A Lap Around America

by Shawn Inmon

  We had just crossed the Vermont–New York state line when we saw the Big Moose Deli and Country Store. It’s kind of hard to miss, really. There’s a truck outside with a life-size moose, gorilla, and Uncle Sam. There’s a crashed airplane protruding from the roof. There are garden gnomes blown up to fiendish size. In short, it’s my kind of place. We hadn’t had lunch yet, so we couldn’t resist all this campy Americana.

  The sandwiches we got there were great—big enough to serve as dinner as well—but the store was the highlight. It was like a rural version of Spencer’s Gifts, with a million corny signs, jokes, and pieces of memorabilia. From the front, it looks small, but its tiny, packed aisles wend and wind through room after room. We left with more than our food, obviously.

  We drove on through upstate New York, enjoying the rolling hills, quiet roads and everything that distinguishes the rest of the state from those teeming millions down at the bottom. New York is like Washington state in so many ways, if we squinted our eyes a bit, it almost felt like we were in a part of western Washington we’d never been to before. It made us a little homesick.

  We spent the night in the Finger Lakes region of New York. More specifically, we stayed in Skaneateles, New York. Let that one roll around on your tongue for a bit. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to pronounce that name. Was it pronounced like skein, with an “eteles” after it? Or a “ska” sound, like in the beginning of Schenectady?

  When we checked in to the wonderful little Skaneateles Inn, I asked the lady behind the counter.

  She smiled indulgently, then said it so fast I could hear it whiz as it went over my head.

  “Again, please?”

  An even more indulgent smile that showed she now realized that she was speaking to someone of lower than average intelligence. “Skinny atlas.”

  I blinked. “Skinny atlas?”

  A nod.

  So, Skaneateles is apparently pronounced “skinny atlas.” I admit, I never would have gotten there.

  Day Forty-Four

  This morning, we left Skaneateles, which I will always remember as Skinny Atlas, and drove to Niagara Falls.

  I need to tell you a quick story that will illustrate how Dawn has the patience of a saint to be married to me. Yesterday, as we were driving, we saw signs for Schenectady, New York. I have this habit of reading signs as we drive by them. When I said, “Schenectady,” I kind of liked how it sounded. Say it yourself. “Schenectady.” Satisfying, isn’t it? Kind of like Walla Walla, Washington.

  So, over the next hour or so, I found 112 different ways to work the name “Schenectady” into our conversation. For about the last 110 of those times, I could see Dawn’s ire rising. Which, of course, is why I continued to say it. Dawn and I became friends when she was eleven and I was fifteen. This is one of the ways it still shows, four decades later.

  Then, we passed a sign for the town of Tonawanda. When I said that was also a cool name, Dawn gave me the Level Five death glare that said, Shawn, if you start saying “Schenectady” again, I will remove one of your testicles. I’ve never been able to resist a challenge, and I relied on the fact that she was driving the car to keep me safe. So far, so good.

  We had two big events to look forward to on this day. One was seeing my writer best friend, Terry Schott, and the other was seeing this place where water drops a long way very quickly.

  Terry and I have been online friends for years. He is the author of the bestselling Game is Life series. We met in person for the first time at the Smarter Artist Summit back in March, but this would be the first time Dawn got to meet him. Because we’re a high-brow sort of folk, we met at a pizza restaurant where there were pinups of naked girls in the bathroom. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the Algonquin Roundtable. It was perfect for us, and the pizza was terrific.

  Dawn and Terry took to each other instantly. Terry is hilarious, and Dawn’s super power is taking people who are hilarious down a peg or two. They were insulting each other like old friends before the pizza got cold.

  At one point, Dawn held up her hand and said, “Wait a minute. Is one single thing you guys have said today actually true?”

  I had to point out that when politicians don’t speak the truth, it is a lie. When writers do that, it is just the beginning of a new story. We try to never let facts ruin the presentation of a good story.

  We couldn’t persuade Terry to come with us to Niagara Falls, so after we said goodbye to him, we drove straight there.

