads. So I started again. Purgatory Run Road. Shit. One minute later, shack on side of road. Handpainted sign: chainsaws. I kid you not. I am going to hell in tiny pieces.

But wait-- a refuse can. Not a trash can, but one of those wheely jobs that the trash picker-uppers give you. If they're not tossing the trash out the window, this could be a sign of increasing civilization. And I drove. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. God, I have to pee.

A not-so-bad shack on the side of the road had "snowtires" painted on it. I stopped. I had to stop. I had to know if I had taken such a wrong road that I'd gone in circles and would totally run out of gas before I got back. If I got back. Thank heaven for small favors. The guy inside collected Die Casts that he won't sell for five bucks to the auctioneer because he paid forty dollars for some of 'em. One was a 1948 Woody. I listened to him describe his old, I think it was, Fairlane of which he had pictures lovingly scotch taped to his walls. I sold it, he said. I bet that made you said. Well, I sold it to my son in North Carolina.  That didn't seem to lessen his pain.  Finally, is there anyplace to get gas around here? You go about a mile up the road, cross the bridge (I had crossed about a thousand of these one lane bridges, and I was terrified I wouldn't remember the directions), head up to the Napa store and turn left. Napa store! A mile away! Holy cow!

So I drove over the bridge and up to the Napa store. Sure enough, there was a teeny tiny store with two pumps in front of it. I pulled up with relief. The handles were covered with plastic bags. The guy came out. We're out of gas. Noooooooooo....

So I kept on driving. And low and behold a 7-11. In the middle of nowhere. With gas. Woody garnered some attention. I'm am hoping beyond hopes that there was a bathroom, and once these guys get started talking, I can't get away for half an hour. I was pretty rude according to country rules, but I couldn't help it, and blurted out "is there a bathroom ANYWHERE near here?" And there was. Five feet in front of me. Hallelujah.

Back to the fueling up. You don't just stick the hose in the fuel thing in Woody. The cap is about 8 inches inside the flip up cover thing, and it is damn near impossible to wedge the handle in there. And the pressure is different, so you can't just hold the handle until it pops off. You have to lean over with your face in the fumes and watch how high the gas it. Problem is, you can't see it until it runs over. I have been trying to learn by sound when it is full, but I haven't gotten the hang of it yet.

As I sort of turn my face away from surely carcinogenic fumes, I see a man in front of me.  This is Larry:


I asked Larry what town it is. West Union. Later I'd look in some guide books and find out I had never been anywhere close to New Martinsville, and Sistersville was actually a kind of interesting place. I took I-77 instead. This time I remembered the 77 because I was so happy to see an I-.

This is Sonny:
He knows all about old cars. This is not facetious. He has a 1983 something or other (I can't remember which) which he found in a barn. Guy didn't want to sell it. Had 17,000 miles on it. He stopped by again and asked to buy it. Guy said what he really needed was a ride on mower. Sonny came back with the mower and left with the car. Anyhow, he's had practically all cars ever built since 1935. After talking with him in the Lobby at the Holiday Inn Express for about half an hour, I was missing breakfast.  I made a mad dash for the last plastic-wrapped breakfast pastry, he came over again, and we kept on talking. I told him about the special features of the 1942, including the fact that it has locks. Bet it has one on the spare, he said. Very, very good. Anyhow, I mentioned that my locks were sticky or stuck or obstinate or just pouty teenagers and I needed to get a can of WD-40. I went to get my things, and there was Sonny, spraying my locks both inside and out.

I now like West Virginia a whole lot more. Brad does, too.

After my excursion into the belly of the beast, I figured I'd make up for my missed lunch in New Martinsville by hitting Ritzy Lunch in Parkersburg. Supposed to have the best hot dogs in the state, with chili and coleslaw on top. Since it was getting a little late, I phoned the B&B in the historic district. I got no answer. I went into a sandwich shop which smelled like onions and asked the three kids where the historic district was. After 10 minutes, the lovely young lady brought me the MapQuest directions she had printed out as she wasn't sure where that was. She said she had lived in Parkersburg all her life. The directions took me 2 blocks, and that was indeed the correct location. Said B&B for sale. No one home. I also asked where Ritzy Lunch  was. She didn't know that either. I looked it up on my iPad. Uh, Clarksville, not Parkersburg. So not only had I missed my lunch in New Martinsville, but now I'm in the wrong city for Ritzy Lunch. No soup for you. 

