In March of 2010, I was staying with my parents in New Jersey for a weekend. At some point I decided it would be fun to take the motorcycle out to Pen Argyl, PA the town my grandmother grew up in and the site of so many family reunions in my youth. I hadn’t been there in probably more than fifteen years so I figured it would be an interesting journey and also give me the opportunity to visit the final resting spot of my great grandparents. Not that I need much excuse to ride in Pennsylvania. It was one of my favorite places to cruise through and I enjoy riding the mountains while keeping an eye out for the plethora of oddities PA has to offer. In this case it was nice to have a personal matter involved that of reconnecting with old memories and paying my respects to mothers side of the family.

I started out reasonably well equipped for the brisk early spring weather. It was a nice day to begin with otherwise I might not have set out. I stopped on a scenic outlook off the highway that displays the Delaware water gap in the distance. An unusual geographical landmark I have seen countless times in my life, but not at all in the recent past. It’s still stands out as distinctive as ever. A great part between two of the Appalachian mountains formidable arms. I have lunch and get back on the road. It’s not too long before I reach my exit and pay the toll before crossing the Delaware river and head on to my destination.

I note the old familiar trademark to the area cropping up around each turn. Mounds of slate paying tribute to hard strewn nature of this area. My Irish relatives had settled here in this region on the slate belt. The name Pen Argyl itself means clay mountain, clay referring to slate in this case. It not exactly pretty landscape, but I can relate to bitter taste of pride people have in being from here. If you start life here, you probably behind the pack in terms of the resources other people may have, but if it’s home I suppose the attitude is ‘you try making it here, yeah didn’t think so.’ I could also be completely off, but that’s the impression I get. And in that sense, it’s humbling to peer out at these dark gray masses. They appeal to me as something that may be passed over by most people. Not long after crossing through the land of slate, I come to my first stop, the old park where we had our family reunions.

I ride through the empty parking lot and as familiar as everything is, I am sensing some strong exceptions between the past and now. Namely, everything seems to have shrunk. I am aware that when you revisit places of your youth it’s not uncommon to remember them being much larger due to being smaller at the time, but it still strikes just how much smaller everything seems. What were meadows of distance from the picnic tables to the playground is a small jot away up a small incline. The miniature train that carted us around the circular pool structure is hardly the rural safari I remember it to be. Not to mention the pool building itself, still large, but hardly the colosseum I recall.

I follow the tracks of the mini rails as I did with my cousin David during one of our gatherings. Not far along, I reach the spot where we crossed over a bee’s nest and the memory repeats itself in my mind. I felt a small scratch just below my knee, and peered down to investigate. I become unpleasantly aware of a bee that has struck my leg and quickly flick it away. My instincts lead me several feet away before I realise my cousin has not followed. I look back to see him still in the same spot swatting away bees from every direction. As I was hit first, his reaction may have been delayed and he was left behind to fend off his mini attackers. He was okay in the end, and I note to myself that was probably the last time I had been stung. I decide I’ve reminisced enough for this part of my journey and decide to get moving in case the bees decide to betray logic and appear in the cool weather ready for round two.

I head down the road into Pen Argyl proper, stopping to look at the hillside where most of the townspeople seem to have settled. Not far ahead is Weona Park, with a few interesting facts to itself. The first being the name and the story behind the naming. As I heard it told in my youth, the town held a contest to name the new park in town and submissions were open to all townsfolk. Supposedly, my great aunt suggested the subsequent winning name Weona as a clever way of saying ‘We own a park.’ However, the contest was just to name it not to own it. This is coming from my memory so it would be interesting to hear what my mother has to say about that. The other interesting feature is the Dentzel Carousel which if you do a little research you’ll find out is listed on the National register of historic places. Which strangely enough, I don’t recall ever checking out when I was young, and If there was a chance of me reconnecting with an old comforting memory of riding a rotating stationary horse it was not meant for today as the carousel was closed down. Just the name, I meandered about the shutters to try and catch a glimpse. However, there would be no showcases of glamour in todays visit to the slate belt. And speaking of not seeing glamour, neither did I make it to Jane Mansfields’ grave located in town, but enough about what I didn’t get to do and more about graveyards.