  Here’s the thing: I’ve been to the falls before. Back in the early eighties, I traveled with the Unlimited Hydroplane Circuit for three summers. One of those years, we had a race in upstate New York, so on an off-day, I drove to Niagara Falls. I walked up to the observation deck, saw the falls, shrugged, and drove back to Buffalo. In Buffalo, I saw The Empire Strikes Back, which impressed me a lot more than Niagara Falls. Mea culpa. I was a twenty-three-year-old kid, dumb as a box of rocks. Natural beauty didn’t impress me much back then, I guess, but because of that, I wasn’t sure how impressed I would be today.

  Happily, thirty-three years have taught me a few things, including how to appreciate Niagara Falls. Dawn had no preconceived notions, so she was excited before we even got there. Once she saw it, her smile didn’t falter for the rest of the visit.

  We walked to the Observation Deck, and that was cool, but we didn’t want to stop there. We wanted to get wet. So, we got on one of the Maid of the Mist boats, famous for getting millions of people up close and personal with the falls, not to mention soaking wet. They provide free plastic ponchos that theoretically keep you dry. Why did they make them hot pink? I have no idea, but it makes for a striking image—dozens of people with dripping-wet hair wearing shocking pink ponchos.

  The Maid of the Mist ride isn’t long—I think the whole thing lasted maybe 25 minutes, but it is so worth it. I can’t imagine going to the falls and not taking a ride to really see the falls crashing down toward you. Yes, you will get soaked. No, the ponchos won’t keep you dry—imagine wearing a poncho into a running shower, and you’ll get the picture. Mostly, though, you will see the falls, both the American and Canadian side, from a viewpoint you will never forget.

  Niagara Falls

  After the boat ride, we wanted to linger, so we walked along the Niagara River, which is beautiful in its own right. Finally, we knew we had to leave, though we didn’t want to. Visiting Niagara Falls was a tremendous experience. There are some historical landmarks (Mount Rushmore springs to mind for me) about which, once you see them, you think: Yep. There it is. How about that. Then you get back in your car and go on to the next stop. Niagara had a much bigger impact on us. If you ever get a chance to see the area, I strongly recommend it. It’s very inexpensive. You can view the falls for free, and it’s only $18 per person to ride the Maid of the Mist. We’ve paid more for a lot less elsewhere on this trip. It gets two thumbs up from Dawn and Shawn.

  Here’s a good Lap Around America piece of trivia: What were the three states that we would drive through two separate times? The answer: New York, New Hampshire, and Pennsylvania. We hit those three twice on our loop around the upper northeast.

  We made it to a brand-new hotel in Erie, Pennsylvania, just as it was getting dark. We were noticing that we were running out of sunlight a lot sooner than when we left. After staying in a series of rundown, dilapidated (or worse) motels for the last week or so, it was nice to stay in a place that still had the equivalent of that “new car smell.”

  Plus, it had a pool and a laundry room. For us, this was heaven.

  Day Forty-Five

  Man, Cleveland gets a bad rap. It’s been the butt of jokes for so long, I have to wonder if Clevelanders ever get defensive about it. Here’s a story I recounted on my blog the day we passed through Cleveland:

  In May of 1981, I was driving around Seattle, listening to the Seattle Mariners game on AM 710, KIRO. I don’t remember much about that particular game, but I do recall this conversation between Dave Niehaus a
nd Ken Wilson, the Mariners’ play-by-play team:

  Dave Niehaus: “Well, it’s all done in Cleveland, and it’s a perfect game for Len Barker of the Indians.”

  Ken Wilson: “I think there’s been some sort of mistake, Dave.”

  DN: “Pretty sure it’s right; it just came over the wire. Indians win, three to nothing, and Barker throws a perfect game.”

  KW: “We’ve both spent our share of time in Cleveland, and so we both know … nothing can be perfect in Cleveland.”

  Cue rim shot.

  I remember wondering at the time what made Cleveland so bad. Thirty-five years after Len Barker’s perfect game, I finally got a chance to see for myself, and I still don’t know why everyone hates on Cleveland. I guess it might be because when manufacturing changed, Cleveland was a little bereft for a while. Also, the weather isn’t the greatest. Their sports teams were awful for a long time. Oh, and the Cuyahoga River was so polluted, it caught on fire once.

