Why No One Vacations In Western PA Dairy Country

Out of all the traveling we do all year, one was unexpected. We had to travel back to dairy country for my gram’s memorial service. You can read the obituary I did for her here.

Farm life isn’t an easy life. For some reason today I feel like they paint this glamorous photo lifestyle of everything. I used to think NYC was picture perfect until I moved here, and now that I see how farm life is portrayed, it’s rather comical. One of my favorite magazines, Modern Farmer, makes it look so easy. Hipster-looking Brooklynites wearing dusty flannels as they show off armfuls of prize-winning heirlooms and bee hives. It almost makes me think I can do it and then, I visit the real farm and remember what life is like without Starbucks, wifi and Ubers.

Let me tell you a few tales of woe. 

Jesus wasn’t the only one put out of an inn.

There is nothing in Pennsylvania dairy country except – you guessed it – dairy farms. There are no pop-up Hilton hotels or Air BandBs with fancy espresso makers. The Air B and Bs in Western PA don’t even have televisions. One stated itself as “quaint – no television, no wifi, one landline and a beautiful short 2-mile walk to the pond for fishing.”

If I was trying to escape reality like David Thoreau, sure. Trying to survive a night with a four-year-old? No.

But then I think – I grew up this way. There was no wifi, (we had three channels in the television, true story!), and am radio. WTF was I doing for fun at age four?

After some serious soul searching, I locate an open room at a bed and breakfast about 30 miles away. It has good reviews on Trip Advisor (and wifi!) so I figure the worst that can happen is a late night visit from the resident ghost. Plus, we will get a hot, home-cooked country meal in the morning right? We pull into “town” about 5pm on Friday greeted by Confederate flags on the back of pickup trucks (no joke) and homemade Trump signs in the yards. It’s different out here, but the inn looks historically beautiful. I walk up, and the inn keeper informs me that even though I am holding an email confirmation in my hand for that night, they are “sold out,” and “there is nothing they can do.” If you know me, you probably expect me to start dropping F bombs and putting this person straight. But I look at my son, realize it’s late on Friday, and I need a plan, which isn’t going to be here.

About 30 minutes away is one of the local tourist spots we would visit as a kid – the Linesville Spillway. It’s literally just a pit full of carp trying to scramble to get out and fight each other for pieces of bread you toss at them. Yes, this is country entertainment and we used to LOVE it as a kid. So I figure, Max will either find this better than sliced bread (oh the irony), or will find it creepy, weird and frightening and run for the hills. I need a few minutes to google us a place to stay so I take my chances.

While he’s happily tossing in loaf after loaf, I try every site I can imagine. For some reason, there’s a biker night (oh our luck) and everything that wasn’t good enough for me before is already sold out. I finally located a hotel room in Slippery Rock about an hour away. We will take it. As we’re finishing up next to a local family, we strike up a conversation. He comments on my tank top saying NYC, and asks if I have ever been there. When I say, I live there, his eyes light up like I’m a celebrity, and he asks me about the big city. I say I used to live around here and call out some local joints only someone growing up here would know, and he quickly switches the convo to the weather and corn stalks in the fields. We’re not in NYC anymore Todo.

We stop to eat quickly at the Linesville Inn next door to get some protein before adding another hour to our already 8-hour trip from NYC. We sit down, and I wonder why on earth they aren’t serving us anything. I glance around at the locals, remembering how I’ve been here many times myself, and realize, we no longer fit in. I’m wearing a NYC Flywheel tank top, and Max has stolen my phone to watch Peppa Pig. The other locals are sipping beers in their overalls and tees and the kids are quietly chewing on french fries looking at us as if we’re from far away planet.

I quickly throw on a hoodie before anyone else sees, and summon over a lady for food. After a few more walk bys, she finally, out of pity?, stops by our table. Can we just be in our beds? Just one more hour in the children of the corn….

Which way to the Gas Station

We made it to the hotel in Slipper Rock and we survived the night. But now we have to drive all the way back up into farm country for the memorial. I remember an old country diner on the way and decide we will stop there for pancakes for Max. On the way, I realize, we’re running low on gas. Now, again, let me remind you, there are no hotels out here, and there are sure as hell no gas stations. On the farm, we had our OWN gas tank that we would fill up the vehicles and tractors with. A gas man would come around once or twice a week and fill it up. So I have a mild freak out and realize, we might have to drive all the way back into “town” to get gas. Do we have time before the memorial? Do we have enough gas in the car? F. Then I remember there is a gas station across from the Sheakeyville Fair Grounds. As we drive past, I’m looking everywhere thinking, I SWEAR there used to be a gas station here. As we do a second drive by, I realize the “gas station” has been converted into – wait for it – a Mennonite Church. No seriously, it says “Mennonite” outside. I do a quick face palm, realize I am in the midst of hell and rely on my trusty Google Maps to lead me to another saving grace. On the way BACK to Meadville (yet another 20 minutes away) I see a tiny little cafe on the side of the road and decide we need to get some quick pancakes.

Have you ever walked into a place and literally had the entire place stop and stare? No? Go here then. It’s not that we were even fancy for the funeral, it was that we were not locals and we were NOT welcome. What people don’t realize outside of NYC is that life sometimes still stops. We grew up in a simple life and were happy with it. When I was growing up I didn’t want to eat sushi for dinner and travel to Europe for Christmas break. I wanted to wake up and go for a walk by myself into the woods to my favorite watering spot and read a book. These people still feel that way and us rolling in with Prada sunglasses and suspenders and iPhones are like slaps in the face to their humble lives.

I continue to offend them.

I order Max some pancakes and coffee for myself. She comes back to take the rest of our order and say I’m not eating. She looks at me, extremely offended and announces to the entire restaurant, you’re not going to EAT? Like I am some sort of anorexic model from NYC. At this point, I’m just exhausted and loudly state back, I am the granddaughter of Martha Leise and we’re on our way to the funeral up the road. All the restaurant hears is “Leise” (which in that area is well-known, all farmers know other farmers), and for a smidge of a second, they all decide to let me pass since I said the secret word.

We finally make it to the church, which luckily I remember where it was on the back roads, because GPS and wifi and cell service do not exist out here. After taking a few dirt roads and passing a few familiar fields that I used to help plow as a kid, we see family and finally feel back at home. I tell them my horror stories, and they look surprised and laugh – saying they can’t believe I would even EAT the food at that cafe let alone walk in (remember, us farmers make all our own food – we only go out to eat when basically we can’t feed ourselves, it’s just gross to us haha). A short memorial and many loving words about gram are stated by neighboring farmers and friends and I remember just how tough my gram was and how giving at the same time.

I am glad Max was able to meet her, even if he didn’t get to see the farm as I did. But alas, we are home, so a trip to the farm is necessary. But, that’s another story….