LAKE WAWASEE

 LAKE WAWASEE  

By Duncan 

The Indiana weather was hot and humid but not uncomfortable. I waited for the stoplight to turn green. I then pulled out on the main thoroughfare to the Interstate highway, trying to remember where Lake Wawasee was located.  

Of Course, with all my years living in Indiana, I don’t think I have ever been to Lake Wawasee. What do I know about the place before I decide to go there?

I pulled “Mean Yellow” over on the shoulder of the Interstate entrance ramp. I was hesitant to head to a place suggested to me by a guy in a Mexican Restaurant wearing a long-sleeve flannel shirt in the middle of summer, whom I don’t know. Sure, does this sound like a great idea? 

I checked to see if my vehicle would be in harm's way. I didn’t want to get rear-ended by a big semi-tractor-trailer truck, so I asked Google, “Where is Lake Wawasee?” 

I realized Lake Wawasee is “north-ish.” Lake Wawasee is between Fort Wayne and South Bend. I didn’t realize there was a Syracuse, Indiana. The only Syracuse that came to my mind was Syracuse, New York. 

Of Course, Google offers more information. The Lake has twenty-five miles (25 miles) of shoreline. Three thousand (3,000) residents are full-time, and thirty-five thousand (35,000) are seasonal. One thousand four hundred (1,400) homes face the lake. The lake is seventy-five feet deep (75 Feet) in the middle and is the largest natural lake in Indiana.     

This place sounds like a weekend retreat for outdoor activities: Google promised lots of fishing, boating, hiking, biking, and water activities. I assume that means people swim, intertube, and ski in the lake, too. This magnificent body of mine was not built for “strenuous outdoor activities.” 

I remember a female friend inviting me to her weekend cabin on a lake in northern Indiana. I honestly don’t remember the lake's name. I was thrilled with the invitation. I anticipated a quiet few moments overlooking a lake with abundant food and plenty of liquid refreshment. 

I was told that the other draw would be the women attending. They would be modeling skimpy swimming suit attire. My host had all the toys. Her biggest toy was her speedboat, parked at the dock just down the path from the front porch. 

She pleaded with me to come and enjoy the fun of a boat ride up and down the lake. After a couple of adult beverages to relax my reluctance, I walked down the hill to the boat dock. Of course, this required me to overlook the slimy lime-green algae in the water around the dock. If I made a misstep on the wet, slick boat dock, I would end up in the water, which I assume was only waist-deep. I had zero desire to be in a natural lake with lime-green algae. And who knows what else is swimming around in the water beside me? To say I was hesitant would be an understatement.  

As I approached the boat dock, the women were trying their best to make the long-legged reach from the boat dock to the inside of the speedboat with sufficient grace. This reality allowed my eyes to see more than I had anticipated in the way of the female form. The trend for women was to wear the latest fashion that exposed most of their bodies. It was a pleasant few moments for me standing on a wet, slick boat dock. It was then my turn to attempt to gain style points traversing the long-legged move from the boat dock to the inside of a speedboat. I was able to make the long stretch without embarrassment. 

The purpose of a speedboat is to go as fast as possible from one end of the lake to the other, then turn around and go the other way. The wind and the constant pounding of the boat's hull on the water made me aware that I had kidneys. It was all I could do to maintain my civility and accept my fate of being a prisoner in this open-air death trap. 

The ride was over, and we moved close to the boat dock. Others jumped out of the boat, grabbed the lines, and pulled the boat close to the dock. Excited and jubilant at the experience, most expressed their enthusiasm. I waited my turn, and when my feet touched solid ground, I was relieved to be back on God’s terra firma. I replenished my cocktail glass to steady my nerves and interred myself to a large wicker deck chair on the front porch.

“How much fun was that, Duncan?” 

I smiled and took a sip of my Scotch. I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I smiled and nodded to the comment. My host noticed my reluctance to offer a grandiose endorsement. 

As the day became almost evening, the food and drink were plentiful. My female host approached me and asked if I enjoyed the boat ride. We were somewhat alone. The others were inside the cabin laughing and enjoying the evening. I was placid about my expression on the boat ride around the lake. 

“Duncan, if you were me, and I realized you’re not. But, if you owned this place, what would you consider an acceptable boat ride? I get the feeling it was not your most pleasurable experience.”