  But, those things are mostly in the past. Sure, the weather still isn’t great, but business in Cleveland is booming again. Lebron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers won the NBA Championship in 2016, and the Cleveland Indians came within one game of winning the World Series. We won’t mention the Cleveland Browns, who are so terrible, they are likely to still be terrible no matter what year you are reading this.

  We started our jam-packed tour of Cleveland with a tour of the Lake View Cemetery. We had seen cool cemeteries in Pioche, New Orleans, and Augusta, but Lake View was at the head of the class.

  It is immense, covering more than 70 acres. It doesn’t really have a cemetery feel, to be honest. In most sections, it feels like a park where people just happen to be buried. There are lakes, and trees, and manicured hills that are so peaceful, Dawn said, “If I didn’t want to be cremated, I think I’d like to be buried here.”

  “Seriously, in Cleveland? We don’t know anyone within 1,000 miles of Cleveland.”

  “I know. But look at that little lake. Close your eyes and just feel how peaceful it is here.”

  She was right, but I think we’re both intent on eventually having our ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean someday. Hopefully in the middle of a windstorm, so no one really knows where I go.

  Lake View Cemetery isn’t just about the beauty of its surroundings, though. Several famous people found their final resting place there. Eliot Ness, the famous G-man, is buried somewhere there, although we never found his grave. John D. Rockefeller and members of his immediate family have a lovely spot on top of a hill. U.S. president James Garfield, his wife, daughter, and son-in-law are entombed in their own castle on the grounds.

  I had my heart set on finding two specific graves: those of Alan Freed and the Haserot family.

  Alan Freed is special to me because he played such an integral role in the early days of rock ’n’ roll. He wasn’t a musician but rather a disc jockey who probably did more for the advancement of the new phenomenon of rock ’n’ roll than any other. He came to fame at WJW in Cleveland, and it was there that he ran his famous Moondoggers show.

  In my own book, Rock ‘n Roll Heaven, as my protagonist Jimmy Velvet, Buddy Holly, and an angel named Pertime are walking down a street in the 1950s section of Rock ‘n Roll Heaven, I paid tribute to Mr. Freed:

  Their path moved away from the small-town business district housing Buddy’s roller rink, toward a section of larger buildings. As they walked under an awning, Jimmy glanced through a large picture window and saw a man sitting at a 1950s radio board with half a dozen potentiometers, two turntables and a hanging microphone. Above the sidewalk, speakers broadcast what he was playing. The last few notes of The Fleetwoods’ “Come Softly” faded out.

  “This is Alan Freed, King of the Moondoggers, playing the songs that matter, the records that have stood the test of time and crossed over with me to Rock ‘n Roll Heaven. These are the Moonglows, from Cleveland, Ohio, waaaay back in the ole US of A.” He pushed a button and the record started to spin. The doo-wop intro of “Sincerely” played, with just a hint of scratchiness as the 45 turned.

  “That’s Alan Freed!”

  “Yeah, it is,” Buddy drawled. “You can’t be surprised to see Alan in Rock ‘n Roll Heaven. He doesn’t have a regularly scheduled show, but he goes on the air whenever he wants.”

  Alan looked out the window and waved as he cued up the next record. By the time they were out of earshot, “Sincerely” had finished playing and segued directly into “Mr. Lee” by The Bobbettes.

  I put that section in the book for several reasons. One, I thought Rock ’n’ Roll Heaven needed a disc jockey, and two, I have always thought Alan Freed got a bum rap, not unlike his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. Yes, he was found guilty of accepting payola for helping to turn records into hits. However, if every disc jockey that took payola in those days was taken off the air, there would have been a lot of dead air across America. From 2002 until 2014, Alan Freed’s ashes resided in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. At that point, the Hall decided they didn’t want him there anymore, which I find very tacky.

