How I spent my summer vacation
Lead Summary
By
Rory Ryan-hcpress@cinci.rr.com
DATELINE BARDSTOWN, Ky. – The Bourbon Trail was dry that mid-June day, my friend. So was the famous country fried steak at the Saltine Hogshead Restaurant. So were the mashed potatoes, for that matter. Don't even ask about the biscuits.
A few of us were just a few hours into our early summer vacation. As planned ahead, we stopped for supper just off the Bluegrass Parkway in the great commonwealth of Kentucky.
After being seated with menus all around, we ordered. The first order was interrupted by a lovely waitress at the Saltine Hogshead, who said, bluntly: "We're out of that." Adjustment made, the orders continued until it was up to me.
Knowing a long drive south to the Gulf of Mexico was on my evening itinerary, I thought, what the heck, I'll order a nice meal. After placing our respective orders, the lovely waitress at the Saltine Hogshead returned with portions of those respective orders.
She then informed us that "We're out of gravy. We're also out of biscuits – and cornbread. Not to mention sweet potato casserole."
For an old Ridgerunner like me, there's just something not quite right when you have to choke down mashed potatoes and chicken fried cube steak – sans gravy.
To the Saltine Hogshead's credit, however, they did offer a new alcoholic drink list that included mimosas, wine and domestic beers. A glance around the joint indicated very few – if any – patrons were indulging. The Saltine Hogshead's customers would have preferred gravy with their meals.
Just an observation. Not a complaint. We'll be back.
Cheers.
* * *
DATELINE: NASHVILLE, Tenn. – I forgot my guitar. I also forgot the set of new guitar strings courtesy of one James "J-mus" Scott. The Ryman was closed, anyway. I won't sing at the other joint in Nashville. Not that they would let me.
* * *
DATELINE: PRATTVILLE, Ala. – Some hours later in the wee small hours of the following morning, we checked into a motel along Interstate 65 in Prattville, Ala.
It was the just about the strangest motel check-in I've ever encountered. I say "just about" because I once spent a night in the old El Rancho Rankin Motel on Beechmont Avenue in Cincinnati. As the saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Back to Prattville. After parking near the main entrance, I entered through the first set of sliding glass doors. The second set of doors was locked. There was a phone number taped to the door. Not owning a cell phone or seeing a phone booth (are there any phone booths in 2021?), I knocked on the glass door. No reply. I knocked again.
A pleasant young man most likely of South Asian descent opened the door to the registration desk. But he didn't open it very far. Just a few inches. As near as I could determine at 2 a.m. (1 a.m. Central), he requested my driver's license and a credit card. Not knowing if I'd ever see either again, I slipped my credit card and personal information through the crack in the door to a total stranger.
A few minutes later, he returned with the license and plastic credit card, plus a key to a room at the far end of the complex.
It was about then that we heard something about a tropical storm bearing down on the Alabama Gulf Coast. No worries. It was late. We were tired after a long drive and no gravy – or bourbon – in Bardstown.
* * *
DATELINE: FOLEY, Ala. – The stop in Prattville, Ala. was unplanned. We had made great time through Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and much of Alabama (Roll Tide).
With an ultimate destination of the 16th floor of a beachfront condo that doesn't need any free advertising, we did pre-plan to spend one night in Foley, Ala. (The resting place of NFL great Ken "Snake" Stabler, by the way.)
It was in Foley that I was told with a clear certainty that the tropical storm was nothing to worry about. This was on the morning of Friday, June 18. In less than 24 hours, Tropical Storm Claudette had made her presence known. Statewide, more than a dozen deaths were attributed to T.S. Claudette. From that perspective, we had no complaints. Nor do we ever. Ours is not a complaining family, but an ever-grateful one for our blessings.
The next morning, though, I teased the same lovely lady who informed me the storm had no name. "Good morning, Claudette," I said as cheerfully as someone like me can be.
"Oh, it's you again," she answered.
"You told me the storm had no name yesterday," I said. "It does today."
"They blow in. They blow out," she said. "It will be over this evening, and tomorrow will be beautiful."
"We'll see," I said, and thanked her for her Foley hospitality. (Everyone in Foley seems nice; especially Judy, who works at the B-Dubs in Foley.)
