Ya know what’s funny, I’ve been in meetings where “cultured” colleagues cringe at the thought of eating those “bottom-dweller” and “garbage-sucking” catfish, while they tilt back and slurp down snails and then bite off shrimps’ bottoms. Call ‘em what you will, but “escargot” really means “mucus that moves.” And what’s with lobster—oh my! Forget paying $30; just stick your face in a bait shop fridge and chomp down on a crawdad—“crayfish” for the more educated, right there along with “crustacean menus” for the Epicureans.

I once sat in a meeting in England not far from the Prince’s estate on the edge of Wales when “catfish” were slandered. The Oxford dons were flabbergasted that I had actually fished for catfish (intentionally!), let alone ate “God’s leftovers.” I shared that a few days earlier I had read the historic books of the castle where we were working and noticed the thousands of catfish recorded by the patrons' bookkeepers—English lords from the Tudor and Stuart periods. So much for a rich history: those caviar cravers took their bumpy fish eggs and yeastless crackers to the walled gardens. I tried to work Carharts into the conversation just to watch them fish for a definition. Oh for Woody Allen subscripts and a video camera.

Well, near my childhood romp of Buck Creek is grand central station for catfish lovers. If deep-fried food were found to be healthy, Americus, Indiana would become the menu Mecca. If catfish ever swims its way into the hearts of the upper class, they’d build a landing strip next to the packed plebeian place along State Road 25, about half way between Lafayette and Delphi. The full parking lot of old folks’ Buicks and Cadillac’s (and a few baha machines with gun racks) reveal license plates from counties near and far. It was there, 35 years earlier, that I held my first job. I’d sometimes walk seven miles for the privilege of selling schools of cats to happy imbibers. After peeling and slicing onions for unhealthy but delicious rings, I'd soak my crying eyes for an eternity. Then we'd we’d start the deep frying and I shift to a steady stream of dirty dishes—on real porcelain plates that shattered when falling from over stacked piles. All the while I could look through the little window into the bar while listening to the jukebox favorite, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree.” As the plates from the dining area began to thin, the songs from the bar began to mellow and sappier songs closed the evening.

I returned to the restaurant a few years ago, and then again recently. The parking lot is still full of assorted plates. My aunt “Tooty” still manages the serious side of the kitchen--the catfish specials. And, I think they have a healthy plate menu now—I’m sure it’s disgusting. Catfish are a lot of things to a lot of people, but if ya don’t deep fry ‘em, they can’t be good for you. At least not for your inner self that reaches back to our descendants.

Well, my doctor might get wind of this article and then I’ll have to find Americus undercover. Yep, those dreaded words that just kill me, “high cholesterol.” But don’t ya know what I mean? Don’t you have a great place that keeps selling that food you love but just can’t or shouldn’t partake of? For me--it's Americus, just west of Buck Creek. And last I checked, the only way they serve escargot is with the heel of a steel-toed dingo boot--yep, every now and then a slug will slime its way onto the sidewalk.

Your thoughts? Favorite "forbidden" restaurants due to new diets?

We called her “the cat woman.” She lived alone down an overgrown lane near Buck Creek, Indiana—and one memorable day we braved the woods to take a peek. Through the sporadic brush near the hayfield of a yard, we witnessed feline frenzy.

Cats everywhere. They were coming in and out of an open front door. Sitting in windows, lounging all around the porch. Disappearing in a leaning, unstable garage. Plump cats. Mangy ones. Bizarre spotted mongrels. Sickly tomcats. Maimed long-hair cats. Serious Simese types. Sort-of Calico ones. Screaming kittens everywhere.

Indeed the legends were true, the little thick-ankled recluse was the “cat woman.” Reported sightings always gave a similar description: a headscarf on a short stocky hunchback pushing a cart with one grocery bag. Oh the stories we heard about what went on in them there woods. “Some sort of cult is what I heard,” said my friend. “Yeah, I think she sacrifices them,” said Tom, “Poor things.”

