Finding a Silver Lining at a Silver Diner

I’ve driven the some 260 plus mile stretch of Interstate Highway 64 between St. Louis, Missouri, my birthplace, and Louisville Kentucky, my home for the last thirty years, hundreds of times.

That stretch of interstate’s not a very interesting road: straight and flat for the most part with few stops along the way. Sometimes there’s flooding along the sides of the road, in Indiana and Illinois, sometimes there’s construction on the road. I’ve run into some major storms while driving that stretch. But it’s always been just a means to an end, getting from one city to the other.

The people in the car and the purpose of the trip vary. Holidays and special occasions: the car laden down like Santa’s sleigh with Christmas presents, our two sons when they were young and a big collie dog.

Traveling to my parents’ and my in-laws’ 50^th wedding anniversaries, which as coincidence would have it, were the exact same date.  To accommodate our attending both, my in-laws had a lunch-time celebration; my parents an evening event.

I remember that trip because we were in a particular hurry; my husband got a speeding ticket. Our parents who were retired and relatively healthy at the time would have told us to take our time. I could almost hear my Dad, “Better to arrive in one piece and late than get in an accident.” I have to admit we haven’t always heeded the advice to take our time.

We’ve driven that interstate in sickness and health:  hurry-up trips when a parent or a relative was sick or had died. Depending on who was doing the driving we often compared our drive times, my husband’s always the shortest. When I drove alone it added fifteen to thirty minutes to the time, either because of extra stops or a lighter foot. Music, audio books or games, depending on our moods and who was in the car helped to pass the miles.

Many of the Louisville to St. Louis trips were over the last decade of my and my husband’s parents’ lives. Stress and worry were a constant on those drives as we often were racing to a hospital or rehab center because of the latest chapter in a string of difficult times. So many trips that only a few of those drives do I remember specifically.

The reason for one drive on that same stretch of I-64 was to return from a weekend get-together with two best friends from high school. We get together at least once a year, sometimes in fun locations, such as a five-day trip to Asheville, North Carolina. But many times our get togethers are just a quick add-on to a trip to our hometown to see family and friends.

Our friendships, originating when we entered an all-girl high school at ages thirteen and fourteen, have lasted now fifty years. Like traveling that interstate, our friendships have been in good times and bad. We’ve been in each other weddings, celebrated the births of our children, and for two of us, our grandchildren. We’ve shared the difficulties and joys of raising children, working in jobs we loved or hated, going back to graduate and law school. More recently, we’ve laughed together over the indignities of age. We have seen some husbands come and go, and have shared our sorrows with the passing of all of our parents. This trip, time and money led us to decide on a short trip to our hometown.

After a fun weekend and saying goodbye to my friends, I headed home on Monday morning, spurred to get an early start by my husband who had been watching the weather. He often checks the weather radar even if we are just crossing the street to walk the dog in the park on a cloudy day, frequently saving us from being caught in a sudden downpour. He advised I should leave early to avoid a line of severe weather coming in from the north, predicted to arrive in Louisville at 5 PM eastern. With the early start I thought I was on track to beat the storm by a couple of hours.

Stopping at a rest area in Illinois I saw a text from my husband updating me that the storm now had changed paths and likely would intersect I-64 right after Evansville, Indiana by early afternoon. My thoughtful husband suggested I stop in Evansville for a couple of hours to let the storm pass.

My husband and I had stopped at that exit just two weeks befoe with a packed lunch for me and to buy McDonalds’ happy meals for our grandkids. That trip with our two grandchildren in the back seat had been an unqualified delight. We went to a Cardinal baseball game, explored the twelve story playground that is the City Museum, and ate genuine frozen custard from Ted Drewes, coincidentally my very first employer. Giggles and “stump the grandparents” on a Presidential 20 Questions game passed the time on the drives there and back.

