HIGHLAND

 HIGHLAND  

By Duncan 

A motor trip to Highland takes about two hours, give or take. 

You leave Indianapolis, jump on the super slab (I-65), and follow the signs to Chicago. Highland is nestled in the northwest corner of Indiana. On the other hand, Jack leaves Milwaukee, heads south and through Chicago, Illinois, and ends up in Highland, Indiana, at about the same time. Yes, Jack and I are meeting for lunch.

Jack is one of those friends who knows way too much about me. When he calls for lunch, on the spur of the moment, I get in “Mean Yellow” and head north, no questions asked. 

The Town Club is a family-owned "mom-and-pop" restaurant that has been in the family since 1947. The current owner is Mark Hines. Jack and I had lunch at the restaurant about a year ago. The interior is a bit old-fashioned, but it gives us a nostalgic feeling of the 1960s and 70s, reminding us of our youth. The bar is cozy, and there's no pretentiousness here. No one acts superior or more important than anyone else.

I stumbled upon this place through a Google search about a year ago. We were searching for a peaceful spot roughly halfway between our locations, and Highland, Indiana, fit the bill. I asked Google for recommendations for a mom-and-pop restaurant, and Google said, “You need to check this place out!” After looking at their website, I found the deciding factor. 

The Town Club offers steaks, seafood, and dry-rub baby back ribs. But can it compete when it comes to drinks? You bet! The Town Club serves hand-shaken martinis with a full menu of single malt scotch and bourbons. This is definitely going to be OUR place. 

Jack is on time. He is making fun of me for taking pictures. He has his camera at the ready. You can tell he is an old man by the style of the car he drives. Is that a station wagon or an SUV? I shall allow you, the reader, to decide for yourself. I don’t want to disparage my friend by suggesting his choice of vehicle color needs to be assessed. But Jack does drink from time to time. At his age, we must remember to “Live and Let Live.” 

Yes, it’s always good to be in the presence of My Maynard. If you think I’m flamboyant, you haven’t seen anything yet regarding Mr. Maynard. We entered the bar, like Cramer slinging in a room on Seinfeld. We were happy to be alive. 

One woman sat alone at a table as Jack and I climbed onto our bar stools. I looked back at the woman sitting behind us; she was not in the mood to acknowledge our presence. She seemed intimidating to me. But women with a “stiff” demeanor have always made me pause. 

The woman sitting alone behind me at the table reminded me of Anne, the Princess Royal and daughter of Queen Elizabeth. She ate her meal with the same demeanor as Anne, but I've never dined with Anne, Princess Royal. I was apprehensive about our loud and ostentatious behavior in the Town Club. I don't want you to think I've been invited to dinner at Buckingham Palace. 

 

Lauren - (Barmaid) 

Lauren, the barmaid, was in charge of the bar during our visit this trip. We introduced ourselves with fanfare and grandeur, telling Lauren that we were from Indianapolis and Milwaukee as if we were movie stars entering a public space. We were there to tell stories, catch up on each other's lives, and pretend that life couldn’t be better. Which is an understatement. When you think of the privilege I have of having a vehicle that can take me on a two-hour road trip at the drop of a hat, enjoy the friendship of a friend, eat, drink, laugh, and joke, and return home with wonderful memories. Life is good.

The first order of business was a cocktail. Jack started off the event with Lauren, 

"I would like a Gin Martini made with Bombay Sapphire Gin, shaken with lots of ice and not stirred. Please serve it to me in a v-shaped cocktail glass to enhance the aroma. When you bring it to me, please be careful and set it down gently so as not to disturb the gin from its dutiful purpose. Also, I want you to know that I will not be allowed to order another cocktail until I leave, no matter how much I plead or beg, even if I get on my knees, shed a tear, or implore you with clasped hands in a prayerful pose. Please deny me, even if I insist on another Gin Martini."

I couldn’t help but utter softly, “Like all the other women he approaches.”  

