Fruit Wise

We stop for sandwiches at a small roadside grocery in Michigan. Inside we spot a display of a product I worked on years ago for Quaker called "FruitWise." This feels pretty random. Gillian poses next to it for a picture. After lunch, both kids play guitar in the gazebo. It's a good stop.

Amish Butter

Driving the dirt back roads of Pennsylvania’s Amish Country, we see a small sign that brings us to a skidding stop. A cloud of road dust engulfs the car. When it clears, we pull into the adjacent driveway next to a sign that reads “Amish Butter for Sale.”

We pull in to a roadside barn, open on one end, where two Amish men are shoeing horses. There are several beautiful, full muscled work horses tethered outside and just as many two-passenger buggies nearby. The men are tall, with beards but no mustaches, dressed exactly alike with bright blue shirts buttoned to the top and broad, flat straw hats worn even though they are hard at work and indoors. They wear suspenders.

Steve approaches the younger of the two men and asks “Do you have a dairy here?”

With a wary smile, the man says in a slightly clipped accent “No. We just have the one cow.” He pauses. “Butter’s $2.50 a lb.” I notice his eyes are a piercing blue, enhanced by the color of his shirt.

Steve hands him some money and he heads up the hill to the house with a long, loping gait. He is graceful. They are spare with words. Steve asks the older of the two about what look like oil wells in the fields. They’re natural gas pumps and pipelines he explains. It’s weird to think that this land is supporting such an old way of life while undermined by a network providing energy for modern conveniences they do not use.

I see a child on a high bluff overlooking the barn. He looks just like his father without the beard. Bright blue shirt buttoned all the way up, broad flat straw hat, piecing blue eyes and he even wears the same suspenders. I smile and wave at him. He does not flinch, but looks are us warily and blows a large bubble with his bubble gum.

“How old are you?” I ask carefully.

“Eight” he replies.

I put both hands on Gillian’s shoulders and turn her to look up at him. “She’s eight too. Her name’s Gillian. Would you like to come down and say hello? Would that be okay?”

He backs up, disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later he appears through a side door of the barn. He continues to blow bubbles, keeping his distance. He and Gillian don’t speak but eye each other intensely, unmoving.

The man returns with the butter. It’s cool, but not cold, tightly wrapped in plastic. It still bears the fingerprints of the hand labor that prepared it. We thank them all and take off in search of crusty bread worthy of this culinary treat.

Groundhog Day, Everyday

Ever wonder what goes on in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania when it’s not Groundhog Day? We learned that it’s pretty much Groundhog Day everyday in what the locals call Punxy. This pretty little town is overrun by groundhogs. Not furry, smelly live ones that might make a good stew, but rather large fiberglass interpretations in all manner of garb dot every street corner in the classic small town.

Every shop window is infested with tourist trappings that feature the little rodent. It permeates the surrounding area as well with the Groundhog Wine Trail, which we followed into Amish Country where we pick up a couple of bottles of local wine, mercifully not fermented from groundhogs. I wonder if the local kids get sick of the intensity of the theme and move away as soon as they can. Many hours later, back on the highway, we do see a groundhog digging by the side of the road. He’s pretty far from Punxy. Maybe he got sick of seeing his likeness like a worn out celebrity. Or maybe he just wanted to keep his shadow to himself.

Monkey Hotdog

The Blairstown New Jersey is famous for its role in the original Friday the 13th film. A young woman walks through it prior to meeting her predictable fate. But, it should be famous for its hotdogs.

We stop at the Blairstown Diner a beautiful, authentic roadside relic. After admiring the exterior, interior and classic counter stools, we settle in to study the menu. Gillian wants a hotdog.

We don’t eat beef. Not for health reasons, but for political reasons. We don’t like how the beef industry serves up contaminated foods from sickened animals with almost no oversight. We don’t like driving by feedlots that you can smell from miles away and think about the animals living inside. We know other animals are treated similarly, but think you have to start somewhere and for us, beef is it.

“Excuse me,” Steve waves down the waitress. “Can you tell me what meat is in the hotdogs?”

She looks puzzled. “Beef” she hesitates “and Pork, I think.”

I flip over the menu to look at the other kid selections and see that each meal is branded with an animal motif. There is the Giraffe Mac & Cheese, the Squirrel PB&J, and the Monkey Hotdog.

“Apparently, they’re made of Monkey.” I stutter, laughing so hard I can barely speak.

Not a moment later the cook hustles from the kitchen, package in hand. “See, it’s beef. All beef. Good no?” He says with a touch of broken English.

“Yes,” says Steve “Good, no.” We’re all laughing which leaves the cook a bit confused. He works his way back to the kitchen.

No one orders a hotdog.

Miss Belvedere

In 1957, a handful of enterprising Plymouth Dealers in Tulsa Okalahoma donated a brand new Plymouth Belvedere to the Tulsarama festival. The car was used as a time capsule, buried during the festival and the people of Tulsa had the opportunity to buy tickets guessing the population of Tulsa in 2007 when the car would be unearthed.

I only know about this because my good friend Mark sent the story to me when they unearthed it. I was studying purses and they put a woman's purse in the car stocked with typical items of the day. The Tulsarama folks couldn't tell me what was in the purse because when they dug up the car, the cement vault was full of water. The car, particularly the interior and contents, were virtually destroyed by a water main break that flooded the compartment years before.

The entire town was wracked with dissapointment. But the good people rallied as a New Jersey company, called Ultra One, volunteered to take on the task of removing the rust and build-up caused by the water. We wanted to see the Miss Belvedere in Tulsa, but since she's inNew Jersey, we saw her there.

I spoke with Dwight Foster, the owner of Ultra One, who said that the process will not restore the car, but rather will remove the damaging crusty stuff and "preserve history" as he put it. He plans to tour the Miss Belvedere to car shows and other venues before returning it to Tulsa and its rightful owners (those who guessed the population).