Evansville is the approximate mid-way of the drive, and would be a convenient stopping point for lunch again today. Except for the fact I had no packed lunch and all of the fast food restaurants at that location, where we had stopped hundreds of time to get gas, stretch and use the rest rooms, are not particularly friendly to someone with a gluten allergy, such as me.

Making fun of people who are gluten free is almost a national pastime now. It was a running joke in Asheville on the comedy bus tour my friends from high school and I took last year. Tom Waits, George Clooney and David Letterman championed “Free the Glutens” on one of Letterman’s last Tonight Show appearances. Articles abound with reasonable arguments that, except for the small percentage of the population with celiac disease, most people do not benefit from avoiding gluten.

All of that is fine, except for those of us who do have celiac or gluten intolerance. Even a tiny crumb of bread or cross-contamination with a wheat product makes me sick for days. There currently is no medication to help the gastro-intestinal discomfort and flu-like symptoms that result from a mistake at a restaurant. For that reason, I avoid most fast food restaurants and those without a gluten-free menu.

As a result, on long car trips, airplanes and at airports, concerts and stadiums, to name just a few gluten-free-hostile venues, I often find myself painfully hungry if I don’t bring my own food or if the venue does not permit outside food.

I wasn’t looking forward to prolonging my stop in Evansville this time, knowing all of the usual restaurants we had tried involved fast food and the only likely gluten-free option would be a drink. Nevertheless, I reflected that sitting with a bottle of water at a rest stop is better than trying to drive through a severe storm.

I recalled another trip home from St. Louis when an unexpected storm caught me in blowing, blinding rain where I was afraid to pull off the road but also afraid to continue on. Eventually, I was able to follow the taillights of a large truck and pull off at this same Evansville exit, hunkering down, along with a lot of 18-wheelers at an abandoned service station, as golf-ball-sized hail pelted the overhang.

I didn’t want to repeat that experience so I pulled off at the exit. Since wasting time was the point of my stop, I drove a half mile past McDonalds, Arby’s and the service stations. I had seen a new sign for a Denny’s and could not recall seeing that restaurant at this location.

Finally, I spotted what looked like a 1950’s-era, silver diner, tucked near one of the motels, barely visible from the road. I figured it would be more pleasant to drink an ice tea and sit at a table, even if I was hungry, than to sit in my car and wait for the storm to pass.

Stepping out of my fourteen-year old, boxy Toyota that no one would mistake for a time-traveling DeLorean, I nevertheless felt a bit like Marty McFly as I walked into a diner that looked like it had been transported from an earlier era.

The diner oozed the same old-fashioned charm on the inside as on the outside. A friendly waitress seated me and provided a menu, at which I barely glanced. After ordering ice tea, I asked the waitress if they had anything gluten free. To my surprise she pointed out the menu was color coded and clearly marked for guests with food allergies.

I thought the diner must be from “Back to the Future 4”, the yet-to-be-made sequel where the past combined the best of the old and the new, including foods labeled for people like me with food allergies. All gluten-free choices were clearly marked.  In addition to salads and entrée choices, sandwiches could be ordered on gluten-free bread. Breakfast, including gluten-free pancakes, was served all day. This was Nirvana for someone with celiac disease. I confidently chose a gluten-free salad, with grilled chicken. A meal that easily would satisfy for the long stop as well as the rest of the drive home.

Before leaving I asked the waitress when this Denny’s diner had opened. I expected it had been recently. She said she’d worked there for the last fifteen years. Apparently, we had just never ventured more than a mile off the interstate.

After a long-ish lunch break I called to check in with my husband of 43 years. I was beginning to think of him as my “personal weather man”. He said the storm had passed, the highway beyond Evansville should be clear sailing. He also suggested I take my time and travel safely. Strange words from one who in past years had often wondered why it took me longer to make the drive.

