Remember that time I was Freshly Pressed?

I’m sitting here in an old school motel in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, near the Northern shores of Lake Michigan. My eyes dart from the words on the computer screen that I slowly type on my old laptop to long periods of staring out the window of my room as ghostly apparitions of blowing snow race across the empty parking lot. My toes are cold and I can’t seem to get them to warm up even though they’re wrapped tightly in heavy wool socks. The desk where I am sitting is next to the window that faces out to the parking lot and I can see my car parked in front of the door to my room, some parking lot lights and the brightly lit motel sign. At the bottom of the sign in bright red neon, the word VACANCY calls out to the few passing cars though no one seems to heed the call.

I have the blinds wide open but I’m not worried about privacy because I think I might be the only guest here tonight. I have no concerns about someone walking by and staring in my window. What is likely a thriving little motel during the summer and fall tourist months is pretty much a ghost town on this frigid cold February night.

The old couple that owns this particular motel where I will rest my head tonight have to be in their 80’s. They live on site and the place is spotlessly clean. This is the third year in a row I have stayed here and each year I walk in and wonder if the old women who checks me in will remember me. But she doesn’t and I’m not really surprised considering the number of people she sees every year. But as always, as I signed the credit card receipts and passed them back to her she asked me:

“Do you drink coffee? I’ll have coffee made in the morning.”

“I sure do you” I replied, then added, “I know, I come up here every February on my way to Houghton and I always stay here.”

She glanced up at me with proud eyes that sparkled like the bitter cold snow outside and with the brightest smile she said “thank you.”

I added, “I really like this place, please don’t ever close it down!”

“We won’t, as long as we’re around” she offered.

I took my key and settled in to room 17.


I stay in small motels like this all the time when I travel for work. I’m self employed, no company credit cards, no expense accounts, no perks. Every dollar I spend on accommodations or meals or gas for my car comes right off the top. So I do my research and I find the places that are clean and well kept and affordable.

But there’s more than that.

Yes, these motels are unquestionably no-frills, and I’ve had a few objectionable nights over the last few years where I wished I had chosen the local chain hotel.

But the homey, small town places that I find, that I consistently come back to are all privately owned businesses that the owners take pride in and work hard to keep their guests happy. As someone who spent almost 20 years working in a family business I respect that to no end and will do what I can to support that work ethic.

Plus the people are interesting!

There’s the 80’s something couple where I stay tonight.

There’s the Vietnam era veteran with the US Marines baseball cap who always says “I’d put my rooms up against any place in town!”

There’s the lesbian couple who own a place called the “Triangle Motel.”

There’s the macho guy who is a retired police chief and who always has his little dog with him.

There’s the guy who is always drinking from a can of “Miller Lite” while checking in guests.

These places are remnants from a bygone era, like the old Route 66 motels that families stayed in while driving across the country many decades ago. Sadly, these days, for every thriving motel you find that is worth the $50 room rate, there are two or three more that are sitting abandoned along rural routes that folks no longer choose to drive along.

So… what does this have to do with being Freshly Pressed?

Two years ago in February, 2013 my post Old Barn Coat was featured on the WordPress Freshly Pressed page. It happened during this same road trip that I am on now. I started writing the post while I was at home, but I finished it while sitting in the same motel that I sit in now, while sucking down a bottle of wine, on a similar, bitter cold Saturday February night.

I posted it the following Sunday.

It was a great post and I knew it at the time. It wasn’t my usual sarcastic, silly, juvenile humor. I remember struggling to figure out where and how I was going to tie everything together, but when the last line, the culmination, finally appeared to me, I knew I had come up with something good. I don’t remember thinking about the post being “pressed” but I knew it was something special regardless of the number of likes and comments.

Freshly Pressed is the closest most of us will ever get to something we write being “published”. Sure, no one is paying you for what you wrote but it is an example of someone who you don’t know, someone who doesn’t follow your blog, someone who isn’t your friend , either face to face or “electronically”, noticing something you’ve written and deciding it’s good enough that thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of people should see it. That’s an honor none of us should take for granted.


