Trip Rehash (A little Optimism Goes a Long Way)

Alright, I admit it - it wasn't a bad trip. It was actually a really great trip, and being somewhere else had the effect of removing a ton of bricks from my chest, even if only temporarily. Here in the Cackalackies summer is still hanging on with a sticky vengeance, but Autumn was in full swing as we headed up through West Virginia and Pennsylvania to Western New York, and the shore of Lake Erie. The maples and the sumac were incredible shades of coral, scarlet, crimson and russet, especially in upper PA and NY. (None of which, of course, are in this picture, but it's still a good shot of what Western NY looks like)We filled the back of the pickup with apples and cider, kielbasa and pepperoni, horseradish mustard and rye bread, peanut sticks and hard white cheddar; a cornucopia of all the things that mean home to us. We bought our apples at The Red Barrel, out in North Boston. We went to Schwabel's in West Seneca, to have Beef on Kimmelweck and German potato salad, because they've been serving it since 1837 and I think they're still the best. This is their cash register:We went and visited with my aunt, who is now at 65 pounds, but hanging on - she had more energy than I'd seen in her since she had the operation, over 4 years ago, and while one good virus could still carry her off, it gave us hope that maybe, somehow, she might just be able to get better.

I was worried that going with my dad to see his sister, and his friend who is in frail health as well, might tip him (and me!) over the edge into Dark and Twisty-ville - it has to be tough to see your peers passing, one by one - but he surprised me with his resilience. We talked about everything under the sun on the drive up and back, sometimes getting so engrossed that we missed our exits! It was a bonding experience for us both, I think, which can only be good. I think it helped that we went to Oil City and had dinner at the Yellow Dog Lantern, because the ladies who work there love to flirt with my dad, and he loves to give it back in kind. They sat down in the booth with us and told him if he weren't married he would be going home with one of them, couldn't believe he was 77, thought he must be only in his early 60s, and you know he loved that!The drive up to New York from Oil City was eventful - Route 8 ended abruptly above Union City (we were talking and missed the detour signs) so we took a dirt road or two and somehow ended up in New York, near Findley Lake. The Ace Hardware store was in Union City - I love the old bike and the ad for tux rentals in the windows!I missed the guys while I was away, but the rest of the shite, as posted before, yeah, not so much. I know I can't control how other people behave (as much as I might like to, as much as they might be begging to be disciplined), so my task now is to try and forget, or at least to ignore the flingers of bullshit - it's their problem not mine. Now I have to repeat that about a hundred times whilst looking severely at myself in the mirror - it's not my mess, I'm not going to clean it up!

Thanks to you all, who came and left a little moral support!

Picture below: the tribal lands where my mother swears they touch her cheek and ask, "What tribe are you?" Yeah, sure they do!

Kinda Eyore-ish

Okay so you're not in my head (and wouldn't a therapist love to scrutinize that!) so you wouldn't know that the reason I haven't been writing is pure depression. I did feel like I was getting kind of hackneyed in the blogosphere, but that was just the tip of the iceberg that I slid off into the arctic sea of Fuckitall.

The kids are both in middle school now, so I have my mornings to myself again, which kind of makes me feel like I'm not pulling my weight, and of course I'm not feeling any inspiration to paint, which adds to that feeling of uselessness, though I have kicked up the home-made goodness as a result, which nobody is complaining about, except maybe my ever-expanding gut.

I find myself still mourning Mrs. Puff, probably because it was so unexpected and horrific, the way she died. I know there was nothing we could have done in the face of an avalanche of hemorrhagic strokes, and maybe that's what haunts me - that sense of complete futility.

