David Drayer's Blog, page 3

Pennsylvania Towns with Pervy Names

I’m in Blue Ball, Pennsylvania.

That’s right: Blue Ball.

Normally, when I bust out of work on Friday afternoon and hop on my already-packed motorcycle, knowing I don’t have to be back until 7:30 Monday morning, I head for the beauty of southern Virginia or, better yet, the much less populated gorgeous mountains of West Virginia. But this time, for some reason, I go north.

It’s a bad choice, at first. There are simply too many people with too many cars in this part of the country. I find myself amid six and eight lanes of traffic. When I am not at a dead standstill, I am going 80 to stay with the pack, dodging idiot drivers, huge potholes, and strange grooves in the road, any one of which could be the death of a guy on a motorcycle going 80.

Not my idea of a fun ride. But I survive and wind up in Blue Ball, which is 40 minutes south of Virginville, but fortunately, only seven miles from Intercourse. If you miss that, you will almost certainly end up in Bird in Hand.

Totally not kidding.

To add another scoop of bizarre to these Pennsylvania towns with pervy names, they are about the most innocent looking places you can imagine. Endless farms and cornfields, populated by an extraordinary number of Amish families, doing everything in their power to look exactly alike and as un-sexy as possible, clip-clopping every which way in their horse drawn buggies.

(Sorry. No pictures of the Amish. I didn’t want to be one of the annoying “English” taking pictures of the Amish. If you have no idea what the Amish look like, Google it or rent the movie, Witness.)

Anyway, these names work on my imagination until all the towns start to sound naughty. Baresville makes me snicker and Mount Joy sounds more like an activity than a place.

But enough of that.

As I leave Amish country, I see a kid in a chicken suit jumping up and down on the side of the road, shouting that everyone on the road needs to stop and buy some barbequed chicken from the Youth Group raising funds for whatever youth groups raise funds for. As I drive slowly by, he points at me and shouts, “You! You need chicken!”

Actually, I have been on the road for several hours, and I am pretty hungry. I think to myself, “That kid’s right. I do need chicken.” So I do a U-turn and buy some chicken, macaroni salad and a Mountain Dew supporting what I am pretty sure is a good cause. I find a nice spot in the shade of a row of pine trees and pig out.

Okay…that’s it for now. Time for me to find a shower, a bottle of wine, and whatever kind of fun I can scare up around here. 

I shall return…

Pennsylvania Towns with Pervy Names

I’m in Blue Ball, Pennsylvania.

That’s right: Blue Ball.

Normally, when I bust out of work on Friday afternoon and hop on my already-packed motorcycle, knowing I don’t have to be back until 7:30 Monday morning, I head for the beauty of southern Virginia or, better yet, the much less populated gorgeous mountains of West Virginia. But this time, for some reason, I go north.

It’s a bad choice, at first. There are simply too many people with too many cars in this part of the country. I find myself amid six and eight lanes of traffic. When I am not at a dead standstill, I am going 80 to stay with the pack, dodging idiot drivers, huge potholes, and strange grooves in the road, any one of which could be the death of a guy on a motorcycle going 80.

Not my idea of a fun ride. But I survive and wind up in Blue Ball, which is 40 minutes south of Virginville, but fortunately, only seven miles from Intercourse. If you miss that, you will almost certainly end up in Bird in Hand.

Totally not kidding.

To add another scoop of bizarre to these Pennsylvania towns with pervy names, they are about the most innocent looking places you can imagine. Endless farms and cornfields, populated by an extraordinary number of Amish families, doing everything in their power to look exactly alike and as un-sexy as possible, clip-clopping every which way in their horse drawn buggies.

(Sorry. No pictures of the Amish. I didn’t want to be one of the annoying “English” taking pictures of the Amish. If you have no idea what the Amish look like, Google it or rent the movie, Witness.)

Anyway, these names work on my imagination until all the towns start to sound naughty. Baresville makes me snicker and Mount Joy sounds more like an activity than a place.

But enough of that.

As I leave Amish country, I see a kid in a chicken suit jumping up and down on the side of the road, shouting that everyone on the road needs to stop and buy some barbequed chicken from the Youth Group raising funds for whatever youth groups raise funds for. As I drive slowly by, he points at me and shouts, “You! You need chicken!”

