#massachusetts turnpike

[nickdewolfarchive]

boston, massachusetts july 1975

looking west from the top of the pru

photograph by nick dewolf https://www.flickr.com/photos/dboo/3509802011

[unliikelylovers]

apparently i reference the lyrics of america enough that the first word my phone suggests after i type “new jersey” is “turnpike”

[dragons-bones]

Lies, Massholes DO use their blinkers! Just at the last possible second!

Now New Jersey, on the other hand...

my dark twisted secret is i always use my turn signals whenever possible because i believe they were included in vehicles for a reason. i’m a bit of a freak this way. a weirdo

[wigoutlet]

Perfume shop at Turnpike reststop.

[onefootin1941]

Howard Johnson’s on the Massachusetts Turnpike, 1950’s.

[omkdear]

WIP Wednesday 6/12/24 pt. 2

As I've been stuck in Fallout hell—writing a longfic and numerous other things that have been stuck in my brain for a decade—I've decided to share not one, but TWO WIPS. One is from my Pre-War fic, which is a series split into 3 books, titled "Beneath the Gathering Shadow." The second is my post-war series, "We Still Kill the Old Ways," which has several works that are spread across all of the Fallout 4 storyline and post-game as well.

For those of you who have read my work on AO3 (link on my pinned post), the post-war blurb takes place after "The Cause Your Light Withdraws." Shout out to @hpysprkl and @odd-ball-out for peeping at these two blurbs and being amazing! <3 TW: Canon typical violence, drugs use, swearing, post partum talk, general misery you've been warned. (Hmtl for read more is not working for some reason, apologies) _-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__

PROLOGUE

Just outside Concord, in a has-seen-better-days entry into the Drumlin' Diner chain, a man of modest height entered half past ten in the morning. A worn, likely vintage Red Sox cap sat atop his greying, ash-blonde hair, shading an inscrutable gaze behind bottle-green aviator glasses. He wore a dark-brown leather jacket atop a white polo and denim blue jeans. He proceeded towards the counter, pivoting briefly to snatch a newspaper from a vacant booth along the way. He tipped a nod to the waitress behind the counter, Mabel, as her name tag declared. She was a woman who had seen enough winters to be wary of men who wore sunglasses indoors.

Yet she wasn't wary of this man.

"Usual, Lochlan?"

His real name wasn't Lochlan.

He slid into the back, left corner booth—eyes towards the door and the south window. You could hear the mid-morning traffic on the Concord turnpike; drivers with an overestimated sense of their own mortality using their horns as if they could somehow steer fate away from the imminent collision. Like they all weren't going to the same place. While he waited, he opened the newspaper, skimming through headlines and articles with a modicum of interest. Nothing he hadn't heard:

'DEATH TOLL ON ALASKAN FRONT REACHES ALL TIME HIGH'

'GAS PRICES SOAR AGAIN'

'DEFENSE SPENDING BILL HITS TRILLIONS'

'BILL COMES BEFORE MASSACHUSETTS STATE CONGRESS TO LIMIT CIVILIAN POSSESSION OF MILITARY-GRADE WEAPONRY'

He allowed himself a rare smirk at the last headline. Too little, too late—closing the barn door when the horses had already escaped. A waste of taxpayer dollars if ever there was one.

Mabel set a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon on the table in front of him, alongside a plate with a New York Steak—medium rare, hash browns overdone, and eggs over easy.

"A1?"

"You know I don't eat that shit on my cow. Ruins the meat."

"It's a cut of New York, not a Filet Mignon. Can't promise it won't need it."

The man grunted noncommittally. He'd have to talk to the Flynns—arrange something with them about their meat sourcing if these kinds of mornings happened more frequently. There weren't enough good mornings to waste on bad cuts of meat.

He grabbed the caddy with the sugar, ignoring the waitress as she brought out steak sauce anyway. Stubborn broad.

