In honor of the last week’s Independence Weekend, I’d like to jump ahead in time and geography to Stanton, MO, where we’ll find what claims for 200 miles preceding to be “America’s Favorite Cave.” I was drawn to the site primarily by an incessant, completely crazed advertising campaign carried out on I-44, which was once Route 66.

Some of the roadside signs, like the one above, are older and anchored on the walls and rooftops of barns or other buildings.  As you can see from the barn, one important draw for the caverns is their purported use as a “Jesse James Hideout” back in the days of armed train robberies.

Other signs advertised the Meramec Caverns Restaurant, the Meramec Caverns Motel, the Meramec Caverns canoe and raft rentals, the Meramec Caverns boat tours, the Meramec Caverns free parking lot and the Meramec Caverns campsites.

Each sign and reference and attraction gave me a new reason to pull off of the highway, so when the sun began to set just as I approached the Stanton, MO exit, I decided immediately to pull a sharp right and pray for a vacancy at the Meramec Caverns Motel.

I drove through a short stretch of national park before the narrow road opened up into a giant parking lot filled with school buses and canoe trailers.  On my right was a turn off up a small hill to the motel and on my left were a smattering of campsites, RVs and pick-up trucks blasting music and having barbecues.  

Above the overcast parking lot a blob of dark clouds began to swirl and expand, and a lot of cars began to pull nervously out.  It seemed we might soon be facing a hurricane-tornado-electric storm scenario, so I figured I should get down into the caves stat.  I drove up the hill to the motel first and had no problem checking in.  The older woman behind the desk chatted with me about my travels and, winking through her granny glasses, told me, “Now I don’t want you to worry sweetheart, we’ve got security here all night so there won’t be any problems now.  Take care baby.”

Feeling more nervous about my stay at the Meramec Motel than I’d been before that statement, I jogged through the drizzle across the parking lot to try to make the last tour of the day.  It turned out I had about 20 minutes to kill so I wandered around in the gift shop for a while.

Despite the excessive number of museums, truck stops, gift shops and souvenir stores I’ve been to in the past couple months, I don’t feel out of line characterizing the Meramec Caverns Gift Shop as the most insane place I’ve been to.

Most items had nothing to do with either the caverns, Jesse James, the surrounding area, or any time periods discussed on the tour.  There were a huge number of items for the home, like this sailboat sign, even though the only body of water near Meramec Caverns is a river, and there’s no sailing on it, only canoeing.

Since there is canoeing, maybe this sign is a little more relevant:

Maybe.  Then again none of these seem to say anything about the caverns themselves, so we should check out that stuff probably.

And finally, my genre-defying favorite:

Throughout it all, a nervous bat hung from the ceiling trying to blend in.

When our tour was finally called, I went to the back of the visitor’s center towards the entrance of the caves.  Our tour group consisted of a family of five that had just gone swimming and were still wearing their suits, a man in his late thirties in a trucker hat, and me.  Our guide was a young rail of a man who gave us a full force tour performance, complete with long pauses for laughter as his jokes echoed awkwardly over the heads of our small group.

Our first stop was an old shack that used to be used my moonshiners.  Curators of the caves found the shack in a nearby hillside and transplanted it into the cave’s entrance. 

Adding a lifesize moonshiner for ambiance.

Next we saw the “Ballroom,” a giant open area in the caves where residents used to hold square dances or perform plays, now used mostly for gospel performances, Easter sermons and the Caveman Classic Bodybuilding Contest.

Musty smelling red and white folding chairs lined the “room” and a disco ball hung from the “ceiling.”  We all nodded solemnly as our guide explained the process for renting out the space and then moved further into the darkness.  

Next up was a drafty spot where someone named Art Linkletter sent a couple to “honeymoon” in the 1950s as part of a show called “People Are Funny.”  After staying there in caveman outfits for 10 days, they were sent to Hawaii for being good sports.

As we wound through the lower levels of the cave we saw some really cool stuff: caverns, stalagmites, stalactites, etc.

The three little girls on the tour all tried to take pictures of the darkness without flash (so as not to disturb the bats… shudder), their damp mother joylessly grilled the tour guide asking whether the government had come in yet to make sure everything was being preserved properly, and me and the thirtysomething man decided together which rock formations were the coolest and scientifically tested the sturdiness of the railings along the path.

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Along the way — – — — - — – — – — – — – — – — – — - — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – - —- — —————————————————————————————————————————

Along the way we saw one of the biggest stalagmites (or maybe it was a stalactite?) in the the world, which from certain angles just looks like Jabba the Hutt.  

———–

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We also saw a site where they filmed an episode of Lassie:

Along the path you could actually see a couple wheel marks from where they were rolling equipment around for the filming, which is pretty cool.

