The Amish Roadside Stand

By Jon Moray

This story first appeared online for All Your Stories magazine in April 2025 and is about a fast paced man that finds more than he bargained for while visiting a slow paced town. Enjoy!

Hank Wells, on impulse, decided to take a two-week driving trip down to the Florida Keys, away from the New York City breakneck speed madness. An aggressive, persistent man, he thrived in his profession as a Wall Street investor. He felt a slow, easy paced motor trip with scenic stopovers along the way would be a great challenge to his fidgety, now-now-now personality. He loaded his late model cherry red convertible with two pieces of luggage and a full tank of premium gasoline to challenge the open road, assisted by a cloud free, perfect summer day.

Many of his associates suggested he try the Pennsylvania Dutch country for a pleasant, beautiful farmland scenery and an occasional Amish buggy sighting. He detoured off the interstate, through Philadelphia, and onto the long stretch of road that would take him into the country. The room he had reserved at a bed and breakfast inn was located in Bird-in-Hand, a quiet and quaint farm town in Lancaster county. He arrived in the evening, so he turned in and lulled himself to sleep by perusing tourist pamphlets he dug up in the foyer.

The next day, he awoke to a rooster’s crow and the fresh smell of horse manure on the dirt path left by an Amish buggy driver. He surveyed the picturesque silos out his window off in the distance. Dressed in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, he scaled the solid oak stairs down and was greeted by the mouth watering aroma of sausages. Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, the inn owners, were tending to their breakfast chores and bellowed a hearty “Good Morning” in unison and on key. Hank replied, in a little over a mumble. The trio talked about various sites around town as Hank enjoyed the breakfast meat and fluffy egg whites. Mrs. Fletcher suggested the farmer’s market the next town over while her hubby suggested an easy, care-free drive along a road that featured a wood covered bridge and an Amish roadside stand along the route.  Hank opted to encounter the easy roads that split the farms.

Eight miles of green landscape led Hank to the aforementioned road. His relaxed mood had him traveling under 25 miles per hour. The road had a gradual decline as he was approaching the covered bridge, wide enough for only one vehicle to penetrate at a time. A buggy was making its way through, and Hank patiently slowed to a crawl to let it pass. He proceeded on, inching over the wood plank floorboards, creaking as he passed.

Just ahead was the Amish farm with the roadside stand. He pulled up to the gravel makeshift parking area, exited his drop-top, and saw a man emerge riding a scooter and speeding towards him. Hank surveyed the goods for sale as the man drew near. The stand was made from pressure treated 2x4s, plywood, and wood siding, painted light teal. The roof cantilevered out two feet to shelter the patron.

“Good morning,” the man greeted, with a distinct accent that featured a questioning tone at the end of his dialogue. He wore a black flat brimmed hat, a royal blue buttoned down shirt rolled up at the elbows and dark pants.

Hank nodded as he spied the display of wrapped, whoopee pies, jars of jellies, and root beer in jugs. He picked up a jug and noticed the glued on label that read ‘Good for what ails you.’

“Nice label,” Hank snickered.

The man nodded, “My daughters made the root beer and the labels.”

“How can I refuse something that will heal my back pain,” Hank said, with a chuckle that made the man patronize a laugh. Hank paid in cash, noticing the dirt under the man’s fingernails.

Hank was back on the road to continue his visual wonder of the Amish farmhouse roads with an opened jug of root beer as his refreshing companion. Mr. ‘Always On The Go’ was now driving as if he was racing a turtle and was compassionate enough to let it win. He spent the rest of the day stopping occasionally for scenic landscapes and a bite to eat.

He headed back to the inn, and as he got out of his vehicle, he noticed he was free of his back pain. He tested a few calisthenics and even jumped around but felt nothing. He reached into the vehicle for the jug and stared at the label. “This thing really works. I feel brand new,” he muttered to himself as he entered the inn through the back porch. Halfway up the steps to his room, he expressed to the Fletcher’s his appreciation for their town and easy down-home lifestyle.

The next morning, he awoke with a plan to go to the farmer’s market via the Amish roadside stand. He felt great physically but wanted another bottle of the refreshing elixir for insurance. Idle breakfast conversation with a Vermont couple about city living permeated the table until Hank excused himself to venture out into the morning fresh air and on the hay littered road.

He pulled up to the unoccupied stand about 9 AM and immediately darted toward where the jugs were displayed the day before, only to find shoo-fly pies in its place. He looked around and found the man walking slowly toward him.

“Good morning,” the man said as he made his way into the stand.

“Where is the root beer?” Hank demanded, absent of pleasantries.

“We do not have root beer to offer this morning,” the man answered in a pleasant tone, arranging his wares for sale.

“But, it really is good for what ails you,” Hank growled.

