Banana Pudding
July 4, 2020 on the road.
It’s 8:06 AM and I’m parked in front of an abandoned Toys R’ Us about a half mile from where I live. As usual, I wanted to leave earlier than I actually did and now I’ve already stopped. Had this trip in mind for awhile and I started reading Blue Highways again. Then I had reason to escape from life for a bit, to dip out for a day. I shut off my phone’s cellular connection before I left. The idea of doing this wasn’t so much a rejection of social media or worry about hearing from anyone—I just wanted time to myself and I know myself, if I leave the phone connected (or give into the eventual temptation of turning it back it on) I’ll get distracted.
A constant in my life right now, something not in a state of limbo or flux, is my car: a blue Mazda with a crack in the windshield that’s never moved past the red permanent marker line I use to track it. There’s dust on the dashboard, the windshield is dirty, the front seats are worn, one of the light buttons is missing, and the logo on the steering wheel is chipped. It’ll be due for an oil change by the time today’s driving is done. I love this car. I depend on it. It’s made a lot of voyages and today I need it to make at least one more.
There’s a few destinations in mind. The start of all this was born out of listening to “Over the Road,” a podcast featuring trucker, writer, and musician “Long Haul Paul.” To call the guy talented is an understatement. One of the episodes took a look at three independent truck stops along I-75 in the The Bluegrass State, all of which are known for selling banana pudding. I decided my next trip would be to these places, to do something different than Ohio, and maybe I’d throw in a few other pinpoints along the way.
As for the pudding, I think I’ve had the banana variant before. I don’t really know. It doesn’t sound particularly appetizing, but I figure between Paul’s podcast and the pudding, it’ll all lead me to some interesting places and maybe some interesting conversations.
It just happened to work out that today is July 4th and as my car accelerates onto the interstate, I start thinking about the ghosts of Independence Day past. I’m not big on this holiday or any holiday. I spent many a July 4th at an amusement park during what was traditionally an extremely busy day with disagreeable customers. When I got away from that career, the ensuing occurrences came with a debacle of baseball games paired with a car accident, retail service, driving across the Michigan roadside, a “low break” pyrotechnic adventure, a trip to Boston, and watching fireworks from atop a Waffle House among other memories. Not all of them bad, but not all of them good. Today’s trip seems to have just as much potential as any other year did.
With my phone service shut off, I don’t have access to GPS—so I heed the overhead, digital interstate warning about downtown traffic near the river and take the beltway around Cincinnati. It reminds me of another trip (one that I think occurred on a Memorial Day (or Labor Day) instead of July 4th (but close enough))—I drove the whole Interstate 275 loop and made a photograph at each monotonous mile marker. That wasn’t a particularly productive day, but it was something to do when I didn’t feel like dealing with anything else at the time.
Despite the lack of outside connection, my phone is loaded with pre-downloaded music and podcasts. Although there’s a selection of NPR offerings and intellectually stimulating broadcasts on hand, I queue up “83 Weeks with Eric Bischoff,” a show that recounts the drama of the professional wrestling business from two decades ago. For some reason (and despite not being a pro wrestling fan), I just can’t get over hearing about that industry at the time when I was a kid who wholeheartedly bought into the weekly drama that legendary wrestling promoter Jerry Jarrett once described as “Shakespeare for the masses.” Maybe I’m overindulging on nostalgia by listening to this, but I’m still looking for answers to the inconsequential questions that ten-year-old me is still asking.
As I pass into Kentucky on the east side of the Queen City’s metropolitan influence, I try to speak some notes into my phone, but the dictation app doesn’t work well and I hate hearing myself talk out loud—a reminder that I’m on this trip alone (even though I think I prefer today to be that way). My head is pounding, I keep rubbing my eyes, and I’ve already spilled coffee on myself. Crossing over the Licking River, the sky is bleak and the distant Cincinnati skyline is obscured by an 80 degree, humid haze.
I’ll probably quote Blue Highways today as much as its author quotes Whitman. The book is a favorite and a comfort. Today, it’s also a guide of sorts. Maybe I’m projecting too much of my own life onto it (although, some might argue that’s alright), but it helps knowing someone out there has had at least somewhat similar feelings.