I'm having the old recurring issue with living in this part of the world; being a yankee by birth (I have lived in the south for over 40 years, but I'm still a yankee - how about that shit?) and not christian (and I refuse to capitalize such a travesty of a word) is two humongously indelible marks against me in this small, backward-thinking town. Apparently all you have to do for social acceptance is give lip service to being the same religion as everyone else and talk through a mouth full of marbles. I kid you not. It doesn't matter if you're committing adultery, are an abusive parent or abusive spouse, or a dead-beat parent who leaves their kids to fend for themselves - if you profess your faith loudly enough, no one will care what you do behind closed doors (and these aren't stereotypes; every example I listed is someone I know, in all their sanctimonious hypocrisy, who treats me and my family like lepers). Being a kind and decent human being doesn't count for doodly without that "got jesus" lobotomized seal of approval. (Please note: I have nothing against Jesus himself, or what he had to say. My problem is with the trash that insists on using his name to legitimize their petty fear and hatred of anything that doesn't fit into their limited awareness.) I know there are people who are truly good christians - I know 2 personally, but there are so many of the other kind. Aren't they calling themselves the "Tea Party" these days?

So, on top of those delectable tidbits from the fantastic pile of shit that is permeating my existence on a daily basis, I have a trip to make, starting tomorrow. I'm headed up to Buffalo, with my dad. He's going to see his sister and an old friend, both of whom are in very frail health. He hates death, is even kind of phobic about it, so this isn't going to be a pleasure jaunt. I'm a little amazed that he's even going. I have to confess, I'm not sure I'm up to this myself, treading water in my own murky sea of personal bullshit, but I said I'd go. I'm going to take a composition book and try to do some journalling - angst is good for writing, right? I'm also going to try and carpe diem; to take it one day at a time and try, TRY to find some good in there amongst the craptastic chaff.

And at the least there will be apples - lovely crisp New York apples and cider to look forward to, right?

Waiting For The Shoe To Drop

So,
"I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains,
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains"
-Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls

And so far, I don't have strep or mono. So that's good news, but I'm still waiting to hear about dying from a terminal disease, via all the blood tests they're (the doctor's office)going to run. The Professor (my 1st born) has been sick with a sore throat and fever this week, which apparently is sweeping the public schools in this area. I'm wondering if my recent brush with death wasn't this virus; so does that mean I'm the girl who cried "Wolf!", or rather, "I'm dying, can you make dinner?"

Maybe, unintentionally. I could still be dying, you know.

So to while away the hours, waiting by the phone, I decided to edit some pictures I took while up in Virginia last month. Bea, Ms. Q, my sister-in-love, and myself all headed up to the Tidewater area to stay at the flawless B&B known as Bea's parents' house. It's a gorgeous place, right on the river, and just watching the sunset with a glass of Pinot Noir in hand was exactly what the doctor ordered.

I ran some of my favorites through the colored pencil filter in Photoshop and put them up here side by side, so you can see the transformation. I love that filter!

Well, at least I tried to place them side by side - Blogger doesn't always do what it's told, as you can see!

If you want to see some more awesome pictures of this part of the world, check out The Bantering Bibliocrat's month of photos going on right now. I've always loved and expected a certain dry wit from Gene, but his pictures, his way of looking at things is just wonderful. Check him out, and tell him Becky sent you!

Road Trip

We got up at the "butt crack of dawn", as Bea likes to say, to head down to Newport again. Bella, Bea's Siamese cat with the chronic lymphoma thing going on in her mouth, was showing signs of irritation again, and Bea was afraid it might mean the cancer was back with a vengeance. I went along for moral support, and took one of the furry herd, Pooh Bear, for his check up and shots.

We loaded the cats into Bea's back seat in the dark and headed out. I should say, my husband loaded my cat carrier, because not only do I NOT function in the pre-dawn hours, I've also been fighting a horrid chest cold this past week that's left me unusually weak and easily winded.

I had thought taking Pooh Bear would be a good call; he's generally a quiet cat - a total squirrel job, replete with nuts, but quiet - and he wouldn't upset poor Bella with a bunch of constant yowling. It's an almost 3 hour drive and the whole screaming cat thing gets old long before we've even crossed over I-95. (If you're wondering why we're going that far to see a vet, read this)

You might be asking right now, (and btw I'm really glad, reader, you've stopped using that strange poetic form of address where you started everything with "O". That was weird) "So, Tapdancing Woman, how did that work out?"