Another crowd pleaser was the history of Jesse James’ gang, told to us next to a lifesize representation of one of their heists:

Legend has it that in the 1870s Jesse and his gang would hide guns, loot and horses in the cave and ended up hiding in the caves themselves for three days straight after the Gads Hill Train Robbery (during which the James-Younger gang allegedly checked all the train passengers’ hands to make sure they weren’t robbing any working men).  An excited Sheriff thought he’d caught them when he staked out the entrance, but the ever-ingenious Jesse found another way out.

A similar statue marks the entrance to the visitors center:

Our final stop was a rock formation called “The Stage Curtain” because it looks like a stage, complete with curtain, orchestra pit and balcony.

Our guide told us to grab a seat on some wet mesh benches, so the mother of three grumpily wrapped her towel tighter around her as her kids scattered and me and the other loner found seats higher in the stands.  We knew we were nearing the end of our long, chilly walkabout, but none of us knew what our guide was talking about as he prepared us for a “finale performance” on the “stage,” which we knew to be an immobile piece of stone.  As the lights dimmed and the orchestra music began to swell, I realized this might be a good time to get out my camera.

The lights were done live by our tour guide at his podium (at certain points you can here him frantically pushing buttons and pulling levers) and God Bless America was sung by Kate Smith, although a friend suggested it sounds a lot like Ethel Merman, and I think I have to agree.

Ethel Merman

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Kate Smith (with Dean Martin and a little bit of Lucille Ball)

By the time the tour was over, the rain had stopped and the sun was down, so I strolled through the campsites up the hill back to my motel and went to bed.  At about 10:30pm I heard a man arguing loudly with his wife a few rooms down from me.  Unfortunately that’s not an irregular event in the world of cheap motels, so when I heard the security guard knocking on their door I rolled over and went to sleep.  I was awakened circa 11:30pm by yelling outside in the other direction.  The woman’s voice was different now and sounded like the older woman who had checked me in earlier in the evening.  The man’s low, angry mumbles were the same though.  I couldn’t here what he was saying, but the conversation seemed to go like this:

Mumbling Man: ::mumble MUMBLE mumble::

Loud Old Lady: Oh so you’re gonna use THAT word?  Why are you gonna go and use THAT word?!  

Mumbling Man: ::mumble mumble::

Loud Old Lady: OK WELL FINE IF YOU’RE GONNA US THAT F***ING WORD MOTHERF***ER THAN WE’LL F***ING USE IT.  YOU CAN GET THE F*** OUT OF HERE MOTHERF***ER JUST GET BACK IN YOUR MOTHERF***ING CAR AND TURN THE F***AROUND OUT OF HERE MOTHERF***ER

Mumbling Man: ::mumble::

Loud Old Lady: YEAH THAT’S F***ING RIGHT MOTHERF***ER GET THE F*** OUT OF HERE.

And scene.

The next morning I went to the office to check out and she was still working.  ”Have a good sleep sweetie? Are you gonna go on the steamboat ride today maybe?”

“Good morning, um, well maybe, I haven’t decid-”

“Oh you’ve got to, baby, it’s the perfect morning for it.  Don’t forget to grab some coffee from the restaurant, now take care honey and drive safe now.”

Loretta Lynn.  Patty Loveless.  The Judds.  Billy Ray Cyrus.  Miley Cyrus.  Aside from illustrious music careers, what do they all have in common?

They were all born, or at some time lived, in an eight-county stretch of Kentucky split down the middle by US 23.  I think Loretta Lynn (shown above with Conway Twitty) was probably pretty surprised when Kentucky came to her 10 years ago or so and said they were going to designate that stretch of road the “Country Music Highway” and line it with huge kitschy truck stops, tiny museums and shops selling guitar-shaped rearview mirror air fresheners.

I’m not sure what I expected from the Country Music Highway, but it wasn’t this.  Not to say that I was disappointed!  Not at all, just that the highway defies easy categorization. Let’s take it from the top.

Ashland, KY

Following a sleepless night in a dirty, disturbing Charleston, WV hotel with a misleading name, I loaded up on free coffee at sunrise and rolled west towards the Kentucky border and the start of my country music odyssey: Ashland.

As I approached the Ohio River, the landscape along the side of the road began changing.  Where West Virginia was all rolling hills and plush greenery generously sprinkled with velvety wildflowers, Kentucky was all thick, jaggedly cut layers of reddish-gray rock topped with straw-like flower bushes towering over short scrappy grass.  The Kentucky countryside clearly did not take to road building without a fight.

When I finally crossed the border I was in sleepy high spirits, so I sped eagerly through one of the Technicolor bridges over the river and pulled right into the Starbucks across the street.  With an overstuffed bag hanging from one elbow, a change-spewing broken wallet in one hand and sunglasses clutched sweatily in the other, I stumbled up to the counter and, in the interest of speed and caffeine content, ordered a double shot of espresso.

The barista smiled and shouted over his shoulder, “Sean.  Doppio.”  He looked down as he rung me up.  “So.  Youuuu are not from around here, are you.”

“No….” I smiled nervously.  “Why, is it obvious?”