“A man who couldn't make things go right could at least go. He could quit trying to get out of the way of life. Chuck routine. Live the real jeopardy of circumstance. It was a question of dignity.”
- William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways, 1982
So today, I’m going. For awhile at least.
Ironically, I’m breaking the author’s titular rule. I’m on the interstate, not a blue highway, and despite trying to emulate his detailed sense of observation even amongst the seemingly mundane—I’m already finding myself bored and tired. The southern exurbs of Cincinnati don’t quite hold the beauty of the New Mexico desert it seems.
“Life doesn’t happen along the interstates. It’s against the law.”
After two hours or so, I pull up to the 76 Fuel Center in Berea. The place looks like it’s built into an old house, sitting off the main drag near an adjoining fuel island in the rising heat. I find the appearance alluring—the kind of spot that offers a true “hope for the road,” the kind I’ve written about before, not the sentiment preached by the “Truckers for Christ.”
Inside, two women are manning a grill and a pair of customers are enjoying breakfast. I take a seat at a table resting above the wooden floors and below the fluorescent light. One of the women leaves the grill to take my order. With a friendly drawl, she recites the menu by memory. I order home fries and what’s planned to be the first of three orders of banana pudding today.
Another customer walks in beneath a veteran’s hat. He chats with the staff and the other customers about trucking life. Myself and the cook are the only ones wearing a mask, which the tv in the corner reminds us can be considered a political statement. Another employee emerges from somewhere and catches up the regulars (everyone but me) about what’s been going on. Apparently, The 76’s restaurant has just recently opened back up in the wake of pandemic restrictions, but this particular staff member says she still fed “her drivers” out the back door when they stopped by—a loyal courtesy and kindness that I doubt anyone would’ve found at a Travel America’s Pizza Hut Express.
My home fries and pudding arrive as a fly attempts to share my meal, no matter how many times I wave it off. The scolding hot potatoes cooled with ketchup are too appealing for both insect and human alike. The pudding looks like macaroni and cheese—yellow and topped with crumbs. I put off eating it until the end, wondering if maybe I should just let my winged companion have at it. However, this dish is the guiding inspiration for today’s travel, so I force down a bite. It’s sweet with the crumbs complementing the slices of banana. Delicious. I could easily order more and further down the road, I plan to.
The other customers leave behind a collection of unique coffee mugs as they all get up to pay and I wonder if I can peek into the “truckers lounge,” even though it’s clearly labeled for “drivers only.” In the corner, a metal trash can similar to Oscar the Grouch’s home sits atop a pink towel, about 1/3 full of brown water that has descended from the leak in the ceiling.
As the server clears tables, she asks me how my food was. I express how much I enjoyed the pudding and explain how I’m going to try the other two versions nearby. She smiles and points to herself: “we’re the best” before uttering, “you have a good one, honey.” The simple gesture of hospitality means the world on what’s so far been a lonely morning. The meal plus a plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi ran me $4.36 before tip.
Outside, I click the camera and make some frames of the sun bleached posters advertising coffee and 24 hour dining. Originally, I had resolved to document this trip digitally, but I end up putting a roll of Kodak 400 into the Pentax.
Checking the map adorned with handwritten notes, my next stop is ~13 minutes away. As Kentucky starts to become more scenic, hilly, and green—my mood lifts. I opt for music instead of a podcast. Via shuffle: Earth, Wind, & Fire’s “September” seems too on the nose for my newfound enthusiasm, like it’s creating a scene out of the kind of movie that you still appreciate no matter how bad it is. So I skip it and ease into the seat until I reach Exit 62 alongside boat-towing luxury SUVs and beat-down pickups. At a building that looks like a barn, I arrive at the Derby City South Truck Plaza in Mt. Vernon.
The smell of cigarettes lingers in the air although no one’s smoking and none of the tables have ashtrays. The booths, however, are equipped with phone jacks. Whether they were for telephones or old school dial up internet, I don’t know and before I can ask—the server has convinced me to add a side of sausage to my order of pancakes and banana pudding. According to Paul’s podcast, this is the spot where the legend of banana pudding originated, or, as the establishment calls it and advertises it on their CB radio: “Nanner Nanner Pudding.”