Then came the double dare – to go knock on her door and meet her. And yours truly lost, or won, depending on one’s perspective. That moment on her porch was a revelation not soon forgotten. I didn’t knock—something obviously was amiss. The house was covered with cat food cans and cat waste. Hundreds of cans littered the house, many unopened. Unwashed dishes in the sink. A grocery bag on the counter. The stench was great and the scene was alarming. I found my body following my curious head that had poked through the doorway. Standing amongst the curious but undeterred cats became surrealistic. I could only wonder if the mysterious animal lover was dead behind the only unopened door in that postage stamp of a kennel. My head said run, my heart hurt for her, my feet froze, and my curiosity wouldn’t let me leave.

My friends were there before I had to decide, and soon the house was filled with junior high detectives. Later that day we learned that she had died two weeks prior. The bag on the counter was filled with cat food. We came to realize that she was a hero for those cats—she gave of her meager means to feed them. The old sage at the local Buck Creek blacksmith shared that she had done that for as long as he could remember. “Kept to herself she did . . . I suppose after a few people dumped strays near her lane she just couldn’t say no.” Suddenly “the cat woman” took on a positive feel. Beyond the eyes of others she sacrificed for unwanted cats. Perhaps we can question her stewardship—but I’m sure she was aware of her commitments. I believe they bulldozed her house a few years later and only the vestiges of a slightly traveled lane survive.

Have you come across a unique person or place? What do you know about him or her, or the place? If a unique person like the cat woman--what was unique? Any redeeming feature? If a place, where’s it located—or was located?

Indianapolis’ Monument Circle hosted an assortment of bikers last night. From those with Gucci gear and Lexus belts to snaggle-toothed riders with tattered doo-rags. There were gorgeous biker babes while others were Harley on the eyes--weathered, leather-skinned, road-worn and over-tattooed. Some girthy riders had frail partners while a few gritty ones boasted earthy companions. Cute senior couples shared tables with middle-aged bachelors—man children wed to their wheels.

Ah the freedom of expression through our person.

Indy had the feel of Scottsdale, Arizona, though more appealing. The lighted trees, waterfalls, bull fountains, and the eight mammoth bronze lamps—all a backdrop for 50 of the nicest Hoosier motorcycles. From the solid-rimmed, quadruple-painted Fat Boy to the beefy but awkward Honda Rune, it was hotrod heaven. While going gaga over a Harley Ultra Classic, my eyes jumped to a super low Road King, next to an Indian, and then to the striking emblem on the Kawasaki Vulcan. I had to smile at the pastel lineup of Suzuki sport bikes—surrounded by adult children groupies.

Yes, the freedom to pursue happiness through our possessions.

The crowd kept swelling at 10:00 pm as the sweltering heat subsided. Some of the 30,000 conventioneers brought a wholesome blue-collar feel. The exhausted but entertaining crew from Johnny Rockets had fed many of them in the mall and now, apronless, they were raising their own cups to cheer. The Starbucks at circle center was hidden behind scaffolding and playing second fiddle to the outside dining at the Chocolate Café.

Ah the freedom to travel, to work, and to compete.

The same circle looked rather different at 6:05 this morning—a Saturday. While listening to WIBC’s raspy light-hearted 52-year old DJ from its external speakers, only an occasional walker passed by. Gone was the diverse crowd of tourists, convention goers, and local bikers. By 7:05 the warm scones from au bon pain (“of good bread”) complemented the espresso as I watched the city awaken.

Ah the freedom to relax, to indulge, and to communicate.

It was then that I noticed anew the statue that defines Monument Center—the shrine to Indiana’s fallen soldiers. On the stele’s western side is a bronze freeze portraying a fallen soldier beneath a canon. Reminiscent of a Goya painting, it captures the fear of war yet the necessity of sacrifice.

Yes, the freedom to die that others may live, and to live without the fear of dying.

