Almost Heaven, Whatever.

I'm having this love affair with West Virginia. I just love driving through the state. In fact, the Appalacians, in general, make for a great drive. Just recently, I had a wonderful drive from North Carolina up through the western end of Virginia into West Virginia and then into Ohio.

At Ravenswood, WV, I left the Interstate, a rare treat, and headed to Columbus on US33. I went across this cool steel bridge as a lazy tug nudged a half dozen coal barges downstream. With its wake on a funky angle, I watched the tug work the barges around a curve. Southeast Ohio is just more West Virginia that happens to be north of the river. The drive through the Hocking River Valley is one of my new favorites. Along the way, I saw a sign for the Fur Peace Ranch. Fur Peace is a play on "a fur piece down the road." The ranch was started by Jorma Kaukonen and his wife as a "ranch that grows guitar players." Jorma and his famous friends put on guitar camps throughout the summer. Jorma was a founding member of Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna. He is a Piedmont fingerstyle acoustic blues guitar master. One day, I'm going to go to camp there.

I went up into Ohio for a delivery past Columbus. from there I picked up and headed right back down through the Virginias to North Carolina. This time I couldn't avoid the Interstate. Crossing the river north of where I did before, it was getting late and I needed to stop for the night.

I got off the hishway at the romantically named Mineral Wells, WV. Sometimes, coming off that solitary black ribbon of highway onto an exit can be information overload. There was two hotels, a McDonalds, two convenience stores, a four wheeler gas station, a Federal Express terminal, two truckstops, a strip bar, a BBQ joint, an adult bookstore, and a bar. Somehow, I drove past the poorly marked service road and missed both truckstops. Now, I was on a narrow WV State Highway. Ever the optimist, I just knew there would soon be a place to turn around.

Around the curve, I saw a large crane shovel. I slowed to turn around, but the lot it sat in was lumpy loose gravel. Not wanting to get stuck, I kept rolling.

There were a couple small businesses. Perhaps, I could swing into the edge of their parking areas and do a "U" turn. The Five O'Clock traffic was all around me. I didn't want to tie them up. Drivers can get a ticket for too much of a traffic delay.

Now there's a sign telling me the bridge ahead can only handle trucks and buses one at a time! Just across the bridge, a stop sign and another strip bar. At the stop sign, two WV highways split. One looks narrow and residential. I took the other one. Leaving the stop sign, there is a tight curve. Shifting gears and watching my tailer come around and trying to decide if I can get behind the bar to go back the other way I came. And I'm watching the four wheelers buzz around me like gnats. I might have made it behind the bar, but I'd rolled too far before deciding. I'm on a hill that curves off to the right. There is barely any shoulder here for the rock outcroppings but I stop to assess my options. Cars are going into the other lane to get around me. Where did all this traffic come from? When a Harley Dude and his wife go into opposing traffic and around me, I know I've just got to move.

I drive up the hill and around the curve to be greeted by a sign for a 30 mph "S" curve. The curve is barely wide enough for my truck and trailer, let alone two way traffic. Next, its downhill into a small town. Right at the village limit is their post office with an empty parking lot. As I slow, two things occur to me. I've got several cars behind me on the curve and the turn into the drive is just too tight.

Now I'm crawling through Cedar Grove, WV looking for a big parking lot or somewhere I can turn around. I could go around a block, but the are small. And I don't want the local Barney Fife to catch me in a restricted zone. There's a car wash, a 7-11, a grocery store, another bar. Walking down the street is a goth girl in a wifebeater and black jeans. Her low slung belt swishes one way and then the other. I get a good enough look to realize she probably goes to the high school across the street. Leaving town on the other end, another curve, another hill; this one around a dairy farm. I started to wonder if I'd hit Maryland before I get turned around.

Then a miracle happened. I came upon a Mechanic/Welding Shop that works on Farm Equipment, Heavy Equipment and Semis. Just past their building was a beautiful, big, open gravel yard. I pulled in and kicked up a rooster tail of dust winging in deep and turning around. Its back through the village; dairy farm, grocery store, 7-11, post office, 'S' curve, Strip Bar, Band, Fed Ex, Motel, Gas Station, Service Road . . . whew!

As I amble down the service road, I can see that the Liberty Truckstop at the end is not the Libery Chain I was thinking of. The first truckstop has a bright, new looking, sign for Barbecue. At the end of the street is the Liberty and a strip joint. A decision has to be made.

I'm getting just old enough that, after a moment's consideration, some good BBQ is a better idea than spending too much money watching a bunch of pretty girls prance around. You never spend less than you planned at a strip bar. If I've got money to burn, I'd go into a strip bar long before a casino, but not this week.