As I wait for my food, a child begs his father to win him a stuffed animal out of the claw machine. On the wall behind the coffee makers: a laminated “A” from the health department and a painting of a man praying over bread and a bowl. I take a pulse check of myself as I start to feel the coffee from earlier this morning. The large helping from a drive-thru chain is now making my hands shake and question why I’m having another cup now. I’m trying to focus on not distracting myself. Yes, I’m out here on the road and yes my phone is shut off, but while today is solitary—I know there’s things on my mind. Things I need to confront, weigh, and consider. Clarity I need to search for. Yet, as I sit in the booth typing this—I hope the pancakes and pudding will quickly come so that I don’t have to get into that just yet. There’s also a set of stairs nearby and I wonder where they lead. Maybe to more distraction?
The child won a puppy from the claw machine. He named it “Wally.” The stairs lead to an office I’m told. My mind still wrestles consideration against distraction.
The plan today is to write and shoot as I go, finishing this story and sharing it by the end of the day. Maybe that’s a bad idea? Even if I edit and review it once I’m off the road, it would still be what author Marion Roach Smith calls a “vomit draft.” But, I’ve committed to doing this today, I’ve put this self imposed deadline on myself for no other reason than to do it.
My food arrives and I drench the pancakes and butter in warm syrup. The sausage is a bit tough, but the pancakes and their lack of any nutritional value are delicious. The banana pudding comes as a much larger helping than the previous stop, white in color and served with a vanilla wafer on top. It’s thicker than the serving just up the highway, but still good. If there’s a difference in taste, my pallet is not discerning enough to describe it to you. The 76 definitely gets points for the welcoming feeling, though. Derby City feels like any other restaurant. Still welcoming and nice, but simply transactional in the sense of: Order. Eat. Head out.
I don’t know if it’s fair to say I am running from anything today, because ultimately I know this trip ends back at home. A friend once posed a hypothetical to me years ago: “Have you ever thought about just driving somewhere until you run out of gas then just staying there to start a new life?” I knew where he was going with that, but I doubled down on logistics and cynicism back then, pointing out one would have to hope there’d be employment, a place to stay, etc. What hope is there i knowing you'll just end up at a random highway exit where a new WalMart is built next to the older, abandoned WalMart?
Still, I knew what he meant, and on this day I can appreciate where he was coming from, even if I shook my head back then (sorry, Matt). Today, though, I’m not facing cynicism but rather, reality. Eventually I have to go back to whatever normal life is and maybe I eventually end up elsewhere. Limbo is a constant despite what the word implies. Eventually that phone comes back on. In this moment, though, I’d rather be out here doing this—sticking with myself for a day, content to be wherever I end up in a way similar to what Matt spoke of years ago. It’s a life preferable to the “vacation” my fellow diners are going for, the ones speaking about Lake Cumberland or the antique malls of the Renfro Valley. And given that I need to drive further, there’ll be plenty of time behind the wheel to search for clarity and meaning.
I typed that last paragraph and then finished the pudding. I couldn’t finish the pancakes. And I still need to eat a third meal. The Derby City breakfast/lunch ran me $10.67 before tip.
Outside, I make some photographs as a convoy of bikers roars by toting flags: “Old Glory,” “Blue Lives Matter,” and “Don’t Tread on Me” variants. A pickup follows them all with a camera poking out the window. The heat’s now 91 and the sun is pounding down from directly overhead as I drive across the street to photograph an abandoned building, a structure that had once clearly been a Waffle House. I wander up a gravel path between a pair of parked trucks. As the path becomes grass and a startled deer runs away, I decide against going further. It’s hot and I’m terrified of snakes.
A loud Hummer, bedazzled in chrome and yellow paint tows a boat past me as I wait to pull onto the interstate. Sweating and waiting for the A/C to catch up with the speed of the car, I’m jealous (for the moment) of those who are on a lake this weekend.