Just as he was stirring his tea, the bell above the door chimed again.

Tall, navy blue suit, no tie—tan overcoat and black fedora. Too straight, too white teeth—too white and too straight for this kind of joint. He tipped his hat to Mabel, the shock of ginger hair greying at the temples and scant trace of freckles on his upturned nose made Mabel forget the dark lenses on his face. She had also seen enough summers, with men whose smiles were too wide and their clothes over-starched like his; when she was young, and being a waitress was supposed to be a means to an end. The end never came, and the means had exacted too steep a price.

But the men, well, she thought, smiling demurely at the stranger—their memories were a comfort at least.

Mabel didn't need to know where the man was heading before asking, "Cup of coffee for ya, sir? Our special today is corned beef hash with sourdough toast and eggs. Does that tickle your fancy?"

The newcomer returned the waitress's smile. "That sounds marvelous, thank you…" He peered in at her name tag, bright blue eyes peeking out above the rim of his glasses. "Ms. Mabel."

He shucked out of the trench coat with an ease that belied a muscle-ingrained motion but declined to remove his hat or glasses as he slid across from the man at the back left corner booth.

The man facing the door clanged his spoon loudly inside the glass while stirring his iced tea, pursing his lips as the aged vinyl protested weakly.

The jukebox on the other end of the diner clicked over, the restaurant's overhead speakers warbling to life—Janis Joplin summarily raised from the dead along with it.

Oh Lord, won't you buy me, a Mercedes Benz…

The newcomer, now sitting directly across the man with the iced tea, smiled an insincere smile, as if he was privy to a joke that no one else understood.

"Now that was a classic."

"You think I pick this shitty hood for the food? Fuck no. The owner of this shit-box also runs a vintage music restoration shop, just outside Malden."

"I meant the car, but we can work with Joplin, too."

The man who was actually Lochlan, by way of his middle name, barked a rare laugh. Edward Lochlan Winter, readily known to most everyone in this shitty Drumlin' in Concord as Eddie Winter, was not well known for his sense of humor.

"Like you're old enough to remember what a Benz looked like. Yah no. Fuck outta here with that bullshit."

The other man, known merely as Bishop, chuckled as he accepted the coffee Mabel brought over. There was a calmness about him that did not match the restlessness of the world outside. "Fair point," he conceded, blowing on his coffee before taking a cautious sip. "Though arguably, one could say the same about you, Mr. Winter." _-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–_

P.D.D.S.: Postpartum Depression Detection Subroutine

Gunfire echoed through the ruins of what used to be her home—Cambridge—pulling George from the grip of ice and time. And much like that piece of wedding cake that had sat in the back of her freezer, far past her and Nate's first anniversary 220 years earlier, George's life had thawed out too, and it was stale.

"Stupid, Georgia Eugene—just stupid," she muttered to herself. Cambridge wasn't part of the plan her mind had been cobbling together, not when her destination lay southeast in fuckin' Fenway—Diamond City. You had to go and get sucked into thinking about him instead of focusing on your fucking son, you degenerate piece of—

Abruptly, she cut herself off. There was no use berating herself now. The feral ghouls swarming the streets cared fuck all for her self-loathing, and George cared even less about wasting ammunition on what were likely her former neighbors. She unhooked the ripper from her belt, the familiar weight settling into her hand as if it had always belonged there.

Killing feral ghouls turned out to be easier than she thought it would be. Maybe growing up without censorship and a healthy dose of zombie media had prepared her for this more than she'd ever imagined. We're not so different, you and I, George's mind continued as she kicked the second ghoul away, catching it off balance. The creature screeched at her, its mouth a grotesque caricature of what might once have been a human smile.

"I know, darling," she apologized as the ripper's blade carved a grim grin across its throat. "It's not fair. I don't much like the look of my face in the mirror either."

