In Search Of A Pill Box

                   

Today's journal entry is written by my dear friend MP. 

I define the late 1980s as the salad years of my life in which youthfulness was synonymous with invincibility and caution was thrown to the wind.  It was also a time when I knew that if I were to try something new in my life, it should be daring and thrilling enough that I would be able to reflect upon it in my older age. Along came Sun-kist in 1988, an older model metallic orange Honda 550 motorcycle that was a bit larger than necessary considering my more energetic slimness at that time.  I considered it an alternate form of transportation but came to rely on it for after work escapes and its ability to sip gas.

Puddin and I often visited the ChiChi's on Dixie Highway after work for Tuesday evening happy hour when server Darlene would serve us lethal frozen margaritas topped with generous dollops of whipped cream to cut the sweetness.  A complimentary appetizer buffet was also served during happy hour which worked out beautifully given my salad year status at the time.  Great ideas were pondered and dreams of grandeur were discussed during the Tuesday Darlene sessions. 

The Tuesday evening of June 6, 1989 was unusually abuzz with mid Eastern unrest due to the death of Ayatollah Khomeini just a few days before.  After a raspberry margarita with Darlene, we both decided a motorcycle road trip was in order to express our freedom from work and to celebrate separation of church and state - something uncommon in mid-Eastern countries.  Puddin dropped her car off at the compound and gingerly advised that she was taking a motorcycle ride.  I quickly said hello to the parents and Grandmother and thought it was rather odd that no one seemed to panic or express concern that their only offspring was about to embark on a dangerous mission.  Puddin's only concern at that time was that Sun-kist's older condition may not make the steep Muldraugh Hill in Meade County.  The cycle scored the hill effortlessly on the way to Elizabethtown. 

We drove US 62 and decided that we need to experience the culture of the small town social scene.  That town was Boston, KY and a little nook in Boston hill beckoned to us.  Laura's Hideaway was more of a social scene and beer joint than a restaurant.  Outsiders are usually scrutinized if they dare enter establishments of this type until they are thoroughly sniffed over and deemed beneficial to the proprietor.  We were
immediately accepted as I barked out an order for a round of beers before being seated for dinner.  The restaurant was foggy with tobacco smoke but the television propped up in a corner clearly broadcasted the chilling chaos in which Iranian pallbearers were attempting to deliver the Ayatollah's body to a temple. Citizens were feverishly shoving the pallbearers in order to touch the white linen shroud worn by the Ayatollah.  The spectacle of watching the chaos unfolding accelerated the patrons' consumption of beer which delighted the proprietor who was unaccustomed to people actually buying food and drinks at the same time.  When the Ayatollah's body was tossed out of the casket into the throngs, we all raised our glasses in a toast. With that shocking revelation, we decided to continue the journey and attempt to make it back to Louisville before darkness set in. 

Proceeding to Bardstown, we contemplated stopping at a little bar resting beside a dry creek bed just outside of Boston.  We both decided to forego a visit because the bar was too far off the main road for anyone to hear our screams should we need help.  We proceeded and I wanted to explore a back road that I was not familiar with.  Because the road met the main highway at a curve at a steep angle and a stop sign was present, I could not hold the bike and told Puddin to jump.  She expediently obeyed the order and escaped injury.  Sun-kist was not injured and we continued through Bardstown and stopped at Rooster Run to alleviate the bladder pressure caused by the Boston beer.  The Rooster Run General Store is well known to many for harboring a giant rooster on a trailer hitch on the premises.  In addition to purchasing fuel, they have a terrific assortment of deli lunch meats and whole country hams.  A gift shop was also available in which travel souvenirs could be purchased such as cedar jewelry boxes emblazoned with overlays of Bardstown historic sites. Since we were the knownjokesters at work, we decided to pick up packets of Rattlesnake Eggs and Lots 'o Ants.  A packet of Rattlesnake Eggs was actually a simple mechanical prank in which a metal paper clip and rubber band was twisted in slingshot fashion inside a small packet containing rice. The packet was imprinted with a stern "Do not open" warning and a threatening picture of a striking rattlesnake.  If the packet was disturbed, the rubber band would unravel inside the packet thus vibrating the rice to create a disturbing sound and scaring the guilty holder of the packet.  I knew that my manager would not be able to resist opening the packet that was innocuously left on her desk and that Puddin would hear gales of uncontrollable laughter emanating from my work area once the intended deed was accomplished.  Puddin would also hear gales of laughter when Embry would find black plastic ants in her morning orange juice.  While continuing to shop, Puddin also found a delightful pillbox for Grandmother. 

The upkeep of an older motorcycle was becoming harder to maintain since yearly VET testing required expending additional funding to procure an exemption.  I had reservations about relinquishing Sun-kist but eventually sold her in 1991. To this day though, I still have occasional and quite vivid dreams in which I still have that bike. And I miss having those cleansing bouts of uncontrollable laughter with Puddin. On a happier note though, Puddin was gifted the cherished pillbox after Grandmother's passing and can hopefully provide a picture to her faithful readers. 

Editor's notes:  First of all, the main reason I bailed off of the bike as it was going down was because I was wearing ostrich skin cowboy boots and didn't want to scuff them.  And second, a few minor details have been left out.  What happens in Boston, stays in Boston.