When it was my turn to order my cocktail, I asked for 'two fingers' of my favorite Scotch. For those unfamiliar with the term, 'two fingers' refers to a measurement of whiskey in the glass. 

The term originated from the old West, where a cowboy would order a drink and have it poured to the level of the bartender's finger wrapped around the bottom of the glass. A cowboy could only hope the bartender was a little on the chunky side. Today, we use the term to mean two ounces of Scotch. The thickness of the bartender's fingers is no longer a factor in the measurement.

The Town Club offered twelve (12) different brands of single malt scotch. Jack suggested that I do the same since he was drinking premium gin. After considering all the options, we decided on bottles labeled 12-year-old cast. This means the whiskey was aged in a wooden barrel for at least 12 years. As for the price, it's best not to ask.

I have readers of this "diary" who think I can be a bit frugal. However, there is a time and place to inquire about the price of something. I was raised by a very strict mother who taught me good manners. It's not polite to ask about the cost of a neighbor's car or someone's income. If you're curious about the total of a dinner bill, it's considered good manners to offer to pay the entire bill if you pick it up to look at it. 

At that point, I decided to go with the flow. I noticed a 12-year-old Glenlivet on the shelf. I know from experience that a bottle of the 12-year-old Glenlivet costs under $40.00. I asked for two fingers of Glenlivet on the rocks. The bartender and Jack approved.

It was time to order a meal. We asked Lauren what the most popular lunch at the Town Club was without looking at the menu. 

"She was quick with an answer: 'You can’t go wrong with the steak sandwich. It comes with crispy fries. How do you want your steak prepared?' Jack and I looked at each other, and we each said, 'Medium rare.'"

“Well, Jack, we met at that sleepy little mom-and-pop bank in Speedway, Indiana. You were new, and so was I. I think I was hired in 1998, and you were a week or so behind me. I will never forget that place. When they hired me to help with their mortgage loans program, they didn’t have a desk or a chair for me to sit behind. So they told me that the president had just retired and his office was not being used, so I was told to use his office.”

“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, and you have the story all wrong.” 

“I don’t think so, my personal and very close friend.” 

"I was sitting in the opulent office of the bank president. As people walked by, they were curious about who I was. Some even asked if I was the new President. To maintain privacy, I partially closed the door, leaving it open about three to four inches. Then, Jack, you came down the hall, introducing yourself to everyone as the new Trust Officer of the bank. You were excited to be the new guy who would make this bank a ton of money."

“I think you’re over-exaggerating my enthusiasm.” 

With a smile, I lifted my tumbler of golden nectar to my lips. My mind was reconstructing that faithful day. Do I remember the details of that day, or are they made up?

Here is my side of the story: I could hear someone coming down the bank hall and getting ready to pass the Office of the President. He was loud and very excited to be a team member. I tried to put the commotion out of my mind and focus on why I was there. They didn’t have a desk, chair, or phone for me. I was confused about how I was going to operate in this environment. I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. I was, to say the least, not as excited as I should have been when this guy, walking down the hall, pushed the door to the office of the President open and said, "Excuse me, I just want to introduce myself to you. I’m a new employee; I’m your new trust officer."

I sank back into the high-backed, ox-blood-colored leather chair reserved for the President and thought, "Is this guy serious? He thinks I'm the President."

With a tone of authority, I said, "Well, come on in, Jack. Have a seat and tell me a bit about yourself. It's great to have you on the team."

Jack entered the room with an air of importance and sat in one of the luxurious side chairs, perched on the edge as if to show his utmost respect.

He began by sharing his background, including his previous work and his desire to succeed. Jack hailed from Wisconsin and had a wife, children, grandchildren, and a deaf son. He took pride in his life and was honored to be a part of the bank's team.

It was becoming embarrassing. He really believed I was the President. I needed to find a way to steer this conversation in a different direction.