The next stop was the final resting places of my great grandparents and great aunts and uncles. This I do recall visiting when I was young. The memories aren’t as vivid as the bee attack, but I’m sure we came here at least once in between BBQing, swimming and mini-train rides. I found the St. Elizabeth’s cemetery easy enough and head through the modest entrance. It’s not a very large cemetery. Mainly just headstones for individuals and larger markers for family plots although not that of Ms. Mansfield. I find the plot marker about 30 feet off the main path to the left with the four lettered inscription marked FORD. I head over and do my best to conjure up as much of a respectful sentiment as I can muster or fool myself into believing I have in me. Despite the truth that I never knew these people, there are my relatives. What and how they went through life impacted the way my grandmother was raised and what kind of person she became. And which in turn shaped my mother’s life was and the kind of character she developed and later instilled in me. In that way I connect the dots and wonder what they would think of me and where I am in my life. I put those foolish thoughts aside as it’s no more important pondering imagined thoughts of dead people than it is of the living if you can’t ask them to find out for yourself either way. I make the albeit cheesy gesture of taking a picture with my hand on each of their graves, but it makes me feel as though I have some of closure in visiting them with this symbolic note. Having spent some quality time among dead relatives of the Irish arm of my family tree, I decide to continue this foray into their past lives and visit their old house for which I have brought a token of the past.

The house is on the edge of the town near the border with the smartly named town of Wind Gap. I pull over across from the house and lower the sidestand. I unzip the compartmental bag magnetically attached to my gas tank and sort through my random belongings for my camera and an old photo. I hold the photo up to the red house across the street and it appears to be a match. Before I left my parents house I found an old photo of the house in question and decided it would be neat to take a picture with the old photo held up next to the house today. I proceed to hold the photo up with one hand and my camera with the other. The first few pictures are blurred messes. Between the wind and holding two things apart from each other, trying to keep the picture framed for the sake of a still photo, is proving difficult . I dismount the bike and this gives me a little more balance to work with. I still need close to ten takes to get two or three that seem adequate. Now time to look and reflect on this, the house my grandmother grew up in. It’s a decent sized house with red brick and a small front porch. It’s actually very close to how it looks in the old photo with the exception of the porch now being closed in and an addition on the back. I try to imagine my grandmother and her siblings playing in the yard, but it’s not happening. I have little concept of what my grandmother was like as a child or what her upbringing was like. With her gone now, this is perhaps the best I can do. I decide I’ve gotten all I can out of this trip and satisfy myself with the thought that my grandmother would have appreciated my efforts. I decide it’s time to get a quick bite and head back on the road towards home if I plan on holding onto to any daylight. I had planned for cooler weather during the day, but the night is a whole different animal.

I noticed a sports bar in town I had passed on the way in and decide to settle there. I park in a spot next door with cool older looking parking meters. As I remove my gloves and lock my helmet to the bike, I admire the architecture of the building across the street. ‘I’ll bet that was around in grandma’s day,’ I think to myself. The sports bar is less of a good bet in that regard. Although there is still a good amount of sunlight on the street, the bar itself is very dimly lit. As I survey the length of the bar I note there are few other patrons. Those who are within couldn’t be anything but townie regulars. I pull myself up a stool at the far end of the bar ask the young bartender for a menu and a Yuengling. She barely has a voice, but I understand her well enough to know that she is asking if I want a draft or bottle. I decide on a bottle and she turns to complete the task with little enthusiasm. I had meant to look for a local treat my mother had recommended. She told me to keep an eye out for a sausage like meat called ring bologna, but this is hardly the spot to inquire at this point. I decide on the perogie since I don’t recall ever actually having it before.The bartender brings the meal over as I’m about halfway into my beer. The fare is nothing spectacular but it does the job. While I take the last bite, I notice a middle aged couple arrive with a younger looking man I assume is their son.