The reality of her survival was far removed from any medium she'd ever consumed. No epic violin swells heralded her slaughter of the undead, no ammunition was in endless supply, and the gore factor? Her stomach threatened to revolt every time she managed to get a good look at what she'd done. Two hundred and ten years frozen and her body didn't even give her the decency to skip the postpartum nausea that had plagued her the two months after giving birth to Shaun. It turned out, the only thing that her body had been generous with was the stretch marks.

The third feral swung at her head with hands reduced to bone and hardened sinew, and George ducked instinctively, the creature's nails scraping against her ponytail as they missed her scalp by mere centimeters. She rolled to the side, springing to her feet with the agility of someone who had spent a lifetime avoiding obstacles—both physical and metaphorical. That, and like someone who had found a stash of Buffout in a random shack near a pond infested with giant-ass mosquitoes.

God, she'd take slaughtering her former neighbors over those vampiric tank-bugs any day of the fuckin' week.

She wasn't sure how long she danced with the undead, but when the last of them lay still, and the motor of her ripper had wound down to a gentle purr, George stood panting in the street. Stupid-ass-high-drug-tolerance, she seethed inwardly, her fingers slippery with gore, instinctively gripping the handle of her weapon harder.

"Clean up on aisle five," she muttered to herself, tilting her head towards the direction of the continued mayhem. Not that she needed to—she'd been heading towards the station from the start. Because she was stupid and hopeless and, along with all the other goodies her new mom bod had bestowed upon her, George had always been blessed with an inability not to pick at scabs. Cambridge P.D. had been her home away from home once upon a time; back when she had a career and a life that hadn't been capsized by a man-child, a baby, and a nuclear holocaust. In that order, of course.

She trudged forward, her boots squelching in the aftermath of what she had done to her maybe-former-hairdresser and her possibly-once-favorite-pharmacist. If only ol' Norman knew you'd end up using his painkillers to keep from screaming when you put him and his wife down. Even if the Buffout was wearing off, at least the twenty tabs of well-preserved slow-release benzos she'd found in the remains of her old dealer's house were still doing their job. It made the last few blocks of her former life a blur, and George was just fine with that.

_-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–_ Thanks for reading if you managed to make it this far!

[artisthomes]

Ralph Waldo Emerson's home at 18 Cambridge Turnpike in Concord, Massachusetts, United States

[huge-tromboner]

Growing up in a Midwest state specifically one with no toll roads, turnpikes are highway robbery to me. Tell me why in Massachusetts I just paid 9 dollars for 2 mcchikens at a rest stop McDonald’s and I’m about to lose it. In the city I live in in Missouri it’s like 4 dollars for the same shitty sandwich. How do mass. Natives stand for this! The fuck?!

[faithandarisadventures]

Our Big New Adventure

Ari and I have embarked on the biggest adventure of our relationship so far. Three weeks ago, we moved from Birmingham, Alabama to Worcester, Massachusetts. We found out seven months ago that Ari's grad school lab was moving and we had to move with them in order for him to continue grad school and ultimately graduate. I will admit, I did not take the news well. We found out literally a week before we were set to sign the lease on our new apartment, so we had to get a shorter lease, but that's not what bothered me as much. I was born and raised in rural Alabama and I've never lived anywhere else. I am also extremely close with my mom. The thought of moving so far away from her was almost more than I could stand. I had no idea what our new surroundings would be like, we would both be over 1,200 miles from either of our families, and I thought I would be miserable. For six months, I was extremely anxious and depressed and suffered several panic attacks. I was being uprooted from everything and everyone I've ever known, and I had to quit the best job I've ever had. We struggled to find an apartment we could afford that was bigger than a broom closet, but seemingly at the last minute, we found one and signed the lease after having only seen a 47-second video tour of it.

