Zanesville Ohio

 I don’t have anything against Indiana.  It’s “The Gateway to the Midwest” according to their marketing campaign.  At least it’s a descriptive phrase.

Going fast with the trucks on I-70 I found when I crossed into Ohio their tagline is an imperative sentence. “Find it here.”  Find what here?  And what if I don’t care to find anything?  I think states should go with the inviting sentence “Welcome to _______” and skip the rest.  Let the traveler define the territory they enter in their own words.

I made it all the way to Zanesville, Ohio on the first day of the road trip.  I planned to stop in Columbus, but when I reached the home of OSU and Ohio’s state capitol, I felt good, so I went on.  The Buick was running great, aside from an odd growling noise coming from the front end.  I first heard it at a gas station just past Yellow Springs, Ohio when I was pulling up to the pump.  My brother Darwin would know exactly what that noise meant, but not me. 

Zanesville is a town of 25,000 people located at the confluence of the Licking and Muskingum rivers.  My town, Ottawa, stands at the confluence of the Fox and Illinois.  I like how the word confluence sounds when spoken and its meaning.  Merging together, making one.  Zanesville has a famous bridge in the shape of a Y that spans both rivers.  Amelia Earhart said Zanesville, viewed from above, was the most recognizable city in the America because of that distinctive bridge. 

I stayed in a hotel on a high bluff above those rivers looking down on the town.  After the flatness of Indiana and western Ohio it was nice to be in rolling hills.  I was close to West Virginia.

I resisted the steak burger and chocolate shake calling my name from the Steak N’ Shake next to the hotel and made my way to the old downtown.  It was full of well-built brick buildings.  I passed a towering but aging brick church that reminded me of Open Table, my church back in downtown Ottawa.  From 1840 to the breakout of the Civil War Zanesville was also a stop on the Underground Railroad, history we’re just learning about in my town of Ottawa. 

When I saw this building, I figured Zanesville had to be a county capitol.

And it is.  Just as Ottawa is the capitol of LaSalle County, Illinois Zanesville is the capitol of Muskingum County, Ohio.  The similarities kept piling up.  Drive 500 miles and end up in a town that makes you feel you’re still at home?  Eerie.

Near that fine old courthouse was an independent Italian restaurant I’d read about online, the Old Market House Inn.  The hostess put me at a small table by a huge unlit fireplace and a waitress brought me a roll and butter.  When I picked up the knife to butter my bread it was heavy.  I have this unproven theory that the weight of a restaurant’s silverware correlates to the price of the food.  When I checked the menu, my supposition was again confirmed.  No data to support it though, only anecdotes.

I had chicken marsala over pasta and a glass of wine, pondered the next day’s route, and headed back to the Buick.  Before I started the Buick to go back up to the hotel, I rolled the car windows to listen.  It growled when I turned the wheels but not when I drove straight down the street.  What the hell?  I slept well.  Crazy dreams.

The buzz at the free breakfast the next morning was the breakdown of the pancake machine.  It was a fully enclosed unit that promised to spit out beautifully browned pancakes in a minute.  It was locked up.  Pushing any or all the buttons produced no response.  I knew that because the woman in charge of breakfast pushed them over and over.  A man in line suggested she unplug it and plug it in again.  My thoughts exactly.  But it was hard wired into a wall panel. 

As issues go in the world of hotel breakfasts, the broken pancake machine was major.  The breakfast lady took her job seriously, slowly laying down slices of French toast so the tops and bottoms made perfectly straight lines clear across the silver chafing dish.  When they didn’t, she nudged them into place with her tongs.

She was not at all happy about the pancake machine, or the maintenance guy who, after a quick once over, told her there was nothing he could do about it.  I thought pancakes plus French toast was overkill anyway, but she obviously considered pancakes irreplaceable.  I had the fake eggs, a tasteless turkey sausage patty, and a couple of cartons of milk.  I kept thinking about the Buick.

Before leaving my parking place at the hotel I turned on the Buick’s engine and turned the steering wheel back and forth.  It growled most when it was far right or left, and not at all when the wheels were straight.  Then it hit me.  Power steering fluid.  Darwin would be proud.  I headed down the hill and over that famous Y bridge looking for help.

I found it at an Advance Auto Parts store.  Before going in, I popped the hood on the Buick and looked for the power steering fluid reservoir.  Dipsticks for the oil and transmission.  Reservoir for brake fluid. But the deal for power steering was nowhere to be found.   How could that be?  You couldn’t use brake fluid for both.  The store was just opening up.  I approached the guy behind the counter.

“I’m getting a growl from my front end that I think is low power steering fluid, but I can’t find the reservoir.”

“What are you driving?”

“2006 Buick Lucerne.”

“That one is hard to find.  Let’s make sure you need fluid before you buy it.  I’ll show you where it goes.”

He went right to it. 

“See where it is?”

I took my sunglasses off and bent closer.  It was under the alternator near the fire well.  Painted black, lid and all.  Blended in like it was camouflaged. 

“Who would think to look there.?”

“Yeah.  Right?  That’s why it gets so neglected.  Whoever is changing your oil should be checking this level, but they usually don’t.  I like Buicks, but the engineer that designed this deal should be fired.”

He took off the cap, wiped it and put it back, took it out again.

“There’s your problem.  Dry or damned near it.”

“Does that do damage to the steering mechanism?”

“Not usually.  Tells you it may have a slow leak, but we sell a product that usually seals those up pretty well. Let’s get you fixed up.”

I went with him to the shelves and bought two.  Best to have one in reserve in case I needed it.

As he rang me up, he made a general announcement to both me and the young guy just coming in the door to start work. 

“Killian here is going to get that skinny funnel we have and fill up that reservoir for you.”

Killian looked at his boss.  If his facial expression was a poster, it would have said in big letters

”Oh yeah?  Why not you?”

“It’s an old Buick Killian.  Under the alternator.  Make sure it gets filled.  Let it settle and check it a couple times.”

Killian grabbed an odd shaped skinny funnel and headed back out the door.  I trailed behind with my two bottles of power steering fluid.  He took off the cap to the reservoir and tried several ways to get the funnel situated.

I said, “Could they have made it any harder you think?”

“I don’t think so.  The guy who thought this up wasn’t a mechanic I can tell you that.  I’ll take that fluid now.”

He opened one bottle and took off the foil seal.

“I need you to get in the car, start it, and let it idle.  We need to make sure this fluid gets down in the lines and fills up.”

I got in the driver’s side and turned the key.  I couldn’t see him because the hood blocked my view.  He spoke loudly over the engine noise.

“OK sir, now turn the wheels all the way to the left, and again all the way to the right.”

“Good. Do it a couple more times.”

When I turned the wheel the first time the groan could be heard, but as I continued it faded away to nothing.

“OK, you’re full now.  Took almost the whole bottle.”

Thanks Killian.  I really appreciate your help.  Can I pay you something?”

“No.  That’s what we’re here for.”

My young mechanic back in Ottawa tells me the same thing.

I’ve been with this 2006 Buick Lucerne for a long time.  It was the last car Jerry Trost ever sold me.  It needs some care, but I like extending its life.  It’s a great ride.

With the Buick back in shape, I got on Interstate 70 and headed for Wheeling, West Virginia.