Carlson

By: John Carlson— When it comes to life’s simple pleasures, it’s hard to beat corn-on-the-cob. Maybe not for everyone, though. Whether it’s for genetic, physiological or psychological reasons, these days you can find somebody somewhere who is allergic to literally any food you’d care to name on God’s green earth. Broccoli, gravy, croutons. There are probably people out there who spend their lives in fear of fatal encounters with a Milk Dud. That being the case, you can surely find somebody – maybe lots of somebodies – who at the very mention of corn-on-the-cob break out in hives. But not…

By: John Carlson— This should get easier, shouldn’t it? Losing a dog, I mean. Nancy recently recited a list of the ones we’ve lost over the years. To that she added one who belonged to our daughter, Katie, plus one who belonged to our son and daughter-in-law, Johnny and Stephanie, their dogs counting as our grand-dogs and, therefore, as family. “There’s Ro,” she began. “Layla. Dandelion. Maggie. Dorothy. Alfie …” And now, Toby. Whenever I hear stories about mean dogs, I always wonder whose abuse turned the animals into that? By nature, dogs want to love us and be loved…

By: John Carlson— There’s something special about rivers. Anybody who’s ever stood on a bank of the mighty Mississippi, or even driven across it on a bridge, knows this. The same magic, albeit on a smaller scale, holds true for lesser rivers, our very own White River among them. That people hereabouts take a proprietary interest in our stretch of the river is proven by the number of folks who volunteer whenever a clean-up day is scheduled. Then there are the thousands of others who’ve paddled down it in rented canoes and kayaks, many putting in at Yorktown and floating…

By: John Carlson— This summer’s unprecedented cancellation of the Delaware County Fair and the Indiana State Fair has come as a blow to many, including those of us who, not having grown up within sniffing distance of a farm, know little of the rural life’s magic. Oh sure, we have an inkling of what we’re missing. Herds of chickens, serenely ambling in from the fields at dusk. The joyous mooing of cows, frolicking in the mud after being sheared. The plaintive bleating of horses at milking time. But who am I kidding? What I’m really going to miss is the fair…

By: John Carlson— My wife wants chickens. I want chickens, too. It’s just that I want the kind of chickens named Original Recipe that Colonel Sanders packs into those red-and-white tubs with the initials “KFC” printed on the side of them. Nancy wants hers in a coop out back. Anyway, I have long been staunchly supportive of her desire to raise chickens within Muncie’s city limits. But that was only because I never dreamed we’d ever actually be allowed to raise chickens within Muncie’s city limits. Now that it looks like chicken-raising here could become a reality, I realize that…

By: John Carlson— Gazing out a window into our side yard the other day, Nancy said something I’d never heard her say in thirty-eight years of marriage. “I just saw a duck walk by.” Having been rousted from my easy chair by this startling announcement, I looked, too. Sure enough, there among the chunks of stale wheat bread Nancy had pitched out on our lawn, Mrs. Mallard was casually waddling around like she owned the place. It just further reinforced the truth of something that strikes me as ironic: Perilous times that can be difficult, harmful and even deadly for…

By: John Carlson— These days, I keep thinking I could use a kite. That’s because kites are such happy creations, a fact which has been reinforced in my life on repeated occasions, starting with Mr. Heffernan. Back in the 1950s, he was the neighbor across our backyard fence, the father of my friend Donny, and had a magical way with kites. He’d scribble a question on a slip of paper, like “Who is the greatest TV cowboy? Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy or the Lone Ranger?” Tying the note to the string just below a kite, he’d send it skyward. Then…

By: John Carlson— This being spring, it is a time of renewal and hope for almost everyone but Nancy and me. For us, it brings only bitterness and shame. This is because we are losing the neighborhood bird races. For example, word got around our neighborhood that some folks were attracting Baltimore orioles using oranges and jelly. Never having seen a Baltimore oriole except on Major League Baseball telecasts, Nancy and I got excited and tried to attract one, too. In the end, though, all we got for our trouble was gumming a bunch of plain peanut-butter sandwiches for lunch,…

By: John Carlson— As you are undoubtedly aware, the Indianapolis 500 is not being run this May. Meanwhile, I also have it on good authority that eternity’s sinners are freezing their butts off because Hell just froze over, A.J. Foyt is opening a chain of ballet studios, and the FDA has determined ordering double-cheese on your pizzas is the key to permanent weight loss. Still, it’s the fact there’s no race this month that truly flummoxes me. Ever since having my ears glued to the radio on Memorial Day weekends throughout my childhood, I have loved the race and my…