"Jack, could you please go to the office door and close it all the way? I'd like to have a private conversation with you." Jack almost jumped up from his chair. He closed the door very gently and returned to his seat.

"Jack, lean back in your chair and relax. I want to tell you a story. I'm not the President of this bank. You are trying to impress a nobody. I'm a new sales guy in the mortgage loan area who doesn't have a desk or a chair. They put me in here until they can figure it out. Now, what do you have to say to me?"

Jack sat there for a few seconds and then began to laugh. I started to laugh, too. I asked Jack, "Are all banks like this?"

He laughed even louder. He then said, 

“You want to get a drink after work?” 

I said, "There is a half-empty bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses left in the President's desk. What's wrong with a snort right now?"

So, there you have it. We became friends thirty-four years ago, in the President's office.

Duncan - Jack Maynard - Tampa - Jan 2, 2004  

Jack was always on the move. He didn't stay at the mom-and-pop bank for long. I'm curious to know who left first, him or me. Jack relocated to Tampa and invited me to his home almost every New Year's. Then he moved to Seattle and asked me for New Year's weekend. Jack and his wife are back where they started, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Jack Maynard - Duncan

I know a few of you want to know about the bill. In a previous post (Story: Derailed in Fishers), it seemed I got hit with a liquor bill that cost me $32.00 for two fingers of Scotch. Well, while it’s not acceptable to talk about Religion, Politics, or Sex in polite company, I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that we asked Lauren to split the bill down the middle. My half came to $30.00. 

Before we left the building, we agreed we needed to have lunch more often. How about twice a year? Lauren suggested once a quarter. We looked at each other and smiled.  

DERAILED IN FISHERS

DERAILED IN FISHERS

By Duncan

 

It’s been years since I have seen Dave. 

PHOTOGRAPHER:  STEVE BARRY 2007

 

Dave and I first met at an A.L. Williams Seminar. Arthur L. Williams's father passed away from a heart attack, leaving the family underinsured with a whole life insurance policy. Five years later, Arthur learned about the concept of term life insurance. He harbored bitterness about what had happened to his father and his family. On February 10, 1977, Art established the company A.L. Williams & Associates.

I was a mortgage lender, and Dave was a pharmacist. We were young and eager to make a difference, so we became “Associates” (Salespeople) to share the good news that there was another way to beat the system.

A.L. Williams' pitch was to dump your whole life insurance, buy term life insurance, invest the difference, and build wealth. Dave and I both bought into the concept. 

Selling life insurance door-to-door is more challenging than it sounds. Today, A.L. Williams's company is One Primerica (NYSE: PRI). One can only assume Art sold the company and made a tidy profit. Dave and I continued to work in mortgages and pharmacy.

What better way to catch up on our lives than to have lunch? In the old days, I would say, "Have your girl call my girl and schedule lunch." However, being retired, Dave most likely doesn’t have a "My Girl." Come to think of it, we are both retired, and neither of us has a “Girl.”

Wait a minute. There might be an AI program that could read my mind and do that for me. I keep hearing that artificial intelligence (AI) will take over the world. I sat in front of my desktop computer and focused on my computer screen. I sent a telepathic message. “Hook me up with a program.” I held my breath as the little wheel on my computer screen began to turn. And suddenly…

The AI Schedule Generator creates personalized schedules tailored to your lifestyle and preferences, whether for work, gym, diet, or weddings. We already know you want lunch with Dave Blair. By understanding your specific needs, the AI Schedule Generator ensures your schedule aligns with your circadian and natural rhythms.

The words "lifestyle, preferences, and specific needs" were slightly off-putting. I don't want this AI program to know much about my lifestyle and preferences. What if I wanted to run for President of the United States? I decided to call Dave myself.

"Want to have lunch and catch up?"

"Sure, where and when?"

"There is a new 116-room, thirty-million-dollar building in downtown Fishers called the Nickel Plate Hotel. I hear it’s quite fancy. It has a dining room, a bar, and even a pub. How about we check it out?"

