Tore Up From the Floor Up

Day 4

This storm was so much bigger than we realized. The buzz this morning in the hotel's complimentary breakfast lounge was all about who was without power, and for how long. Apparently 40 of Ohio's 80 counties are still in the dark. We may have an interesting ride ahead.

After yesterday's full blast bomb up I-77, we are thrilled to have a day with secondary roads only. I have mapped out our route, and I hope that it's not long before we see the finale of this storm damage. We begin our ride today at the southern border town of Gallipolis, just across the river from WV. We plan to get to Lake Erie by the day's end. We will be riding from one border to another.

The air in the mornings in Ohio during the summer feels like soft, cool water. We ride on roads that meander through beautiful farm country. Big Herons glide over fields, suggesting nearby water. Farms range from tiny to enormous, some that could be captured as fine art, some that will rust into a future-primitive movie sets. Throughout all of this, there is the occasional helicopter flying over to assess storm damage. There are entire trees uprooted with disc-shaped roots dangling, branches lying across drooping power lines, and roadsides carpeted in fallen green leaves. Some towns are utterly vacant, others are teaming with people desperate for gas, or ice, or news of what the hell is happening. Some folks are cranky, others full of a helpful, community spirit. We ride past it all, both immersed and detached.

God Bless America

We take a little break in Granville, which is the little town where my Nan attended college. Though they are also without power, one restaurant on Main Street, Aladdin's, is open. They are offering a coke, some chips and a chicken salad sandwich for $6. We jump on it. We join the 3 or 4 other souls on the quiet, leaf strewn sidewalk to exchange stories of the reaching storm damage. Because we have now traversed both WV and the southern half of Ohio, our stories hold clout. We have become unexpected messengers.

Granville is adorable. There is the Granville Inn, which is built entirely out of locally mined sandstone. It's stunning, and has the very coolest bar ever. We are quite taken, and promise ourselves that we'll come back.

The day has gotten hot, and we're only half way done with our ride. We blast up to Loudonville for a little break in the lawn of the public library, then in an hour or so we are at our final destination for the day: No-Nox.

In a little neighborhood between Vermilion and Huron sits my family's cottage, called “No-Nox” after a Gulf fuel oil that afforded my great grandfather the privilege of building it. My grandmother, Becky Mathews (Nan), was in her 20's when it was built, so she would come here in the summers and go dancing at the local dance halls. It was at one of these that she met my grandfather, Joe Yannitell, the youngest son of immigrants from Alvito, Italy. Huron was a settlement for folks from Alvito. They came to work in the ore factories. Becky and Joe fell in love playing bridge on the back steps of No-Nox and going to dance halls over one summer, and were married the next. Since then, my mother and her siblings have spent time here every summer of their lives, and so did I, and so now do my nieces. No-Nox is really this house's proper name, like a show dog. We call it “the cottage”.

Upon arrival, we discover Mom and Dad right where we expect, on the beach. Mom is reading, Dad is napping. They are happy to see us, and they have also been unfazed by these storms, thankfully. The Pirate and I take a refreshing swim in my beloved lake. I've been swimming in Lake Erie all my life, since the first summer of my life. It is where I learned I was a Mermaid, most likely. After our swim, and once we are dried off and dressed, a storm starts to blow in from across the lake. This is a fun thing to watch from the lakefront, so Loren and I head there. Mom is already there, giggling and squealing with her pals as the lighting gets closer and the wind picks up. Soon, a siren sounds to indicate tornado warning; Mom is undeterred. She suggests we find a bench closer to her favorite short cut back to the cottage “so we can make a run for it” when the storm hits. Remember, she's been doing this, like, 62 years.

The storm hits, and we dash between a few other houses to the safety of the screened porch. Soon, the sky is green-gray and it's raining sideways. It's all over in 20 minutes, no tornado.

Dinner is at the Sandbar, or “the 5 star beer joint” as my Dad calls it. It's generally one of our favorite spots because they have Great Lakes beer and local fish. We order sour kraut balls, fried perch with fries, and some sort of pizza. The Sandbar is having an off night, because all of that takes them about 40 minutes to serve. Plus, there is no Great Lakes beer, and the place is loud as hell. Better luck next time.

We are sunburned and exhausted from our long ride today. Tucking into my favorite room at the cottage, we drift to sleep with the same fan in the window that's been there all of my 37 years, the train whistling in the distance, and the promise of french toast in the morning.