“Believe it or not, double espresso is not a very common order around here.”

I apologized for no reason and probably blushed, feeling like a snob from the Northeast before another barista came over and shoved the one talking to me, saying, “Shut up Steve, whatever, I love espresso, don’t listen to him.”

“No! No, I’m not making fun, it’s just- right?  Sean?  Not many people order a doppio from around here right?” he said, jumping back to avoid another shove.  “Angela’s attacking me- but right?”

“YEAH.  BUT THAT’S GOOD,” Sean shouted from the drive thru window.

“Espresso?” I asked, no longer really a part of the conversation.

“No,” said the first barista.  “He means it’s good to not be from around here.”

Coal Country

I downed the coffee and hit the road, first passing the Paramount Arts Center on my right.

Originally built as a silent movie theater in 1931, it’s since served as a famous country music venue, and had a starring role in the video for Billy Ray Cyrus’ Achy Breaky Heart:

Beautiful.

From here I headed further south on US 23 and passed some huge coal fields on the way.  The eastern area of Kentucky is home to some of the most productive coal fields in the country.  West Virginia actually mines even more coal, but I passed through West Virginian coal country at night, so I mostly missed it.  Here’s the thing though:  according to some statistics from 2000 or so, West Virginia has almost 19,000 coal miners to Kentucky’s 13,000 and pays out $1.2 billion in annual wages to Kentucky’s $720 million.  BUT.  Coal mining in West Virginia’s coal-producing counties only accounts for 6% of total employment and 10% of total earnings.  Coal mining in Kentucky’s coal-producing counties, on the other hand, accounts for almost 14% of total employment and almost 19% of total earnings.  These numbers don’t even take into account jobs and businesses that are highly dependent on coal mining or miners.  Kentucky Coal Education argues that three jobs are created for every one coal miner job.

As time has gone by, mining has gotten more and more aggressive and environmentally destructive.  Even Southern Republicans are horrified.  Apparently at this point some companies are just, you know, blowing up the Appalachian mountains to scoop out what’s inside.  Nobody is pleased by this.

My understanding of coal mining comes mostly from terrifying cave-in stories and, of course, Coal Miner’s Daughter.  Which brings us to my major interest in this strip of black and dusty Appalachia:

Loretta Lynn

Loretta Lynn is one tough lady.  If you haven’t seen the movie yet, go watch it now.  Remember that part when she makes pie with salt instead of sugar?  Hilarious!

My quest for Butcher Hollow took me first to the “entrance” to the Country Music Highway, a huge truck stop elaborately decorated on the outside and infused with historical items, like famous outfits once worn by Patty Loveless, glittery cowboy hats and colorful country-music-themed merchandise.

From here I drove down the road blasting local country radio until I hit the Country Music Highway Museum, where I skipped the expensive museum admission and instead enjoyed the gift shop (an entire wall dedicated to Hannah Montana!) and the ballroom (hand painted portraits of the area’s biggest stars hanging near the ceiling like high school basketball championship banners!).

After signing the guest book, I laid out a map and figured out my ultimate destination: Van Lear, KY.  I wound around a lot of empty two-lane highways and narrow backroads and several times missed the small blue signs pointing me to “Loretta Lynn Birthplace.”

The roads in Van Lear were only JUST wide enough for one car at a time, the grades were steep, and the buildings were small.

I parked in front of the Post Office and wandered up the hill to the Van Lear Historical Society, where there were supposed to be tours of Butcher Hollow.

The Historical Society appeared to be closed, potentially abandoned, but when I peeked into the window I saw a sign saying tours could be arranged through Icky’s.

I wondered what Icky’s could be, so I circled the building looking for any clues. In the southeastern corner of the building I found Icky’s:

But it was also closed.  Discouraged, I wandered the dirt paths throughout town and didn’t see a single person - or a single clue that Loretta Lynn had ever been there - the entire afternoon.  I suspect I got lost.

But really, what could I have expected.  Butcher Hollow isn’t Dollywood, and it never will be.  Wandering Van Lear was actually a perfect conclusion to the Country Music Highway experience.  The area wants to provide an authentic journey to the past, but it can’t quite deliver.  Aware of this, it instead, or simultaneously, tries to entertain travelers with ridiculousness, but its kitsch factor never quite hits the necessary sillyness levels.  So the whole drive you’re caught somewhere between Graceland and Colonial Williamsburg.  Or between Area 51 and Las Vegas.  Something.  I’m just mad I didn’t get a chance to see any performances.

Even though I didn’t get to meet Loretta or see the dance hall where she met her husband, I still think the trip was worthwhile.   I got a button with her picture on it and a new appreciation for the remoteness of Butcher Hollow, so really my major Country Music Highway goals were all met.

