Handles and Twenties

Many years ago young men gathered in corners of their bedrooms, in little closets, or in their parents' cars and participated in the latest communication craze. Lunchtime conversation at school included words like skip, linears, handles, and other arcane terminology known only to a select few. I was one of those young men.

I wasn't deeply into the craze. I didn't own a base station. I had an inexpensive radio with only a few channels. I'd almost forgotten my participation. Friends of mine who have scattered throughout the globe stayed with it and moved from citizen's band radios to the world of Morse code and amateur radio, also known as ham radio. I like that. Among the many memories that have slipped beyond my grasp, some flotsam stays within reach. One of those bits of data is K9SOH, my grandfather McNaughton's callsign. When he was spinning the dials and calling on friends around the world, he'd introduce himself, "CQ, CQ, CQ. This is K9SOH--Kilo Niner Sorry Old Ham ..." I'd stand by listening, amazed that he could speak with somebody on another continent from the collection of equipment cloistered in a room in the corner of his garage.

I didn't aspire to be a ham, but I did want the notoriety of being an unlicensed voice on the local airwaves. I'm reminded of that aged desire because I came across a list recently. And here it is. It includes the person's handle, or name that they used when transmitting, the CB channel they monitored, their twenty, or location, and their real name. To marginally protect them--we were testing the tensile strength of Communications law after all--I am including their given name and their last initial. Maybe. Maybe it's not their last initial at all. Maybe I'm making it all up. Who knows? But if you were there and you recall, you can check me on it in your own pile of discarded trivia. Otherwise, please enjoy the colorful handles and this brief trip back to rebels pirating the airwaves. 10-4?

HANDLE                  MONITORS               TWENTY                NAME
Cherokee Kid                    11                        
Snoopy                              11              1/2 mile Sugarland            Gary S.
Angus Rancher                 11                     Sugarland Road          David C.
Motormouth                  1, 11                    Sugarland Road          Jerry P.
Ski Rope                           11                    Front Street      
Wally Gator                      11                       Tampa
Southern Belle                 11                         Miami
Jack the Jew                     11                     Southern Indiana
Unit 9                              11                         Miami
Two-gun Kid                   11                         Lynwood Drive      Phillip S.
Country Girl                   10                   6 miles south                Mary B.
Tree Doctor                    13                   2 miles south                 David C.
Badcat                            10                   1 mile south                   Larry J.
Big Bill                           11                  1/2 mile south
Apple Picker                  11                      Mobile radio               Tim R.
Willy                               ?                       Mobile radio               Bill R.
Converse Kid                  10                    Terrace Park                Dean G.
Porky Pig                       10                                                         Rex C.
Mr. Baseball                  10                    West End                      Bobby F.
Bald Eagle                     17                   South Petersburg
Big Mac                         15                          3D store                 Woody C.
Super Chicken                                      Sugarland Road             David B.
Gearjammer                  19
Huggy Bear                  11
Waldo                           19                    Trucker
Drummer Boy                                                                           Mark R.
Skipland
Newcomer                   14                     1/2 mile NW               Mark V.
Jimbo
Scooby Doo                19
Phil Harmon               10
Doberman Kid                                     south Washington
Purple Lace                                                                            Tonya M.
Swinger                                                                                  Lamar G.
Mr. Ed                                                        Odon
Blondie                     10                       SE 2                           Susan S.
293                                                     West Virginia
Little Critter                                    Flatlands of Kansas
Pinball Wizard            10
Dr. John                      11
Sidewinder                 10

Yeller Cars a Kitty

I was forced to go outside very early this morning. Yeller, our time-share canine, was barking with great enthusiasm about something. He wasn't stopping, so I decided to investigate. When I got to the back door, I saw this scene in the bluish glare of the utility light. Yeller had his head under my wife's car, front paws on the ground, back legs splayed, and hairy tail flagging back and forth. I had no idea what had his attention, but I figured further illumination was in order. Yeller had cornered game.

When hounds go after raccoons and they have one trapped on a branch with no place to go, people call it treeing. Since the object of Yeller's attention was safely under the midpoint of a Toyota, I suppose we can call it car-ing.

I got a flashlight, knelt down, and shone it under the car. Looking back at me were the bright eyes of an odd cat. For one thing, its ears were all wrong. For another, its conformation just seemed off. In fact, if you could compare an animal to a vehicle, this cat would have been a muscle car. It was built kind of close the ground. It had that classic raked look with the front end just a bit lower than the back end. It had an unfortunate glandular condition that must have affected its social life, but it was attractive. It even had racing stripes.