  His family made him a marvelous tombstone, shaped like an old Rock-ola jukebox, and had his ashes interred in Lake View Cemetery. As final resting spots go, it’s very cool.

  Earlier, I mentioned being excited about finding the Haserot family graves. The family isn’t famous, and their gravesite is definitely not in a prime spot in the cemetery. What makes their final resting place memorable is the statue they commissioned to sit above the graves: Angel of Death Victorious, sculpted by Herman Matzen in 1924.

  As soon as I read about her, I knew I needed to see the statue, also commonly called The Weeping Angel, with my own eyes. That wasn’t easy. A website said the statue was where Sections Two and Three in the cemetery meet. We found that spot, but there was no weeping angel in sight.

  I approached a maintenance man I spotted sitting atop a lawnmower, smoking a cigarette and taking a break, and asked where I could find the statue. He kind of sneered at me and waved a hand in a vague direction. Very helpful. We set off hiking in the direction he waved, but couldn’t find her. We walked up and down rolling hills in the climbing morning heat, to no avail. If I weren’t so stubborn, we would have just gotten in the car and moved on.

  I am exactly that stubborn, though, and refused to give up. Eventually, I saw that some graves are kind of shunted off to the side of the road that connects the different sections. I climbed up that hill, ducked through some low-hanging branches, and there she was, in all her glory.

  The Angel of Death Victorious is said to be haunted. Strange noises and occurrences are rumored to happen around the gravesite. I cannot testify to any of that, as all was quiet on the haunting front when I was there. Even without other-worldly creaks, groans, and rattling of chains, the weeping angel was spellbinding.

  The Angel of Death, Victorious

  Larger than life-size, she sits peacefully, her magnificent wings stretched out on both sides and supported by a smooth stone structure. In her hands she has a large, upside-down torch, signifying the extinguishing of life. It is her face that draws attention, though. The statue is made of bronze, and years of exposure to the elements have caused black rivers of tears to stream down her face.

  I lost track of time as I stood before her, mesmerized. If Dawn hadn’t come and laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Time to go, now,” I think I might still be there, staring into those unseeing eyes, blackened with tears.

  I think Dawn pulled me away because she wanted to see the castle where Garfield is buried. No. Not the cartoon cat, the president.

  I’m interested in Garfield, although he is not well remembered today. He is one of four presidents to have been assassinated (along with Lincoln, McKinley, and Kennedy), and was president for only a few months before he was shot. He was well qualified for the job, and it would have been interesting to see what he might have done with his full term. Instead, an insane office-seeker named Charles Guiteau shot him twice at close range. E
ven though this was after the Lincoln assassination, U.S. presidents at that time still did not have any kind of guard when they were out in public. Can you imagine? Being out for a bite to eat and looking up to see the president of the United States sitting a few tables away?

  Garfield lingered for eleven weeks after he was shot and died a horrible death. Even though he is not much talked about today, he has the grandest resting place of all U.S. presidents. It is literally built like the spire of a medieval castle. Picture the rook on a chess board, and you’ll be close. Inside, there is a much larger-than-life statue of Garfield in a dramatic pose. Inside, you can climb clear to the top, where you will be rewarded with a tremendous view of downtown Cleveland, or descend to where the president and his family are entombed.

  The man who ran the tiny little gift shop/information booth inside the castle was a big James Garfield fan, extolling his virtues and bemoaning that he was shot less than three months into his term of office. I never knew there were James Garfield fans, but now I do.

  The burial and interment spots for the famous were all very cool, but they weren’t what put Lake View Cemetery over the top for us. What touched our hearts was the statues scattered about that were meant to memorialize ordinary people.

  We saw a bench with the figure of a happy, smiling man, playing guitar, looking like he was about to burst into song. There were also statues of beloved pets, and my favorite: a young girl, eternally sitting on a park bench reading a favorite book. On the back of it is a quote from Albert Camus: In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. I can’t imagine a happier resting spot than that.

  Before we knew it, we had whiled away three hours in what I thought would be a quick stop at the cemetery. Some things just can’t be rushed, though, and Lake View was just that for us.