Well, I think the hard part is done, at least I hope so. I’ve been obsessing on my project and neglecting this blog for nearly three months. What have I been doing? I’m glad you asked. You did ask, didn’t you? With a great sense of relief, and pleasure I can report that I’ve finished the manuscript for Those Kids Deserve Water Too: A History of the Patoka Lake Regional Water and Sewer District, and sent it off for editorial…..
I’m afraid that I’ve been preoccupied with Patoka and neglected this blog, my apologies. Single mindedly I researched my topic, carefully peeling away the layers of the onion when out of the blue, Lisa Gehlhausen asked me to speak. She’s the Executive Director of the Indiana 15 Regional Planning Commission. “I think the Commission would like to hear about your book,” she asked. “We’re having a celebration for our 45th anniversary, could you talk for ten minutes?” Well, I’m not…..
I reached the rendezvous point early, so I turned into the parking lot. It was empty except for three Asplundh trucks, their buckets stretched skyward as if pleading for rain. The day had been a scorcher, typical of July. Luckily a brief shower had taken the edge off. I parked and rolled my window down to wait for my contact. He had called two days ago. “There’s a Cemetery Board meeting Monday at 6:00,” he reported. “Why don’t you…..
It hurried through the weeds, leaving a wake of uprooted plants. Last week I saw it scurrying through Dad’s old tools. In the spring, it briefly appeared as I planted the beans, but today it couldn’t escape. I lifted it out of the pumpkins and examined it in the sun. It was dirty; its hide well tanned, covered with scrapes. Dark patches and the blue-green tracks of veins showed through the dirt. Turning it over, I paused at the paler…..
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.” – Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories ‘Tis hard to believe that it has been two months since I embarked on my latest endeavor…..
It was October 11, 1968, and in the little town of Dubois, Catherine stood by the window. Every morning for weeks, she had stood by that window and watched the southern Indiana sky. Today, it was different. Today, storm clouds darkened the western sky. Catherine smiled, surely they would get some rain. It had been a long dry spell, although not as bad as in ’53. This year there had been some rain, but not nearly enough. Under Catherine’s garage,…..
With a boom that shook the walls and rattled the windows, he slammed the door. The boy stomped into the room and flopped on the couch. Grandpa shook his head and sidled over. “What’s up?” he asked, taking a seat beside the boy. The boy sighed, “It’s my research assignment; it’s too big. I’ll never get it done!” “Why not?” With a teenage eye roll, the boy tried to explain; there were too many references, too many quotes, and too…..