Muscle Car

If you've met me, you'll agree I'm built more for power than speed, but I got up pretty quickly last night. I called Yeller to me and we walked back to the porch together. I suggested that laying down and resuming his guarding of the back door would be a judicious decision and wise use of his time and resources. I went to bed and I dearly hope Yeller did too. It's just too chilly for a tomato juice spa treatment.

Muscle Cat

Seaonal Purpose

In November I was perusing flexible job opportunities online and saw a posting for a well-known delivery company. I won’t name names, but think “earth tones.” On a lark, I applied. As I recalled, they once were one of the better employers around, paying higher rates than most other businesses. Besides, I thought it would be fun with the extra benefit of being physical.

Re: fun … it was. It was fun in the same way two-a-day football practices are fun. It was fun like military basic training is fun. It was fun because I was among a group of people doing challenging work that most people are unwilling to do. We raced time five days a week.

Re: physical … oh, my yes it was.

Two opportunities were made available to seasonal employees where I worked, preloading and jumping. Preloaders take items from one conveyance, reassign them, then load them into vehicles that will carry them to their final destinations. Jumpers, or helpers, ride in the delivery vehicles with drivers and assist them in delivering packages, generally in more densely populated areas where teaming can increase efficiency.

I was cautioned to avoid particulars and to take no pictures inside the facility. I have honored that stricture. I suppose their reasoning for this is much the same reason a fine restaurant does not walk you through the stockyards and the packing house when you order steak. All you want is a delicious meal well prepared, right? Never mind the details.

Know this: people in the delivery game have elevated the science of logistics and efficiency to an art form. Technology plays a critical role, but the key is good people and relationships. More on this in a moment.

I did preload. I didn’t think I would. I was concerned that it would be too much to handle along with jumping. Monday through Friday several people show up at the local distribution center at an appointed hour. They sort any items that have not been placed in package cars yet. They mentally come to grips with the fact that this is occurring during prime sleeping hours and they begin. A truck backs up to the bay door, somebody opens the rear door of the trailer and people along the line quietly prepare to do battle with the beast. Twin foes are at hand, volume and time. Everything temporarily contained by cargo netting will soon be rolling past.

The weapons used to tame these foes are mental agility and physical strength, with a dash of spatial thinking. As items are emptied from the semi trailer or box truck, they are assessed, added to a delivery route, and assigned to a specific package car—the term used to describe the large delivery vans noticeably zipping around your community like worker bees during peak season. The people preloading must be adept at picking out the items assigned to them and storing them at predetermined spots within the package car. Initially, this is manageable, but at some point during the loading process there will be a deluge of packages assigned to one car. They will be small, large, light, very heavy, boxed, enveloped, bagged, and must be dealt with now. Another truck has just arrived on the lot and will be unloaded immediately after this one.

Thanks to technology, we can be reasonably certain how many items will be on a package car on a given day, and even where those items will be on the car. The end is known. The human element of the loading process is recognizing, pulling, handling, and positioning each of those packages so the driver can easily locate them during delivery. Think of any item you have received from a seller through a delivery company. That is the variety loaders experience daily. They make it fit.

Jumping, or helping, is different. It is about precise dispersal of items from the package car to their designated recipients. Here again, technology is an invaluable tool. Delivery drivers use handheld computers that help them match a package with its addressee, re-route the package if necessary, and note whether it was placed on the front porch, by the garage, or even inside a vehicle when it was delivered. This is the data that will be important to you if you’re tracking delivery online.

Let’s return to the steak analogy. You want your waiter to be dressed presentably. You really don’t fuss much about the appearance of the person cutting that steak from the side of beef. Preloaders and sorters dress casually and comfortably. Their major concern is personal safety. They don’t wear items that can become entangled in moving machinery and they make sure anything heavy that might be dropped will do as little damage as possible. Steel-toed boots take care of that.

To simplify creating a consistent appearance, delivery drivers wear uniforms. This includes black or brown shoes that can be polished. I am no stranger to polishing shoes. I took a six-week course in shoe polishing when I was eighteen. It was a comprehensive course that included ironing, folding, polishing, waxing, buffing, marching, sweating, panting, grumbling, studying, listening, thinking, and wishing I was elsewhere, but shoe polishing was an important part of the curriculum. If you ever consider similar seasonal employment, please recognize that preloading is a poor way to prepare your footwear for public display. Depending upon what role you are assigned, preloading will scuff, soil, and gouge your boots. Delivery will demand that they be presentable to the end customer. I must confess that some days were better than others where my presentation was concerned.