]]> http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/07/01/us-23-country-music-highway/feed/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/searching-for-west-virginia/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/searching-for-west-virginia/#comments Wed, 25 Jun 2008 19:26:39 +0000 ithinkitllbefine http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/?p=105

Along with discussing driving, weather, bike clubs and The View at the Hermitage, we also talked a little bit about West Virginia.  The bikers were just passing through on their way north for Memorial Day weekend, so none of us had really spent any significant amount of time in the state before.  One woman asked a question that I think a lot people in the United States might ask about West Virginia: “I mean, we’re driving through these little towns, there are like two streets, I don’t see any companies or anything- what do these people do??”

I found three examples (four if you count “run the Hermitage Inn”) that provide an interesting, and possibly surprising, cross section.

What do people DO in West Virginia?

Activity 1:  Hang out in national parks beneath unbelievably blue skies and picturesque mountainsides.

While some American teens might flirt out of car windows in front of the Dairy Queen or blast Nickelback while driving slowly down main street, this scene in eastern West Virginia has been transplanted to more natural surroundings.  I was passing a little rest area in the park when I heard the unmistakable whine of “Rock Star” calling me through the trees.  Compelled to follow, I turned in to find a completely full parking lot.  At first I thought it was one big family reunion or party, but after awkwardly hanging on the outskirts of different groups and eavesdropping for a while, I realized this was not the case.  One side of the parking lot held teens leaning on cars trying to impress each other, another end had younger kids skateboarding badly, down by the water was a young couple holding their water-winged toddler’s hands as she waded suspiciously into the creek, and up by the picnic tables there were three different families having cookouts.

I sidled up to one group by the picnic tables, and they ended up showing me one of the rest area’s main attractions.  Feeling shy about asking to take video, I decided instead to record them in secret:

Ethically questionable?  Yes.  The song was “Slewfoot” by The Half Bad Bluegrass Band.

Activity 2: Golf, make wine, and work maybe two days a week.

The man who owns the West-Whitehill Winery was my Week 3 New Friend of the Week.  (What ever happened to those weekly recaps anyway?)  An update on the West-Whitehill Winery story is that I had the four bottles of wine that I bought in a box in my car until I recently realized, “You know, now that I think about it, that car gets pretty hot, and I’m pretty sure that’s not very good for wine.”  Basically, I’ve been boiling my West Virginian wine on a daily basis for the past few weeks, so I’ll let you know when I find out what that does to a nice white.

Activity 3: Unlock the secrets of the universe.

I was driving on an otherwise long-empty road through West Virginia’s mountains, when my radio began to fuzz out, and my cell phone lost all service.  I tried changing the station to get music back, but everything was static.  It was then that I rounded a corner and suddenly came face to face with a massive, creepy steel structure trying to fade nonchalantly into the hillsides and wildflowers surrounding it.

(Not my photo, but this person’s pictures were so cool.  And check it out - this is where I am now!)

Awkward, right?  What are you doing there satellite dish?  I can see you, you’re not fooling anyone, and you’ve made me really nervous.  I followed the road until it brought me to the Green Bank Radio Astronomy Observatory.

It turns out that giant thing is the largest fully steerable radio telescope in the world.  Just, you know, plopped in the hillsides of West Virginia, much as you might expect.  In case the scale hasn’t come off in the picture, here are the facts about the Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope:

Apparently the GBT is so sensitive that cell phone signals, AM and FM radio waves, digital cameras and even someone using a microwave miles away can distort its readings.  That’s why they’ve designated the entire area a “radio quiet zone” and shut down all the signals they can control.  Even modern day car engines are a problem, so to get around the massive observatory campus, resident scientists use these ragged baby blue diesel vehicles. (Some look like hearses?)

These days the GBT and its smaller fellow telescopes are making all kinds of great discoveries about things like pulsars in star clusters, water in lunar craters and cold sugar in space.

EVEN BETTER: The Green Bank observatory was originally set up as part of the SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) Institute, so while none of the telescopes are conducting work for SETI anymore, this means that at some point in our history there were a group of scientists huddled in the mountains of West Virginia driving baby blue hearses around and keeping an eye out day and night for signs of alien life.

Figuring that most people would try to hit the beach on Memorial Day Weekend, I decided to head for the mountains and avoid the crowds and traffic.  From Pennsylvania, my best bet looked like Seneca Rocks National Recreation Area, home to Spruce Knob, the highest peak in West Virginia, and, not surprisingly, also home to Seneca Rocks.  Seneca Rocks is a crazy set of Rock formations that seem to shoot up from the hillside (beautiful photo courtesy of Ronald Hilton):

There’s also a great legend attached to them:

The Betrothal of Snow Bird, Princess of the Seneca Indians

The only daughter of chief Bald Eagle and his wife, White Rock, was Snow Bird, the most beautiful of all the maidens of the Senecas….  When the day arrived to choose a mate, seven young warriors, all suitors for the hand of the Seneca princess, assembled in an open space and arranged themselves in a semi-circle facing the mighty rocks…. [Princess Snow Bird] lifted her hand and silence fell upon the assembled.