We've always believed you tell the population of a town as the inverse of the size of the farm equipment. In the middle of nowhere there were empty log trucks, after empty log trucks, after empty log trucks. No logs in sight. But something fishy was going on about height. The next trucks were cherry pickers. Then scissors lifts. Then lots and lots of long ladders. The piece de la resistance: We Rent Iron. Another store called Things Are Looking Up. It sold lots of big, big equipment for going very high. There was also a giant green Deere, about 15 feet off the ground. It had the perforated seat, so I'm guessing it was old. But it was so beautifully maintained, shiny and spotless.

You bet. This was the large sign at the state line. The wind became, uh, brisk. I had flashbacks of slip in airplane maneuvers and eddies in paddling. Unfortunately, Woody gets slammed around, but doesn't have enough room on the Interstate to position himself diagonally. We were blasted by big trucks going by. The positive thing is that we take a good draft from said trucks after they pass us.

I've found that road signs tell a very interesting story.  There were lots of Ridges in the mountains, which makes sense as the elevation was about 2880 at one point. My fuel problems were between the towns of Flintstone (foot power only?) and Accident. I summitted Negro Mountain, followed shortly thereafter by Friendsville. I guess this was post-Gettysburg. There was Pigs Ear Road. And my favorite, Cheater Lake. I imagined a frontierswoman in a calico dress and petticoats chasing up and down that lake, looking for her mister. The next sign was for Cheater Fork Winery. I guess that's what you need after all that cheating, but I'm guessing it used to be the site of a mighty fine moonshinery. Yes, I make up words. Get over it. What was that Sarah Palin word? Oh, refudiate. It was 2010's Word of The Year by The New Oxford American Dictionary. So there.

I also saw some interesting commercial zones. There was the Technology Area. No buildings, or even people of any kind for 10 minutes. Then there was a very large brick building on the top of a very, very large pile of dirt.  It looked like it had been strip mined, with chunks taken out in layers. I could imagine the evil backhoes doing their dirty work and causing disease in the working man's neighborhood. I guess this was the Technology Building.

Further down the road was the Polymer Application Area. No shit.

Leaving Cumberland was a heartbreak. Here's what I had for the second course of my breakfast:


I am now going steady with my innkeeper. I am about to propose. As do all my hosts, Pamela was happy to share some stories in return for mine. She has been divorced since 2003, but is not yet divorced. She has a long-distance honey in Ireland. Pammy (forgive me, I feel like she's mine) also has a hard time finding men who are her intellectual equal.  She let me share my heartbreak over almost-real imaginary boyfriend.

Also, the bell that I heard was from an order of monks who had their historic monastery torn down, but who still live at the residence. They are tonsured and wear brown robes with rope belts. Franciscan?

But on to Maryland. As I left Cumberland, I saw that it was snowing. I should have stayed in the best B&B ever, but I was mesmerized by the beckoning of my road trip. Hit I- something. I should know this, but what the heck, I get there (where?) just fine. The weather was just spectacular in an odd kind of way. The trees were coated in ice, it was snowing, and the sun shone particularly brightly and yellow-y from between patches of mist and fog and who knows what. It was also windy. The altitude was high, and the road windey (I guess that's how you say it, not windy as that means something else altogether, although true in these particular circumstances).

Woody's lights appear to work just fine. His windshield wipers have a mind of their own. Daryl put silicone on the windshield and that alone rebuffed most of the rain. When it was somewhat worse I patted around and under the dash to find the switch for the wipers. I neglected to note in advance where it was (I had pledge not to drive in the rain and at night), and didn't want to yank off one of the Bakelite knobs, having broken off the triangular windows handle already, not to mention pull the choke or hood lock by mistake.  Finally I held my breath and gave the scalloped knob at the base of the radio antenna in the middle of the dash a twist. Success! However, the speed at which they went or didn't went (okay, didn't go) was completely determined by the car. At times, it seemed like Woody was prescient. The wipers went fast when needed, and stuck when the rain let up.