Delivery drivers are the most public face of their companies. More than delivering, they are in the relationship business. I worked with a driver who makes it a point to wave to most of the vehicles we passed on the road. He knows his customers. He not only knows their names, he knows where they work and what vehicle they drive. He goes out of his way to be available to them, sharing his cell phone number and inviting them to call if they need anything at all. He will chat briefly and kid with them. He is a problem solver. He is a trust builder. It pays off. He delivers in semi-rural and rural areas as well as in town. By knowing where people work he often can leave a package at their workplace and save several minutes driving to their homes. Several minutes is not much in a long workday, but doing that for half a dozen people is significant in terms of time saved and in making people feel known and valued. It also yields reciprocity. His customers are flexible and offer to help him when needed, too.

Back to me. What did I get from this experience? I got more than I reckoned on.

I encountered exhaustion. Five to six hours of nearly non-stop movement in early morning hours followed by running from truck to home or business and back challenged me physically. I found things in the shower that I didn’t recall collecting, including bruises, abrasions, and sore muscles. Lots of sore muscles.

I gained renewed confidence. I was one of the oldest people on the loading line and I was also jumping. I was complimented for my work ethic, my energy, and my attention to detail. When I shared my age with a colleague, he told me I don’t move like a person that age. What does that mean? I am not sure either, but classmates--at least in this young man’s mind--some of you do move like a person that age. You may not have to. Just spend a couple of miserable weeks aching and groaning and your body will give in and go along with the program.

I learned I was marginally inspiring. A friend who has also found that his particular skills are not in high demand here told me he admired my humility. He and I were successful in our fields before we relocated. It can be difficult to settle for less than we know we are worth. Truthfully, seasonal work does not pay well. It’s not terrible. It’s more than most entry-level positions. But it won’t buy many of those steak dinners we considered earlier. However, many people pay to go do cardio exercises, resistance training, and weight lifting. I found a way to be paid to do those things.

Six hours in the early morning followed by four to five hours jumping from trucks and dashing to doorsteps is physically wrecking. But the positives outweigh the negatives here, as they do in so many situations. In the bigger picture, we were making commerce possible. For the holidays, we were making young eyes wide with glee and old eyes twinkle because they could bring that joy to their loved ones. We delivered the tools that keep industries operating, the parts that fix a car to keep a single parent employed. I won’t go so far as to say we delivered hope. After all, what we delivered is stuff. But it’s often stuff that makes a difference. I know this work was only temporary, but I am convinced it was work with a seasonal purpose.

© 2015 David L. Colbert

Cougar Hunt

This afternoon I joined the Barber Adventure Team to hunt for sign of wild beasts. It was my fault. About a week ago I was leaving for work. It was very early in the morning and I heard a woman screaming from the woods nearby. It was a chilling cry. A howl of anguish. If I had a shred of decency I would have dashed into the woods in her defense. Thankfully, well … let’s just say I was on time for work.

I consulted my wildlife experts at Cherry Ghost Coffee House. Dan Maley has raised his sons to recognize all types of wildlife. They are phenomenal with birds and birding, but just as eager to share their gory store of knowledge regarding local big cats—and I’m not talking about Garfield here. Dan pulled up recordings of bobcats and cougars from the Internet. If those recordings are accurate, this was not a bobcat.

The Barber Adventure Team is a father and his two sons. Tony, the patriarch of this clan, is a professional gambler. Each year he wagers much of his accumulated wealth on the weather and on the capacity of investment he buries in the ground to double, triple or better. Chancy stuff. And not for the faint-hearted. Tony has been doing it for a number of years now. He’s just that good.

His sons, Ward and Wyatt, engaged a driver and met me at the farmhouse where I live. They are thrifty lads. The driver was also our bush guide for the day. He was also their father. They kept pace with us as we climbed the gate, crossed various strands of electrical fence, and entered the wooded area that I thought the screams had come from.

