The day was predicted to be unseasonably warm, with a high of 55 degrees. To get away for a few hours from a series of stressful occurrences in our lives, Joyce and I drove drove west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We intended to find a park or small town and walk in a rural setting to shake off the winter and situational malaise we both were feeling. Somehow we missed the exit we were shooting for and had to drive as far as Harrisburg before we could leave the turnpike. It was of little consequence except in extra gas since we had no definite destination. Growing hungry and needing a restroom we headed east for Lebanon on Route 422. As we approached the town the views of silos and pasture gave way to a plethora of used car lots, and autompobile supply stores. There was an abundance of fast food restaurants which we shunned in hopes of funding something a notch better in town. Three times we drove back and forth in Lebanon, from first to tenth street, up Main Street and down Walnut. Perhaps we missed the right section but to my best knoweldge there are no restaurants in Lebebon, not even for a bologne sandwich. (Doesn't it come from there?) Proceeding south back toward the Turnpike I noted we were passing through a tiny town labeled Schleffersville on my map. Seizing the moment, I labeled it "Schleppersville," reflecting my disdain for a place without restaurants. (There were two hospitals we noted, perhaps to treat people who needed to eat out more often.) Suddenly Joyce, who was driving, made a sharp left turn at too fast a speed into the parking area of a Tavern and Diner. Dare we risk a Schleppersville eatery? We had no choice. Our bladders were as filled as our stomachs empty.
It really wasn't that bad once we were able to communicate our lunch preferences. They had a different name for the cod fish sandwich Joyce selected from the menu. My Philly cheese steak and fries were easily understood. The bartender and likely the owner wore a T-shirt showing a large bare bottom breaking wind. "Free gas" was the inscription. I describe this without passing judgment but merely to provide some idea of the local ambience. Joyce used the lady's room and returned with this account. There was a sign on the wall inviting patrons to write "an emcouraging message" and leave it in the basket provided. Joyce wasn't so inclined but was sufficiently curious to read the two messages in the basket. "I have to sell my house. I need money" was the first. The second was neither accepting nor disparaging, merely factual: "Leroy is shacking up with Alma." Somewhat facetiously, and more for my benefit since the town was plainly marked on the map, Joyce asked the waitress : "What town are you in? "Lebanon" was the reply.
Was she reluctant to use the correct name with obvious strangers? Was she Alma and the T-shirted bartender Leroy? Was this really still part of Lebanon and the only restaurant in town, located five miles south? Was the town commemorating a real person named Schleffer and the name therefore eponymous? Was Schleffer a schlepper? I don't suppose we'll ever know. We won't be going back real soon.
O.K. It's hard to read a map in a moving car. I've looked up the town and have found that it is really named Schaefferstown, not Schleppersville. It even has a hotel. I apologize to the good citizens who reside there. It gave us a laugh when we needed it. Schaefferstown sits between Kleinfeltersville and Cacalico, Pennylvania. To us it will always be Schleppersvillle.
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