I ran alone this morning on a day reserved for dog activities. There were heavy rains most of the night and my wife is fighting a stress-related cold, so she and the schnauzers got a little extra cuddling time. When I left, Tally was getting a “tummy attack” and Tinker was frantically barking with jealous rage. I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. Next weekend, I’ll be running through the streets of Chicago in anticipation of our drive through Indiana.
Last night, we went to see “The Wife,” a Glenn Close bid for an Academy Award. The movie is all about writing, and the most memorable quote was “Writers must write.” I feel that same inspiration every time I sit down at the computer and stare at a blank page. I often have no idea how to fill it, but I start to punch keys, hoping that in the end it makes sense. Many times I start by recounting my activities, like a diary, aspiring to evolve into something more substantial. Retirement has given me the time to write what I want, when I want, and I consider that to be a privilege. There are no demands or deadlines on my work other than my personal goal of posting something daily.
I’m reading Rocket Men by Robert Kurson, envious that I’ve never gotten any of my writing published. It’s the tale of Apollo 8, led by fellow-Hoosier Frank Borman. I was glad to see that Gary, Indiana is known for more than just Michael Jackson. Borman’s bravery made it possible to walk on the moon, while Jackson perfected the moonwalk. We’ll pass through there on the Indiana Toll Road about this time next Sunday. As the lyrics from the The Music Man proudly proclaim, “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, not Louisiana, Paris, France, or Rome but… Gary, Indiana… my home sweet home.” My home sweet home is actually about 100 miles east of Gary, and was never made famous by a song, musician, or astronaut. It is, however, “The RV Capital of the World,” and home of Speedy Alka-Seltzer. Also, the Music Man wouldn’t have been a musical without the brass band instruments that are manufactured in the city of Elkhart.
Every time I would go to a baseball game in Chicago as a kid, we would pass through Gary. The first impression was always billowing smoke coming from the nearby Steel Mills. You could smell Gary before you could see it, so it’s no wonder that both Frank Borman and Michael Jackson got out of town as soon as possible. “Radio-Active Man” was probably more appropriate than The Music Man, considering the eerie glow of the surrounding skies. However, people who lived there saw a certain beauty in the colorful pollutants that spewed from the smokestacks, especially at sunset. It only goes to prove that regardless of where you grew up, there’s a certain pride of association. Don’t make fun of my hometown!
We’ve all had a “Hometown Honey” or have found our Hometown food to be the best in the world. You always have to have something “sweet” to make it worth going back. I’ve always found that visiting was much better than actually living there. To this day, I crave Elkhart’s own Volcano Pizza, my Hoosier Hometown Honey, that was always a sure incentive. With this low-carb diet that we’ve recently been sticking-to, I hadn’t had pizza for months until just the other night (and that was without the crust), so it’s no wonder that I’m thinking about Volcano this morning. I won’t be able to get “home” on next week’s trip, but we will stay the night in my wife’s hometown, about an hour southeast of Gary. My wife’s hometown pizza favorite is Nubiano’s, with Bruno’s just down the road. Speaking of favorite stops, as we pass into Indiana, we’ll drive by the Indiana Welcome Center in Hammond, Indiana (where the story takes place) that features a major Christmas Story display and the infamous flagpole out front with Flick’s tongue stuck to its frozen surface. I should be captured in perpetuity like Flick, with my tongue glued to my hometown honey, a Volcano Pizza.
Hometown Honey
I’ve got to get back,
To my Hometown Honey.
Got to “hop” to it,
Make like a bunny.
I left her behind,
But want her back.
I think about her,
As I start to pack.
So close by,
Yet, a special find.
She’s all mine,
One-of-a-kind.
It is a love story,
But not what you think.
It’s not about a girl,
I say with a wink.
My Italian honey,
Is tasty not sweet.
Time to beat feet,
Chao – Let’s eat.
Sausage and Cheese,
She’s so fine.
Hometown Pizza,
Preferred way to dine.
She’s a perfect slice,
A cut above.
As you can see,
I’ve fallen in love.
Tempting Toppings
A Golden crust.
A bite of her,
Is what I lust.
Just out of the oven,
Heavenly smell.
Hot and delicious,
I’m under her spell.
I’ve searched the world,
There’s nothing like her.
The dough of my dreams,
Is my hometown lure.
Copyright 2018 johnstonwrites.com