On the road, I debate why I’ve decided against phone service today, why I’ve abandoned contact. I realize that even though I’m only a few hours from home and on an interstate I’ve traveled several times before, the digital distance makes me feel much more isolated in a positive way. Relative to the larger world, I‘ve hardly left home. Relative to my own physical space, though: I’m out and gone. The temptation to turn on the phone cedes.
A few songs south and not terribly far from the Tennessee border, I pull up to what I assume is the 49er Truck Stop in Bernstadt.
There’s a steady stream of business happening here—mainly folks looking for bags of ice. At the counter, I order banana pudding and nothing else. Taking a seat, my third helping of the day is brought to me in a styrofoam cup with plastic silverware.
The appearance of pudding no. 3 mimics Derby City, but again I’m short on adjectives. Between the trinity, I couldn’t tell you which pudding was the Father, which was the Son, and which was the Holy Ghost. These roadside sacraments all tasted well enough, though. The only difference here is that I have a choice between fork or spoon, whereas before, forks were issued without consideration for other utensils. The 49er with its drop ceiling and tabletop ashtrays is even more transactional than the previous stop. The few other folks in the dining room are dead silent (myself included). Maybe it’s the time of day? Maybe it’s the area? I can’t finish all of the third dessert (too bad the fly from the 76er didn’t follow me here, there’s plenty left over) and frankly, if I’m craving anything right now, it’s a beer.
As I walk out the door, I have a decision to make. Do I go home? Do I go onward? And if so, to where? Originally, I envisioned this trip solely around someone else’s pudding pursuits, but the drive to stop 1 had been tedious and boring. I knew that it might be, so I had worked up some other potential destinations. Even with the morning’s enthusiasm long gone, my gut tells me to keep going (or am I just distracting myself, I keep asking internally).
I walk over to a patch of shade on the other side of the asphalt wasteland to study the map and decide to head for Somerset because I once visited a town of the same name in New Jersey that had a great minor league ballpark (that’s good enough reasoning, right?). And, it’s more or less on the way to Hustonville—a place I feel obligated to stop by. At US-27, I turn South, assuming the Somerset city center will be at the end. Instead, I encounter every red light imaginable on an annoyingly long stretch of chain restaurants. After the second or third McDonalds—I give up, buy gas, and turn around in the other direction.
I pass a waterpark, where I assume “no running” near the pools is being enforced even if social distancing isn’t as guests congregate on the stairs in line for slides adorned with American flags.
Further down US-27, I find an old sign and an abandoned house on what’s becoming a monotonous trek of hills. While this is more pleasing than the previous direction, Ive lost count of the small towns along this stretch, each one denoted by a Dollar General.
I stop in downtown Stanford where it’s quiet and empty, silent minutes passing between cars traversing the main thoroughfare (which may or may not be called Main Street). I can hear the birds as clearly as I would in a forest. If anything here was open and serving beer or ice cream, I’d stop in. With no luck for alcohol or sugar, I decide to press further down KY-78.
After getting directions from a Valero, I find the Hustonville Cemetery. I’m in search of a specific plot, one belonging to a man named Joe Wilcher. I assumed this rural resting place would be small, but there are about six tracts filled with headstones and groups of families with names like Spaulding, Ellis, Goode, Lane, and Russell. I search for Wilcher and find a few, but no Joe. I thought I was close at Wilder, but eventually get lost among the Pattersons, Allens, Schlaters, and Hagars—as well as—both the Coffmans and Kauffmans. A few other cars pull in, lay flowers, and leave, but aside from those folks and the cows of the neighboring pasture, I’m the only living being here.
Finally, about to give up and head elsewhere, I find: “Joe Wilcher, US Army, Korea.”
I can hear a train horn in the distance as I look down at the stone with its bronze plate askew. I fix it as best I can and offer up a few fake flowers that have blown away form nearby artificial bouquets. I never met Joe in person, never knew him at all. As it turns out, he was dead by the time I came across his stuff: a personal library haphazardly stuffed into handmade shelves and every possible nook of a small, fire code defying apartment. I had been shown the place by friends who were renovating a Cincinnati building back in 2009.
