Category: Uncategorized

“In his hands is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind”. Job 12:10

I welcomed the opportunity to attend Robin Hood school during the month of July. This prestigious academy was taught by Betty and Bobby Robin, who chose an ornamental tree in our yard to raise a brood of babies. These colorful songbirds provided an insight into parenting and the order of life that most folks take for granted. They are great parents and I hope they return and raise more babies for our “hood”. This is their story.

We first noticed the nest in our little tree around the first of July. When we detected it, there were four blue eggs and mom. I had no idea that mating Robins stay together during the entire mating season and often return to the same nesting site, particularly if they are successful. About 11 days later, 3 baby robins appeared. The fourth egg is lost to obscurity, however, the three hatchlings kept Betty and Bobby plenty busy. We became concerned the dry and very hot weather would impact their food supply and augmented their rations with fresh mealworms. Just as humans do, they returned to the mealworm bowl often and entertained us with their ability to carry several worms at a time to the nest where they carefully fed the kids, one at a time. Humans will also return to a free food site, eschewing working to earn their food for the prospect of easy food. Human motivation, however, is far different.

The adults, at first, raised hell if we went around the nest, but gradually accepted our presence and would not attempt to lure us away from the site. Their resilience is something to behold. A harsh thunderstorm failed to dissuade them and the heat seemed to cause no harm. About two weeks after hatching, the food truck was kept really busy and we sensed it was getting time. As if on a schedule, all three babies jumped the nest at the same time and scurried across the back of the house, where two fell into the crawl space well, obviously bewildered at their misfortune. I anticipated this, found them and gently removed them to a corner of our yard where they ran to cover. Betty and Bobby watched this rescue from the peak of our roof, and seemed to indicate their approval, or concern as the case may be, by chirping right along. These little guys are now in day two of the most perilous time of their lives, as their ability to strongly fly takes about ten days to develop. We have not seen them since, and I honestly miss them. Most Robins die in their first year and only the strong live to be five or six years old in the wild. I appreciate Betty and Bobby letting us in their family circle……..

The existence of these little guys is due to innate instinct. When I rescued the pair from the well, one opened his beak thinking the shadow of my hand was mom, bringing food, while the other wanted nothing to do with me. Lesson? Kids are different and allowances must be made. In spite of their personalities, they jumped the nest together into the uncertain world that awaited them, hopefully to raise their own babies in a year or so. Betty and Bobby are close by, providing post jump guidance.

Here is my take away. In my earlier life, I was too busy to consider the struggle that nature demands from it’s participants. Sure, I have always known Mother Nature has a cruel side and rewards the fittest of each of her critters, but I did not stop and consider that each creature in our world has a story behind them. Thank you God, for providing me an opportunity later in life, to study and appreciate the world around me. It is raining hard as I write this, again testing the strength of three little Robins who saw the light of day for the first time just under two weeks ago. I will always wonder if they made it…and will never look at a Robin the same way again.

Have a great week.

SR

…..in small town America and big city America. There is also tremendous division among Americans as to who can talk about it and who cannot. Such is the case when Jason Aldean, a terrific CW entertainer, released his video featuring the obvious. Pack mentality, with the accompanying violence that thrives in the under policed urban population doesn’t gain traction in rural America. Rural folks constitute about 20% of Americans while urban folks constitute the rest. Aldean’s message is clear, don’t bring your riotous behavior to the country, as we aren’t likely to turn the other cheek. We enjoy our peace, and value our neighborhoods and our neighbors. Walking our dogs on the town square after dark on a summer evening doesn’t present the threat such activity does in the big cities. Jason Aldean’s reward for pointing out the obvious? He has been labeled a racist, accused of promoting gun violence, accused of being pro-lynching, taken off of CMT, and harpooned by social media torpedoes. Interesting…and pure bull-squirt.

Jason Aldean suggests that sucker punching someone on a sidewalk, carjacking an old lady at a red light or pulling a gun on the owner of a liquor store will all be met with a response not favorable to the actor if these things occur in a small town. He suggests that rural Americans are loathe to spit in a cops face, stomp on the flag or have our guns gathered up by the government. Heady stuff, and any casual watcher of the 6 o’clock news knows these occurrences are de-rigor for urban life. Racist? No, he suggests nothing about color being a consideration, instead focusing on behavior. Yet he is being castigated for promoting the peace and tranquility small towns love.