The lobby of the Nickle Plate Hotel.  

Gift area of the Nickle Plate Hotel. 

I noticed the young woman standing behind her computer at the reservation desk. I walked over and asked.  

"How's business?"

"Oh, it's great, we are very happy."

When I heard that response, I thought, ‘We’ have a wonderful employee behind the reservation desk. Full of life and ready to offer the quality service that the Dora Hotel Company, managed by the Hilton Tapestry Collection, is expected to deliver, I was impressed.

"Care to share your occupancy rate?"

"I don't mind, we are at 86%."

"Wow, the hotel is brand new (March 2024), and you're 68% full? Are most of the guests' construction types or other?"

"I don't believe we have any construction workers staying with us. Eli Lilly, Roche, and others stay with us."

I left the conversation thinking, "It’s unusual for an employee to answer questions so quickly and with authority." The occupancy rate must be on everyone's mind. You expect a return on investment when you invest thirty million in a building. There is no profit if 116 rooms remain unoccupied. 

The rooms are listed online between $137.00 and $179.00, but don’t forget about the lodging tax, stay tax, room tax, tourist tax, or hotel tax. In Indiana, that number is (5%) five percent.

James E. Dora Sr.       Tim Dora

Who or what is Dora? The company started as General Hotels Corporation, founded by James E. Dora, Sr., in 1962. Over the years, the family has managed over twenty hotels at one time or another. 

Jim was deeply devoted to Indianapolis. He served on the Capital Improvements Board and played a key role in developing Market Square Arena, The Hoosier Dome, and the relocation of the Colts from Baltimore to Indianapolis in 1984. 

Sadly, James passed away on June 27, 2016, at the age of eighty. Tim represents the company's leadership following the resolution of a family lawsuit regarding fiduciary responsibilities at the time of James E. Dora's passing.

I was seated in the dining room, waiting for Dave to arrive. Gabby, my waitress, brought me a tall glass of water and asked if I needed anything. I told her I was waiting for a guest to join me. 

Dave entered the room and sat across from me in a booth. 

Duncan - Dave Blair

I asked Gabby if she could take a picture with my Samsung S-23 cell phone. Dave and I quickly transitioned from discussing the late 1970s to today. We chatted about family, travel, business, and our future plans. 

When Gabby came to our table, she asked if we wanted to order. I inquired about the soup of the day, which turned out to be hamburger and cheese soup or French Onion Soup.

I ordered a small cup of French onion soup for $7.00, and Dave ordered the corned beef sandwich with crispy French fries for $16.00. I was having such a good time that I decided to have a cocktail. 

I asked Gabby if they stocked the Famous Grouse, but she looked confused. Then I asked if the bar had Johnnie Walker Red, and she looked at her electronic tablet and said, "We have Johnnie Walker Black."

 

I should have known this was going to be an experience. I ended up agreeing to Glenmorangie 12. Gabby asked if I wanted a large, clear ice cube in my tumbler. I thought, "Oh boy, this will be expensive."

 

“Sure, load me up.”

Dave Blair  -  Gabby 

The Glenmorangie 12 was smooth—really a taste treat. The French onion soup was excellent. I would order the French onion again. Dave was happy with his sandwich. 

There were three other people in the place having lunch. It's a great place to meet if you want to talk. It’s brand new, quiet, clean and inviting. Prices are not that bad in today's inflationary market. 

Now, having said that I got the bill. My cocktail, a Glenmorangie 12-year-old, which was two ounces of Scotch with a large ice cube, was priced at $32.00. 

Now I know why they named this bar “DERAILED.”

THE HYPHEN

THE HYPHEN

By Duncan 

I found an open pew at Bethel United Methodist Church in Indianapolis on a Saturday morning as the service was about to begin. 

