It was a beautiful day in central Indiana and that was good, because we had to do some walking. Being downtown and not being up-to-date on parking was a bummer. I decided that with all the traffic, I would just go with the flow and park in a garage I could get to without scooting across lanes of traffic. It turned out to be a 10 minute walk from where we wanted to go and I took my ticket with me because it had the address of the building on it.

That would have been good thinking, but the official address of the garage, which was on a corner, was not that from which we entered and exited. On the way back in the late afternoon, I guided Alison over to the Soldiers and Sailors Monument on the Circle. Instead of just following my mental map, I decided to be cute and plugged the address into the GPS. You would have thought this would not have been a problem, but it directed me to walk in a different direction and then we got not lost, but out-of-our-way as I attempted to impose my vision of the street I wanted on the street they were giving me. Of course, they were two different streets – I had not paid attention when we exited to what street we were on, assuming that it was the address of the lot.

This probably was not as stupid as it sounds because it had been awhile since I had been in a big city parking structure and was distracted by discovering one had to pay at a machine when you returned. You then had 20 minutes to get to your car, settle in after locating your keys and exit the garage. Since no one appeared to be on duty anywhere and since it was rush hour, I had to hope I wouldn’t reveal my hick tendencies in leaving.

And to leave, you have to get out of the car to insert the ticket which you used in one machine to pay, to put it in another to activate the gate. Fortunately, I had kept the ticket in my hot little hand. Then, because it was rush hour, a sort of police guy was directing traffic at the exit. It was Go, Go, Go . . . and so I went, fastening my seat belt somewhere in the middle lane of New York Street.

On our walk to our destination and our round-the-barn way back, I examined the parking meters and saw why they looked odd. Each one was a small box, labelled with a number that you were to input in a nearby ATM-type device. Okay, this is obviously for locals because we saw no signs indicating how long you could park and so forth – locals, or other big city folks who understand these new-fangled things. The thought of parallel parking at an unknown meter device made the parking garage option – wherever it was – more appealing. I will be studying up on urban parking meters now; I seem to get more old fogey by the day.

Oh, by the way, my boots set off the alarm in the security walk-through thingie. No big deal, but I did ask and found out that where we were was the only way in for the two block long building; you could go out any door, you just had to come in this one. I suppose it was money-saving not to have two security scanning entrances. I turned to Alison and commanded, “Do not step out of any door unless the building is on fire.” This was especially important because construction was going on and it appeared some doors opened onto areas temporarily surrounded by chain link fencing. It could have been ugly.

I’m rambling all over the place here and now I’m going back to the part after we left the garage: Not only was it rush hour downtown, but we then were in rush hour on the Interstates. Traffic was often at a stand still, but at times everyone was moving at least 70 mph in areas marked 55 mph . . . and all the lanes were full. About an hour after clearing the city, we stopped at a Taco Bell for a nice relaxing Iced Tea with Mango – and maybe a little something from the cravings menu.

Of course, this is tremendously boring to anyone whose eyes are on it, but typing it out may clear my head and prevent nightmares of one-way, dead-end streets with tolls.

It is not really a long trip, between 2 and a half and three hours, but it is to about four blocks west of “The Circle” which has in its center The Soldiers and Sailors Monument. Back in the days before malls, when big department stores were downtown, the day after Thanksgiving, the stores would unveil windows that featured animated elves and reindeer and all sorts of Christmastime scenes.

My parents would take me and you know, I honestly think it was more magical than anything Pixar can come up with. We stood in the cold of November, dressed up because we were going to Indianapolis and stared in at all the creative wonders. It was the W.H. Block Company that I remember most. If I remember correctly, Block’s also had pneumanic tubes that transferred money up to a central office, and brought back the change. Tubes right through the air – who would have thought?

But, tomorrow, I will not be in the back seat, riding along. I will be driving, and that’s okay, except Interstates run through the city and there I’m not certain about parking around the Government buildings. We are going early, leaving plenty of time to get where we are going, because we don’t know the correct lane without GPS.

We’ll be down by the Indiana Central Canal – and if I have time, I’ll probably go over and stand there thinking of towpaths and times gone by. Then I’ll get in the car and turn on the GPS again. Kind of a little bit of guilt there.