Driving home I thought back to one other Louisville to St. Louis trip. Ten years ago, on the day my Dad died, I quickly threw a few things in a suitcase and headed to St. Louis late in the afternoon, a time I had never made the drive. My husband and sons would join me the next day. I cried a little as I drove, but kept on that straight stretch of highway without stop until I could see the St. Louis skyline from Illinois. A sight I’d never seen before: a gorgeous sunset, framed by the Gateway Arch, hit me like a blow to the chest. My tears stopped and I smiled. I could almost hear my Dad say, “Stop and look at that amazing view.”

This trip to St. Louis and back to see my “besties” was not life changing. Nor was my short detour and stop at the Denny’s silver diner at the Evansville exit. Though failing to heed the changing weather and getting caught in a bad storm could have been.

I did almost hear my Dad’s voice again as I thought about the silver linings on this trip that will keep it in my memory as one of the memorable Louisville to St. Louis trips. I’ve come to treasure the value of family and good friends, reliance on my husband with his thoughtful concern, and I also found a great new stopping point for lunch where I can safely eat along a commonly-traveled road. How many more silver linings could I want?

Alien Lights or the Ghost of George Vanderbilt?

It started with a long weekend trip to Asheville, NC. I was meeting two high school girlfriends there.  I've known them for more years than anyone--except those with whom I share DNA.

          Since I was driving some 250 miles each way, and being the safety conscious person I am, I took my thirteen year old Toyota—yes, you read that right—I drive a 2001 Avalon that’s traveled 117,000 miles and was built before Toyota started having recalls and “issues”—to the nearby Valvoline Center. After a short flurry of activity, my old Toyota’s oil was clean, her lights and tires checked out fine, and I had even treated her to a new air filter. As soon as I packed my bags I would be ready to go.

But on the drive home to pack, I noticed a strange light flickering on and off on the floor on the driver’s side. Since the light was near the hood release, I thought it might indicate the hood was not closed properly. I released the hood and tried to close it again. I even enlisted my husband in the project and asked if he’d close the hood tightly so I was sure I wouldn't have any trouble on the trip.

The drive to Asheville was uneventful except for delays on some highways due to construction traffic. After I arrived we started sight-seeing, enjoying the fine restaurants for which Asheville is famous, and drinking a little wine. We were having an all-around good time.

On Friday night, after touring the Biltmore Estate we stumbled upon an old-fashioned, outdoor concert by Tuxedo Junction. We bought a bottle of Biltmore wine and enjoyed the selections from three or four decades of music. People danced the conga line in the grass, couples two-stepped and waltzed, and little children chased each other, throwing handfuls of grass they had torn from the lawn.  

Driving back to the hotel afterwards, I was startled to suddenly see the very bright light reappear, on and off near my left foot. The flashing light was most distracting, pulling my attention abruptly to the floor of the car from the dark, twisty roads of the Biltmore Estate where I feared a deer or other animal might jump in the road.

Even though as we drove, we joked about this light being an alien manifestation or the ghost of George Vanderbilt, who perhaps didn't appreciate us concert-goers trampling his estate, I had concluded the flashing light was a non-alien, non-ghostly, real life safety hazard. By the time we were back at the hotel I had decided to research the problem and, if necessary, get professional help the next day before doing any more significant driving.

So when we arrived at the hotel I took the car manual in with me and read it from cover to cover. Don’t ask why it took me thirteen years to read the manual. I suppose I just never had the need before now. My old Toyota really has been a trouble-free ride.

I learned many things from the manual. Who knew my car had a button for overdrive? And what was overdrive? And did you know the front airbags deploy if you drive over a cliff? I guess that’s a good thing, at least if it’s a smallish cliff and you don’t crash on rocks.

There are lots more nuggets of information in the manual. But the significant point seemed to be that some Toyota models have interior foot lights. I hadn't seen any light fixtures on the car floor. But this still seemed the most logical explanation.

After further research on the Internet, I concluded a bulb or wiring could be loose or maybe there was a fuse problem. I was proud of my automotive diagnostic skills. You really can solve anything with an Internet connection, can't you?