The common sign in this stretch contains two animal silhouettes, a buck and a bear. Deer I get. Bears I don't. The sign reads:

I think they mean it will run into the road and kill you, but it could mean just take a look.

There was a beautiful white barn with rather modern quilt blocks (I think), painted on the side. Hit Stewartt County. The sign has a mountain on it, as well as a sailboat. Great. More twisties. Also one of those digital signs on the side of the road that said HEAVY FOG AHEAD. I figured that, as I couldn't see the trucks 50 feet ahead of me.

There was also an 8% grade. It was steep. I checked out exactly what this means. Wikipedia gives you all the math behind this definition. It has diagrams and Greek letters. I finally did the calculations (I hope I'm correct), and the 8% means 422 feet of decline over 1 mile. This is a lot.

I forgot to mention some more interesting sights from Route 30. First there was a hay bale lady. She was made from the big honkin cylindrical bales, not the little square ones. One was set with the whirly  part down, and the other was on top of it, the other way, so that there was a flat surface for a face. She had a green scarf on her head and a red dress. I suppose that's sort of Christmas, but what the heck, maybe Valentine's Day. Oh, and in between is Chinese New Year, and it is auspicious to wear red.

Then the jackpot! Plumbing man! He was about 18 feet tall, made of pipes and elbow joints and such, and painted bright colors. Almost as good as a muffler man!

I have been trying out various systems for carrying my considerable load of cables for the electronic devices:

• Phone (now that I've found it)
• XM boombox
• Portable XM receiver 
• iPad
• Macbook Air
• Videocam (although it is currently missing)
• USBs of several varieties to transfer files, including photos and videos (none of those today)

I also pack a power strip as it would be a blue moon if I ever had a room with that many outlets. Besides, I am likely to lose the various cables. As you can tell, I lose a lot of stuff. The power strip has one of those huge cords.  It's a pain in the ass to fold up and tuck in somewhere. I was first very organized; I put all the cables in a fetching light-weight tote that the Cheshire Hunt puts local products (honey, chocolate, preserves, biscotti, some kind of breakfast bread that I gave my ex because I was going away, and I don't remember what else) in to thank landowners for allowing the horses to go through their properties. I have four acres, mostly woods. They are never, ever going to chase a fox in my direction. Maybe that's why I occasionally have foxes.

Anyhow, I drag the tote into each room in which I stay. Two nights ago I had a brilliant idea. Why don't I keep all the cables plugged into the powerstrip, roll the whole thing up and then just unroll it at the next stop.  This is what happened:

I drove from Gettysburg out west on Route 30, Lincoln Highway (but not really a highway; it's two lanes). It was one of the most rewarding stretches of americana. Unfortunately, the weather sucked and I didn't stop for stuff I should have. I passed:

• A weathered old barn with Totem Antiques fading on the side, with tons of great junk peeking out of the snow
• Thaddeus something-or-other's blacksmithy
• Hundreds of six inch red paper hearts hanging from the lower boughs of six very large flat-leafed evergreens
• A beautiful brick barn with candy-striped silo roof

Start, for one.

I couldn't make up my mind whether (weather?) to stay in Gettysburg an extra night. This is not the purpose of running away. I stressed all night about the two feet of snow that seemed to be making a beeline toward me and any place I was thinking of going. Checkout is at 11. I woke at eight, looked out the window and didn't see anything coming yet. Assuming it was yet to come, and ice would be everywhere, I went back to sleep. At 10:30, I decided to stay for another night. One problem. I rang and rang and rang the front desk. It cuts you off at about 72 rings and no answer. I did this three times. Finally I said the fuck with it, got dressed and went to the desk myself. The lovely host was standing right there, with no guests in sight. As they say, I could get my job done if it weren't for all these customers.

