for Indiana, there were signs: "Confused? Pull Ahead And Press The Help
Button." I wasn't confused, or at least didn't think I was, but I was tempted
to find the button and see what happened next. After paying the three
dollar toll, neither Irene nor I saw anything that looked like a help button,
so we drove on. Could it be there are no buttons? Just a little bit of
Hoosier humor, welcoming visitors to the state.
Irene and I had returned for the 50th reunion of her class at Indiana
University as well as a slightly early celebration of our own 50th
anniversary. We skipped most of the reunion events except for a breakfast
with other members of the class of '60 and their mates. While fruit salad
and yogurt with granola were available, the serving table was dominated
by three large trays of Egg McMuffins - one with the usual eggs, sausage
and cheese, another with only eggs and sausage and a third with only eggs
and cheese. I'd like to believe the menu was not the work of a nutrition
major at I. U.
Every time I'm back in Indiana I'm reminded what a great place it is
to drink despite the persistent and silly efforts of politicians to make it as
complicated as possible to buy alcohol. After walking into a tavern in
Whiting with Irene and her brother John, I put a $20 bill on the bar.
During the next 40 or so minutes, we had two beers, four shots and a
bourbon on the rocks and still had two dollars left.
But on our way to see my sister Sherrilyn in Bloomington, we stopped
at a liquor store for a bottle of wine and were greeted by a sign on the door
that said you had to be 21 to enter. When Irene went to the counter to pay,
the clerk asked to see her ID. Then he asked for mine.
"Why?" I asked. "I'm not buying anything."
"Yes," the clerk said, "but you entered the store." While he explained a
new Indiana law requiring everyone who came in to show an ID, I
started muttering.
"You mean to tell me if someone needed a bottle of wine for
unexpected dinner guests and came here with a baby in a stroller, the
baby couldn't be brought into the store?"
"That's right," the young clerk said.
"That's just stupid. Stupid," this aging transplanted Hoosier said.
While in Bloomington, we had dinner in a restaurant in an old,
attractive house, which, according to a brief history printed on the menu,
was once a brothel. Why do restaurant and bar owners love to brag about
even the slightest suspicion that their establishment used to be a whore-
house? Do they think it spices up the evening if diners try to guess what
once went on where they are now sitting?
I'd like to stroll into a restaurant and find a note in the menu that
"these premises were owned from 1912-1958 by Jacob P. Branson, a
bookkeeper and noted tightwad, who was widely regarded as the dullest
man in all of Monroe County. As far as we can determine not much of
anything ever happened here. Branson never married, never had children,
never had visitors. He died of natural causes in what is now our lovely
Olympics Room. We hope you enjoy your dining experience and will
come see us again soon."
We spent six days in Indiana and did a lot of driving. Near Gnawbone -
if you don't believe there is such a place look it up - we passed the Country
Gospel Music Church. We didn't stop. We did stop, however, at the
Horseshoe Casino in Hammond.
We don’t gamble much and it shows. Slots are all we play, and we
wandered around the Horseshoe looking for those ladies in short skirts
who give you change. We saw none because there are none. I gather there
haven't been for years. Determined to lose our money as quickly as
possible, Irene asked a woman in a casino uniform for help. We were told
you now slide bills directly into the slot machines and your winnings, if
any, are spat out not in quarters but in small computer tickets.
We frolicked at the Horseshoe for less than an hour, and Irene still
believes we left winners, up $30 or so. She doesn't know how many 20
dollar bills I slipped into the slot and neither do I. Once you get the hang
of it, it's easy to lose count.
Although I suppose it was good to get an inkling of the technological
advances in legalized robbery, it was another triumph of science that was
the most fascinating part of our trip - the miles and miles of wind turbines
on both sides of US 65 in northeastern Indiana around the Rensselaer-
Remington area. We had never been that close to turbines before. They
are huge and spooky. We kept expecting to see Richard Dreyfuss or Steven
Spielberg drive up to one of them.
When Irene wondered out loud why some of the turbines were turning
and others weren't, I suggested maybe the damn things were just for show.
They really didn't do anything at all, didn't produce a lick of energy. They
were put there so visitors and Hoosiers who haven't been home for a
while would have something to talk about besides repeatedly saying, "God
it's flat here."
(Posted June 30, 2010)