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November 14 Ohio |
| I pulled off Interstate 70 in Ohio to get some gas. As I came to the exit
ramp's stop sign, clopping and rolling its way across the freeway overpass
was a horse and buggy. The man at the reins wore a dark, wide brimmed hat
and overalls and goaded his horse to keep up a good clip. They were heading
toward Quakersville, apparently just six miles away. On reading the road
sign, I abandoned the gas mission, realizing I'd clearly exited at this
random spot for a much higher purpose, and turned to follow the buggy. I
quickly overtook him. Then passed a yellow and black caution sign picturing
a miniature horse and buggy. "Oh god, this is going to be great," I thought.
Having been a self-proclaimed minimalist at one point, though you wouldn't know it now by looking in my car, I am fascinated by the Amish and Mennonites and the Quakers and the Shakers. The true simple life. As I wended my way along the dips and curves of the country road, passing small farms, I imagined Quakersville--a little hamlet of quiet streets; women wearing long cotton skirts and aprons; a father of some large family tying up his horse and buggy outside the corner store; and a local kitchen-style restaurant run by a healthy-looking mother who brushes flour from her hands before bringing out baskets of fresh biscuits and pots of steaming coffee. I could taste the sweet cream of the homemade butter. Cresting a small hill, I caught my first glimpse of Quakersville--a nest of quaint, white buildings nestled in a small valley. As I descended the hill, and eased up to a stop sign, I noted a sparkling blue corvette parked on someone's front lawn. Hmmmm. I made a left onto what beckoned to be Main Street. There were several buildings and a guy working out of the back of a van that read "cable". Maybe I'm on the wrong street. I turned right, then left, found nothing, and was quickly at the outskirts of town. On my second pass through I spotted a cafe--its sign read "closed". I rolled up to the local corner store. "Great Fresh Dairy" was painted on the building's white wash wall. "Ah, good," I thought, "at least I can get some nice cheese to bring to my aunt." Outside the store's front door was a large stand-up sign that might normally advertise the flank steaks on special that day, but instead it read, "If you enjoy your freedom, thank a veteran." I stepped inside. The woman behind the counter and a blond woman wearing blue jeans and a floral printed shirt were talking about the American Airlines flight that had just crashed in Queens. I hadn't heard the full story yet and asked, "Was it a commercial plane or something smaller?" "CommercialÉand carrying about 250 people. They don't know if it was an accident or terrorist act yet. I bet they never even tell us if it's terrorists 'cause if it is, the whole country'll stop flying." I asked if there was a restaurant in town. They said it was closed, but that a few miles further south there was a town with an Arby's. I thanked them, bought a cranberry juice, and headed back toward Interstate 70, yearning more than ever for a slice of times lost. On another note. Thanks for all the emails of concern. When considering the world at large, I'm doing just fine and happy to be back on the road. |