It's funny you should ask: the thing is, that damn cat, the one who was supposed to be the QUIET one? He meowed and meowed and meowed almost the entire way there. By the time we were going through New Bern, and almost there, I turned around in my seat to see what WAS this cat's deal, maybe even rattle his cage, just to make ME feel better.

I looked into his carrier and saw not one, but two pairs of yellow-green eyes looking back at me. I rubbed my tired eyes and counted again. Yep, four eyes for one cat, because obviously there wasn't just one cat in that carrier, there were two. Simon had stowed away, rather accidentally, and my husband, who apparently isn't at his best at 6:30 AM either, didn't seem to think a 30 pound cat was anything unusual.

It certainly served to break the mood of doom we had been driving under (we were worried about Bella, remember?)and the day just kept looking up. Bella did need the boost of a new antibiotic, but overall she was looking good, for a cat with a terminal disease. Pooh got his shots, Simon got his ears cleaned as incentive to never get in a carrier again, and we had an awesome lunch of local steamed shrimp, clam strips, hushpuppies, and sweet potato fries at a place called The Crab Shack. And on the way home we knew who to blame for the ever-present feline song of "Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow,..."!

Addendum: I completely forgot to tell you what happened when we got home that evening! I of the perpetually full bladder, had to winkle as soon as we pulled into the driveway, so I hobbled-ran past the hubman, and told him to get the cat out of the car, puhleeze! He took one look in the cage, asked Bea if the other cat was going to her house, and when she said no, he sighed heavily, thinking I had brought home another stray. The dork. Bea had to tell him to look again, whereupon he figured it out and great hilarity ensued. I mean really - who the hell can't tell the difference between carrying one cat and two? It's not like they're tiny kittens - these are some meat-packing males, ya'll!

I'm gone! I am on vacation you guys!

I left for PA on Saturday, and in the spirit of my trip, kind of like you're along for the ride, I've posted some of the stories I've collected from being up here. For my dad, a trip up here always means he's close in his thoughts to his grandfather, a man he idolized. The stories don't actually reveal a hero, per se. In fact, my great grandfather was a man of rough nature, raised in a rough place, but he was particularly charismatic. It's probably what kept my great grandmother from killing him. We call it the "smart-ass gene" nowadays, and its a gene that is alive and well in several branches (what up my cuzzin?). So with no further ado, I present to you:

Jacob Toy

Born 1882 in Venango Co. PA, he was the son of William Toy and Rachel Klotz.. He died in February of 1970. He was married October 12, 1904 in Oil City, PA to Minnie Belle Gahring (1888-1962), the daughter of Ross Gahring (b. 1861 – d. 1914) and Martha Ross (b. March 29, 1857 – d. March 1932). The Gahring family is listed as the next door neighbors to Jacob Toy Sr. in the census records of 1900. At the age of 54, Jake's father, William fell from an oil derrick he was repairing and died later that day.

Min was a school teacher in Kaneville as a young woman, and Jake, her future husband, was once one of her students. She is remembered by her grandchildren and her daughter-in-law, Ruth, as a sour and sometimes unhappy woman, who nonetheless, was somehow also the first to pack a picnic and take the family for an outing. She loved to drive, and did all the driving in the family, taking Jake to and from work. She is also described as a “wonderful grandmother”, who wanted her family, and extended family as close to her as possible. She could be verbally intimidating and was known to hold a grudge. She died in 1962 from an abdominal aortic aneurysm (AAA) in her sleep. I never knew her, but my sister adored her, and I believe, hung the moon for my great grandmother as well. It's her house that is the Grandma's House of my memories, and maybe she was still there, somehow, imparting her love to us all. Maybe that was part of why it's so hard to let go of that house. Whenever I hear trains in the night, coming through town, it takes me back to that place.