* * *
DATELINE: GULF SHORES, Ala. – There was an old baseball saying about Milwaukee Braves pitchers Warren Spahn and Johnny Sain if they were scheduled to pitch both ends of a doubleheader – or rainouts between their respective starts.
It was "Spahn and Sain, pray for rain."
We did not have to pray for rain. The heavens opened up nice and wide for the first three or four days of our vacation. That's OK, though. When you're dealt a hand of lemons, make gravy; er ... lemonade.
By the fourth day, the skies cleared, and the sun shone through a few intermittent clouds for the rest of the week. A few of our favorite places were temporarily closed due to staffing issues. Those that were open displayed signs asking for patrons' patience as they were short-staffed. Everyone seemed to understand. When a government pays people more to stay home than employers can pay them to work, well, they won't work.
A few pleasant takeaways from this trip were the considerable number of families on the Gulf Coast and just how friendly everyone was. Those of us on the higher floors of a 20-floor building joked that we spent our vacation on the elevator. Unlike at the Saltine Hogshead, I did share a cold beer or two on the vertical transportation carriage with total strangers.
I also spent some much-needed time alone with some good books. I completed "Sinatra and Me: In the Wee Small Hours" by Tony Oppedisano (thank you Caitlin) and "Forbidden Fruit: Sin City's Underworld and the Supper Club Inferno" by former Cincinnati Enquirer columnist Peter Bronson (thank you Pam). And I have started "Unsettled?: What Climate Science Tells Us, What It Doesn't, and Why It Matters" by Steven E. Koonin (thank you Jim Thompson).
For most of us – especially small business owners – vacations are a necessary respite from time to time even if it's a working vacation. (David A. Mayer accurately noted that I was working from The Highland County Press Alabama bureau last week. Thanks, Oscar.)
A few days into this trip it dawned on me that many, many Americans have decided to get busy living instead of worrying about dying. In one conversation with folks from the Mississippi River town of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, I came close to violating the unspoken rule of not bringing up religion or politics while drinking beer in the communal hot tub.
After my comment, a young man replied "We're from Cape Girardeau. It's fine." Some of us will understand the Cape Girardeau reference.
Roll Tide and God bless America.
Rory Ryan is publisher and owner of The Highland County Press, Highland County's only locally owned and operated newspaper.
A few of us were just a few hours into our early summer vacation. As planned ahead, we stopped for supper just off the Bluegrass Parkway in the great commonwealth of Kentucky.
After being seated with menus all around, we ordered. The first order was interrupted by a lovely waitress at the Saltine Hogshead, who said, bluntly: "We're out of that." Adjustment made, the orders continued until it was up to me.
Knowing a long drive south to the Gulf of Mexico was on my evening itinerary, I thought, what the heck, I'll order a nice meal. After placing our respective orders, the lovely waitress at the Saltine Hogshead returned with portions of those respective orders.
She then informed us that "We're out of gravy. We're also out of biscuits – and cornbread. Not to mention sweet potato casserole."
For an old Ridgerunner like me, there's just something not quite right when you have to choke down mashed potatoes and chicken fried cube steak – sans gravy.
To the Saltine Hogshead's credit, however, they did offer a new alcoholic drink list that included mimosas, wine and domestic beers. A glance around the joint indicated very few – if any – patrons were indulging. The Saltine Hogshead's customers would have preferred gravy with their meals.
Just an observation. Not a complaint. We'll be back.
Cheers.
* * *
DATELINE: NASHVILLE, Tenn. – I forgot my guitar. I also forgot the set of new guitar strings courtesy of one James "J-mus" Scott. The Ryman was closed, anyway. I won't sing at the other joint in Nashville. Not that they would let me.
* * *
DATELINE: PRATTVILLE, Ala. – Some hours later in the wee small hours of the following morning, we checked into a motel along Interstate 65 in Prattville, Ala.
It was the just about the strangest motel check-in I've ever encountered. I say "just about" because I once spent a night in the old El Rancho Rankin Motel on Beechmont Avenue in Cincinnati. As the saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Back to Prattville. After parking near the main entrance, I entered through the first set of sliding glass doors. The second set of doors was locked. There was a phone number taped to the door. Not owning a cell phone or seeing a phone booth (are there any phone booths in 2021?), I knocked on the glass door. No reply. I knocked again.