Joe Wilcher's apartment library in 2009.
They knew I appreciated photographing abandoned spaces and Joe’s spot was like no other. We only knew who he was due to the amount of personal items still left laying about. I wrote an article about it with the notice that some of his stuff was being saved and that if anyone knew where he was: to please reach out. One person wrote in with an obituary dated October 31, 2008. And now, here I was at Joe’s final resting place hours south of where he passed and once lived.
I do what I guess feels natural in a cemetery (if television shows and movies are to be believed): I talk. I don’t really know what to say and the sound of my own voice after hours of quiet sounds foreign to me. Still, the impulse to speak seems right even if I have no idea where Joe’s eternal spirit might be or if it would even care. Nevertheless, I say what comes to mind and try to be sincere. It feels ridiculous, yet comforting.
I get back in the car and pull out of the cemetery while glancing at my map and deciding to gamble on going to Cave City. The tourist trap nearly two hours away has been a road trip idea since passing through in 2018. I had resolved to visit last year, but never quite found the time. Now, I would finally get to wander among the area’s attractions that still exist in a charming roadside way that popular culture touts yet rarely preserves. The cave tours would be closed by the time I made it and so would “Dinosaur World” (even with gaining an hour by crossing over into Central Time), but maybe the Kentucky Action Park would still be open. I could ride the chair lift up and the alpine slide down. I had convinced myself that these things would be appealing (even though part of me knows they’d just make interesting photographs as opposed to significant experiences).
The questioning was creeping up, though, as my car pushed the pavement in the heat. Could I make it there in time? Should I even try? Why do I even care?
S&T Market—Liberty, Kentucky.
Stopping for directions at a gas station, I realize I’ve made a wrong turn on Kentucky 49. That metaphorical sign from the road seals it and I’m content to let Cave City slip away without even a hint of disappointment.
A sign on the door I had just stepped through advertised “handmade milkshakes,” a phrase that immediately called Blue Highways back to my mind. There’s a scene where the author makes mention of never passing up a chance for a milkshake, so I do the same even as the shopkeepers don’t seem to share my enthusiasm. An employee lugging a tub of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer warns me that it’ll take a minute. I pass the time watching some sort of fried snack languish beneath a heat lamp and the clock on the wall confirms that I’m still in the Eastern time zone.
While I wait, I notice a lack of beer in the coolers. A dry county? My hope is now that I can pick up a beer and find a picnic table to sit and write at for a bit now that I have no destination in mind. The inner voice that questioned heading to Cave City starts questioning the legality of slyly drinking beer at any location I might come across. It also uses this time to remind me that there are greater things than road trips weighing on my mind. As I wrestle with my subconscious and sip melted ice cream, I study my map on a table lined with children’s toys in front of the S&T Market. I debate where to head next and decide simply on continuing down route 49.
Darting in and out of valleys, the self questioning switches between a variety of subjects and reaches a fever pitch—not one of emotion but of reason. Why am I doing this? Am I even enjoying this? Do I want this, these kinds of trips? For so long I’ve been taking similar journeys, but they’ve always had a destination or time constraint. Here I am totally free of responsibility, destination, and direction—open to wander the road in a manner many romanticize and I’m finding it “flat” for lack of a better term. I don’t necessarily want to turn around and head back, but I’m not quite sure which way to go or what to do.
I know what I want out of life, but I don’t know what I want out of this trip.
Liberty, KY.
I pass a mural welcoming me to Liberty that says: “Love Where You Live.” I think of Matt and his quest to drive until he ran out of gas. Don’t think I’d want to stay here, though, and thankfully I still have a half tank.
Parking at the Casey County courthouse to check the map once more, I decide to head towards Lexington which provides the closest interstate access in the general direction of home. A calm comes over me. I’m not rushing to be anywhere, I’m content to be in this moment, and I’m now dreading having to eventually turn my phone back on—as if there’s going to be anything of consequence popping up instead of the usual notifications. This calm feeling lasts for awhile along sun-blasted US-27 as I pass what seems to now be a hallmark of rural America: vape shop after vape shop (although in KY, they seem to always be paired with tobacco outlets).