Jake was listed as a driller in the Oil City directory of 1925. He also shot wells on more than one occasion, once in particular, when he took his grandson, my dad, with him to “shoot a well”. It's a process involving slowly lowering nitroglycerin down into an oil well shaft, dropping a “torpedo”, of metal down the shaft, and then, in the interest of living, “running like hell”. Whenever he brought a well in, he would drink a shot of the raw crude. It was believed then that crude was a tonic.

My father and his sister recall going to the movies with their grandfather and watching him physically move along with the action of the film, usually westerns. He once split his lip on the seat in front of him, shadow boxing.

He is remembered as a generally genial, sometimes liquored up and feisty man, whose energy and sense of humor seemed boundless. On one occasion, he bought a new outfit for hunting, but instead of going hunting, he spent the day at the bar. Returning home that evening, he was considerably impaired, but quite jovial, leaning against the large tree in the front yard, and amusing everyone present with his antics and jokes concerning his pissed condition. When Min appeared she began to rail at him for drinking. Jake became enraged and had to be held down by his son, Bruce and his son-in-law, “Pat”, although I don’t doubt that Min could have held her own. He liked to tell a story and act all bad ass, but she was a tougher cookie than him. Because of Jake’s penchant to drink away his paycheck, Min made a deal with the bartender to allow Jake to have one drink and then to keep the rest of his paycheck until she could come and get it.

Into middle age, when repairing the roof with his son-in-law, “Pat”, on one occasion, Jake was cautioned to be careful while standing up, or else he might fall, whereupon he stood up and danced a jig upon the rooftop.

Even as an old man Jake was known to be rowdy. Once, he and a much larger man got into a fight, no doubt, after tossing back a few drinks. The larger man threw Jake down repeatedly, but Jake refused to be beat, and kept getting back up. When the larger man finally tired out, Jake, who had never seemed to get tired, finished the fight, or in my father's words, "beat the shit out of him." Once, he made a crack in a bar at a lady and my father had to intercede to keep the husband from punching him. He was 70 at the time.

He died at the age of 88, in a nursing home, which haunts my father to this day. We don't go see his headstone much, when we're there. I think that's too real, too hard for my dad. He prefers to walk the streets of his childhood home and carry his grandfather with him. The giant old rig up at Drake's Well evokes such vivid memories for him, that sometimes we have to leave him there for a time, alone, but not really.

Home is where your heart is

My grandfather, his sister and their parents

In another week or so we head north for our yearly vacation in the mountains of western Pennsylvania - Oil City, namely - my father's hometown. Its not exactly a place that tons of people flock to for family vacation time, and frankly, I consider that a perk. I'm not much for crowds - they make me surly.

When I was a child and we lived outside of Buffalo, our trips down to Oil City were frequent. My great grandfather was still alive then, living with my great aunt and her family in the house they had lived in since 1905. My grandfather was born in that house, and my father grew up there as well. It was the quintessential Grandma's House kind of place to go visit, even though none of my grandparents actually lived there. Or maybe that was why.

The house in question (pay no attention to the dapper fellow in the foreground)

We moved to Raleigh in 1969 and the following year my great grandfather died.

I think we went to Oil City once more after that, on a trip up to Buffalo to visit family. My great aunt had also passed away by then and the family had sold the old house to consolidate funds and provide my great uncle with medical care for his emphysema. That was around 1972 and we never went back again. I do recall us going to see the old house, and the new owners allowed us to come in for a last look around. I never see love beads that I don't think of my great aunt's living room during that visit. It was a punch to the emotional gut to see the changes the new owners had wrought, and from then on, my memories were all I had.

In 2000 the hub-man and I took a trip up north to visit family and on the way back we stopped off in Oil City to do a little family research. We located a cemetery that first trip where my Great-great-great grandparents were buried and decided it was worth the extra time to go check it out.

I stood in that cemetery, on a hilltop outside of a little town called Rouseville, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the surrounding hills, and for the first time since we had moved away from Buffalo, I felt like I had come home. Not to be all New Age freaky, but cemeteries all have different vibes to me. Most of the time they feel like you've just walked into someone else's house, but there on that hill, I could almost smell the old house that only lived in my dreams, and felt my family all around me. There on that hill I cried, for the joy of having found them, and for the frustration that they were still so far away.