The Barber boys are pretty cagey too. Tony and I were there as Brave and Intrepid Thrill-seekers. If you’re heading into the woods with Ward and Wyatt, I suggest you consider the acronym created by your role in The Adventure. I’m writing this, so we can presume it all came out well. Still, …

I live in a farmhouse surrounded by a working farm. To get to our destination, which was really clear only to our guide, we did the gate hop, the hot wire straddle, and the cow pie skip. All that and we’d barely begun. Under the interested scrutiny of several ruminants, we continued down the hill. We crossed a bit of swampy land and I learned that Tony and I were of even greater utility. We were biped pontoons for the junior Barbers. We safely traversed the saturated sward, walked around the upper pasture, then crossed a wooded area into a cornfield.

Out in the open, we struck paydirt. We had trackage! It wasn’t cougar tracks. In fact, I don’t think the split hoof track was even a cat, but I’m kind of new to all this. We saw what we thought to be raccoon tracks, possibly coyote tracks, definitely deer tracks, and maybe bobcat tracks. We were onto something.

I may not have mentioned it, but for all their daring the junior Barbers have not yet reached their majority. They are up for quite a few adventures and have had them. They are also occasionally distractible. That’s why Wyatt began amassing a collection of corn cobs as we were roughly a quarter of the way through our quest. This not something you’d expect of your run-of-the-mill adventurer, but you should know that these two are not of that ilk. For instance, despite all their accomplishments they have not yet entered first grade. You can see that many great things lie ahead of them. After the quest.

Meanwhile, back in the cornfield, Tony and I (but mostly Tony) tracked our something—because we had yet to identify it—working its way along the edge of the woods. We found clear tracks and stopped to study them. If only we’d had more to go on. My Maley contributors told me that bobcats sometimes pull the bones of their kills up into a tree. I didn’t see that anywhere. Tony told me that big cats can hunt in a 50-mile radius, so what I had heard may have only been passing through. Then again, it may have been watching us. I wonder if cats snicker?

When we felt we had reached the halfway point of our companions we turned from the cornfield and reentered the woods. At the bottom of the hill we entered a creek bed where we found many more tracks and much easier going.

Okay, this next one is not a track, but it's pretty, right?

Yawn. More tracks. Tracks, tracks, tracks and not a voracious cat to be found.

When you and I see a creek we see water running downhill. When animals see a creek they see an interstate highway. Along this highway you can wash your feet and your food. You may even find your food. But be aware that the guy tailgating you on this highway does not want to pass you until he has first consumed you. It’s really kind of scary if you’re small and furry, I suppose.

Overhead sign along the highway

Tony stayed in the creek while the lads and I took to the higher ground. Here I learned two things. First, some young boys are still grappling with the concept of what happens when you bend a branch forward as you pass, then let it go. I’m going to work on that with them in future adventures. Second, although it is said of some things, “you can’t beat it with a stick,” Ward isn’t buying it. Sticks are abundant. The wood is full of them. And nothing is immune to their swishing passage through the air or their full, glorious contact. He’s a warrior, that one is. Soon we found our way back to the creek.

I imagine if you’re rather shorter than the Brave and Intrepid Thrill-seekers you’ve brought with you on The Adventure, and the stream is a little deeper than it seemed, that can be disconcerting. You’ll need to ask Wyatt. His tall boots didn’t reach as high as the ones Tony and I were wearing. He only complained a little. Later, he tried to bring down an entire tree with a vine. If we hadn't called him to catch up to us he'd probably have done it, too.

We reached a point where Tony took the boys onto high ground and encouraged me to explore for tracks. I found a few and a couple were large enough to make me wonder what their maker looked like. I have included a gift card for scale and so you can congratulate me on my bravery the next time we meet. Don't think I'll forget.

 

After a bit of meandering, we reached our exit point. We passed through some brambles nearly unscathed. We’ll work some on that too. As we reentered the pasture we came upon some wetlands and Wyatt crossed completely unassisted. These guys learn quickly.

As we approached the barn where we’d begun, Yellow, our timeshare canine, met us at the gate waving his fluffy tail in salute. We safely negotiated the electric fence and the gate, declared this adventure officially and successfully completed, and I bid my companions goodbye. I can hardly wait for our next Adventure!

Going to See The Boss

Over the weekend, my bride wanted to investigate some nearby roads. Her stated purpose was "to see the river." We've seen the river, which despite its claims is not white. But we were looking for context. Our new home is much closer to the East Fork of the White River. In fact, one can get there within a couple of turns and short drives from the road where we live.

