There’s something in the air in New Harmony. I need to find a web community of nappers so that I can report how much I napped from Thursday through Sunday. Upon hearing the stats, they will surely crown me their queen. It wasn’t a lazy kind of weekend either but I’ll be damned if I can account for all the time there. That relaxed stress-free kind of busy is so rare that I put the stopwatch down and enjoyed. Taking pictures around town… riding around in my aunt’s golf cart… browsing in antique stores… writing… visiting with my aunt and grandmother.

Mr. Jack delivered my wake-up call this morning when his thick yellow tail smacked my face as he surveyed the room, hoping to find a unsecured sock/towel/other doggie contraband item. That’s his favorite game: to snatch something and go to the nearest person, “subtly” drop the item loud enough to catch their attention. When the foolish human takes the bait, the fun begins. He may not be the wild man he once was, but he’s still a rogue at heart. Now he’s just a rogue who naps more, runs a little slower and barks a tad bit less.

Soon after waking my mom and I said our goodbyes and hit the road. All that rest, relaxation and fresh air were distracting enough that I almost forgot the real reason for the visit: to transfer my grandmother’s car to Richard. Perhaps it’s best that I put that part out of my head. Now it’s inescapable as tally the sheep: last count – 237,234 (or some other arbitrary high #). No matter how comfortable a hotel bed is, it’s no substitute for a real bed in a real home. I can’t wait to get back to mine tomorrow night… maybe I’ll even make it to burger night (wishful thinking but the bold must dream).

Tags: Jack, queen, web community

Woke up in MA. Drove to RI and then flew to BWI. Changed planes and flew into Louisville. (Note: I did not fly into Loo-we-ville. I flew into Lou-a-vul.) Mom made the two hour drive to pick me up without complaint. She was thankful it wasn’t the 4 hour drive to Indianapolis where my father had booked my original ticket.

Meeting up was the usual drill: Mom describing every detail around her except the minor stuff, like the fact she was in front of the baggage claim. You know: the big area with a crapload of signage. It’s a wonder that she has spent so much time with me and has yet to figure out that my brain short circuits when I’m asked to visualize the layout of a place I haven’t been. I also hate getting driving directions verbally. Each new factoid pushes the previous one out of my head. Next thing I know, I’m trying to turn around in the loading dock of a slaughter house with the knowledge that at some point I was supposed to go right/left/straight at the big tree/rotary/supermarket. Remembering this puts any annoyance felt in the moment into perspective. Running up and down the escalator with two bags digging into my shoulder was uncomfortable: yes. When compared with the alternative (impatient truckers honking and inhaling that special scent indicating that I am, in fact, too up close and personal with the food chain), it’s a winning lottery ticket.

The drive back was standard: I-64 to the Grayville exit were we stopped at the Dairy Queen and then Super Walmart. Of course, we drove by the little brick house that, coincidentally, used to be home to the Brickm*ns. Going to Walmart is always a part of any visit here since it’s the only place where there’s a reliable cell signal.

While I was in the dairy section of Walmart, I paused for a second while I pondered several matters of moderate philosophical importance:
—I was currently 4 hours away from the nearest Trader Joe’s. Mind you, I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s in at least a month or two, but the fact that I can stop by any one of several convenient locations is comforting.
—Trader Joe’s Vanana yogurt is super yum. Despite having survived many a fortnight without any, I wanted it and I wanted it right then. Why? You guessed it: cause I couldn’t have it.
—This made me think of how good it was that I no longer applied this flawed thought process to selecting potential dates. Pining for lowfat yogurt is much more compatible with emotional well-being.
—If Edy’s Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie is available in the boon docks of southern Illinois, then there’s no good reason for it not to be stocked in Boston metro area grocery stores. Note to self: make request to supermarket management upon return.
—20 minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough before a day of travel. I paced between the dairy cooler and detergent aisle at least 5 times. The nice woman stocking shelves asked me if I needed any help. From the expression on her face, it was clear that I must’ve busted out my “I’m-an-open-mouth-breather” look as I was trying to remember what I was searching for in the first place. Clearly, I needed help but how do you ask a stranger to go back in time 24 hours, sing you a lullaby and tuck you into bed before 10pm?

Post Walmart, we drove from White County, IL to Posey County, IN. The best part of this particular stretch is passing the former international headquarters of Bula Records. Long before Indie bands discovered pomade and enrolled in ‘MySpace Marketing 101′ there was an eccentric woman-of-a-certain-age who recorded and released a vinyl single on her own dime. If my Dad were recounting the story he’d sing the song’s refrain in a warbly falsetto twang: “It Hurts to be Hurt”. Truer words have yet to be spoken. Close your eyes and recall the last time you were hurt……. Okay- you can open them now. Try and tell me Bula wasn’t on to something.

Should you want to pilgrim to this Americana landmark just keep your eyes peeled for the un-lit yellow flourescent sign reading “Bula Records” in boldfaced type in the front yard of a pink delapidated house. Seriously, you cant miss it: it’s between the road and corn field. I wonder if her kinfolk have kept the sign standing as a sentimental tribute to a wacky relative or if the new occupant(s) was bequeathed this strange sign by default. Once past Bula’s, the single lane bridge over the Wabash marks that my 10 hour vision quest to New Harmony is almost complete. As entertaining as the journey was, this is bar by far the best sign I’d deciphered all day.

Tags: Boston, Dairy Queen, food chain, Grayville, headquarters of Bula Records, Illinois, Indianapolis, Joe, Louisville, Massachusetts, Posey County, Rhode Island, Trader, Wabash, White County

My dad and brother had ritual called “Super Sunday”. Every Wednesday (just seeing if you’re paying attention) they’d go to the jobsite and Richard would be his helper. Afterwards they’d go to the Union Chowder House in Weymouth for fried clams. Apparently, this particular house had a nintendo for when the homeowners grandkids visited and Richard jumped at the homeowner’s offer of a cold beverage and a few rounds of video games.

As they were leaving Mrs. So-and-so told my dad how lovely Richard was and said, “Next time bring his brother too.” My dad was puzzled, “Uh- he where’d you get that? I don’t have another son.” She went on to explain that Richard had told her about his identical twin brother. Apparently, this fib came fully loaded with a background story, perhaps even a few adventure stories thrown in for good measure.

In the car on the way home my dad asked my brother why he had lied. The little peanut said matter-of-factly, “I dunno. There was a lull in the conversation and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

Tags: cold beverage, Super Sunday