“As a little girl, I watched yonder rocks push their rugged summits into the heavens, and many times I longed to be able to climb to their topmost crags.  There have I spent the happiest, the most enjoyable days of my life.  Of all the Seneca Indians, I am the only one who has accomplished the feat.  One day, about a moon past, I decided upon a contest, a trial of bravery and endurance.  You will soon engage in this contest, and to the successful one of you, I will give my hand, my heart and my life.”

Princess Snow Bird set out on the journey, followed by the seven braves.  Upward they climbed, the sure-footed maiden always leading.  As the climb became more and more difficult, five of the seven turned back…  The two that remained followed closely in the footsteps of the maiden.  Finally, with renewed determination, they set out on the last and most dangerous stretch of the journey, the maiden as always in the lead.  At last she reached the summit and turned to look for her most persistent suitor.  He was only a few feet below her.  In this moment of waiting, his foot slipped on the ledge of the rock.  The maiden hesitated for a fraction of a second [and then] with the alertness and strength of her young arms, she caught the falling brave and drew him to safety and to herself.  Long they sat together talking of their future, and then as darkness approached, the two lovers descended by the trail at the rear of the gigantic rocks, … and the great chief conferred upon his newfound son-in-law the authority to become his successor as chief of the tribe.

In addition to the Seneca Rocks themselves, there are other similar formations all over the area, they just jump out at you as you round corners.

Knowing that I’d be spending the next day wandering the park, my goal was to reach Petersburg, WV for the night.  Petersburg turned out to be squished right in the middle of a mountain range, though, which made for a couple hours of pitch black, nerve-wracking twisty roads up and down mountain-sides.  There was no barrier separating the road from the valley, and I’m sure if it had been daytime I’d probably have been too nervous to drive.  When I got into Petersburg, population 2700, I right away found the Hermitage Motor Inn, which had a vacancy that I snapped up.

Built sometime before 1841 (before West Virginia was even a state!), the inn served as a private home until it was seized during the Civil War to house Federal Troops.

Since then, the inn has been known alternatively as the Cunningham Hotel and the Taylor House, and in 1904 two (possibly drunk?) guests found some paint and in the middle of the night repainted the sign to say “The Hermitage,” which they thought had a more high-falutin’ sound to it.

The Hermitage was gorgeous inside, and after weeks of sleeping mostly in whatever Motel 6 I could find, I flipped for the wood panel interior.

As I drifted off to sleep, I watched a local broadcast show about a West Virginian couple that travels around the country in cowboy boots.  I immediately began dreaming that I was driving down a road with a blindfold on that I couldn’t take off because my hands were stuck to the wheel.  Unable to see anything and feeling an increasing sense of impending danger, I then realized there was something growling at me from the darkness.  A monster?  Bears?  The growling got louder and louder until it was a full on ROAR and I shot up in bed, very awake and a bit sweaty.  I established that it was just a nightmare, but then I realized I could still. hear. roaring.  Sleepily disoriented and a little terrified, I peeked out the window and saw about 10 motorcyclists situating themselves below my window and talking loudly.  Feeling relieved and silly, I crashed back into bed and passed out.

The next morning I stumbled into the office for a complimentary breakfast and found four middle aged ladies decked out in studded leather and denim chatting over mini muffins.  I grabbed my standard complimentary breakfast (three tiny styrofoam cups of coffee, one apple and a bowl of fruit loops), and sat down at their table, uninvited as always.  Soon a very tall middle aged man dressed completely in light colored denim joined us and we all bonded over the upsetting drive we had to take the night before.

“I mean, I was in a car and I was pretty nervous, so I don’t even know how you all made that drive,” I said.

“Oh it was a blast if you know what you’re doing, but if you’re a newbie, the signs alone will scare the crap out of you.”

“Are you talking about-”

“Yeah, she did ok though.  Those signs are the scariest part if you don’t know what you’re doing.  I don’t even believe them, no way it was that much of a grade.”

“Oh sure, but it’ll scare you enough to wipe out for no reason.”

“See, that’s why it takes so long to join my club,” added the man.  “We ride two by two, so you gotta know that the guy next to you is gonna sacrifice himself before he lets his own mistake wipe you out.  That’s why I ride with Scorpion, we can tell if something’s up with each other just with a look.”

“That’s the way I feel riding with John.  Even the first time we met I just instinctively trusted him riding next to me, I usually don’t feel that,” said one woman with dark curly hair.  “And you know he’s going to be calling all day whining that he can’t come, that’s what you get though if you’re gonna be gettin knee surgery you know!  Poor baby, he’ll be back out soon.”

“Is there a long initiation period?” I asked.

“Well we don’t do any of that,” said the same woman.  “We don’t do any of that ‘trial period’ or anything like a lot of the mens clubs, we just make newbies write an article for our newsletter about their first ride with us,” she laughed.  “Hey y’all, we’re taking off at 9:30 exactly, you better get ready.”

