I stayed the night at the Quality Inn in Jeffersonville, Ohio and ate dinner at Wendy’s, the only walkable restaurant from the motel. I had a “Dave’s Double” cheeseburger, fries and a Coke; should have had Dave’s Single but I was tired and hungry and making poor choices. I ate the whole damn thing.
I spent the weekend celebrating my cousin Betsy’s wedding to long-time beau John at Pine Lake Trout Farm (just outside Cleveland). Eighty hilly acres of towering deciduous forest with five 1940s pine-paneled cabins nestled about. A stream that here and there widens into fishing ponds runs through it. I had Cabin Four; a queen-size bed, a screen porch and a wooden rocking chair.
The ceremony was held before a hundred people seated on white folding chairs on a lawn in a sunlit clearing next to a trout pond at a balmy noon-hour. The minister had a ponytail and wore frock coat. His sermon was short, secular and included a Carl Sagan quote. He made no speculation on a higher authority.
At the reception, the chicken cacciatore, eggplant parmesan and risotto were all wedding-grade fine. The pies, blueberry and cherry, were made by a fellow guest. I didn’t meet the baker, but her/his crusts had that delicate, flaky mouthfeel that makes good pie crust so wonderful and all other pie crusts so disappointing. The fillings were the perfect marriage of sweet and tart. As a long-time pie-maker, I recognize the artistry. Compliments.
For the evening, the party moved to John-the-groom’s house where he had two aluminum canoes sitting on hay bales filled to the gunnels with plastic tubs of pulled pork, jerked chicken and noodle salad. As it got dark, John lit the twenty-five foot tall bonfire he’d spent the previous day constructing (photo courtesy my aunt Signe). The embers blown vertically into the night sky became a silent fireworks display and the warmth and light wrapped around us.
The next morning, we had brunch at Betsy’s house. I took my cousin Molly’s son Will aside and had that conversation. He’d been ROTC in college and hadn’t been selected. He’s twenty-three with a masters degree in economics and working as a roofer. I encouraged him to reconsider the military, to simply enlist and if he wanted to be an officer, to go to OCS (Officer Candidate School) as an enlisted soldier. The military is a formative experience; you learn a lot about people, you learn a lot about life. You learn a lot about yourself.
Before I left, Muskegon yesterday, I bought some pot at Highway Dispo. Large, open retail space with shiny floors, they offer Flower, Pre-Rolls, Vaporizers, Concentrates, Edibles and Tinctures (I learned to smoke Mexican pot in the sixties, I have no idea what half those things are). Andy, my sales associate, mid-twenties, clean cut, knowledgeable about his product, encouraged me to buy the Lemon Bar flower. And when I agreed, he stopped talking about pot and talked about how much he liked my governor (Walz, in case you didn’t know that).
Last night, I stayed at the Star Motel in Milan (Michigan) and had dinner at the Milan Coney Cafe. The sign on the front window declared it “The Best Food In The Galaxy.” The white board above the cash register advertised the special for the evening, “Fried bologna Sand w/ Fries or Soup $9.99.” I had the fried chicken. I’m not sure about the “Best In The Galaxy” claim.
The Star Motel is one of those privately-owned brick motels built in the sixties with tired carpet, frayed towels and a clogged bathroom sink. I checked in at three in the afternoon, the owner was in his seventies and came to the window in his pajamas and gave me a long course in how to work the TV remote including which of the clearly labeled buttons did what. Then he lost my drivers license and argued that he didn’t lose it and then found it in the copier and somehow it was still my fault. The room was $65.00.
Larry was my neighbor at the Star Motel. He was gone when I got up at six. He was born in Alabama and travels the country working on high-voltage power lines. Bald, beer-gut, worn and wrinkled complexion, he smoked a cigarette and leaned on his twenty-year old Tahoe while we talked construction. He said he no longer works at heights, that the high work is “a young man’s game,” that he’s fifty and wants to retire in five years and wander the country on a motorcycle “like you.” There’s a lot of lonely guys living in these old motels.
This morning, I’m on the Lake Express ferry going from Milwaukee to Muskegon, the Harley Davidson’s strapped down on the car deck below. I’m riding to a trout farm in Cleveland for my cousin Betsy and her beau John’s wedding. The extended, the sibs, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins, spouses and hangers on, will be there. This will be the biggest Banks family event in years, we’re going to have a blast and the gossip’s going to be great. And enough of us will drink enough to make the memories memorable.
From the fish farm, I’ll ride south to Stanton, Kentucky to visit Titus, a friend and former job superintendent and project manager (he quit my company and moved to Kentucky, I hated losing him), then to Niota, Tennessee to visit Ursula, a beer-drinking, pot-smoking, bird-farming, god-fearing, Trump-supporting, one-legged, Harley-riding friend, and then on to Pensacola to visit Colonel Sawyer, my former commanding officer from the Army, now retired (he was a captain in my day). I admired him enormously.
From Pensacola, I’m riding to Louisiana to try to get a fingernail under Cajun culture and peel it back. I had a Cajun friend in the Army. Bobby grew up in the bayou and swore in French. I’ve long since lost track of him, but he told wonderful stories, bragged about the food, swore beautifully and I want to visit his culture. It’s swampy down there so I’m a little worried about the bike.