There aren't too many trucks in the lot yet. I pull around behind and up against the row that's started. The sun is shining bright, so I put up my privacy curtains and open some vents. Bagging up the trash and grabbing my wallet, I amble in toward the store and the BBQ. The lot is weirdly clean. The scales and diesel pumps are freshly painted. As I come around the building, it starts to go downhill.

On the south side of the building, six or eight trash barrels sit overflowing against the wall. On the ground in front of them is a pile of chair cushions. The kind of cushion you tie onto a plank seated wooden dining chair. The stairs are deteriorating concrete and the fresh paint has given way to a film of dust. Coming up the door from the sill is a fine coat of reddish dust.

On the door is a hand written sign proclaiming that "Ice Cream Items are now available." Pulling open the door, I walked into a garage sale. That's the impression the store makes. There were few standard shelves or displays. Things were haphazardly strewn about like a trailer park yard sale; Junk food items, an ice cream cooler, and a couple stand alone soft drink cases. Around to my left, behind the counter, sits a bosomy woman in her fifties. She had hair like Dolly Parton and dressed like a teenager. No cleavage, just a vertical seam like two tiles and no grout. She smiled and said hello.

A sign hung from the ceiling pointing off to the right and at the resturant. The sign seemed to emphasize pizza rather than BBQ. Up even with the sign, two chairs blocked the way. Taped on one was another handwritten sign. This one said "Resturant Closed. We Don't Know Why." Really.

I shrugged and looked for the Mens Room. Across the store at a lone video poker terminal was a lean lanky redneck playing fiercely. He was all gristle and sinew with a peach fuzz beard and a hat he got free from a carton of cigarettes. With his sleeveless white t-shirt, he was wearing warm up pants. Those silky pants with a stripe down the side worn originally by athletes, . . . er . . . warming up for the big game. This guys lanky frame came from years of scrabbling for food not from exercise. If he's got six pack abs, he found the dented dirty cans along the highway. A cigarette dangles from his mouth as he jams another dollar in the machine. I wonder how long its been since he paid his child support.

In the john, at least, theres some fresh paint. Someone jobbed this part out because the sign that states "Wet Paint or Caulk" is actually printed on a computer. After my pitstop, I put away the privacy curtains and fired up the truck. The main reason I picked BBQ is I thought I could get out of the truck a while and do some writing in a comfortable chair. I moved down the service road to the Liberty and to another decision. I could go in and write at their resturant or hit the strip bar. I still didn't want to spend the money so I went in to eat.

This place is an old school truckstop. Theres a small convenience store area and another room full of chrome accessories. More video poker, less rednecks. And a crane game. The resturant is upstairs. I climb the stairs with my notebook and a USA Today I bought earlier. Entering the joint, I can see, at one time, it must have been quite a place. The dining room is on two levels, there is a lot of wood paneling. Off to my right is a counter for 'takeout' orders. Behind it is a bar with a fountain machine, an ice maker, and a couple coffee pots. On the wall is a windor to the kitchen. The place seems to be run by three sweaty big-boned girls. They look like sisters; family anyway. I was looking forward to a big salad and some writing.

The menu is hand typed. Typed, no word process here. Breakfast on one side of the page, all the rest on the other, stuffed into a yellowed page protector. No salads. Vegetables are potatos, three ways, or the lettuce and tomato on a "Deluxe" hamburger. I had been drooling about not just a saladd but a salad and my notebook, There's not going to be any writing tonight.

If Richard Simmons is to be believed, there is a skinny Todd inside me trying to get out. Nevertheless, Louie Anderson and Ralphie May have convinced me that there's an even fatter Todd trying to squirm to the surface too. I order Catfish, fries and slaw.

The catfish is good. Perhaps prepackaged but not the cheap stuff. I've got Hot Sauce and Tarter on the fish. I got extra fries because the waitress spilled some grabbing it from the window. They're crinkle cut, just like I like, and smothered in ketchup. The coleslaw is on the better side of average. I'm into my paper. Life is good.

But the air conditioner is not keeping up with the building. It is quite warm actually. I notice maybe the kichen is not vented well. It snuck up on me but I can really smell hot oil in the fryer. Not the good oil smell, but the smell like that yellow residue on the vent hood. Like that yellowy gunk that's been there way too long.

Have you ever had not so great fried food where you get that film in your mouth? At a certain point, you taste the oil more than the food. My whole body and my clothers feel like that mouth. I am coated. The food was OK, but the resturant has become unbearable. I've been in their john and I'm not taking a shower here. Rather than smell more like a overused fondue pot, I pay my bill and go back downstairs.

Out in the parking lot, the air is cool. It smells sweet compared to the fryer vats; even with the soot of 50 idling big rigs. Down at the end of the parking lot is the strip bar; all lit up. I guess I would have rather gotten all hot and bothered with some platinum blondes and their g-strings. Instead, I'm all hot and bothered and smell like a pork tenderloin. All from hanging out with the burger sisters.