The rest of the bikers left, and she and I stayed at the table sipping coffee and trying to wake up.  She walked over to the TV, which had ESPN on and started flipping around.  “Do you know what any of the channels are up here?  Isn’t The View on about now?” she asked.  We tried to figure it out together when a slender woman in a white jean jacket wandered in and stood for a couple seconds before saying, “Hey there, um, good morning!”

“Oh hey sweetie, how you doin this morning, feeling all right?”

“Oh yeah.  That drive last night was crazy though, all those hills and turns, it was rough, huh.”

“Oh sure, sure, I think they were just trying to scare us all with all those signs, you feeling good today?  You all ready to go soon?”

“Oh yeah, yeah.  Think we’ll have a lot of traffic?”

They made small talk about weather highway congestion and then headed out to the bikes.  While a short-haired woman checked in with the newbie and made sure everyone else was set to go, the curly haired woman, the Princess Snow Bird of middle aged bikers, headed to the front of the driveway to lead the group.

Inspired, I drove the rest of the day with my windows down, reveled in the bug carnage beginning to collect on my windshield, and considered buying a fox tail to hang from my rear view mirror.

]]> http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/23/hermitage-inn-hogs-n-honeys-in-west-virginia/feed/ Terrain map of West Virginia http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/in-honor-of-clydesdales-beechwood-aging-and-souvenirs/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/in-honor-of-clydesdales-beechwood-aging-and-souvenirs/#comments Wed, 18 Jun 2008 21:20:49 +0000 ithinkitllbefine http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/?p=102

According to all the papers last Thursday, Belgian-Brazilian beer company InBev just “launched an unsolicited bid to acquire Anheuser-Busch Cos. for $46.4 billion.” The two companies would combine to create the largest beer company in the world with more than 300 brands and $36 billion in annual sales. Big news right?! The day before this announcement, I was lucky enough to find myself in St. Louis on an hour and a half tour of the Anheuser-Busch brewery, and over the next few days I watched the local news fallout. (Picture shots of stacks of Bud and Bud Light 30-packs next to 6-packs of bottled beer with foreign sounding names - “Stella Ar-what??  Never heard of it!”)

At first, it seemed to me that the general St. Louis populace was unimpressed by the potential deal. A bartender I tried to talk to was far more interested in discussing the text message exchange that led to his recent breakup than in going over the details of what a merger would mean for the city. (Apparently the girlfriend refused to answer her phone and would only reply via text. Also she is 20 years old to his 26. She’s really young, so she likes to go out and party with her friends a lot, which is totally cool, you know?  But then when he wants to go out and party with his boys without her, it’s, like, this whole big issue.  SIGH.  Women.)

Unfortunately, since I took the brewery tour the day before the announcement, I couldn’t get any inside viewpoints either. Our guides didn’t leak any news or accidentally allude to the coming fracas as they led us on our overly long, ad-laden walkabout of the largest beer brewery in the U.S.

Barley Cleaning House!

Control Room!

Mash Tanks! (kinda Willy Wonka-ish?)

Two things made the heat and conversations about barley worthwhile. Wait. Four things:

1. Telling my dad about the natural Beechwood Aging process, which I haven’t done yet but look forward to.
2. Clydesdales. Did you know Anheuser-Busch seriously owns a huge herd of them? I thought it was just a gimmick, and, I mean, it is. But also they really do own a ton of them.
3. Two free beers at the end of the tour. Score!
4. The other tourists, including an older German couple who answered all the tour guide’s rhetorical questions and STOLE a Beechwood chip, a young beer lover who mimed cutting a hole in and drinking from a nearby pipeline of Bud, and, of course, an array of insane small children.

Where to begin with the small children! There was the doughy dark haired 4 year old who danced and spoke throughout the entire tour, throwing her arms up and shouting “Monkeeeeeey!” as our sweaty guide tried to get through a joke about hops. There was also the frizzy blond 5 year old who crawled into my lap and firmly grasped a piece of my hair while her parents were folding her stroller. There was the 7 year old kid with sunglasses who spent three full minutes picking a wedgie and inexplicably had a green magic marker Hitler mustache drawn on his upper lip.

My favorite was that boy’s older sister, who was maybe 9 or 10 and stood next to me on a long series of escalator rides as she experimented with different standing positions. Naturally she saw herself as miles more mature than the rest of the sub-four-feet crew and as such looked the part with a chin-length bob, tan jean shorts and a fanny pack. I spent many a family vacation under the age of 10 dressed similarly and doing similar nervous escalator experiments. The best part of her look was a recently purchased lime green hat with a rhinestone image of the Gateway Arch on the front. Completely in love with her choice and her enthusiasm for travel, I couldn’t help but think, “Why buy that hat? Will you really wear it back in Chicago or Kansas City or wherever?”  I was then suddenly reminded of a certain family trip hat that I myself purchased at about this same age.