Because The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse is – now, don’t tell anyone on a conscious level – more of a state of mind than an actually stated place, moving should not be that difficult. But, my, a state of mind can get cluttered. Things are all over. Foo of The Foo Bar is having a dreadful time not tripping over boxes I’ve stashed behind her bar.

Of course, if she looked, she might find treasure – I think that’s one of Sarah Grismore’s homemade ice cream recipes in the box below:

And, then, she might even be able to get a little classy with some of books from Sarah’s extensive library:

As I noted a couple of posts below, out of sentimentality, and a possible craving for traditional Bayou Billy Cherry Wine, I went to The Apple Festival in Kendallville. My grandson and I and his mother had first gone on a cold and rainy day when he was six, and now all these years later, he had it in his head to get me over there to see the sheep shearing.

I video-ed it on my phone, came home and uploaded it to YouTube and then discovered my granddaughter had logged into YouTube on MY computer and had left herself logged in. All of my uploads wound up in her stash. I know my mouth was in a grim little pucker when I copied all the embedding code to insert into my post; I just let the videos post attached to her email. Because I was PISSED.

Yesterday, she comes to me and says she’s getting emails about sheep shearing and I explained why and if she didn’t like it she could transfer them. Well, she did, but ACK! she did not re-embed them in the post. I have four blank spots down there. That is just soooo cool.

So, of course, it is up to me to fix it, while wearing my scrunchy face of irritation, which is slightly better than the Evil Look of Death.

I wasn’t going to go; it was chilly and rainy and I had been many times before. The eats and drinks were expensive. Sixteen years ago I went with Cameron and his mother and he was a lot shorter than I; we ate apple burgers in very chilly weather and I remember my leather-soled shoes sucked the cold right into my feet.

Cameron wanted to go, but I gave excuses . . . and then I decided to take one for the team and go for “old time’s sake” for “the family” aspect of it. We walked over and his sister joined us later. We got a Bayou Billy mug and shared lots of refills for a dollar a piece.

And we watched, because Cameron really wanted to do so, the hourly sheep shearing. You know,  it was interesting and the man who sheared was retired for five years, but had been shearing for 57 years. Once he had sheared the stomach, he was able to take the rest of the coat off as one piece. The sheep just sat there, completely docile. He said not all were like that. And when Cameron steered his sister to watch another shearing, we saw a sheep with an attitude. I filmed part of the shearing and I think I accidentally filmed the inside of my pocket as well.

We listened to some musicians in the Swine Barn, which they have a fancier name for when the festival is on and then listened to a really good quartet, which included a man and his daughter. The father had performed professionally on cruise ships and elsewhere and the daughter graduated from a Boston college that specialized in musical training – like you have to be very good to even get in. You know music is being performed well when even a tone deaf person truly appreciates it.

Actually, if I were able to carry a tune, I would probably be jealous of the singers for being so good; however, when you’re as clueless as I am (bad), you just embrace it and appreciate someone who can actually do this thing they call singing.

Then we ate a pretzel with cheddar cheese, but I think they were running low on the cheddar because there was a distinct jalapeno twang to the dip. I guess sitting on hay  bales – or is it straw? – and having your tongue tingle will become one of our memories.

But guess what? Yes, they had no apple burgers!!!!!! How could that be?

I get up after getting quite a bit of sleep and I believe I’m smarter for a while. For instance, why should I be all upset about snarfle-faced, overly- whitened teeth JOE BIDEN even being considered as a presidential candidate? Centuries make up history – millennia. And more than that, even. I mean, whoa, that big crater in the Caribbean, deserts that were oceans, mountains that were seafloors and little one-celled life forms that must have been in awe when a two-celled Einstein appeared.

So, in the great bit expanse of everything, and in the little, tiny bit of time that I have here with my books and my French Silk Pie and my fascination with puzzles, is it really worth having a raging snit fit about JOE BIDEN? I really don’t suppose it is; however, it is, to an extent, quite enjoyable to become all worked up with arms waving around and foot-stomping and loud, concisely spit-out words that can’t come close to encompassing the buffoonery of the man (JOE BIDEN, in case you’ve forgotten).

When I’m gone and he’s gone, there will probably be a tombstone on his grave that has plagiarized quotes, along with an extended section that does quote him: “Now, we know that my I.Q. is higher than yours.” And what is it going to matter? Although, I do wonder if they will etch a picture of him with an inlay of brilliantly white marble teeth.