“If I owned this place, I would change nothing about the cabin. It’s lovely and comfortable, and the lake view from this porch deck is more than I could have hoped for. But I guess I’m not an outdoor kind of guy.” 

“Well, you haven’t answered my question.”  

“What do you want to know? What kind of boat would I own?” 

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about boats. Look, you and the other women are walking around half-naked. I can’t complain about the scenery. I can’t tell you what fun it is to see you gals strut your stuff. The cocktails are wonderful, and the food is great. 

How about bringing the food and cocktails on board a pontoon-type boat with a canopy to shield the sun and move slowly around the lake? You have magnificent homes facing the water. Each one is a masterpiece of opulence and grandeur. I would call puttering around the lake with a cocktail in hand “My Style.” But this is your place, your special hideaway, not mine. I’m a guest here. And I thank you for inviting me.” 

My host and I have reminded friends for years. The following year, I was invited back to the cabin. And lo and behold, there was a pontoon boat with a canopy sitting by the boat dock. The alcohol, soft drinks, and food were moved to the boat. She even bought a brand-new bikini. 

“Will this work for you, Duncan?” 

We boated around the lake slowly, looking at the multi-million dollar homes, eating and drinking, and enjoying all the views a man could ever want. 

Thinking back to the “good old days,” I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to Lake Wawasee. What would I find there? Certainly not an invitation to join someone in their million-dollar home. Was it going to be worth the trip? I realized I was doing something I shouldn’t do. 

I was already deciding I wouldn’t have a good time if I went to the Lake, and I chastised myself. This is not how I find adventure. I’ve always believed you walk through the doors of life without any expectations. It’s been proven to me that I will find something new that I have never experienced before. 

People will be open if I’m open. It’s just been my modus operandi. But, like everyone, I sometimes question what I’m about to do. Which I have been known not to do. And it has led, on occasion, to disappointment. But I try to balance the “walk through the door” as opposed to thinking too much about the negative side of life. 

I pointed the “Mean Yellow” toward Lake Wawasee. I won’t know if I will like the place. If I don’t go, then I will never know. It took a couple of hours to get to the lake area. I looked at the street map on my cell phone and decided to drive around the lake. It was uneventful. Most of the homes had the same floor plan. The homes have elegant driveways to the garage doors. The houses are designed to complement the lake views. The living is on the lakeside. The world is shut out on the nonlake view side of the home. 

I found an interesting restaurant and decided to have a late lunch. 

 

Frog Tavern has been in business since 1932. It started as a warming house for ice fishermen. I’m not sure what a “Warming House” is, but I can only assume with the tavern being on the water, men ice fishing on frozen Lake Wawasee, more than likely said to themselves, 

“What the hell am I doing out here when it’s warm in there? Maybe I could have a few beers, too.” 

The tavern has undergone several renovations, including one in the mid-1990s that made it a popular weekend destination for young people. The “Frog” can be accessed by car, boat, or on foot. 

I decided to move down the road. Again, I didn’t have a strong vibration for the area. I’m sure Lake Wawasee is loved by many, and people love water activities. Was I disappointed? Yes and no. 

I realize people all over the world are living their lives the way they want to live them. Then, I pause. 

Are we really? Do we live “our lives” or how “others” expect us to live? Some call it peer pressure. 

In the first twenty years, you perform to the cadence of your parents.

The next twenty years consist of education, work environments, family, church, and politics, leading you to the next twenty years.

At this point, man is halfway there. Some realize they need to make changes. The next twenty years will be a little more relaxed. 

Now it’s time to retire or think about retiring. You buy that weekend cottage on the lake. And you coast to the sounds of family, neighbors, and friends who have accepted you for who you are. Hopefully. And just who are we are we at this age?    

I truly enjoy being close to the water's edge and listening to the waves pulsate the plant’s heartbeat. The waves never stop; they keep moving in and out. I have been known to sit by the sea for hours, thinking the waves will stop shortly. I place my imaginary stethoscope on the water and listen to the rhythmic pounding of the water. 

I want to believe the waves are talking to me; if only I could interpret the message, much like a doctor who listens to my heart to determine if I’m well. I realize I have yet to receive Earth’s warnings of my demise.  