On my first trip to see a Broadway musical, I begged my parents to buy me a black Broadway baseball hat with that frowny-face/smiley-face drama mask symbol embroidered on the front in gold and purple thread.  They tried to make me realize that, since I wasn’t given to wearing baseball hats anyway, I wasn’t likely to wear a Broadway themed hat very often.  I proved them SO wrong by wearing the hat, backwards of course, every single day of summer camp that year.

By the 7th week it got pretty sweaty, so I decided to soak it in a sinkful of water for a day or so.  My counselor, who, you know, coincidentally also used to wear a backwards hat a lot, saw it in the sink and yelled out into our cabin, “Umm… whoever’s hat this is in the sink, they’re ruining the brim by soaking it like that.  Just… so they know.”  Oh well.

So maybe travel merchandise isn’t as big of a rip-off as I’ve been assuming?  It gives you a tangible thing to help you remember a trip and kind of identify or distill what it meant to you maybe?  On the other hand.  Around the same age as the Broadway hat, my parents took me to Chautauqua, NY, an idyllic little vacation town on the edge of Lake Chautauqua in the Southwestern corner of New York state.

I immediately romanticized the place, and I wanted to get a T-shirt to remember it.  I got one that was probably two sizes too small (it was the style?) and I never never once wore it.  Even up until this trip, though, I would come across it sometimes in my closet and think, “Oh, Chautauqua!  I loved Chautauqua.”  So when I got a chance to return there a couple weeks ago, I had HIGH expectations.  My first stop was a huge bar where I hoped to befriend some locals, since vacation season hadn’t really started yet.  Unfortunately when I walked in, I realized I was the only woman in the entire, two story complex.  Gay bar?  I considered it, but I’m pretty sure not.  Exuding a nervousness common to young women traveling alone, I tried to ignore some stares and find the bathroom, which turned out to be a small room with a toilet separated from the bar by a vinyl flowered shower curtain.  Chautauqua!  Full of magic and romance.

Luckily, I walked out to the water a little later just as five kids pulled up their hoods and wandered out onto a dock for a while, which actually did make for a pretty magical scene.

After they left, I went out too and looked around.

I didn’t recognize a single thing from when I’d come there with my parents, but it was still pretty beautiful. I stuck my toes in the 50 degree water for a minute and then continued on my way out of town.

So the trip didn’t quite live up to my gray baby T’s expectations, but I think it was still worthwhile.

Now returning to St. Louis.  As a result of the big business news, I stuck around for three days longer than I’d originally planned so that I could go to a “Save Anheuser-Busch” rally that I decided I couldn’t miss.  In the days leading up to the rally, I got to know St. Louis pretty well, but more on that later.

Save Anheuser-Busch!

The rally was organized by SaveAB.com and held at the Al Hrabosky bar across from Busch stadium on Saturday, June 14 two hours before the Cardinals faced the Phillies.  There was a tent, there was a DJ, there were speeches (one by Al Hrabosky himself!), there were stickers, signs and giveaways.  The crowd completely tapped the bar’s significant supply of Bud Light, and very soon only bottles were available.

Before the rally, I really didn’t understand what the big deal about the buyout was, but now to be honest, I kind of get it.  For example, the company is still technically run by a Busch descendant, President and CEO August A. Busch IV.  Kind of cool?  Anyways.  The rally ended with some “HELL NO, BUD WON’T GO” chanting and a march to the stadium, where the Cardinals beat the Phillies based mostly, in my opinion, on a bad final call.  But it was really their day, not Philadelphia’s, so I can’t muster up too much bitterness.

All in all, it’s been a very exciting week for St. Louis, and I’ll definitely be watching to see how the InBev vs. AB battle ends.  And as far as souvenirs go, I am definitely holding onto my SaveAB T-shirt, even if I never wear it.

]]> http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/in-honor-of-clydesdales-beechwood-aging-and-souvenirs/feed/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/04/paint-it-pink/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/04/paint-it-pink/#comments Wed, 04 Jun 2008 16:32:45 +0000 ithinkitllbefine http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/?p=87

All over the northeast in almost every small town there seems to be at least one beauty shop in a big brick building painted solid pink. A la:

Aside from being a kind of ingeniously simple marketing choice, the pink brick also serves as a homemade beacon of female energy. Don’t you feel it?! There was one shop especially that I saw that was on the smaller side but painted BRIGHT magenta, with a little sign saying “Becky’s Beauty.” If you’re at all interested in beauty shops as safe spaces for women you might like this book, Facing the Mirror by Frida Kerner Furman.

This innovative ethnographic study of a neighborhood beauty salon investigates how customers constitute a lively, affirming community of peers during their weekly visits…. These older, mostly Jewish women articulate their experiences of bodily self-presentation, femininity, aging, and caring pertaining to their lives within and outside Julie’s International Salon. This book explores the socio-moral significant of these experiences, which reveals as much about society as about older women themselves.

Yessssss please!