What played out before me a few hours earlier, and the privilege of capturing these thoughts for you, is possible because of such actions. The right to enjoy two-wheeled horsepower, to wear funny clothes or tattooed sleeves, and the ability to relax unafraid in a public square are all benefits of noble service long ago. The same type of sacrifice still plays out in Iraqi sands and foreign lands. And, as the police and firefighters fountain next the capitol building also reminds us, there’s the ultimate price for our right to ride pimped bikes and to choose jobs, indulge in fine coffees and relax in public. It’s the price of those who fall in the line of duty. My wife and I stood and read the notebook, noting the police men and women whose lives were cut short. We were selfishly thankful that it had been since 1943 since our hometown of Marion had lost a uniformed colleague, and we hope it’s even longer until another name appears.

Oh the freedom to be thankful, to build monuments, to honor noble efforts.

Tonight we walked Indianapolis’ canal, a taste of Venice with more polish. While Stratford on Avon has its ambience, Seattle its weir and Pittsburgh its bridges, Indianapolis has its own slice of paradise. Parties on the canal alongside the Historical Society and State Museum watched boats being paddled by the same diverse crowd that will likely gather again tonight at Monument Circle; all the while an assortment of health nuts jogged and pedaled its shores. The canal world is a calculated culture worth imbibing. As uninhibited bass roamed these historic waters once headed to the Erie Canal, the groomed shores danced with people from all socio-economic backgrounds, all ethnic groups, and apparently all hygiene preferences.

Ah the freedom to live life as we choose.

Tomorrow we return to Marion, Indiana, just 50 miles north. We’re smiling, and we’ll make this trip a bit more often. Though gas prices and property taxes pinch our budget—a trip to Monument Circle, to the Capitol’s memorial fountain, and to the canal flanked by architectural masterpieces makes me thankful to be an American. And I cringe to share that it makes the taxes a bit easier to surrender.

Ah the freedom to pay taxes, with or without complaints.

The lights at Victory Field have just colored the skyline. The park itself is a work of art, a statement of collaboration, and another testimony to the positive results good-hearted but diverse folks can produce—a homerun that flies far beyond the fence in Indy.

Oh the freedom to make this world a better place, to be uniquely different yet in unison.

And by the way, I just realized that as I walk the circle in my balloon shorts and spindly legs--other authors are likely writing pieces for their local paper. And if you see Alan on a sweet '98 maroon Shadow buying coffee from Jay at au bon pain's in the morning, tell him the guy in the "Old Men Rule" shirt said hi. He usually hangs with Harvey, the essence of a raspy but kind-hearted Marlboro man, and sometimes "Fish" (the tall smooth-headed retired policeman). Their bikes that look like ads for the J. P. Cycles Magazine. Alan sports a black Harley shirt from Laugerman's in York, PA (the alpha site) and Harvey one from Deal's Gap, TN. And if the good Governor rides the circle--look for them to salute. They like a leader that rides, and one that buys American (even if they can't offord to). Alan shared that "No biker likes to pull up to a light and see another bike exactly the same." Like the Governor's decked out Harley, biking is about freedom, and what better place to celebrate it than Monument Circle in Indy.

So, what do you think? Favorite bike? Biker? Thoughts about Monument Circle or the Police and Firefighters Memorial? Reflection.

"Wow--that's the most pistachio pudding I've ever seen! Oh, my bad; that's Glendale Lake."

During the 1970s my friends water-skied where today they roller blade. Well, not quite, but the thick green algae this summer gives it a Devo-type retro look. Catch it in the right sunlight and it's pretty neat, in a psychedelic, Samuel Adams-enhanced sort of way. The geese still glide. Hearty anglers still fish. Swimmers watch videos.

“Why don’t we try chemicals?” —the first question that surfaced at the posh Sloan residence during the recent neighborhood association meeting. “Tried ‘em many times; they’re just not working due to shallow water and that thing Al Gore invented, Global Warming.” (Okay, I exaggerated that one a bit.) “Is there any law against dredging?” “Nope; just can’t do it by the dam.” “Are there any fish left?” “Yep, huge ones—bass so big Shack could put his fist and forearm in their mouths.” Okay, made that one up, too, but they still catch some whoppers.