I went back the following year, and the year after that, staying a night or two in the local hotel, always feeling a bit out of synch with the area. In 2004 I found a house to rent and my parents came with us that year. We all fell in love with that old house, partly, I believe, because it was similar to my great grandparents' house. It was also on the grounds of a park where my dad had played as a kid, so the proximity to his old stomping grounds was another factor. The other added bonus of having a big house to stay in was being able to host my aunt and some of her family, who drove down from Buffalo. It had been over 30 years for me since I had been back there, but it had been even longer since my aunt and my father had been there together. The stories that poured out of them as we went around town were invaluable to the research I was conducting, and highly illuminating, since I wasn't around when a lot of them happened.

Home away from home

Creek at Miller Farm in Oil Creek State Park

Single file at Petroleum Centre

The stories we tell on a trip like this are the best reason to go. The tales of ancestors scraping a life out of this place, of their devotion to and reliance on each other. These stories, told by my father to his grandchildren are priceless jewels in the crown of their identity. They are moments that can only occur for a limited time, but their potential to be remembered and passed down grants immortality to so many.

Crazy-assed, Cyclical Whirlings of My Brain

How can I feel so blah, so (dare I say it?) depressed?

Spring is here - school is almost over - family life has been on a fairly even keel for a while now - I even have a Girls' Weekend coming up.

What the hell is my problem?

I think I worry too much (Oh, and thanks for that legacy, Dad!)We've planned a few vacations for the summer, and the planning of them makes me anxious.

*Note - Please don't offer me platitudes - I'm a Solution Person - I always find a way to fix the situation, but sometimes it has to stew first.

The first vacation - a trip up to PA has actually been resolved, so I can stop worrying about it. The whole not having a reservation and/or a paper trail to show for our down payment was making me squirrelly, but the renters have finally gotten their fecal matter together and now I can just obsess on what to pack.

Again - don't try to make me feel better - have you read the title of this blog recently? That would be me, the tapdancer. Its all part of my stage act, see?

The second vacation - OY! Let's just say that my mother is the one who thinks she planning that trip, and that should sum it up. I love her - I really do - but she can't plan for shit, child, and god help the fool who tries to tell her that. No, no - "these things must be done delicately". The plus side of this trip is that my sister is also going on it, so together we can handle her, I'm sure. We were talking about it the other day and we confessed to each other our sense of dread, our secret thoughts of "is it too late to cancel?", which strangely, made me feel better. I think its just a knee jerk reaction to taking a trip with Mom-zilla, but we are mighty in our solidarity, right? Right?

See, now would be a good time for the soothing platitude! Oh, wait, I said not to, didn't I?

The third vacation is my very own fault and I can't blame anyone else for the insanity of it. I'm supposed to take a trip up to NY with my mom later this summer. I signed up for it in a moment of weakness (I think a shipment of NY rye bread was involved), and as much as I have tried to find ways to weasel out of it, I think I'm going to have to do it. I have a sneaking suspicion that all is not well with my mother. She won't tell us anything, she won't go see a doctor for any of the myriad issues she's been having, and she's taken up smoking again with a vengeance. Maybe I'm just over the top paranoid - I would really like for it to be just that - but I have this terrible feeling there's something wrong. So maybe this trip up to NY has to be this year - maybe there won't be another chance to have a quality moment with my mother. Maybe its all in my head and she'll be here for another 20 years, driving us all to the brink of insanity. Either way, I think this is one of those Carpe Diem things I have to do, so that when I'm standing by her deathbed I can say goodbye with as little conflict or regret as possible.

Hey! I never said I wasn't toting a dufflebag of batsa! I freely admit my logic may not hold up under another's scrutiny, but ultimately, we have to do what we think is the right thing, don't we?

And really, once I stop to think about it - life IS good!