That fatal message might be revealed to me on my last dying breath. Then again, will death be nothing more than an on-off switch where the computer screen goes dark?  

I need not focus on my last breath. I need to live. That’s why I’m on the road. I need/want big water. At this point in my road trip, the closest big water is Lake Michigan. I point “Mean Yellow” in that direction. 

ROAD TRIP TO NOWHERE

 ROAD TRIP TO NOWHERE

By DUNCAN

The bedroom was shrouded in darkness, and something bumped against my bed. The mystery of another day of life was about to start. I quickly opened and closed my eyes to check the neon green numbers on the nightstand alarm clock. Do I or don’t I? 

I was still deciding whether to follow through with my plans at this early hour. Barney, the five-year-old Golden Retriever, was asleep, repositioning his body to be “at the ready,” anticipating the inevitable.  

If I moved under the sheets, Barney would know I was awake. Like most canines, his agenda isn’t demonstrating love, although I believe the hairy seventy-pound beast adores me. “Man’s Best Friend/s” agenda concerns where the next meal comes from. When you think they love you, you realize they are in love with what you can provide: provisions.  

Barney was lying on the floor next to my bed. If I moved or made a turn, it might lead him to believe I was getting out from under the sheets. If I move, he will be “at the ready,” with his tail wagging, his mouth open, masquerading his expression as if it were a huge grin, his eyes bright with excitement. He will pretend I’m the most important human in the world. But in reality, it’s all about F-O-O-D.  

The night before, I had crammed a few days of clothing into a small brown fabric bag in case I decided to leave early in the morning. I could then decide in the morning if I hit the road. I hadn’t been on a road trip in months, and I thought it was time to get away from the hum-dumb, monotonous, and tedious world of the talking heads on television telling me what I should think. Truthfully, I didn’t want to think anything for a few days. 

Politics, Social Media, Jimmy Swaggart, and the mainstream media have become a plague upon my libido. They infect my soul. A mature man (like myself) needs the stimulus of watching the world close up without filters and making my own decisions about how America is behaving. Forced smiles on every television channel bore me. 

Of course, there is the economy. I’m told one thing on one channel, and I’m told something else on another channel. I know I’m buying a dozen eggs at $2.50 when they used to be under a dollar—the stark reality of the grocery store. 

Who wants my attention? They all want my attention. There are fifteen thousand radio stations (15,445) and more than fifty (50) free-to-air television networks, including the “Big Four” ABC, CBS, NBC, and FOX. There are also one hundred thirty-three million (133,361,676) websites in the United States. Don’t forget the Blogs you can read. (including this one.) Blogs are a crowded market, too. Thirty-two million (32 million Blogs) are seeking our attention.  

To top it off, I have over a thousand streaming channels on my fiber internet cable entering my home. All of them are just a Google keystroke away from telling me what they think. 

What is it, “I” think? Have I lost the ability to think for myself? 

Much to Barney's amazement, I pulled the covers back and set my feet on the floor. I’m at an age where I take a few seconds to allow my body to adjust to a vertical position. I said to myself, 

“Gosh, I shouldn’t have had those cocktails last night.” 

Then I think, “What a minute, I didn’t have any cocktails last night.”    

I tossed the canvas bags in the 2007 Mean Yellow Pontiac Solstice Two-Seat Super Charged GXP Hot Rod. (Yes, I have readers of this Blog who just hate when I talk “Mean Yellow.”)  They tell me, “I hate when you do that! Why do you do that? Just call it a car.”   

There is always that last challenge when I start a road trip—the moment when I pull the seat belt across my chest, put the “CAR” in first gear, push the electric garage door remote, and watch the garage door slowly move to the ground in my rearview mirror. This is the moment of freedom. 

I feel the same way a cowboy does when he mounts his strong, spirited, and swift stallion. I recheck my gear position and establish (in my mind) that I’m on my horse. I let the clutch out slowly and move forward—I am officially “On the Road.” 

I started this trip wondering where I would end up. At times, the beauty of a road trip is not knowing what lies ahead. Years ago, a road trip meant deciding whether to go left, right, or straight at each intersection. I decided to head north. I had water on my mind. But I was also aware of Lake Cumberland and Kentucky Lake, south. A Mississippi River town is also a possibility if I head west.    