The words are flowing out now like an open tap. It’s funny how that works, one minute you can’t think of anything to say, but a few struggling, forced paragraphs later, you’ve lost track of time and you have to force yourself to stop typing.

I’ve glanced up from the screen and noticed some of the parking lot lights are off and although the VACANCY light still screams out to passing cars, I know that motel office hours are only until 11:00 and there won’t be much traffic tonight. Blowing snow still dances across the parking lot and I’m glad I’m in a warm room.

Tomorrow morning I will go say hello to the old lady at the front desk. I will turn in my key and share some of the coffee she has made. We will likely talk about the weather and life and why I’m visiting the area and I trust her eyes will sparkle as much as they did tonight when I told her I was a repeat guest.

The coffee will taste better than any cup of Starbucks Coffee bought on any corner of Main Street USA.

Because it’s not about the coffee, its about the people you share it with.

Freshly Pressed or not.


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31 responses to “Remember that time I was Freshly Pressed?

  1. I like your authenticity every bit as much as your sense of humor.

  2. Excellent post. Just went back and had a look at your FPd post as I wasn’t following you then – definitely a worthy FPer, when I got FPd it was for a silly frivolous post that I had hesitated about posting at all because I thought it was too silly! Not one of the ones where I thought I’d done real good. Ya just never know what they’re going to go for.

    • I’ve heard that comment from others too, that something was picked that the writer didn’t even think was very good. Think of how many too that have to be reviewed every day, must be a little overwhelming!

      • I don’t for a minute imagine that they read every post that is published every day, their team isn’t big enough, so I do think there’s a certain amount of chance as to whether the posts even get looked at. Maybe they search for certain topics each day as part of it?

  3. I don’t think I’ve ever got anywhere near being “Freshly Pressed” but I can imagine it’s as exciting as hell: well done you 🙂

  4. Allan G. Smorra

    Your story took me back to my childhood when we traveled across the country and stayed in motels just like this one. Thanks for the reminder.

    • It’s funny, though I’m approaching 50 yrs old, I don’t remember staying in these places as a kid. Guess maybe we spent more time in a camper than anything. Maybe that’s why they appeal to me now.

      • Allan G. Smorra

        I spent many nights in these places all over the South in the ’50s—that is, when we stopped for the night. Many times we drove straight through the nights on 2-lane highways from Ft. Lauderdale to Ohio. The Interstate Highway System was a blessed relief when construction began on it.

  5. I love cheap hotels. In fact, I think expensive hotels are a scam, since most of us are doing what while we’re there: sleeping. Who cares about the chintz in their sleep?
    I have a screen shot on my desktop of my WP stats in the days I was FPed and those following. I labeled it “Post-FP Depression.” Perspective is all.

  6. Love your imagery. I’m right there with you sipping a hot cup of joe with the elderly gal. Isn’t it wonderous when we tap into that fountain and just the right words pour out?

  7. “It’s not about the coffee.” What a metaphor for every meaningful interaction we are privileged to have in this life. Excellent piece of writing here. Simply excellent.

  8. Wow, another great post with good writing! Like Honie said, just excellent. I think lots of your posts should be FP’d (like this one).

    I also prefer the small homey feel of certain family-run motels. I remember driving across country (twice!) in my 20s and my brother and I would stop at quaint places like that. One in particular in Minnesota I still remember because of the sweet old lady who ran it. She kept her collection of antique dolls out in the lobby. Holiday Inn doesn’t have stuff as interesting as that!

  9. What a lovely post – sweet and slightly slower paced, like the motel you were visiting.

    What I can’t get over is you going to Houghton…in the winter! That’s going into the belly of the beast. I remember visiting my sister at Mich Tech one winter and a friend from the dorm drove me back to her house. He started at the top of the hill and drive down, slowing the car as much as possible. He couldn’t stop on the ice so I had to open the door and roll out.

    Good times, good times.

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