]]> http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/04/paint-it-pink/feed/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/02/buffalo/ http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/2008/06/02/buffalo/#comments Mon, 02 Jun 2008 20:18:48 +0000 ithinkitllbefine http://ithinkitllbefine.wordpress.com/?p=98

Buffalo, NY was deeply underwhelming to me. It wasn’t as small or barren as I somehow imagined it to be, but it was also not bustling or fun in any noticeable way.

I had a great little lunch at this place called Cafe 59 and grabbed some snacks for later from the amazingly named Main Menu Restaurant, but I also witnessed an hour long shouting match culminating in a near fist-fight between a tow truck driver and the boyfriend of a woman who parks a little carelessly, and I think I was cat-called from bicycles more than I’ve ever really experienced before.

So maybe Buffalo disappointed me because it’s exactly the downtrodden ghost of a steel town that everyone thinks it is. It’s also possible that I was already furious at Buffalo for being home to potentially the best wings in the country, but not offering me a boisterous group of friends with whom to eat them. I’ve obviously dined alone a lot on this trip, but something about silently eating a bucket of chicken wings by myself in a dark bar just felt beyond sad.

Sidenote.

On my way out of town, I realized that I parked here:

Aren’t you kind of surprised they would have such a large outpost in Buffalo?? I was. What are you up to Scientologists…

This smiley-face sunshine with sunglasses is a very close approximation of a staple from my own doodle arsenal:

The store was called Montezuma Wine and it was right off the highway across the street from a farm.

As I pulled into the big gravel lot, three 45 or 50 year old women got out of the only other car there and started giggling excitedly as they walked towards the entrance. The store itself was cavernous, with large table displays set up for each kind of wine they had: Vin de Myrtille (a dry blueberry wine), Strawberry Sunset, Vin de Poire (dry pear), Pintail (sparkling rhubarb), Golden Delicious, and so on.

The women clambered up onto the barstools in the tasting area and started looking over the double-sided laminated menu to choose wines to taste in a $6 flight- not a bad deal?

One of them immediately stood up from the stool and said, “Oh no, I’m driving so I really can’t, but I’ll taste the ones you girls pick. Oooh! Doesn’t that Blue Moon just sound divine? You girls pick whatever you want, they all look so neat.”

I slowly approached the empty stool next to them and kind of pretended like we were all friends chatting about fruity wine together, but they were engrossed in the difficult choice ahead of them, so most of the pretending just went on in my head.

“Well we kind of have to try the Diamond, don’t we?” I thought to myself as they considered tasting it. “On the other hand I do sort of agree that Plum Passion Honey Wine is sort of once in a lifetime. Girls!! What are we going to do.”

I looked over the very long menu and faux-conferenced with the ladies a bit more before the woman working behind the counter asked if I was interested in having a flight as well. I told her I couldn’t because I had to drive pretty far still, so she let me try two wines on the house (the dry pear and the sweet pear), and then I ended up buying a bottle of Cranberry Bog on the way out.

Behind the checkout counter she had a few windchimes and glass frogs along with this:

which you may remember from Pomodoro’s storefront in Skaneateles:

I haven’t seen it before or since, but I’ll keep my eye out and report back. Thank you Montezuma!

Sorry for the late Week 3 recap, we covered a lot of ground this week:

DETAILS

• Distance Traveled: Approx. 1,450 miles
• Gas Used: Kind of lost count… 4 tanks? Who knows.
• Highest Gas Price: $4.55 in Chicago, IL
• Lowest Gas Price: $3.95 outside of Pittsburgh, PA
• Week 3 Favorite Place: Moorefield, WV
• Meal of the Week: Grilled Cheese with Reuben Soup at The Sandwich Shop in Pittsburgh, PA - $6.00.
• Dessert of the Week: Praline ice cream in Skaneateles. It ALSO had caramel swirl and chocolate covered pecans in it.
• Vista of the Week: There is no house accompanying this mailbox. Is it maybe God’s mailbox?

• New Friend of the Week: As I was passing through West Virginia I saw a little sign for the West Whitehill Winery, and it looked like just this tiny one story white building, so I pulled in to investigate. Inside I met the owner, who gave me tastes of all the wines (they were all DELICIOUS, I ended up buying the Vidal White and the Raspberry Royale), and we began chatting. He’d lived in that area of rural West Virginia for almost 20 years, but before that he worked as a corporate lawyer in Philadelphia, and his wife had worked at Bryn Mawr College. They both were able to retire really early, and she grew up in the area, so they decided to move back and start a winery!! Neither of them had ANY training at all, so he said they made a ton of mistakes at first but slowly got the hang of it. He was really into the idea of my trip, and told me about his daughter, who right out of college had gotten an editorial job working at Mademoiselle in New York. It was such a great opportunity, but he said she immediately started haaaaating New York, as we all know can sometimes happen. She ended up nervously quitting a year later, only to get a job in Washington, DC at the National Historical Society, where she stayed for 15 years before quitting to go work on a hospital boat off the coast of Ghana. Which is all to say: 10 years from now who knows what will happen.