No matter where I go, I use the super slab. Years ago, when I first started riding a motorcycle, I would go on a road trip with a handful of guys. The “Suber Slab” (Interstate highways) was a “no, no!” 

We took the back roads of America. I loved the smell of the guy cutting his grass on a lonely two-lane road. The wind, the smells, the curves, the adventure of the next turn—it was all new to me. I was alive with the excitement of simply getting there. Getting there was as much fun as being there. 

I remember a motorcycle trip where we headed to Nashville and rode through a little valley on a two-lane road at about forty miles an hour. We had Citizens Band Radios and could talk with each other as we went down the road. 

All of a sudden, we smelled Barbecue. It was such a strong smell that we decided to turn around and see where the smell was coming from. We followed our noses. A small town off the main road was having a neighborhood gathering and had several fires going simultaneously. Ribs were on the grill—lots of ribs. 

We pulled up to the event and sat on our bikes. A guy came up to us and asked timidly who we were. We each removed our helmets, and he immediately had a smile on their face. I vividly remember the look on his face when he saw our expression. The menacing look of two guys in full motorcycle gear may have been a little intimidating.   

“We are on our way to Nashville, smelled the Barbecue and decided to see who was making that wonderful smell.” 

“Well, get off your bikes and join us for some of the best barbecue ribs you have ever eaten.”  

I’ll never forget the fun we had for an hour eating barbecue and talking to the locals. We offered a twenty-dollar bill for what we ate, and they would have nothing to do with our money. They said they enjoyed talking to us. Really. They enjoyed talking to us? 

It’s always amazing to me when you stop and smell the roses; it can be an enjoyable experience. Lesson learned: Stop and look around. There is good everywhere. 

About an hour into my trip, I decided to stop for breakfast. Normally, I stop at a Micky-Dee for an Egg McMuffin. 

The Egg McMuffin is a breakfast treat for me. The sandwich is sold by the fast-food restaurant McDonald's. It was invented in 1972 by Herb Peterson to resemble Eggs Benedict, a traditional American breakfast dish with English Muffins, Ham, Eggs, and Hollandaise Sauce. I’m wondering when I last had Hollandaise Sauce on my Egg McMuffin. NEVER! I think the cheese replaced the Hollandaise Sauce. 

I pulled off the Super Slab (Interstate 65 to Chicago) in Lafayette, Indiana. I decided I wanted a sit-down breakfast. I remembered a little Mexican Coffee House behind a Shell gas station, so I decided to see if they were still in business. 

I walked into the place, and it was as I remembered—clean and comfortable. The first thing I noticed was the pickup trucks outside. Inside the pickup truck, types were dressed in bib overalls and baseball caps and sitting at the community table talking trash. The ring leader was an extremely big man with a belly to match his big personality. All four men turned and looked at the new guy who just entered the building, which was me. I smiled at them and gave them a minimalist two-finger salute as I touched my forehead. They nodded and began talking among themselves again. I passed the test as a nonoffensive or aggressive personality. You can’t be too careful who enters the space these days.  

I found a comfortable table in the middle of the restaurant. My waitress, Contina, was as cute as a button. She was in her mid-to-late twenties, had solid black hair, was thin, and had a professional smile. She stood an appropriate distance from my table. This was my cue that this was going to be a respectful relationship.  

She had a slight Spanish dialect in her voice. I made eye contact with her as I ordered my eggs. When I finished ordering, I used her name on her uniform. I do notice other people occasionally who never engage the staff. Who never look at the waitress or waiter. I know it’s not always comfortable for some people who might be shy, but I still notice they treat waitresses like non-persons at times.   

At the risk of offending people who dislike a picture of food, I say, “Get over it.” I had one person tell me, 

“If I need a restaurant review, I can always go to Yelp! I don’t need you giving me information about restaurants.” 

This is the same guy who told me he uses coupons for fast-food restaurants. He also told me he got upset about a fifty-cent ($.50) upcharge on a five-dollar meal. He got so upset that he told the staff behind the counter that he wanted to talk to the manager about the upcharge. I listened and decided it would be futile to continue the conversation. No, I don’t know or don’t care what the outcome of his upcharge was.  