Still hoping to find a place to sit, relax, and write for a bit: I turn down a quarry lined road near Lake Harrington. I’m hoping it’ll lead to a beach or a nice spot where I can sit by the water. Instead, I find an abandoned bridge. Id stay here for a bit, but it’s made quite clear that loitering isn’t welcome.
Pushing towards Lexington, I resume shuffling my music. This time a favorite song comes on, the best one by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Unlike the earlier Earth, Wind, and Fire instance—I’m content to let this movie-soundtrack-esque moment play out, “the kind of movie that you still appreciate no matter how bad it is.”
US-27 drones on after the song fades. Two men and a dog can be seen changing a church sign on my right and I wonder if the trio is responsible for all the religious monuments I’ve passed on this stretch of highway so far. I pass another sign, but can’t make out exactly what it says. Pulling a quasi-legal U-turn, I find myself in an empty lot. Amongst the gravel ruins, the marquee still stands near the road stating: “so close.”
So close to what? Saving what business had been here? So close to home for myself? So close to realizing what I hope to get out of these road trips? So close to finally confronting the things on my mind? So close to clarity? I make my photograph and walk away, so close to turning a random sign into a pivotal moment.
As I roll through Downtown Lexington, I don’t care to stop. I’ve been here and have navigated the back roads between this place and home before. I rejoin I-75 and true to the earlier words: “life doesn’t happen on the interstate.” I give up on finding a place to write, a cold beer to drink, or a conversation to be had. At a gas station, I furiously wash my hands in the bathroom as men belch and curse while wrestling with plastic toiler paper dispensers. I haven’t seen a mask similar to my own since ten this morning.
At the drive-thru outside, my engine idles and I settle on fast food that’s proving to be anything but quick. I find myself falling into regular phone reflexes. I pull up Twitter and Instagram before my mind remembers that cellular service is turned off. Now, I wonder: what would be on my phone when I turned it back on and when should I do that? What do I really think is going to pop up? I know what I hope to see, but what do I really believe is going to be there? I resisted the temptation to reconnect and go back to reading Blue Highways, still waiting for my milquetoast meal. I get to a chapter where the narrator makes four phone calls, finally finding the courage to not hang up on the fifth one. He simply ends his description of the call with: “Well, boys, there you have it.” That’s enough projection of my own life onto this book for the day.
I put away the phone and sit silently while waiting for my dinner to be handed through a window. The friendly employee apologizes for the wait, passing over a greasy bag and offering up two free cookies as a concession for my time. Even if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been mad, but the gesture is appreciated.
Later, while fumbling with the cookies, I’d realize he forgot my fries.
The sun is now creeping on the horizon like it does in every 90s television show—low and orange as if this were California and not the bluegrass fields of Kentucky. I’m tired of driving, tired of being alone with my thoughts, so I pull over to a rest area just outside of Cincinnati. Here, I sit at a picnic table and decide to continue converting my notes and recollection of the day’s trip into writing, debating whether or not I’ll change subjects to my own personal reflections on another page—something I had pledged to (and so far had been) doing daily.
As I sit here watching the first fireworks I’ve seen all day explode near the interstate, I still wonder what I’m going to write on that other page. The orange lights above the road are now brighter than what’s left of the blue and purple in the sky and the cigarette smoke from the other picnic table is wafting over in a way that makes me feel nostalgic. This bench itself isn’t very comfortable, but it beats the car seat I’ve been perched upon all day, even if that seat and vehicle are loyal companions and confidants. Fourth of July fireworks whistle all around and to my left: I watch as a man who looks upset (but who really knows) tries to take pictures of the exploding displays before glaring down at the screen that lights up his face and reveals his expression. For the moment, I’m content to just sit here. To breathe it all in, no matter how inhospitable, loud, and crude the nearby interstate seems.
I finish writing this, but can’t just yet bring myself to open that other page. I drive home in silence with the windows down as the fireworks continue all the way to Cincinnati—a haze constantly lingering above the highway and the smell of pyrotechnic sulfur in the air.
Update | March 13, 2023:
I eventually learned more about who Joe Wilcher really was.