I was looking for something on the web and one of the sites that popped up was one I had put together and then decided to leave. I have no idea why. Anyway, I clicked on it for the pure heck of it and found this little piece talking about when I would cover festivals for a paper when we lived in a Cincinnati suburbs. I don’t know where Earl came from, only that it is safe to say I didn’t know one in the area or I wouldn’t have used the name.

I was looking at the morning paper and saw just how many festivals are going on this weekend alone, including Avilla Freedom Days. I don’t remember there being that much of this sort of thing 20 years ago, but perhaps I simply was not paying attention.

Having parents who lived near Shipshewana while I was in Chicago and Cincinnati kept me up-to-date on what was going on there, but I didn’t realize more and more small towns were getting together a food fest, parade, rides, etc.

I remember when we were in Cincinnati, our suburb of West Chester had a parade that went down the historic road that evolved from a Indian trail. Liberty Township had a Fourth of July parade and festival with tubs filled with ice and soda pop. The little enclave of Gano, where Mr. Scripps used to live before he went to California, had a get together that I think was centered at the Presbyterian Church in town. There was one way in and out of this village by car and it was via the railroad underpass.

I remember I found Gano by hiking down the creek that ran at the side of our property – this would have been in my examining Ohio Valley River geology and fossil rocks period – and coming upon an abandoned railway trestle. I followed it and wound up in what appeared to be a town from the past. I admit to having a Twilight Zone moment, and I think I decided I had explored enough for the day.

Of course, my favorite town doings was Something Days in Mason. It seems odd that I can’t remember the name because that is where the editor thought I might wind up in trouble. I wrote sort of a tongue-in-cheek piece about the pressed chicken sandwiches at The Grange. She thought the ladies would be upset, but they chased her down and told her they had sold out of all their pressed chicken in record time.

I do remember those pressed chicken sandwiches, however. They were pretty dry and did tend to stick to the inside of my cheeks.

I am rambling here, so I will sign off . . . after I wonder about one more thing. I see signs about some fundraisers that say, “From 10 am to 2 pm or until porkburgers are gone.” Now, I guess they mean if they sell out of the porkburgers, they will close before two, but I sometimes think of them staying there for days . . . until that last darn porkburger is sold.

“Hey, Frank, let’s call old Bud . . . maybe, he’ll come over and buy it.”

“Nah, Earl, he had that spell with his stomach last March and the doctor won’t let him eat anything spicier than Melba toast.”

“Is that so? Boy, I’ll bet he’s fit to be tied. Say, maybe he’d buy it and give it to his dog?”

“Well, that’s a thought”

“So, Frank, you gonna call him?”

“Well, I might. There’s Lou, though, he won that porkburger eating contest down at St Howard’s Church. He’d probably be able to put this last one away. Whatya think, Earl?”

“Maybe.”

“Yep, maybe.”

“Uh, Frank.”

“Yep?”

“You know it’s been two days since the ice melted in the cooler . . . Think it’s still all right?”

“Come to think of it we could just throw it to the squirrels and tell everyone it was a donation to some homeless folk.”

“Well, Frank, I think those squirrels have a home right there in that tree….”

“Don’t fight me on this, Earl . . . “

I am reading Constance: The Tragic and Scandalous Life of Mrs. Oscar Wilde and I am finding it quite informative, truly realizing how while my great- grandparents and grandparents were living and being born and doing things like raising food in Indiana and being basic Presbyterians and Methodists, much more complex activities were going on in certain segments of English/European society. I don’t my Indiana folks had too much time for the Rational Dress Society and Occult Religions.

I am about halfway through and we are getting to the – ahem – juicier parts and the fallout from them. Apart from Oscar and his wife, the changing social, moral, philosophical activities of the time are drawing me into more research. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, for one. Oh, yeah.

Ah, yesterday I wrote about stacking and mowing and painting  – a change from my recent days of dudding on the sofa or in a chair somewhere with my feet propped up. Last night I noticed I was a little  . . . okay, STIFF. Stiff in the feet, the ankles, knees and hips. I was also achy in some of my larger muscles – just visualize someone stretching their legs out and moving their feet up and down to somehow work the kinks out of the butt apparatus.

I was in marching band when you had to raise your knees so your thighs were parallel to the ground – none of this little walking/shuffling along. (I’m not going to apologize; bands just don’t high step the way we did way back then.) Doing that today and coming off the field would be problematic – I imagine the EMS would be called about 20 seconds after the loudspeaker boomed: Preeeeeesenting: The 1965 XXXX High School Marching Band.

I have a vague memory of Memorial Day Parades: The road past the cemetery was left in bricks and I think when we “hit the bricks” the drums were to go to rims and the rest of us were to assume a lower step. Looking forward to the bricks sticks in my mind.

What I do not remember after any Friday at school followed by practice and then showing up for the pre-game and half-time show was being the least bit stiff and sore on Saturday. I guess it’s better than being a complete stiff, as Mr. Capone would say.