I've been married just long enough to know when to give in, but not long enough to do it often enough. This time I did it right. We drove down our driveway, took two left turns, crossed the railroad tracks, and found our road had skipped the gravel phase and gone from paved directly to dirt. And ruts. And a little bit of mud. We saw fields, tree lines marking the course of streams, and the edge of the river. This was the bottoms, but not the section where I'd spent some formative hours in my youth. Our course took us back across the tracks and ended at the nearest highway, beyond which were the roads I knew. And there we went.

My bride has a thing for solitary trees. In more pensive moods, the deader the better for her. She likes the stark image of bare branches against the sky. At one spot during our drive she saw a tree that nearly fit the bill. It wasn't dead, but it would do. We got close enough for photos. In truth, we got too close for a photo, turned round, and came back as I looked for the best angle. She's a passionate woman, so we had a brief discussion of my auditory capabilities and aptitude for directed activities (specifically within the context of her direction). My limitations in both areas keep things lively for us. However, I successfully reversed direction and there it was.

The boss meets The Boss

There has always been something special about this tree to me. I'm sure there are larger, more formidable trees elsewhere along the course of the White River's East Fork. They probably are within a very short distance of this tree. But this one draws attention by its separation.

You can see trees at a distance all around it, but it stands alone. Its crown is a gnarled knot of branches--some healthy, some feeble, and others long dead but remaining in place. I don't know how long it's been here, but can imagine that this tree has borne witness to at least a few generations of farmers, floods, droughts, and years of abundance. And during that time, I am certain that it has performed its role in nature right on cue year after year.

We got out of the car to take a few pictures. Vines have embedded themselves in the bole of the tree. Scraggly growth labors to survive at its foot. Birds flitted among its branches, calling to one another.

One of my favorite pictures was of the leaves at the base of the tree.

Later, that image lingered with me and I thought about the relationship between leaves and trees. The result follows:





The Boss of East Fork


There is a hillock on the plain
of the White River bottoms.
It’s an anomaly. A freak.
A question defying answer,
serving only as a landmark.

A tree grows apart on that plain.
It is wide of girth. Tall and worn.
Its crown is splintered, but serviceable.
It, too is a landmark.
This is the Boss of East Fork.

In Spring, the Boss sent out his minions
to search for light,
to slake his thirst,
to dress him in glorious new finery
befitting the Boss of East Fork.

The minions stretched, unfurled and spread.
They embraced the sun and imbibed the rain.
They created a new ring as a gift. He accepted it.
He was determined to thrive,
was the Boss of East Fork.

Soon, the company of courtiers created
song and shade. They rustled, they whispered,
they hinted of change.
Time would come to paint them all and to
paint the Boss of East Fork.

The rumors were true. Time was
lavish with its dripping brush.
For a season all around were amazed
by the color, the splendor, and the
bold beauty of the Boss of East Fork.

But Time took as it gave.
The vibrant life that suffused the cohort
dried. It withered. It faded. They let go,
pale shades of themselves, and dropped into sleep
at the feet of the Boss of East Fork.

© 2015 David L. Colbert

Finding Community in a Coffee House

Caffeination for relaxation sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s not just a concept. It’s real and happens six days a week at Cherry Ghost Coffee House. As you turn west onto Washington’s Main Street from Highway 57, Cherry Ghost Coffee House is the first building on the right. Folks here love their coffee, but they feel even stronger about their community.

In October of 2008, Vickie and Brian Sherman launched their dream business. It was a coffee house with a conscience, serving organic, free-trade coffees freshly roasted in Brown County and brought regularly to Washington; a high-quality product people could feel good about consuming. They served it in an environment that is difficult to describe. It’s funky. It’s hodge-podge. It’s eclectic. It’s … well, it’s home to a number of people, if only for a few moments each day.

Fortunately, in late 2014 when the Shermans decided to pursue other dreams, their vision of a home for the community was too deeply entrenched to cease. Their friends Julie and Eric Bassler purchased the business and it continues today much as it has been since it began, because that’s what people love about it.

When you stop in, what will be the first thing to catch your eye? Will it be the posters of bygone concerts by folk, blues, and Americana icons? Folks here love all types of music. Will it be the strings of colored lights or the challenge of finding two identical chairs? Nearly every item on display is unique. Or will it perhaps be the organic teas, the espresso machine, or the freshly prepared baked goods, delivered that morning and proudly displayed on the counter beneath a glass dome on a cake plate? Maybe, but I don’t think so.