Consider the alternative. No one is complaining about the violence being promoted in the vulgarest of terms by the various rap artists who flood the airwaves with their race baiting, woman demeaning, anti-police work. Their music is commonly labeled “Porno Rap”, “Sex Rap” or “Booty Rap”. Lyrics featuring lines such as “your chop suey ass will be a target” exist in this “artistic” form of expression. A rap song was released that offered the following tribute to one of the 9-11 hijackers, “I worship the prophet/the great Mohammed Omar Atta for his courage behind the wheel of the airplane……” Where was the outcry when this blatant violence inciting rhetoric was memorialized in what has loosely been described as music? Google the lyrics for rap music and be prepared to be shocked. Nothing is off limits. Dehumanizing filth permeates this form of music. The difference is Jason Aldean wears a straw hat, plays a guitar and loves America, therefore he must be a racist.

Jason Aldean will continue to suffer the consequences for pointing out the differences between the rural and urban centers of our country. I would suggest you take a long hard look before you opine about the meaning of his lyrics. One thing is sure, the 20% of America that resides in or near small towns do so for a reason. You won’t see some hopped up jug head running around town tearing down our flags, referring to our women as female dogs and spitting on our police officers. Somebody will take exception and your conduct and you will not be made to feel welcome. That my friends is the way it is and will always be.

You can bet on it.

SR

The older residents of Shanksville, Pa. remember the morning of September 11, 2001 with bell clear alacrity. They speak of the roar of a Boeing 757-222 as it passed overhead at an altitude of a few hundred feet and sensed a tragedy was unfolding. Soon the roar was silenced by the sound of a tremendous impact followed by billowing black smoke arising from the site where 40 passengers and crew were killed instantly at the hands of al-Qaeda terrorists. Sharon, Tazzy and I spent an afternoon at the National Park memorializing this horrid event located in the quiet Pennsylvania countryside. It left an impression that will be with us until the end of our time.

The memorial site is beautiful in it’s simplicity, with a walking tour that sets out the timeline and circumstances of this event. The photos and actual artifacts recovered from an impact with the ground at some 500 MPH will stop you in your tracks as you relive the event in chronological order. The largest piece of the airplane recovered was about 5’ in length and width and the largest human remain was a portion of a human backbone evident at the precise point of impact. In a nano-second the hijackers were on their way to hell and the passengers to their reward guaranteed in our Christian faith. The passengers knew that death was a near certainty and actual voice recordings of several passenger’s last conversation with love ones, via cell phones, was heart rending. This flight began at 8:42 AM and ended shortly after 10:00 AM when the hijackers were attacked by passengers led by Mr. Todd Beamer, determined to have a say in their demise, one way or another.

We must never forget that a big part of the world as we know it hates America. They hate our freedoms, our wealth and our power. This park reminds you of the price we pay as a result of this hatred. Most of us are familiar with the circumstances surrounding this act of cowardice, but to really appreciate it, you must see this memorial. We spoke little for the first hour or so after leaving, each deep in our own thoughts as we placed ourselves in that airplane on this day. I am going to let the photos tell the story. Please don’t pass on the opportunity to visit this park and see for yourself what happens when courage meets cowardice.

A final thought. A bullet to the head of Osama Bin Laden by a Navy Seal was the easy way out for this deranged man. His terror was over in a matter of a few seconds. The people lived with the thought of dying in a plane crash for at least 30 minutes, desperately contacting loved ones to tell them good-bye. Their courage is an example for all of us and a reminder that Americans are an example for the rest of the world to emulate. Good bless them and their families.

SR

This past week I let vanity grab me by the ankle and posted a picture of my lawn on social media. I laughed about the water bill that was forthcoming. Knowing that it was going to be exorbitant, I gasped when the notice of just how much water I had put on this patch of grass arrived. I called our lawn care folks (who are authorities on irrigation) and they dispatched their water witch doctor who broke the news to us. We had been watering the lawn twice a day, at 2 and 4 AM. The 2AM spritz was a shocker, and set me to thinking about how the masculine form of my species has evolved.