Actually, I have been on the road for several hours, and I am pretty hungry. I think to myself, “That kid’s right. I do need chicken.” So I do a U-turn and buy some chicken, macaroni salad and a Mountain Dew supporting what I am pretty sure is a good cause. I find a nice spot in the shade of a row of pine trees and pig out.

Okay…that’s it for now. Time for me to find a shower, a bottle of wine, and whatever kind of fun I can scare up around here. 

I shall return…

I clock in early so I can clock out early and by 3:15, I...

I clock in early so I can clock out early and by 3:15, I’m just ahead of the really ugly traffic. Still, it’s speed up and slow down, stop and go for about 35 miles. The road finally opens up and it feels like I am breaking free from a set of invisible chains. I open up the bike, go hard and fast for a while, then, convinced that the chains are gone, I slow down, breathe, soak up the scenery.

I once said that I take these unmapped and open-ended trips because I am looking for something, metaphysically speaking, and that’s true. It would help if I knew what it was, exactly, that I was looking for. I don’t. I just know that a couple pieces of the puzzle are missing and I’d really like to find them.

And these guys are no help. They don’t even know what I’m talking about.

Shortly after I cross the West Virginia state line, the temperature drops fast and far so I start looking for a place to stop for the night. I drive into a little town with a band setting up in the town square and am pretty sure I’ve found my place. I park the bike on Main Street and walk around. There are plenty of people out, many of them carrying folding chairs, following the music which is just beginning to play. I follow it too, walking past the usual small town storefronts—hardware, pharmacy, restaurants—and a couple not so typical, a store of fine chocolates and a pawn shop advertising guns, gold and silver.

The band is good. They are five guys playing a mix of pop, rock, R&B, timeless songs that everyone knows. The crowd is still in the awkward stage of standing around with their hands in their pockets, smiling, nodding. “Let’s get this thing going,” a lady with long gray-hair says, grabbing the arm of a girl of about thirteen or fourteen.

“Gram, no!” the teenager says, hanging back, embarrassed.

“Come on, you didn’t spend an hour doing your hair just to stand here.”

The girl isn’t budging but when they start doing KC and the Sunshine Band, grandma’s gone! She’s out on the lawn by herself, loud and proud. A group of little kids joins her. Then a couple other women join, one with a baby on her hip. They are quite the crew, really getting into it, singing, “shake your booty, shake your boot-ay!”

Some guy comes up and introduces himself as Jim something or other. “I’m hoping to represent West Virginia in the House,” he says, “so I’m out here saying hi to folks.” He’s about mid-fifties, dressed in a tee-shirt, jeans and very white tennis shoes. I tell him I am not a resident of West Virginia and am just passing through.

“Welcome to our great state,” he says and informs me that this is the Apple Harvest Festival and they have fun things going on all weekend. “I took a picture of the schedule,” he says and takes out his phone. Turns out, he is not from this part of the state and hits a different festival every weekend. “This town’s a little smaller than it looked on the internet. I pretty near met everyone already.” He hands me his phone then so I can read the weekend events. I feel a little weird taking a stranger’s phone but I take a cursory look, hand it back and thank him.

He scans the crowd and says, “Yep. Talked to all of them.” He admits that he’s new to being a politician and that he’s only running because God called him to do it. “My wife and I prayed about it,” he says, “with all the craziness going on in the country and so, here I am. Stepping out in faith and obedience.”

I don’t know quite what to say to that so I just say, “Sounds interesting.”

“Let me tell ya, brother, it sure is.” Just then a young couple wanders into the crowd and Jim follows them. “I’m running for the House of Representatives,” he tells them, “and I’m just out here saying hi to folks.”

A very drunk guy comes up to me and asks if I’m mad at him. “Nope,” I say. “Not a bit.”

“Everybody’s mad at me. I’m just trying to have fun.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No sir.”

He wanders off looking disturbingly like a walker from the television show, The Walking Dead. A policewoman is watching him with her hands on her hips. The band wants to know if everyone is having fun. Everyone cheers. “Does anyone here know how to do the Cupid Shuffle?” Another cheer goes up, the music starts and the lawn is full.

I walk back to the bike to go in search of a room for the night.