50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E.

50 Stories in 50 States: Tales inspired by a motorcycle journey across the USA

Volume I - Great Lakes & N.E.

By Kevin B Parsons

Copyright 2013 Kevin B Parsons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

Introduction

Maine

New York

Pennsylvania

New Hampshire

Vermont

Ohio

Illinois

Wisconsin

Indiana

Michigan

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

My wife (Quilter Girl) and I embarked on a ‘50 States in 50 Weeks’ motorcycle tour of America, a once-in-a-lifetime dream. We rode across the country on a Honda Gold Wing, towing a pop top tent trailer. During the more mundane sections of the trip (like the back country of Ohio), we talked on the intercoms and came up with short story ideas. Inspired, I wrote a story for every state, which morphed into a five-book series, compiled by regions, with ten states in each volume.

Some of the stories are based on our experiences, some on history, and some probably from indigestion. Warning: these are not necessarily motorcycle stories, nor are they travel stories (although some are), but a look at Americana, with each state as a backdrop.

Each state got only one look, so if we encountered bad weather, we would just grind it out and ride through the state. Maine, for instance, got a quick exit after Bar Harbor and heavy rains. Yet excellent weather in states like Vermont and Pennsylvania provided ample opportunity to explore.

Enjoy this volume of ‘50 Stories.’

~Kevin B Parsons

Brian Head, Utah

Maine

Maine and Bar Harbor folks love their lobster. I tried one and found the entire procedure rather revolting, like ripping apart a giant cockroach. And I learned that diners wear bibs for a reason, as liquid lobster goo splatters everywhere during demolition. I confess, though, that I enjoyed one of the best meals of the adventure in Maine: lobster macaroni and cheese. Bar Harbor, with its fishing industries, cruise ships, myriad tourists, and the locals’ dialect and culture, made a great backdrop for a story. And who could forget their excellent local cuisine?

LOBSTAH

Friday night and the place rocks at ‘Lota Lobstah’ in Bar Harbor. It’s easy to find. The neon sign reads ‘Lobstah’, then drops the B, S and H and flashes ‘Lo ta,’ and so on. Lobstah. That’s the way we pronounce it in Bar Harbor… Baa Haaba. Need to find our restaurant and bar? Look for the line halfway down the block.

I own the place. I’m Freddie. Junior. My dad started the joint thirty-six years ago in a plain old building two blocks from the harbor. Reluctantly, he handed it over to his goofball son seven years ago, took off in an RV, and hasn’t been back except to visit. I always thought he caved to pressure from Ma, God bless her. He and Ma get here for all the holidays.

Much to my dad’s dismay, I took the place to another level. I think he might have been happier if I failed. You know, ‘can’t live without me’? But deep down I’m sure he’s thrilled to see it go and grow. The buyout check every month must help, too.

When I say took it to another level, I mean like to the summit of Cadillac Mountain. Pops served up lobster and potatoes. But I wasn’t a guy to just sit back and watch. I decided to experiment and came up with Cajun Lobster Rolls.

The people loved it.

Me and Molly dished up Cajun Lobster Rolls as fast as we could. On vacations I tried lots of dishes and took the ideas home. Threw some salsa in a lobster salad, rolled it up in a tortilla like a burrito and we had Ole’ Lobster, sold on Tuesdays. Drizzled Carolina Honey Barbeque sauce on it, laid it on a bed of lettuce on sourdough flatbread and bingo! Carolina Night on Mondays. Wednesday we serve up Italian—Lobstah Mac and Cheese, with four cheeses, every forkful gooey and stringy—our best seller. Secret recipe, sold on Thursdays. Seriously, I’m not telling. Fridays we toss in jalapenos—a lot of them—put them with lobster in pita bread and it’s Freakin’ Flaming’ Fridays. Saturday and Sunday we serve just about all of it.

We screwed a bunch of flat screen TVs into the walls, hung up tons of fishing nets and stuff, played rock music (except on Tuesday night, Karaoke, and Wednesday, Open Mic) and went to work—hard.

One of my secrets is, of all things, popcorn. Nothing smells like freshly popped movie style popcorn. I know, it has nothing to do with Maine, fishing, or lobster. We keep the popper next to the bar and serve up free popcorn in paper bowls, with lots of butter and salt. The customers love it. And then they drink more.

Wednesdays took some tweaking. On open mic night, anyone can get up and say, sing, or play anything. And they do. Somehow, it evolved that bad singers, crude and gratuitous folks, or drunks got ‘voted’ off the stage with people throwing food at them. We put a stop to it before someone got hurt or somebody called the police. But the open mic was so popular that people compromised by throwing popcorn at them. Molly and me discussed it and let them go, but drew the line at small handfuls each. No dumping bowls full. But you get twenty people or so tossing small handfuls of light yellow puffs at you—like at the anarchist the other night—and you know the crowd is displeased with you. Funny, now the Open Mic Night works pretty good. Singers and speakers developed manners with the frightening spectre of getting handfuls of popcorn hurled at them.

Thursday morning Molly and me clean it up with a leaf blower and shop vac. We been together the whole time, married to each other and the restaurant, sometimes taking turns working and other nights, the busy ones, we work together. She runs. Must be how she stays so thin.

Our clientele come from all over the world. The cruise ships anchor and disgorge people, thousands at a time, in tenders and they land, ready to eat, drink, and have a great time.

And I love it. I love them. People are great—for the most part. Once in a while some idiot comes in and ruins a table for a bit. Occasionally someone gets drunk and a fight breaks out, but we shut that right down. Me and Molly want everyone to have a good time, so we don’t need none of that.

Like the drunk guy who swept everything off his table. The story came out that his sister’s husband said something wrong and he went nuts. Broke a couple of chairs and a picture, too. We hustled him out and got his wife to promise to take him home—no police. She rang up a five hundred dollar charge on her credit card, nice lady. Too bad she married a moron.

People are funny about the lobsters, too. We serve them up boiled and we don’t do anything fancy, just lobsters, live in the tank by the entry one minute, boiled up and served with butter and a slice of lemon the next. Bibs, towels, and pliers come as standard fare, too. Yep. Pliers, a three-decade tradition. Most people? They enjoy pulling them apart, digging for the gold, juice and butter running down their wrists, ain’t life great. Every once in a while. though, people get stupid. One woman stood and yelled that it was disgusting, looked just like a cockroach. What could I say? They do. We got her an Italian Lobster Roll, on us, no big deal, and she settled right down.

And the guy, just a little drunk, who took his lobster by the claws, danced it on his table and sang Onward Christian Soldiers. The table laughed until they cried. I trotted over to settle them down and watched a verse and laughed until I cried, too. And I was sober. I’ll never hear that song the same again. It took all my resolve, but I told them they needed to cool it.

The women with gold high heels can be the worst. Call me a profiler, a sexist, a bigot, I don’t care. They look at the menu and order something that’s not on it. Or ask to change it up. When the food arrives, they grimace at it like they just know it’s been poisoned. Wait until the table is covered with food and drinks and insist we wipe the table down,