Bob Mason, a high school classmate of mine, had been moved to hospice. I considered him a friend, and I believe he considered me a friend, too. When a person is moved to hospice, it usually means the end of life is near. Not always, but in most cases, hospice is the last move we make before we surrender to the unknown. This concept of 'surrendering to the unknown' makes me ponder my own life.  

A week later, I received a call from John Etchison, another 1962 high school classmate.  He took a deep breath and hesitated. I knew what he was about to say. Bob had passed. The service arrangements, or the Celebration of Life as it’s called these days, will be announced when more information is available. 

The Celebration was set to be held on Saturday morning in this small Methodist Church on the northwest side of Indianapolis. I left home early so I wouldn’t be late for the 11:00 AM service. 

While I don’t know every minute detail of Bob’s life, I do know that it was significant. He visited me in North Fort Myers, Florida, during a road trip, and we spent a couple of days together. We laughed, ate good food, and I showed him the sights. I remember the time he made a prohibitive U-turn in his big blue Cadillac, which led to us being pulled over by the police. The flashing red and blue lights at night brought attention to our mistake, but it also highlighted the vibrancy of Bob's life.  

As the pastor stood behind the podium, he began by sharing the numbers that bookended Bob’s life: his date of birth and death. But it was his words about the hyphen that truly resonated. He pointed out that a graveyard lay across the street from the church, and if you were to walk through it, you would notice the headstones. Each one bore the name of the deceased, the date of birth, a hyphen, and the date of death.

He said that the three-inch hyphen represents an entire life. It's a stark reminder of life's brevity and the need to make the most of our time.

It wasn't difficult for me to imagine the headstones in the graveyard across the street. The pastor was correct. That three-inch hyphen between the dates represents an entire life.

How is that possible? The family sees the hyphen as brother, sister, husband, father, and grandfather. Bob was blessed with four children, fifteen grandchildren, and twenty-one great-grandchildren. 

The pastor reminded us of Bob’s good works: high school, Air Force, firefighter, and church member. Sitting in the sanctuary was interesting, listening to a friend's good works and thinking, “I didn’t know that about Bob!” Then, it was mentioned that he didn’t want a celebration or a tribute to his life. (I get that!) But here we are.

As I sat in the church, I couldn't help but internalize what would happen when I die. What will be said about me after I am gone? What will be my hyphen? These are questions that we all ponder at some point in our lives, and they carry a weight that is both universal and deeply personal.

I often use this scenario when someone loses a job. Make a fist, put your hand in a bucket of water, and then pull your hand out of the water as fast as possible. Observe how quickly the hole in the water disappears. Will my hyphen be the hand that leaves the bucket of water? 

As I sit listening to the pastor talk about life in general, he is now talking about the “afterlife,” or, in plain English, what happens after we die. I can’t help but think, I don’t want to go there just yet. I’m thinking about ‘this right-now life.’ Yes, I want to focus on my living, breathing "Hyphen."

If I hold a magnifying glass over my hyphen, is my hyphen three inches long? Do I have an inch to go? Of course, we all ponder such things at some point. 

My hyphen was Public School #49 to Pike High School, then college, the Air Force, marriage, and growing a family. My father always told me I needed to prioritize my life—God, Family, and Work, in that order. 

So, do we have the same experience? 

The first twenty years:  Education. 

The next forty years: Work, earning a living. 

The last twenty years:  Coast. Enjoy life. 

Yes, this is an oversimplification.  

I watched "The Elevation of Man" on YouTube the other night. They mentioned that the first known handprint on a cave wall dates back around 200,000 years. This indicates someone wanted to be remembered after they were gone. Additionally, other cave art dates back 40,000 years. 

Why is it important that we be remembered? I have experienced the deaths of my grandparents and parents. I have pictures scattered across the house of everyone I just mentioned. So, is it my way of remembering or a tribute to my life? It’s not hard to realize it will happen to me, too. As I age, my high school classmates and close friends continue to leave ahead of me, a constant reminder that life is only three inches long.