"It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times"

Ms. Q has finally relented (or was it just the painkillers again?) and posted her charming tale of a girl and her little bunny. Now fair warning: this isn't your Beatrix Potter kind of bunny tale, but if you're over 18, and enjoy watching Catholic Guilt in action, go read this and laugh your ass off.

Ms. Q can be found at Another Juicy Rationalization.

Bea has also written her part of the epic saga A Roadtrip To The Coast And Back. Go check it out - its worth the trip, for the Tudball Massacree alone.

"No time to 'splain, let me sum up"

Hello, remember me?

Are you tired of reading the archives just yet? (there will be a pop quiz, later, btw)

Are you maybe wondering what the hell happened to the Tapdancer, that she hasn't been posting for almost a week?

Life, my friend - life has a way of being messy and needing a bit of a cleanup, from time to time.

Let's see, where did I leave off? Ah yes,...the field trip. The professor came home safe and sound, albeit an hour late, so I have no fingernails left - that last hour was the worst! He had a great time and I'm much , much better now. Thank you to everyone for being so lovely and supportive of my crazy uber mom tendencies.

There's been a lot going on this past weekend and into this week, besides my not-so-quiet jangling mother nerves. Ms. Q had to take some time off from work because she has killed her right hand with tendonitis. Seriously, the poor girl is basically one-handed right now, and taking meds to keep the pain at bay. The fun part of this is that she is a WILD woman when she's doped up on pain killers. Besides the oddities she bought from a late-night (nudge, nudge) home shopping channel (and I'm forbidden to tell you just what kind of oddities - I was forced to swear on it, dammit!), she also started a blog while under the influence of said painkillers. There's just the one, drug-induced post right now, but maybe, if we all go over and leave encouragement, she'll spill her guts about her recent shopping spree (oh Puhleeze, Ms. Q - it was such a good story!!!). You can find her here. This is Ms. Q regaling us with her late night shopping exploits:

Bea and I had to head down to the coast on Tuesday, to get our newest feline, Simon, neutered and all his shots. I took a couple of others for rabies, etc. boosters and Bea took her little Siamese daughter, Bella for her yearly checkup.

Why would we drive almost 3 hours to the coast to see a veterinarian, instead of going to a local vet? Two very big reasons: money and competence.

The cost of a vet visit in the greater Raleigh area is akin to going to see a human doctor, and I'm going to say it for the world to hear - every vet we have seen locally is incompetent when it comes to diagnostics. They never seem able to figure out what's wrong with an animal unless they perform every test in the book, and even then, they pussyfoot around. I'm not talking about one cat, one time, one doctor; I'm talking every time we see a local vet the bill is sky-high and the care is low quality. I had to insist that the vet not do an x-ray or wire Rikki's mouth shut, when he fractured his jaw, and you know what? He mended perfectly. When Jezebel got a bacterial infection of the intestinal tract, the vet insisted we do 3 x-rays and a barium enema (450.00) before she would finally put the poor thing on antibiotics. When Jasper had an obvious tumor in her throat; a tumor so big she couldn't eat, the local vet said, "Wow, that's a real honker!" and did nothing else for her, for an entire month, while my cat slowly wasted away before my eyes.

Down near Atlantic Beach, there is a veterinarian we know, who has been in practice for over 30 years. He works with one technician, on a shoestring, and he is the best damn doctor I have ever met. He's saved so many animals from death's door for us that I'm often tempted to see if he'll do my checkup as well, opening the door, of course, for many lewd and coarse jokes, which is just icing on the cake of how much I love Doc!So we took a portion of the furry herd down on Tuesday to see our favorite man in green scrubs, and then we headed over to the diner for a bit of lunch. I love this old place - its been down at "The Circle" at Atlantic Beach since the 1930s, so its not shiny, but it does have character. And the gyro was pretty damn good, as were the hush puppies - mmm, hush puppies!
We yutzed around the coast for a few hours, thought about going to the Aquarium, but as it was rife with schoolkids on a field trip (shudder), we just drove around for awhile and then headed back to Doc's to get the "kids".
Everyone got a clean bill of health, except poor Bella, who had a bit of a nasty surprise hiding in her mouth. Bea is going to be writing about this soon, so I'm not going to elaborate, but suffice to say, we were both a bit weepy on the ride home.