So. I was in Gettysburg for the day. I went to find a coffee shop. None. Except the one with the giant coffee cup hanging in front of its window. Aha!, a place to sip and nose around etsy and generally do nothing. Maybe some needlepoint (yes, once again, I needlepoint; what of it?). The place was condemned. I mean really condemned with the bright yellow hazardous sign. Back to the hotel.

It didn't seem too bad out after all. I'll make a run for it. It being unknown. At 11:30, it was as warm as it was going to get, and since it gets dark after five, and Woody doesn't like driving at night, I figured I had a nice 3 or so hour drive, counting lunch, fuel, and bathroom breaks. I stopped for the latter and, using my map (they still make them), asked the convenience store clerk how to get to I-68. You don't want to go that way. She didn't know where I wanted to go. Her finger traced the map and said "Here's 86." No, it says 68. No, she said, 86. The nice lady prowling the Little Debbie's whispered "take 70 south to 68." Perfect. Here is the guy at the pump who asked about Woody. Remember, everyone who asks gets their picture taken unless I forget.


Okay, back to things Woody won't do, including start.

Driving without turn signals is like bicycling in Hanoi. You just have to hold your breath and hope nobody's gonna kill ya. I have tried the proper hand signals, but no one gets it. Plus, its nearly impossible to downshift, turn with no power steering, open the window and stick your arm out. My window won't reliably close anymore. Woody isn't polite. He is very pushy.

I also no longer have reliable locks. Sometimes I can lock them, but not unlock them. I'm keeping one of the back doors unlatched so I can climb over the front seat. Brad is taking a beating. I need some WD-40. At this point I truly don't give a shit if anybody steals all my stuff. If they can figure out how to drive the car, I say good for them and godspeed.

The damn XM boombox isn't working again. There is reception, the little radio thingy showed the songs playing, but no noise. This was getting to be a boring trip and I was desperate for music. I found that the rubbery case on my iPhone keeps it from slipping off the dashboard. Woody's dash is about 6 inches deep and sloped. I opened the ashtray (one of two) on the top of the dash, and propped the iPhone against the Bakelite. Not very loud, but okay.  As I was fooling with this I noticed the Welcome to Allegheny County.  Shit. Allegheny as in Allegheny mountains. I'm on the top of a curving pass with fog rolling in all around me. Semis were doing 40. There are runaway truck areas. Woody coughed. I figured it was the altitude.

Since I needed to continue my bathroom tour of the country, I pulled up at The Rocky Gap (national?) Park. Very nice, clean bathrooms. Four stars. I went back to Woody. He absolutely wouldn't start. I began walking to what seemed like a very nice lodge, and after two minutes decided that I'd be a lot warmer in the car calling triple A. Did just that. I was 3:22. AAA assured me that they'd be there before 4:22. And they were. 4:21. I was pretty sure that I was out of gas. Not my fault, as you know, it's genetic. On the Mountain Mille last fall in my street rod, I ran out of gas coming down a mountain. Again, not my fault. I usually fill up at rally check points, but there were no service stations there. It was almost impossible to see due to the insane fog/mist/whatever. I was also the last car in the group, as I was happy to let the Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborginis and Maseratis go ahead. There was supposed to be a sweep but even they were too frustrated to wait behind me. Long story short, I coasted 4 1/2 miles (no exaggeration) with no gas and no brakes (forgot to mention that). Second gear is pretty good for holding the car in, but there were times you just had to let her rip because you have to build up momentum to get across the flat parts. The road tee-d at Route 66. I asked my navigator if she felt lucky and blew the sign, rolled about 100 yards, and ended up in front of the pump. I'm her hero. Lots of Deliverance moments on West Virginia that trip, but you'll hear about that some other time.