“Is the problem from dirty water?” “No, not at all. It’s from decades of silt from the farmers’ fields.” (This same process created Egypt’s expansive Delta region, and miles of extra shore line on the Persian Gulf.) “How deep is it?” “I’ve charted the whole thing. It used to be 15 feet, now it’s 7.” “What about using carp?” “Tried that, but when the water turned last year (a natural occurrence) the oxygen loss killed a dump truck full of fish.” And, after all, carp take a few years to mature.

“So what’s the price if we dredge? We pay dues.” “Oh, to dredge it—which is likely the long-term solution—is about a quarter of a million dollars.” Divide that by 54 homes and you’re looking at around $5,000 per family. Current dues for this beautiful enclave are only $75 annually--only in Indiana. Unbelievable. (We had an investment lake property in the Pasadena area and the fees were $320—monthly!)

So what’s your idea for a solution, whether you’re reading this from Seattle, D.C. or down the street? If you lived in this serene, wooded neighborhood dotted with attractive Bedford stone houses, large well-groomed yards, and a perfect enclosed mile-loop, what would be your suggestion? Face it, few of us choose algae over Evian. Hit Google Earth and pull my address at 1403 W. Glendale Lake, Marion, IN, 46953. You’ll see the wonderful but altered terrain immediately north of the highly touted Marion airport (host to leer jets) and just south of the highly-rated Lakeview Christian School. Another gem, Indiana Wesleyan University, is just northeast a mile or so. The top-rated Taylor University is about ten miles due east, and the famous artist Rod Crossman lives just one-minute south of the lake on State Road 9.

Well, here are a few suggestions I’ve heard, and several I’ve thrown in (in bold). Of course, they might throw me out of the new addition after this—we’ve only lived here a few days.