I have cookie making duties for my classes this week, so I won't be around a whole lot, but JOY of JOYs! The guys are going to Richmond this weekend, so Mommy is going to get that weekend of sweet silence after all. Yay Daddy!!!

Road Trip With Cheddar Rabbit

As suggested by Bea, here are the pictures from our trip up to Ohio last fall; also referred to as the "Dammit Cheddar" series. We headed up to Ohio to see Velveeta Wingnut to exchange history information (see Family Dynamics Posts) and go shopping for Depression Glass (it looks so good juxtaposed against all the NC pottery, don'tcha know, and Ohiya is the place to go to find it!). Unbeknownst to us, Cheddar Rabbit had stowed away onboard. (He is called Cheddar because that's where I found him, in Cheddar, on our way to Wales, the year before last. Hey, his brother's name is Stilton - it could be worse!) Here is Cheddar, riding shotgun with Bea:
He's a terrible side-seat driver, says Bea. This is Cheddar sitting up on the dashboard, as we zip through Charleston, West Virginia. On the eve of leaving for this trip I came down with some heinous virus my youngest gave to me - hoof and mouth, or some such silly name - really virulent for a first-timer, and I was delerious at this point, so why not take some pictures? (Please note that Cheddar is wearing a TMNT (Ninja Turtle, for the initiated) samurai belt, because his boy, the Bohemian, thought it was a nice touch, before he left him in the back seat of the car...!)
We were starving, and in West Virginia, there isn't much to choose from; not along the interstate, anyway. We detoured off, looking for food-type substance and found this place. Bea actually thought they would have hotdogs. We made Cheddar wait in the car (for his sake, as well as for ours!) and went in. I ordered a beer, in a futile effort to blend, and hoped they wouldn't try to take us into the back room, which I was somewhat anxiously watching on a moniter sitting behind the bar, while Bea went to the Powder Room. It was very Pulp Fiction-esque- I kept waiting to hear, "Bring out the gimp!" Strangely enough, they did sell hotdogs, which weren't bad. so our mission(s) were accomplished (there was peeing too- very crucial) and we got the hell out of Dodge, baby.
This is Cheddar at an antique store in Beckley, West Virginia. I always find good condition Depression Glass, at a reasonable price, here, so I'm not going to tell you where it is - it's all mine, mine, I say! (Cheddar feels a little ashamed of the Tapdancer - Greed is so unattractive)
On the way back from Ohio, still deleriously ill, I took a blue million pictures of Cheddar with Pilot Mountain (or Mount Pilot, for you Andy Griffith fans) as a backdrop. I took that many, and yet you only see one, because Cheddar had gone all prima donna and wasn't staying still - hence, the naming of the "Dammit Cheddar" Series. The truck right behind Cheddar, in this picture that made it, was less than pleased with us, for blocking his way, while we shot this picture. Hold your water, old man - this is Art In The Making - all the more important for the Capital letters! There is a kick-butt Hardees just north of Winston-Salem, that I have to stop at every time I go that way. They are one of the best Hardees ever, in the world. I love me a Thickburger ya'll!! Evidently, so does Cheddar. Back, back! You rodentous creature of plush! That's my Thickburger - mine, Mine!!!!! (Think Daffy Duck, for inflection here)
And that, gentle readers, are the pictures of our brief foray into Ohiya. Notice that not a single picture was taken in Ohiya - like I said, I was ill and delerious for most of the trip. But doesn't Cheddar look like he had a most excellent time? In spite of being vilely ill, we did have a fun trip, in an epic saga kind of way. And it would appear, from the picture, that Cheddar managed to abscond with one of my french fries - Dammit Cheddar!