They sit near me and we say hello and nod our heads. Their polite enough and recognize I’m not from the area. After a bit of small talk, I get into the reason for my visit and that I’m traveling by motorcycle, which usually carries a conversation on its own. They are local and seem like nice enough people, but I’m starting to find I’m a little uneasy getting this up close and personal with slate country. They seem to appreciate the fact that my grandmother grew up in town and ask the family name. The man, let’s call him Terry, strains his mind for a second trying to recall anyone in town with the name. This discomforts me a little and I am relieved when he can’t come with anything. As we talk I learn the woman is Terry’s girlfriend, let’s call her Jenny, and the young man is her son. I also learn that Terry is a recovering alcoholic and today Jenny has given him a free pass to drink. She isn’t partaking for her own part, but her son seems to have joined in. I’m half impressed by Jenny’s ability to clearly be the rock in the situation and half saddened that this appears to be as good as she can hope for. Terry seems to be a good enough man and they clearly love each other as well as appear to be good for one another. This would seem like a pleasant enough couple to spend some time with only you can see clearly enough in their eyes that they have both been through alot and it’s taken it’s toll. The son seems as though he may have a bumpy road ahead of him still. He does his best to chum up to me and borrows money to buy his ‘new friend’ a beer. I resist denying him as it might do more damage to insult his gesture. It doesn’t pass my attention that mother was hesitant to dole it out and even tried to persuade him they’ve drank their due. She relinquishes in part because, I imagine, friends don’t come easy her portly son. They get their takeout order and leave with many thoughtful goodbyes as they head out the door to go watch a taped program of the comedian with all the puppets. Although the experience was a bit uncomfortable, I enjoy learning about peoples lives that I wouldn’t normally meet. Even if it is troubling some of the time, I seek to know about peoples experiences so I can apply that to my overall knowledge of life. I notice a young slender black man nearby sporting a big welcoming smile.

I decide I still have time to collect a little more information on the lives of others and welcome him over. I share my story with him as well and he comes off as a little more with it than my former barmates. It’s not long before I learn he is a gay male and my interest in his story grows. I tell him I find it odd to meet a gay man in this area, as it doesn’t seem like the ideal place to be. He is happy to let me know there are multiple outlets in the area to meet up with fellow admirers of the same sex. I should also mention at this point that beyond gaining worldly knowledge from talking with strangers with lives stranger than mine, my affinity with learning about other peoples experiences is based on my study of sociology in college so meeting a black gay male in the sticks is a bonus win for me. I display delighted surprise to learn that there would be a gay culture in the area despite how unlikely it would seem. I’m curious to know more, but this is a bar and not an office where we are conducting an interview.

I’m noticing at this point that the gentleman is directing more questions to me carefully aimed at uncovering any hint as to my sexual preference. Picking up on this, I parry his questions with equally measured responses with the intention of making it clear I prefer woman without insulting him or being too harsh. Luckily I was able to sense his intentions soon enough before losing my guard completely in my pursuit of sociological paydirt. Unfortunately, he is not so easily dissuaded and I not so discreetly ask for my tab and promptly hand the bartender my card. He is asking if I’ll be around again and if I want to hang out with him. I am beyond uncomfortable at this point and not so politely tell him that’s not going to happen and it would be great if he stopped this routine. The bartender is back and she lays the bill in front of me with the credit slips to be filled out as the last impediment to my exiting this awkward situation. To my complete horror the gentleman has grabbed the slip and begun writing his number on the back. I’m shocked, but able to assure him I will not be calling him that this is wasting both our time. He shrugs off my assertions and by the grace of God is backpedalling from the bar with the smile I initially found welcoming, but now understand as a warning sign. He appears to be heading for the restroom. I sign the duplicate credit slip and do my own slipping out of the bar before I tempt fate any further.

As I approach my motorcycle in the alley parking area, I feel a mix of emotions ranging from anger to embarrassment at being naive. I also wonder how that might have gone down had he chosen someone less open minded. In any case I’m glad to be getting back on the road though I would have liked a little more time to relax and have a glass of water before riding out after drinking a few beers. But I had eaten and was feeling well off enough. Besides the sun was heading in the wrong direction with haste. So I bid farewell to the land of my grandmothers family and their humble origins. One last look at the piles of slate which I’m not so sad to leave behind me and onto the highway once again.

I’m far from being intoxicated for the ride, but I do feel much more at ease on the road. It perhaps has something to do with removing myself from that whole bar scene, but I can’t deny the Yuengling is playing a small part too. I spot another rider on a nice BMW bike not far past the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border. We exchange nods in salute to our shared interest in viewing the world from two wheels and a motor. We end up somewhat riding with each other for the rest of the trip. This is something that doesn’t happen too often on the road and wasn’t intentional at first. In biker culture, it’s partly proper etiquette but also just common practice to keep your distance. We are keeping pace with each other and weaving through traffic in a joined effort, exploiting our advantage over the cumbersome cars to gain distance on the road. My exit is coming up, and I make a gesture that resembles the tipping of a hat to salute my fellow rider. And with that I’m headed back to my parents house with another day on the road in the books leaving in my tracks memories of bee attacks, dead relatives, and townies who extracted their price from my quest for knowledge. See you next time Pen Argyl…