"Fresh off the farm," as the saying goes; that was me — honest, shy, backward really.

I'd never been more than 100 miles from my home in Western Pennsylvania in all my life. And here I was, smack-dab in the middle of a Southern California high desert.

There was a time when the Hell's Angels had a really bad reputation, and in 1970 it was not a group you'd want to meet up with if you didn't have to in a desolate place in Southern California — or anywhere really.

There was a little restaurant at the intersection of Highway 74 and Highway 371. That little spot was called Paradise Valley.

When you got there, there was only the restaurant/bar.

It could serve a small group of people; it was in the middle of nowhere.

You could continue east to civilization in Palm Desert or south to Aguanga.

I was 18 years old at the time. I wasn't old enough to work the bar section, but I helped anyhow. After all, there was only the cook, the bartender and me.

Located where we were, though, business didn't boom very often, so I cleaned a lot.

It was about 105 degrees one day and the air conditioning was working to the "max," making it downright chilly inside, so I stepped out to warm up.

I heard "them" long before I saw them. Upon seeing a very large — seemingly never-ending — number of motorcycles coming down the road, I immediately thought I probably should have stayed on the old Pennsylvania farm.

Mental visions flashed through my head of all the things I'd heard about any big group of bikers, and I just prayed that they weren't the Hell's Angels and that they would go on past the restaurant.

But I heard them gearing down.

I thought about the two little brothers I had left behind, my dog, my folks, never getting married. Well, hey, I was still a kid!

I stepped back inside the door and was abruptly pushed back out with sharp instructions to tell "them" we weren't open.

They were pulling in.

I could have sworn there were 100 bikes (really only 71) and each one had someone (or two) on it that looked like they'd had a real bad day and it wasn't over yet.

I, too, must have been a sight, standing there with my jaw hanging down to my chest, and my knees locked so they wouldn't give out on me.

As one woman got off her bike, I saw the back of her vest — yep, I shoulda never left the farm.

The biker closest to me said, "You open?"

There was this little inner being that kicked me hard in the stomach and yelled into my head, "Say no!"

"Hey kid, you open or not?"

Man, that second kick really hurt as I said, "Yes."

Inside, the cook and the bartender had been looking out the window. I walked in quickly and they asked me what I had said, and I told them I said we were open.

I got called a name — that I can't repeat for this column — for the first time in my life. I looked at them, both old to me — 50s anyhow — and said I was sorry but they asked and we were open.

Before I could say anything else, our small place was jammed with leather, beards, long hair and women who could split me in two with a look, no doubt. One of the big guys yelled out that they'd all have to take turns coming in because there wasn't enough room.

And so, good waitress that I was, I took my little pad and pencil and shakily approached the first man there. They didn't want separate checks — all on one bill.

Well, if there was going to be a loss, it would be simple enough to figure, was what the cook hissed into my ear.

The only thing the bartender whispered to me was not to come in the next day because I was fired.

They wanted everything the menu had to offer — one cook, shaking in her shoes, with more than 100 orders to fill.

"Hey! We have some cooks here! Bartenders too!"

Suddenly, the kitchen was full of guys and women, all washing up and making salads, toast, eggs, burgers and fries, and looking like they were having fun.

A small group went through the big archway to the bar, washed up and asked the bartender where they should start.

That annoying little voice inside me that had previously kicked me in the stomach was standing in a fighting stance saying, "Fire me, huh?"

I noticed cars slowing down outside, regulars. They weren't going to come in.

Then I saw two officers of the California Highway Patrol (CHP) pass by slowly. I guess because they couldn't see any trouble yet, they weren't going to brave it either!

And inside? I was having the experience of my life! The cook and the bartender had even loosened up and began having fun!

Dishes were used and washed by biker hands and reused right away. Food was served by me and women in vests and men with big, thick beards and long hair.

Beers and drinks were sloshed through the room, and messes were cleaned up by the customers.

I had a feeling my little brothers would see me again.

When the last of the bunch walked out, that place was cleaner than it had been when we opened that morning.

Of course, we were out of food and beer and did have to close for the day.

We sold in one day what it took a week or more to sell — all paid for in cash.

The bartender and the cook each got a $100 tip. I got more than $200, and a hug from the scariest-looking man I'd ever seen.

He said, "You're all right, kid."

The three of us stood outside, and as the last bike pulled out and the CHPs pulled in, they asked if we were OK.

We proceeded to tell them what a blast we had had.

The one CHP put his hands on his hips and said, "I'll be damned!"

Maybe we were just lucky, or maybe, fear and all, my Pennsylvania farm upbringing of "don't judge a book by its cover" won this nasty-looking, reputation-bearing group over by simply saying "yes," that we were open.

Who knows?

Either way, I had a lot to write home about that week.

Jean McElwain, who lives in Ellwood City and is a school bus driver for the Ellwood City School District, is involved with the Special Olympics and assists an elderly woman who is in need of care.