A pleasant young man most likely of South Asian descent opened the door to the registration desk. But he didn't open it very far. Just a few inches. As near as I could determine at 2 a.m. (1 a.m. Central), he requested my driver's license and a credit card. Not knowing if I'd ever see either again, I slipped my credit card and personal information through the crack in the door to a total stranger.
A few minutes later, he returned with the license and plastic credit card, plus a key to a room at the far end of the complex.
It was about then that we heard something about a tropical storm bearing down on the Alabama Gulf Coast. No worries. It was late. We were tired after a long drive and no gravy – or bourbon – in Bardstown.
* * *
DATELINE: FOLEY, Ala. – The stop in Prattville, Ala. was unplanned. We had made great time through Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and much of Alabama (Roll Tide).
With an ultimate destination of the 16th floor of a beachfront condo that doesn't need any free advertising, we did pre-plan to spend one night in Foley, Ala. (The resting place of NFL great Ken "Snake" Stabler, by the way.)
It was in Foley that I was told with a clear certainty that the tropical storm was nothing to worry about. This was on the morning of Friday, June 18. In less than 24 hours, Tropical Storm Claudette had made her presence known. Statewide, more than a dozen deaths were attributed to T.S. Claudette. From that perspective, we had no complaints. Nor do we ever. Ours is not a complaining family, but an ever-grateful one for our blessings.
The next morning, though, I teased the same lovely lady who informed me the storm had no name. "Good morning, Claudette," I said as cheerfully as someone like me can be.
"Oh, it's you again," she answered.
"You told me the storm had no name yesterday," I said. "It does today."
"They blow in. They blow out," she said. "It will be over this evening, and tomorrow will be beautiful."
"We'll see," I said, and thanked her for her Foley hospitality. (Everyone in Foley seems nice; especially Judy, who works at the B-Dubs in Foley.)
* * *
DATELINE: GULF SHORES, Ala. – There was an old baseball saying about Milwaukee Braves pitchers Warren Spahn and Johnny Sain if they were scheduled to pitch both ends of a doubleheader – or rainouts between their respective starts.
It was "Spahn and Sain, pray for rain."
We did not have to pray for rain. The heavens opened up nice and wide for the first three or four days of our vacation. That's OK, though. When you're dealt a hand of lemons, make gravy; er ... lemonade.
By the fourth day, the skies cleared, and the sun shone through a few intermittent clouds for the rest of the week. A few of our favorite places were temporarily closed due to staffing issues. Those that were open displayed signs asking for patrons' patience as they were short-staffed. Everyone seemed to understand. When a government pays people more to stay home than employers can pay them to work, well, they won't work.
A few pleasant takeaways from this trip were the considerable number of families on the Gulf Coast and just how friendly everyone was. Those of us on the higher floors of a 20-floor building joked that we spent our vacation on the elevator. Unlike at the Saltine Hogshead, I did share a cold beer or two on the vertical transportation carriage with total strangers.
I also spent some much-needed time alone with some good books. I completed "Sinatra and Me: In the Wee Small Hours" by Tony Oppedisano (thank you Caitlin) and "Forbidden Fruit: Sin City's Underworld and the Supper Club Inferno" by former Cincinnati Enquirer columnist Peter Bronson (thank you Pam). And I have started "Unsettled?: What Climate Science Tells Us, What It Doesn't, and Why It Matters" by Steven E. Koonin (thank you Jim Thompson).
For most of us – especially small business owners – vacations are a necessary respite from time to time even if it's a working vacation. (David A. Mayer accurately noted that I was working from The Highland County Press Alabama bureau last week. Thanks, Oscar.)
A few days into this trip it dawned on me that many, many Americans have decided to get busy living instead of worrying about dying. In one conversation with folks from the Mississippi River town of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, I came close to violating the unspoken rule of not bringing up religion or politics while drinking beer in the communal hot tub.
After my comment, a young man replied "We're from Cape Girardeau. It's fine." Some of us will understand the Cape Girardeau reference.
Roll Tide and God bless America.
Rory Ryan is publisher and owner of The Highland County Press, Highland County's only locally owned and operated newspaper.