The men sitting at the community table were thirty feet away, but I could hear every word the men were talking about. The Big Man spoke with authority as if every word was stamped with reliable authenticity. He had an opinion about everything. He would share his profound knowledge with the men at the table and the rest of the restaurant, whether I wanted his opinions with my over-easy eggs or not. I thought to myself. This is America, where we are in the world of Social Media. Social Media has taught us that everyone has an opinion, and it is now acceptable to share it. They can shout their opinions from the rooftops, and I must listen.  

He reminded me of the father character in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. Big Daddy Politt (Played by Burl Ives), I tried to shut his voice out of conciseness. I placed my finger on the volume control on my hearing aids and lowered the volume to the lowest level. He was dismissed. He was gone. I was on a road trip to escape the cuttler of politics, war, news, and current events. I wanted time alone for myself, and here again, was a loud, overbearing voice with an opinion. 

It was time for me to leave. I was in no hurry; I had watched the other people in the restaurant turn and look at the community table as the conversation heated. They left the restaurant without the slightest look at the table of men. The subtle look on their faces told me they had the same feeling I had. We all came in for breakfast, and the Big Man was a distraction. I’m sure this might be a daily group of men who start their day by repeating the same stories over and over. Where do they get their opinions? What are they listening to? What programs do they consider credible? Look, I was not on my turf. I was a guest in this restaurant. I am a once-in-a-lifetime guest. “Roll with it, Duncan.”   

I asked for my check, and Contina asked if I needed a coffee. I thanked her and said, “No.” 

As I walked to the registers at the front. I passed two gentlemen sitting behind me in a booth. I had not seen them for a while; they were not in my field of view while I ate breakfast. 

As I walked away from my table, I gave the man facing me a “Good Morning” and a small smile. He said something to me, and I realized he was talking to me. I stopped, raised the volume on my hearing aids, and asked him again, “I’m sorry I had my hearing aids turned down. Did you say something to me?” 

Yes, Good morning. Are you a fan of Formula One?” 

It was an unusual question. Why would he start a conversation about Formula One with me? 

The person on the right asked if I followed Formula One Racing. I said a little, but not very much. I noticed the crash where the car went sideways and ended upside down, which gave me the credibility to believe I knew something about Formula One racing.

“Are you an official of Formula One?” 

I looked at the two men and realized they were pals. I asked, “Do you two know each other?” 

The man who stopped me did all the talking. The other fellow sitting on the other side of the booth was a very tall, thin man with a balding head and a T-shirt that had been washed way too many times. They both looked to be in their mid to late seventies. The man who stopped me also had on a T-shirt with a logo of some sort, but he also had on a brown checked flannel shirt open in the front. He wore expensive eyeglasses and was polished in the way he asked me questions. He was not afraid of asking questions. 

“Yes, we have known each other for … huh … forty years, I think.

“Why do you ask me about Formula One Racing?”  

Well, you have on a shirt that has all the logos, so I assume you either do or did have a relationship with Formula One. 

 

As it turned out, they were looking at my shirt, which had racing patches and logos on the sleeves and front. 

“You might be an official of the racing community.” 

I had forgotten I had this very official-looking polo shirt on today. 

I realized I must look like a guy who knows racing, and I was hesitant to tell him the truth. 

“Well, let me put your mind at rest: My wife likes to shop at Goodwill. She brings home shirts all the time. I try them on. If they fit, I keep them; if not, she takes them back. I believe she paid two dollars ($2.00) for this shirt. I hate to disappoint you with that news.” 

“Is that your Yellow Car in the parking lot?” 

“Yes.”

“Where are you from, and where are you going, if I can ask?”

“That’s a good question. I’m from Fishers, Indiana. I’m on a road trip to nowhere. Do you have suggestions on where I should go for a few days?”   

“What are you thinking?”   

“Water.” 

“Well, Lake Wawasee has a good-sized lake.” 

“Have you been there recently?” 

“No, not for a couple of years. But I’m sure a guy like you will find it interesting.”

We talked for about fifteen minutes, and I bid them a good day. I paid my bill. (About ten dollars.)  

And I waived to them as I was leaving.  

I climbed into my Mean Yellow and pulled out my cell phone. 

“Google, take to me Lake Wawasee.”