1. Host a Willie Nelson “Algae Aid” concert.
2. Begin rumors of Lock Ness Monster sightings and charge admission. And given the lake’s depth, it’d really be mysterious she’s not visible.
3. Sell the algae to bio-fuel distributors
4. Invite Bill Dance for a fish-off with local wilderness celeb, Bill Rock (he lives in nearby Gas City and has The Bill Rock Show).
5. Ask for help from Nacho Libre.
6. Dredge it, and split the cost per family with a co-op loan that calls for small payments instead of one big fee. (It wouldn’t be much more than buying a widescreen or a used KIA.)
7. Incorporate it into a wildlife display inside of a new Cabela’s store.
8. On Halloween, float a few thousand hotdogs and invite Takeru Kobayashi and Joey Chestnut for a bobbing for dogs contest.
9. Install a couple of fountains, which range from $2,000 to $9,000 each, or;
10. Install a musical fountain with Todd Syswerda’s symphonies (brilliant local professor with a suspect golf swing). His music would be a stark contrast to the 1940s overused tapes from the fountain in Grand Haven, MI (our former home). The first fountain we build might simply be a garden hose strapped to raccoon hunting lights, but Todd’s music would help us to graduate to fire hoses and then to the real deal.
11. Tax the airport for flyovers.
12. On Google Earth, advertise square-inch portions of the lake for sale.
13. Build a Garfield statue of him walking on water carrying a donation bucket (Garlfied creator Jim Davis and artist Eric Reeves are from the area and a series of statues are already in place).
14. Arrange with local mega-farmers like the Berrys or the Sweetser/Swayzee group to use the silt on their fields (like they did in Ancient Egypt—and it was priceless)
15. Get Sew Biz to open a branch office and tax the industrious owner heavily for her new eco-friendly algae thread.
16. Solicit ideas from those who have solved this problem elsewhere (like Brookhaven here in the Marion area, or some of you nationally who might be reading this).
17. Put a billboard of a shirtless John Madden in Spandex on the opposite side so people will turn heads and miss it when they pull in.
18. Turn it back into a creek and use the land for a park, and change name to “Corporation formerly known as Glendale Lake”
19. Establish a Vegan Restaurant on the dock and serve Epicurean, high-fiber algae entrees
20. Raise rice for local the Hong Kong restaurant.
21. Ask brilliant journalist Alan Miller and local historian Bill Munn to appeal for money on Larry King Live, claiming the water mysteriously keeps people from marrying seven times.
22. Claim that a simulacra (natural image) developed on the surface in the shape of the Virgin Mary hitting Dan Brown with a burning copy of the Da Vinci Code
23. Sell a new line of Algae Apparel to Sierra Club members and other nature lovers
24. Sell drilling rights to Exon or McClure (fine local company, headquarters only five miles away).
25. Create a light show that utilizes the effervescent rays refracting from the surface
26. Haul in mollusks, or whatever clam that eats algae. Then haul in the fish that eats the prolific mollusks. Then beavers to eat the fish. Then lions to eat the beavers, and . . . . then have local artists Ron Mazellan and Bruce Campbell work with noted local children’s author Gwen Lavert to sell the story! You, no, like “I know an old lady who swallowed a fly . . . [then spider, bird, cat, dog, cow, and horse, by Rose Bonne].”
27. Bottle the water and compete with Pepsi on St. Patrick’s Day.
28. Build a bigger dam and make it deeper
29. Start fishing with dynamite
30. Wait ‘til winter (they still ice fish here) and cut the lake apart and remove it—perhaps sell the cubes through Pepsi, or through Weight Watchers
31. Find an endangered species in the pond, besides myself, and get federal aid
32. Sell the naming rights to a nature lover. Imagine a Bill Gates Gated Park in Marion, Indiana. Or a Malcolm Evans Marina, a Rob Swagger Resort, Connie Ott's Cove, Tom Collins’ Northern Everglades, or John Maxwell’s Miragek, Steve Covey's Eighth Habit
33. Rent house boat parking
34. Sell rights for baptisms
35. Ask the adjacent airport to collaborate with federal aid (I believe the airport actually owns part of the lake)
36. Sell rights to the airport for water landings
37. Name it “The Wayne and Kim Seybold Winter Olympic Training Center,” and, of course, sell tickets for practice time
38. Start an Indiana Wesleyan University angling major
39. Find a link to James Dean’s childhood and sell tourist maps
40. Get Clancy to work it into his next novel
41. Have Mitch Albom write a sequel, The Five People You Meet in Glendale Lake, or Zig Zigler to write a sequel, Meet You at the Top—of the Algae.
42. Film Creature of the Green Lagoon here
43. Start a bog museum
44. Collaborate with the local Bob Evans to utilize the local Geese for Green Eggs and Ham specials.
45. Host an "AlgaeStock" retreat for bands and place “DO NOT SMOKE THE ALGAE” signs around the lake. That ought to do it.
46. Put an article on a blog site and hope for creative answers, like the amazing Canadian gold story in Wikinomics, or for donations made out to “Glendale Lake Association (Algae Project)” to save the wildlife, or for our elected representatives to help beautify this site for incoming air and road traffic (it is directly attached to both)
47. Do nothing for another decade then use it for soccer fields.
48. Stick a flag in the middle with the number 9 and pass it off for a golf course.
49. Spell “Homecoming” out of the Algae and hope to get Bill and Gloria Gaither’s attention when they land their jet on the other side.
50. Trademark Algaefina

My hunch is that given the great people in this neighborhood association, they’ll figure a way through this challenge. We have wonderful local and state politicians who will help. And, perhaps some of you will donate – Make checks to “Glendale Lake Association” (to above address). And if you want to pay for a Garfield statue, send me an email.

We’ve only lived here a few days, but can imagine that a decade from now housing prices will skyrocket and at meetings they’ll say, “It’s hard to believe, but remember when we couldn’t ski on the lake?” Or, “Nice house boat.” Or, “What’s up with that statue of Garfield hugging the Gaithers?”