Those things surprised me, but what really captured me was how the décor reflects the clientele. Older patrons gather around a table near the front window, chatting and crocheting and greeting each person who comes in. High school students pop in during a break in their day, laughing and enthusiastic. People of any age come in, sit down, and visit with their friends. This exchange is natural. Historically, coffee houses and tea houses have been places where ideas are shared, news is exchanged, and patrons find a home outside their own walls. It’s that way at the Cherry Ghost. People aren’t rushed and they’re happy to see one another.

From 7:30 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Monday through Friday and from 7:30 a.m. to noon on Saturday, Cherry Ghost Coffee House is open for business. They re-open Wednesday and Friday evenings from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. On Wednesdays, musicians drop in and play together while guests chat, listen, or both. On Fridays, special guest musicians come in and entertain. The Cherry Ghost has also hosted game nights, fund-raisers, and book signings.

If you are looking for a chance to meet new people, a place to relax, and a spot to appreciate for its character and for the characters who congregate there, try the Cherry Ghost Coffee House. Don’t be surprised if you want to sit for a while. New visitors are welcomed, continually, eventually becoming regulars and sharing this spot with their friends. Ask anyone there and they’ll tell you it’s an easy place to be and a hard place to leave.

Cherry Ghost Coffee House

424 East Main Street

Washington, Indiana 47501

(812) 259-2944

Published in November 2015 edition of Striving for Success magazine

Road Time

This is an article written for Striving for Success magazine in our November 2015 issue. 

One of the areas we enjoy producing in Striving for Success is a feature on a Daviess Countian. This issue I’m bending the rules to introduce you to a couple of people I met who were just passing through. – Ed.

GLENDALE, Indiana -- On a splendid October afternoon I pulled off the road near Glendale taking pictures and I heard the distinctive throb, growl and percussive exhaust note of two Harley Davidson motorcycles. They turned onto the same road and I waved as they passed. The riders were in full road gear and wore leather vests emblazoned with their club colors. One was wearing a camouflage cap with furry ear flaps. The other was suspended from a tall set of “ape hanger” handlebars.  Their bikes were gorgeous.

When I pulled into the parking lot at the Glendale Fish and Wildlife Area campground, they were there. I saw them taking pictures of one another and realized it was my civic duty to get them into the same shot. So we met, I photographed, and we talked.

Bobby “Flying Boy” McClish and Jason McClish are father and son. Friday night they rode from Peru, Indiana to McCormick’s Creek State Park with several other bikers and overnighted. Saturday, their friends wanted to go one way but Bobby and Jason wanted to revisit some good memories made here in Daviess County.

Bobby started working for Chrysler in 1976. He weathered the layoffs in the late 1970s, doing whatever came to hand to keep his family together. In the early 1980s he was called back. He continued with Chrysler until his retirement—with a pension, as Jason pointed out. Along the way he created a legacy, putting in a good word for his two sons, who now work there too.

There are other legacies. For instance, the club colors both men were wearing were for ARM, the Association of Recovering Motorcyclists. The business card Bobby handed me reads, “At ARM International we are continually asked, what is ARM about? This is simple. Before the motorcycles come out of the garage, before the bikes are fired up, we are here to support one another in our programs of recovery and abstinence. Simple, ain’t it?”

Some of the things we pass on to our kids are things we wish they’d never learned. Fortunately, Bobby has humbly been clean and sober for 24 years and Jason for 3 years. And now they enjoy time on the road together, here and at Sturgis, South Dakota. At Bike Week and Biketoberfest in Daytona Beach, and at so many points in between. Jason doesn’t get as many opportunities to ride, but they had this one. And it was to enjoy another legacy.

Glendale Fish and Wildlife Area is where Bobby’s dad came when he retired. They told me about spending time with him fishing here in the summers, talked about where he had his tree stand, and shared how much they enjoyed being outdoors with him. Just looking around while I was with them, I can imagine what a powerful impression that made. Glendale is a gorgeous gem tucked away in Daviess County and it continues to draw and shape people who spend time there.

I found wonderful hope in this meeting. If you’ve given your kids something that’s not good for them, you can still give them something better. Bobby and Jason are good, strong men. I’m thankful too for their family connection to Glendale that brought us together to see sparkling water, turning leaves, and each other. Of course, now I think I want a Harley.