So. Up comes the flatbed. Please, god, let it just be fuel. This is Jimmy (or Billy, I can't remember which, but I do know he's a volunteer firefighter because his hoody said so):
God bless this man. He put the fuel in and then stayed with me for what seemed like half an hour (come to think of it, it probably was half an hour), choking and letting it sit. Pumping and letting it sit. Half choking while hitting the starter. Finally, Woody woke up. Just like a dirt bike, said Jimmy (or Billy).  Indeed, Woody hit the road running to the next gas station. At which point he rolled over and played dead again. Luckily Jimmy (or Billy) was there. We went through the drill. No luck. I found coolant splashing around in the engine compartment, but it wasn't coming from any particular hose that I could find. Jimmy/Billy had one of those starter boxes. Didn't work. Guy brought spray ether. Nothing. Jumped from big truck. Nothing, but Jimmy/Billy's truck then needed at jump. Called Daryl, the guy who checked it out for me. The coolant was probably just overflow. He asked if I had the switch on. Uh, no. Woody started immediately. I swear it wan't my fault. It's genetic. Guy at next pump over wanted to buy the car. I wasn't even tempted.

Items lost today:

• Slippers
• Videocam

Item found:

• Phone

Today I drove on Lincoln Highway, Independence Freeway (free being the operative, as I just left Gettysburg), and saw a Liberty gas station. I am now in bed in the Washington room. It does, in fact, have a picture of George Washington on the wall, but he never slept here. I found the Bruce House via Google. Its sign has a flag on it.

Cumberland MD is an odd sort of town. It feels very desolate, an old steel town falling into decrepitude. Except it's not. Perhaps it is the winter.

While having car issues, my innkeeper called me to make sure I was alright. I love her. I am parked across the street in a church yard. In two square blocks there are five churches, Presbyterian and Lutheran among them. I don't know if I ever caught the other ones, but one down the street a bit has a beautiful, but very loud, bell.

This is what awaited me:


I am the only one staying in this incredible house. I am a big, big bath person (I almost had a heart attack when I moved into a house with only showers; I had to put an addition on just for my bathtub-- okay, I needed a place for my shoes, too). Anyhow, the bathroom here is huge and has hardwood floors, just the way I like it.

Today I'm off! I had a slip from the post office for a signature required parcel. I was hoping it was my imaginary boyfriend. I had to go across the street to Stolfutz's (hardware and agricultural equipment store) to get a water pump wrench (the big honkin' kind) and a small gas can (see previous posts). Back to the post office: the box was the right size and shape-- flat. Slowly, I opened it. He was covered in opaque plastic (garbage bags). Yowza-- he's one sexy dude.  This is Brad.



Even after packing Woody with all my stuff, including the Girl Scout cookies, it took until 11:30 to get everything checked out. This is Josh and Daryl, auto restorers extraordinaire.








This is me and Woody:


Well, about half an hour in, I stopped at the Gap diner for lunch.  It has another name, I don't know what, but we just call it the Gap diner. Gap is a place. It is next to Paradise, Intercourse, and Bird-In-Hand. The lunch special was chicken corn soup and grilled cheese for 5 bucks. You would not believe how good the sandwich was, with puffy white bread fried in butter. The soup is the usual in these parts.


In the parking lot I had my first encounter with mutual travelers. Here are the truckers at Gap. I told them my policy is that if they take Woody's picture, they have to let me take theirs. They are going to Coco Beach after Boston.

I went back about half a mile to the Tower Cheese Shop which is named after the clock tower, duh, in which it is located, and turned right. This way avoids most of the Route 30 outlet mall traffic. I have driven this many, many times and never stopped at the railroad museum. This is the bus entrance. The parking lot has not been plowed, so I presume that the museum is not open. Here's a few huge trains. They are black. That's all I know.


Not too far from here is the Amazing Maize Maze. "The Original and Still the Best... Getting People Lost Since 1993". It has been an annual tradition for us, even after we got divorced. We did ride the choo choo from there to the museum and back. We didn't get off. Also, there is punkin' chunkin' (yes, should be chucking, but it's not). The kids use slingshots. I do it too. It's fun.


