This Memorial Day opened with bright sunshine and coolish temperatures in western New York State. One of the striking sights as we began our drive down rustic Rt. 6 into northwestern Pennsylvania was the preponderance of American flags hanging from windows, porches, roofs and poles... We saw two dozen or more neatly laid out cemeteries early in the morning, with families laying memorial flowers and other remembrances at the graves of their loved ones.
Many of the small towns we passed through were busy with final preparations for Memorial Day parades and other celebrations. (We had to make several detours, because policemen waved us off the main streets.) In several tiny, two-block “villages,” yellow ribbons festooned trees and telephone poles. Patriotism is strong is this part of the country, and it was good to see.
The previous night, Jason and I stopped in Wellsville, NY (with apologies to T.C. Boyle, we stumbled on the town, rather than taking “The Road To…” it.) and had dinner at a jampacked local eatery called Texas Hots. The line to get in was out the door, and we waited patiently for more than 30 minutes in a gentle sprinkle to see what was so popular to Wellsvillians on a darkening Sunday evening. Texas Hots has been in business and in the same family since 1921. Its claim to fame was its special Texas sauce, served only on hot dogs (the ‘Texas Hots’). It consisted of, among other things, A-I Sauce, Tabasco, onions, sharp pickles and some magic ingredient that Ingrid, our more-than-friendly waitress, told us was a family secret. I’ve seldom seen such a busy place. People didn’t just hustle to wait on you; they ran. Busboys trotted back and forth with heavy bins of dirty dishes to the kitchen every three minutes or so. Next to us, a man was served mountainous strawberry shortcake, so naturally, I had to have one. Jason, more prudent than I and a lot lighter, refrained. How was the food in Texas Hots? We each had a burger, a Texas Hot, onion rings and French fries. All were mediocre. Except for the Texas Hots... But the ambiance, the hustle, Ingrid’s unfeigned friendliness and the steady buzz of the patrons made it a worthwhile local experience, if not a culinary wow.
Now on this Memorial Day morning, we drove deep into the Allegheny National Forest, a quiet and lushly green vastness of foothills and rivers, winding roads and footpaths to various overlooks. We took one byway, and wound up at a tenting site on the border of the Kinzua Reservoir, which was fed by the Allegheny River. Collecting a $5 to $18 per night tent site fee was a couple in their early 60s, Mel and Sue. They were motorcyclists, they told us, and spent their free time biking all over the Allegheny Mountains. They said they’d visited more than 80 “beeyootiful spots you want to take home with you”, and wanted to revisit many of the places they particularly liked.
Some years ago, Mel told us he’d rescued a baby raccoon from a felled tree, and raised it as a pet. He named it Zacharias Raccoon, and it went everywhere on the motorcycles with Sue and Mel. They kept it for three years (illegally, because it’s strictly against the law to harbor a pet raccoon, Mel said), and it went everywhere they did in a carrier on the back of Mel’s bike. Never jumped out, never tried to run away. Then lost Zacharias one Friday evening when they went biking up the highway to a friend’s and didn’t want to take their pet. The last Mel and Sue saw of Zacharias was the little critter running up the road after them as fast as he could. He wasn’t anywhere to be found when they returned.
Mel has a deep feeling for the Allegheny territory. “Lived here all my life. Work for an oil company, Klein Oil. Used to be one of the biggest companies. I think it was the first to pull oil out of the ground around here. Now Klein’s pretty small, doesn’t want oil any more. All’s we want is the natural gas. Oil’s a problem. Cause a spill, and you get a fine anywhere from $2,000 to $100,000. And besides, we got to dispose of the brine…the water that comes up with the oil. We got to cart it away to a dump site. So oil and brine’s expensive. Gas is clean, the money maker. Now I’m a foreman, but I’ve done pretty near every job there is to do in oil. My father was a lumberman, moved all around these mountains following the cutting sites. So I guess I got the wanders, too. Go where the work is. Long as it’s oil. Or gas, rather.”
Years ago, Mel was an MP in the army, stationed at Governor’s Island in New York harbor. He was fascinated to hear our description of the island now, and some of New York State’s plans for ‘developing’ it. He said he’d like to go back and see the barracks where he was billeted. Maybe he will.
Sue told us she has three little dogs, Pomeranians and Chihuahuas that rode in the bikes with her and her husband. “We just want little dogs because of the grandchildren. Big dogs, well, they’re like people. Sometimes than have good days, sometimes they have bad days. Bad day comes along, they could snap a child’s arm with one bite. Won’t have no big dogs around. Since Zacharias, we just want the little fellas.”
New tenters were arriving, and Mel and Sue went back to collecting fees. We continued on to the impressive Kinzua Dam and shale rock waterfalls beyond. Soon enough, we were on Rt. 59 and Rt. 6 into Meadville and Albion before we hit the Ohio border at Conneaut. The adventure continued, but that’s enough for now.
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