Your suggestions? Comments?

When diversity slaps you in the face it loses its ambiguity. When tears wet your cheeks reality supplants political theory.

Today, on a very public stage, a staunch evangelical Republican’s embrace of a stalwart Jewish Democrat slapped me good A Vin Diesel whack from a frozen side of beef wouldn’t have phased me any more than that magical moment.

Sitting amongst Indiana Wesleyan University’s nine hundred employees I got all sappy, and life sure made a whole lot of sense. In fact, I felt the tenderness often eclipsed by other aspects of our humanness. Indiana’s largest private university is also one of the nation’s largest Christian institutions, and moments like today help to understand more fully its “best workplace” award.

Center stage was Tony Maidenberg, Marion’s former Mayor, former Democratic representative to the Statehouse, and the mild-mannered, stately champion for causes of merit. He was there to present the university’s highest community award—“The Tony Maidenberg Community Service Award.” At a predominantly Republican campus (likely 90%) and on the same stage that hosts chapel services for thousands of students, Tony Maidenberg’s presence brought thunderous applause. Few honors are higher than having others name awards for a living legacy. Few displays of humility are more pronounced than the stately steps and words displayed today.

Tony's announcement of this year's recipient brought a standing ovation. An aging white-haired Mike Roorbach was visibly moved and miraculously, nearly speechless.. Often on opposite sides of political issues than Tony, and usually with much more volume, Mike is now on the other side of major cancer treatments but with a resumed smile and a growing statesmanship. His tall but shrinking frame stood silent and stunned behind the podium. This man can normally talk the sun down, and has hosted many local radio shows, but today humility stood the tallest. His energies expended on kids seem to have stretched a century, though he’s only 60. This dedication has been demonstrated through actions not political declarations.

Tony used Walt Whitman to challenge us to follow Mike’s example, “. . . that the powerful play [life] goes on and you may contribute a verse.” The packed auditorium now bulged with applause as Mike’s name was read. And here’s where diversity seems a misnomer—for it’s this same passion that resonates the most with Tony, a likeness that supplants their differences.

Mike stood in a suit draped from his much-thinned frame. His few sentences spoke volumes, and still bring shivers. It was not about him, but about God and Tony. After thanking the former, he simply turned, and in a breaking voice, noted that it was such a high honor to receive an award bearing the name of Tony Maidenberg, a friend he respects so ever deeply.

I’ll take that moment to my grave, and hope to refine my life’s verse in the meantime.

Yes, diversity slapped me in the face today and it left its mark.

As I journal, I think of diverse moments that really should be called by a different name, and that in academic settings three recognizable elements are present:
Personal differences: perhaps religion, maybe politics, usually ethnicity, often socio-economic.
Institutional commitments: political profile, demographics, mission statement—which may involve religion
Political alliances: networks of friends, record on issues, positions and endorsements

It’s not the diversity in such magical cases as today that moves one to tears, but kindred spirits--perhaps that's really what we're at when using such a term:

Personal interests—in this case, in helping children
Institutional priorities—today it was the concern for bettering the community
Political profiles—personal values, for example, that men and women of integrity can march to key tunes with the same melody

Well, perhaps I’m a bit too sappy. Perhaps I have blinders on. Perhaps I am too altruistic. But maybe, just maybe, there’s life worth living and living worth lives no matter the stripes and colors.

At the end of the service the Indiana Wesleyan University community moved into its annual corporate communion service, just like it had all previous years for this award. And today, like all the rest, Tony Maidenberg stood reverently for at least a half an hour as we sang about a Christ not accepted in his synagogue, and yet he remained equally as calm during the long distributions of sacraments that were symbols again of different beliefs than his neighbors. But in those moments, like the previous award ceremony, kindness and goodness triumphed. Not because it was calculated, just the opposite, because it was spontaneous.

The deeper people go spiritually the more consistent they become spontaneously. And though we may disagree over divinity, we often shed tears together that flow from the depths of our shared humanness..

What are your thoughts?