As the narrative goes, Hank the Dog was born in Oklahoma, abused by his original owner, and taken in by some well-meaning soul who had too many dogs already. There is, from what little information I can coax from my reticent son, an Underground Railroad for rescued dogs, and Hank came north to Putnam County, not far from our home.
Thirty years ago, Lady Di married Prince Charles, Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake were born, and gas cost $1.25 a gallon. That same year, Dallas was the top TV show, President Reagan fired 11,000 striking air traffic controllers, and somebody introduced the term “Internet.”
Philip Gulley plans on raiding his retirement fund and living like a king—just as soon as he can remember his password.
It is difficult to be objective about someone you’ve known all your life, but allow me to relate, in as dispassionate a manner as possible, my well-founded suspicions of Santa Claus. From the photographic evidence available, it appears we first met when I was 5 years old. The encounter took place on the square of my hometown, in front of the Danville State Bank, in early December of 1966. Though he introduced himself as Santa Claus from the North Pole, I would later learn his real name was Vernon McClure, and that when he was not engaged in identity theft, he operated the town’s dime store. Deception is not the basis for a positive relationship, so Santa and I were off on the wrong foot from the get-go. I would soon discover that Mr. McClure falsified his identity in order to generate business for his dime store, a violation of the public trust from which I have still not recovered.
Here, small towns flourish close enough that you can drive in to Indianapolis for work or dinner, all while maintaining their autonomy and singular charms.
The Star has more local stuff than it once did, I’ll grant you that, and much of it is good. Sometimes, though, you must get desperate to fill space, as with the piece you ran about a deer beaten on the head with a hammer on I-70.
It’s a story as old as time: Boy meets girl on reality TV show, gets dumped and sent home, comes back to star on his own show, meets another girl, gets engaged, and gives birth to a Bachelor spin-off.
I was willing to do whatever it took. But thanks to Indiana lawmakers and insurance companies, giving birth was the easy part.
I take the trees in my yard personally. To me, they are not merely organic beings, but friends. I celebrate them, chart my life’s progress through them, bond with them. If I didn’t sound crazy enough already, I’d say they complete me.
If you think development is bad, consider the alternative: shuttered storefronts, weed-choked sidewalks, and failing schools.