My friends and I agreed on Saturday morning we’d try calling the Toyota dealer and visit a service station if the dealer could not tell us how to fix the faulty light.

On Saturday morning, after confirming online that my Toyota dealer was open on Saturdays, I called. Only to be greeted by voice mail. So I left a detailed message about the faulty interior foot light I had diagnosed and asking the service department to please call and help me figure out a solution to the distracting light. The dealer never called back.

Then off we drove, with Google maps’ assistance in hand on our cell phones, in search of a service station we hoped employed actual mechanics. After several unsuccessful stops we spotted a Valvoline service center and I pulled in.

 I explained in great detail how I had diagnosed the problem and added that the mysterious light had first appeared after I’d had my oil changed at a Valvoline. So maybe they had tripped a light or fuse somehow? In jest, we mentioned alien lights and ghosts. But, I added, in any event, I sure hoped they could find and fix the disturbing light problem.

The nice young Valvoline man said he’d look at it and see if he could help, even though they did not ordinarily service interior lights. He stepped to my door as I got out of my car and pointed to where I had seen the light. As I did, the young man said, “I see the light and I see your problem. It’s the flashlight next to your seat.”

A moment's pause to realize what was happening was followed by peals of laughter from all of us and everyone at Valvoline.

Years ago, my husband had gotten me a large flashlight for emergencies and slid it next to the driver’s seat. I had completely forgotten about the flashlight. The flashlight had been jarred slightly and now was turned so the on button was pressed every now and then. So much for aliens and ghosts.

We offered to pay the Valvoline service man for his time. But he assured us the hearty laugh, as well as the addition to his supply of “dumb blonde jokes”, was quite sufficient payment.

Amsterdam: Rembered Pain Amidst Today’s Pleasures

  Today we have a guest blogger, my brother Phil, who writes of a recent excursion to Amsterdam. Enjoy.

Amsterdam is New York with the addition of designated vice zones and minus the guys who pounce on your windshield at traffic lights.  

This is a busy place. Walkers, bicyclist, scooters, buses, trolleys, and cars occupy many of the same spaces only at different intervals. Movement at the right time is key.  

If you’d like to avoid traffic all together, take a glassed-in boat canal tour of the amazing architecture. Look up and see if you can spot any of the buildings that look like they’re leaning forward toward the street. Make this investigation before you hit the coffee shops. 

If you want to try depression on for size, stroll around the red light district. For context, there’s the sex museum. 

For a town filled with pleasure seekers, the waiting line to the sadness of the Anne Frank Museum is surprisingly long. Here conversations are whispered, affect muted, eyes and ears straight ahead. This is where Anne Frank, her sister, their mom and dad, and four others hid from the Nazis for two years until they were discovered, arrested and sent to concentration camps. Only Otto Frank, her father, lived to tell the tale. 

The story is told through short videos, words from Anne’s diary providing the narration. There are also video interviews with Miep, an office worker and friend of Anne’s who worked in the jam factory under the upstairs hiding place, and with her father Otto in 1967.

 A walk through the museum is a shuffle through small bedrooms, a makeshift kitchen, a toilet. The original steep winding staircase is segmented now into smaller sections. Frodo and his friends would have had trouble negotiating these shin busters.

A false bookcase functioned as a hinged door providing access to the secret living space, the barrier between getting caught and living another day. Windows are blacked out and must never be opened. Artifacts sit behind museum glass—a typewriter, theatre magazine pages sent to Anne by a friend, photos, Nazi edicts on where Jews could not go, the identifying star to be sewn on and worn by all Jews. 

It’s hard to look at the old monopoly board tacked to a wall and not think about the rotten roll of the dice around the corner for everyone in the house but Frank. 

The feeling here is horror, disbelief. It stays with you after you leave. How could grown men, with sons and daughters of their own, be so completely non-human to others, particularly the innocent, whose crimes were being different?