On September 29, I hugged my mom goodbye and with tears in my eyes, we set off on the three-day drive. On the first day, at the South Carolina Welcome Center, I found a quilted heart hanging on a bush. A group of people make them and leave them in random places all over the world for people to find and keep. I had never heard of the hearts before finding one. This one means a lot to me because my mom loves to quilt and it's been so hard to move so far away from her. The hearts have little tags pinned to them, and if you find one, they encourage you to share a picture and where you found it on their website: www.ifoundaquiltedheart.com

Day 2 of the drive was pretty uneventful, aside from us getting separated in DC at rush hour (my GPS told me to go one direction, and Ari's told him to go a different direction). We stayed the night with Ari's lovely aunt and uncle, who live outside of Philadelphia.

Day 3, however, was much more exciting. We got to see Manhattan and cross the George Washington Bridge (and deal with all the traffic that goes along with it). I managed to get a semi-decent picture of Manhattan from my phone's dash holder while pulling a U-Haul trailer down the New Jersey Turnpike and trying not to crash into anyone. I kid you not, it took us 45 minutes to cross the upper part of Manhattan after crossing the GW. We plan to visit NYC at some point, but we absolutely are not driving in the city!

Fast forward three weeks and we are finally completely unpacked and settled into our cozy new apartment and we are loving Worcester so far. There's so much to do up here and we are so excited to explore all the new things! We're planning trips to Boston, Salem, NYC, Plymouth, as well as exploring smaller places closer to home. We also got here just in time to see the famous New England autumn. We might only be here for a couple of years, but we plan to make the most of it!

[widespreadmemes]

Researchers for the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority found over 200 dead crows near greater Boston recently, and there was concern that they may have died from Avian Flu.

[paramaline]

thank you for making me realize that these Dunkin’ Tendrils represent the massachusetts turnpike. whenever i’m headed west on a road trip this is the exact point where the concentrated nothingness of the berkshires makes me feel abandoned by god. the precise geographic point james taylor was talking about when he said “with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go”

keep forgetting to crosspost my best content

[nickdewolfarchive]

Boston, Massachusetts 1970

Hitchhikers, Mass Pike West

Photograph by Nick DeWolf https://www.flickr.com/photos/dboo/52081914982

#photography #film #35mm #bw #blackandwhite #boston #massachusetts #candid #streetphotography #people #hitchhikers #turnpike #i90 #1970s

[gaudetteinsurancehelpswithquotes]

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[jobkash]

Automotive Mechanic

6067 – Westborough – 170 Turnpike Road, Westborough, Massachusetts, 01581CarMax, the way your career should be!CarMax is now hiring Automotive Technicians! Start loving what you do at CarMaxEnsure every vehicle is one our customers can rely onAt CarMax, our Automotive Technicians repair and recondition cars to meet CarMax’s high standards. Automotive Technicians use their skills to diagnose, fix…

[wigoutlet]

Mass Pike Road Sign with Pilgrim Hat

[keyprimerealty]

Exploring Townhomes in Grafton, MA & Shrewsbury, MA Real Estate

The demand for Town homes in Grafton MA in Massachusetts, particularly in Grafton and Shrewsbury, has been rising steadily. These towns, known for their charm, excellent amenities, and family-friendly environments, offer a perfect blend of suburban living with convenient access to urban facilities. Whether you are a first-time homebuyer, looking to downsize, or seeking an investment opportunity, the real estate market in Grafton and Shrewsbury has a lot to offer.

Townhomes in Grafton, MA

Grafton, located in Worcester County, is known for its rich history and picturesque landscapes. The town has maintained its small-town charm while providing residents with modern amenities. Townhomes in Grafton are particularly appealing because they offer a low-maintenance lifestyle without sacrificing space or comfort.

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Townhomes in Shrewsbury, MA

Just a short drive from Grafton, Shrewsbury MA Real Estate is another attractive location for townhome buyers. This town offers a variety of real estate options, with townhomes being a popular choice. Shrewsbury is known for its excellent school system, vibrant community life, and recreational facilities, making it a desirable location for families.

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Conclusion

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