And, as a bonus, Dwight knew exactly what was in that purse from the records of the time capsule construction: a bottle of tranquilizers, an unpaid parking ticket, a comb, a compact, a lipstick, a lighter and cigarettes, a "rain chapeau," and $3.25 in cash. No credit cards in 1957 eh?

Seaside Chubba Bubba

The pungent aroma of sausage drives up your nostrils, competing with onions, peppers, sea air, and coconut oil for your undivided attention. The sound of coasters grinding on rails, kids screaming, and carnival barkers pull your ears into the mix. Your bare shoulders crisp in the summer sun and you feel the body heat of too many passers-by passing too closely by. You cautiously open your eyes and it’s a full frontal assault of color, lights, tattoos, cigarettes, bathing suits just a little too small and bare stomachs just a little too large. It’s the Jersey Shore and if it doesn’t knock you on your ass, stay home!

We’re in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, a frenetic beach side boardwalk. We stroll along with our Gran Arlene, a New Jersey Native just like Steve, taking in the sights and smells of the shore. The kids jitter with anticipation as the negotiation begins.

“Six rides! We want to do six.” Collin anchors his opening bid wisely on the high side.

“Two,” says Steve, as we all circle to watch the action. They compromise on three, but Steve gives me a wink that means he’s holding back a fourth as a bonus if Collin and Gillian work well together to decide what to ride.

They ride like champs, throwing their arms high on the giant plunges and screaming like mad – sometimes out of fear and sometimes just because it’s fun to scream. Of course, they get a fourth ride and everyone is high with carnival fever.

Then, we hit the games where Collin is a basketball shooting star and Gillian a darts machine. Collin plays a game called “Shoot the Geek” where you basically paint ball a guy in football pads while he jumps around. Everyone wins except the Geek. We lug our stuffed booty into Three Brothers – the best, most authentic pizza on the planet. You may argue with me on this, and I know those of you from New York and Chicago will, but until you taste this pizza, I will not listen. The slices are huge, cut from pies the size of a tire. When folded, the grease runs down your arm and creates a puddle on the table. My eyes roll back in my head just thinking about it.

We walk some more. Three young men are patted down by five cops and escorted away for the night. We’ve paused to take this in when I glance to my right at a family on a bench looking a little like the three bears. Papa Bear is huge, in a tank top and shorts, black socks and sneakers. He takes a bite of sausage sandwich and pushes his glasses up the slick incline of his nose with two fingers of his other hand while the remaining fingers clutch a wad of napkins. Mama Bear takes a long hit on a drinking straw, sucking the life out of a giant Pepsi, her pasty skin singed a sickly pink. That’s gonna hurt later. But best of all is their daughter, a Seaside Chubba Bubba of the highest order (and I’m not thin, so takes one to know one). Smaller overall than her parents, but hefting impressive slabs of bright white thigh out of each leg of her too short shorts, she shoves a hot dog into her enormous gob. This causes an eruption of ketchup-mustard sluice from the other end that spews all over her leg in a giant yellow-red mudslide. This in turn makes her mouth yaw open wide, exposing hot dog, bun, mustard, ketchup, teeth, tongue and a terrifying “aauuughh” that turns heads for a hundred yards! It all happens in an instant and I am forced to squat so I don’t wet myself. This is why reality television is so compelling – because reality is compelling. You cannot make this stuff up. It happens all around you everyday and it keeps happening in those places you’ve been even when you’re not there.

We pile into the car and head home, satiated. All of our senses have been burned. We stuff saltwater taffy into our mouths, negotiating over who gets which flavor, and try to think of ways to talk each other into coming back to the shore tomorrow.

Philadelphia Pay Per View

I’m feeling a bit like a curmudgeon as I leave Philadelphia’s City Hall without seeing the view of the city from under William Penn’s shoe. Years ago I found this tower by following small signs painted on the floor of the massive 1870s structure that said “to the tower” with a line to follow. “Heck yeah,” I said in 1982 and followed it to a surprise and delight – a rickety elevator with a rickety elevator operator who said “you want to go to the tower? Well, okay.” And, off we went on a harrowing 548 foot high ride to see the city from a chain link cage – a real experience that is now a gift shop ticketed, scheduled, guided tour that costs $10 per person. Turning this oddity into an attraction, sanitized and tailored for tourism has stipped it of its charm and, for me, this turns it into a pass for this trip. Bummer.

We’ve seen this often on our cross country journey – state parks, national parks, and even monuments where you have to pay to see history that “we the people” already own. I know it’s more mature to think of this as paying for maintenance, but in our society of spoon-fed infotainment shouldn’t we encourage visits to places where you can actually learn about real, historic events without a financial disincentive?

Philadelphia still has two such gems: The Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. The Bell, once the Pennsylvania State House Bell is a man-made marketing hook for the new idea of liberty that our founding fathers were selling. This was a campaign whose success permeates our culture to this day. And, by the way, it does give you a little chill up the spine to see it up close – really, and I’m a skeptic about this type of thing.

Independence Hall is a hallowed place – protected from damage by guards and from ignorance by some of the most knowledgeable and genuinely enthusiastic park service employees in the country. Our guide engaged us in the torrent of this moment in history, peppered his tale with descriptions of the penalties for treason, and linked to our present experience by evoking the film National Treasure set in part in this room. And, that’s no small task because let’s face it, it’s a conference room – desks, chairs, books, pens, etc. A PC projector and some molding is all that separates this room from every conference room you’ve ever seen. That is, until you realize that George Washington sat in that chair while the framers decided there should be an executive branch. Though the cost of our freedom was high, the admission to this tour is no charge. And, that’s Priceless.