Delaware has the world's most important punkin' chunkin' competition. Grown men devise catapaults, cannons, and monster trucks to hurl pumpkins across a field. The world record was set in 2008: 4,483.51 feet.  Spectator tickets are $9, children under 10 free. You can drink alcohol. Adds to the ambiance, sorta like NASCAR. The website counts down to the next competition. It's 276 days, 13 hours, 18 minutes, and 32 seconds until the first chunk. There are whole pages detailing the founding of the event, forums, and applications on the  World Chamption Punkin Chunkin' site.  Here is their anthem:

It was the end of October, the beginning of November.
The air was cold and clear and I said, Boys listen here,
I think I can make a punkin fly.
John said, Cannot. I said, Can too.
So we put that punkin in a bucket, swung around, away it flew.
John said, No fair. We said, Hell, it's in the air.
So the challenge was made and the gauntlet was laid
To build a machine to power a punkin through the air.
John said, Springs are the way to go. Bill said, I don't believe so.
It's Punkin Chunkin time again.
Come on, all you neighbors and friends.
I'll show you how to make a punkin fly ... rain, snow or blow.
Them punkins are gonna go!

Here are Alex'sPictures. I don't know Alex. She takes pictures. So do Mary, Mike, Tom and Tom G. It's a cozy group.


Anyhow, after leaving Strasbourg, I got caught in the miles of outlet malls. It was at that point that I abandoned the smaller roads. Hit the highway. Needed to pee so got off at a McDonald's exit. The place was about 3 miles from the highway, so I kept on driving on that road. I ended up going through York, another place I've gone by a million times and never gone into. Not missing much but Maple Donuts, the hoppingist donut place I've ever seen. There's a big sign in the window: Faschnaut. These are special donuts for Lent (and whenever you want them that they have them). Apparently I had hit the hotbed of Faschnauts. I wish I had stopped.


I was getting the hell out of dodge, and couldn't bear another bought of shifting on the three on the tree. Speaking of shifting, I always hated getting out of first in my midlife crisis sports car. I'd roll up to a stop, hoping either the light would turn or no one was coming. Woody is only three speed (five if you count reverse and coast), and he takes a bit of time to get to third. Third is really the only gear for driving, the rest is foreplay. You do need second, though to go up or down mountains. I found this out the hard way, with smoke billowing out from beneath the hood. Here is my fully equipped dash. Note GPS and video cam.  You can't see my XM boombox, but it seems to be pretty good with my 70's on 7.


The pain in the ass two lane road had about 500 stop lights, but I was committed to my route.  I seriously thought about rethinking my plan of only going on the  roads that are red or gray on the map. Maybe it'll be different in the south. If I hadn't have gone that way, though, I would've missed the Mobility By Design store. It had a red leather recliner on a large plank in front of it. Cleopatra theme?


At last, I see Gettysburg. It's early (3:30), but I don't want to drive in the dark. Took a room in the nicest hotel in town, The Gettysburg Hotel. The sign says since 1797, but I can find nothing from 1797, or even 1897. 1997?  I asked for the cheapest room possible. $79, but next to the elevator. It's okay because I'm a chronic insomniac and take pills for it. I spent 10 years of my marriage sleeping, sort of, on the sofa. The room has practically no light, so I am blogging from the only somewhat dim Tavern. I'm drinking a local beer that is called something like Google. I'll have to Google it.


I hadn't been to the Gettysburg Battlefield Visitor's Center since it had been redone. It's terrific and LEED certified. I was also the only one there. It was 3:30 on a January afternoon. 


The cyclorama is the best part. It's this amazing 360 degree painting of Pickett's Charge. As I watched the enhanced version with narration, I was sure that it was a scrim that faded away, revealing actual figurines. It's not. It's amazing. I asked the docent about how day do dat. Apparently Paul Phillppoteax, a somewhat notable artist at the time, 1883, did four copies of this thing, each about 20 feet tall. This is the only surviving one. There is some sort of bend in the middle of the painting, his secret sauce. Apparently, this has something to do with the suspension at the top and weights at the bottom. It started out flat and was shipped from Paris. Some of the figures are of real guys, the artist included. I walked the fields with the Trail Club about 10 years ago, and the cyclorama looks just like the battle was described.




Email to my ex-husband re phone: I think I lost it again. Had it in Strasbourg. Went to bathroom in some McDonalds. Went to bathroom in Lancaster. Got gas, went to bathroom. Went to Gettysburg Visitor's Center. Went to bathroom. I'm going to have to retrace all my bathrooms!