“You say the root beer really worked?” the man asked, removing his hat to wipe his brow with his forearm.

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying,” Hank shouted, which had a negative effect on his back as the aches began to reappear.

“Perhaps, a whoopie pie would be appetizing to you,” the man said, as he picked up a saran-wrapped, coaster-sized treat. Hank grabbed it and read the handwritten label that read ‘Unforgettable.’ He frowned at its’ label and reluctantly paid the man a dollar for it.

“Well, will you have some root beer tomorrow?”

“The girls had other chores this morning but will be in the kitchen tomorrow to have some ready.”

“I just might buy all you have, so make plenty,” Hank said as he crept into his car, favoring his aching back. He drove off toward the farmer’s market while reasoning that the root beer’s healing effect lasted only twenty-four hours.

The farmer’s market was held on a cobblestone filled closed off street with craft stores flanking each side. A banjo player was setting up for his set around the center of the roundabout. Hank took a seat on a cast iron bench to treat his ears to the sounds from the heavyset strummer. He unwrapped the whoopie pie, read the label, and wondered what effect consuming the snack would have on his memory. He took a bite as the banjo player began to strum. A song he had never heard before was being sung with a bluesy sound, but as he was hypnotized by each note, memories of his early childhood circulated his thoughts. He pictured himself as a two year old watching his parents dancing to the same song, but by the original artist and played on a record player. It was a memory he had never recalled before.

After browsing through several shops in the market, he decided to eat at an Amish style restaurant. Several items he saw in the eatery spurred on a memory never thought of before. Whether it was the mom tugging at her son’s shirt the next booth over or the server’s emerald ring, memories were triggered. He spent the rest of the day driving and mentally reliving parts of his life, especially his early childhood years. He turned in at sundown, pulling into the inn exhausted from the mind trip. He lied down on the bed accompanied by his back pain that he hoped three aspirins would ease until the trek to the roadside stand the next day.

After breakfast with the Fletcher’s the next morning, Hank jetted out and on a mission for root beer. Violating traffic laws in the form of speeding got him to his destination. He spotted the root beer as he pulled in to park and offered an empty rhetorical pleasantry toward the man.

“I’ll take all twelve,” he said as he picked one up to confirm the label message. “Don’t drink and drive? Where’s the good for what ails you labels?”

The man rendered his best friendly customer service smile and explained his daughters label the bottles at their whim.

“I need the ‘good for what ails you’ label on these bottles,” Hank demanded. The man excused himself back to the house and emerged moments later and announced he had run out of labels as they were used for the whoopie pies.

“These don’t even have labels on them. What do you mean the labels were used for the whoopie pies?” he asked as he picked one up and held it inches away from the man’s face. The man smiled sheepishly as one of his daughters bolted out of the house, onto a scooter and towards the stand. She reached inside her apron and produced the labels as she entered the stand.

“What do the labels say?” demanded Hank, but cognizant he was speaking to a child.

“Unforgettable,” she said with a chuckle. “Would you like me to label the one in your hand?”

Hank huffed, held out the pie in his hand, but held his grasp as she tried to apply it. As she rubbed the label to flatten it, she accidentally scratched his palm with her fingernails, which caused Hank to pull away. The sudden movement tore the corner of the label unbeknownst to Hank, who clumsily pulled out a dollar out his front pocket to pay for the item.

“Tomorrow is my last day in town. Would you please label the root beer bottles ‘good for what ails you,” he asked the girl. She nodded, and Hank waved halfheartedly as he got into his car. He didn’t have any set plans for the day, so he decided to go back to the inn to relax and catch up on some current local events from a newspaper he bought on the way.

Relaxed on the couch in his room and sipping on a glass of lemonade, he unwrapped the  whoopie pie while focused on an article about smog in the nearby town of  Hershey. He threw the wrapper in the trashcan next to the couch and consumed the pie quickly with the thought of more dislodging memories to follow.

A half hour had passed when his head swelled with an uneasy eerie feeling that he had no idea where he was. He got up and noticed a city guide on the desk by the lamp.

“Lancaster, PA, how did I get here,” he asked himself while reaching for a seat, flabbergasted by his whereabouts. He remembered driving by Philly and his plan to go to the Keys, but all of the memories of Lancaster were erased away. He made his way downstairs and ascertained from the Fletcher’s when he checked in and when he would check out. He had been in town for three days and had no recollection of it. Thoughts of seeking medical help or getting a good night’s sleep for his long drive toward the Keys the next day volleyed in his head. He decided on the latter. Before turning in, he reached over to throw the newspaper in the trashcan when he noticed the saran wrap from the whoopie pie inside. He picked up the wrapping, and the partially torn label read ‘forgettable.’ He sunk back down in the chair, holding his head astonished at the irony.