When you were 17 years old, sitting on the bench in a High School locker room, you could pretty well put even money on the topics of conversation. Girls, fast cars and baseball was a certainty in the banter. My group would venture into hunting rifles, shotguns and fishing rods. Strangely, or not, pistols didn’t come up. We liked our teachers, didn’t know a Republican from a Presbyterian, and remained wary of this thing called Vietnam. Your selective service number caused you to think about the future, a concern unique to graduating seniors. Your focus shifts as you age, with the lustful pursuit of women morphing into strategies to deal with the ones in your life who are smarter, more intuitive and oh so capable of subtle manipulation. We still love motor cars, but have long since ceased lining them up for a brisk quarter mile contest upon a public highway and we would kill our selves on a baseball diamond, probably in the struggle to make it to first base should we somehow manage to put wood on a ball. Our focus shifts to politics, cuisine instead of junk food, and reliable motor cars or pickup trucks. Those of us who made a career in the world of automobiles, whether selling, fixing or regulating still cling to a vintage muscle car or a convertible. When we talk cars, it is the universal disdain we share at the demise of internal combustion engines. Now back to the lawn.

The last four or five conversations with my male counterparts in our corner of the neighborhood has revolved around our yards. Not once has an automobile come up and if women surface in the conversation it was about their willingness to cut grass. We are so obsessed with landscaping that I have borrowed from the world of golf, naming our corner lawns the “Amen Corner”. Yesterday, the water witch doctor sold me on a new way to water my grass via blue tooth technology. The water needs are controlled by a piece of gadgetry that uses the National Weather Service to establish a water schedule, the amount of water, and even when not to water in case of rain. It uses the previously established zones to keep everything the same color and is controlled from this tablet or our cell phones. Tazzy’s proclivity to pee in the same place is offset by my ability to turn on the irrigation for a minute or two to dilute his attempts at self watering and thus preclude brown spots. In times of drouth, this system automatically increases the time the sprinklers are on to offset the dryness. This technology wasn’t cheap, about the cost of two months water at twice the daily dosage necessary to produce a show lawn. I am teachable.

What have we learned here? Watering grass and landscaping is a hell of a lot safer than the lustful pursuit of women. That having the fastest car on the block has been replaced by the greenest lawn and that we recognize why we don’t make fools of ourselves on a baseball diamond. It’s easy really and I wouldn’t change a thing. Next week Taz, Sharon and I are off to Pennsylvania to pick up a custom kayak trailer, leaving the lawn in the care of a cigar box sized bundle of electronics that we have named simply, “Wizard”. The Amen Corner is in good hands.

SR

A week or two ago, while perusing the web, I came across one of those silly teasers that encourages one to think about their views on any given topic. The question asked what was memorable to you in 1968. For me the answer was immediate as that was the year I graduated from High School. My answer was simple. It marked the end of innocence as I was forced to confront the world on my own terms, including the prospects of the war in Vietnam. Circumstances of my own making placed me there where innocence vanished in a matter of days. I thank God I had time to live a relatively uncomplicated life as a youth before confronting the realities of life as an 18 year old kid sent to kill in the name of America. Our children today do not enjoy that luxury. We are busy programming their minds in ways that defy description. It is one of the great tragedies in America.

Mao Zedong, an infamous Chinese communist leader, once remarked that children’s minds are a “blank sheet of paper”, recognizing the value in programming their minds in the communist doctrine. His teachings were later adopted by Russia’s Lenin, who saw the value in molding minds, virtually from birth, in the ways of communism. Let’s have a look at the intentional damage we are doing to our youth in practical terms.

We are using the classroom to indoctrinate our children in such novel foolishness as critical race theory which teaches that America was founded on racism and slavery, a notion that lacks merit to the same degree as so called reparations for descendants of slaves. These children often have no concept as to how our democracy functions, instead turning them into a new army of left wing activists. We allow our educators to encourage self identification of our kids as dogs, cats or God knows what in the classroom. We are abolishing the use of gender specific pronouns to promote a unisex environment. Our educational system is on the rocks, but still immensely effective in promoting left wing ideology.

The big hitter for the left wing nut jobs, that have a strangle hold on education, is their radical gender ideology. Have you stopped long enough to see what is happening? We are in the midst of a campaign to normalize trans-genderism and promote the use of cross sex hormones, puberty blockers and encourage sex change surgery for our CHILDREN. We are in fact mutilating their minds and bodies. The suicide rate for all ages of our children, especially trans-gender youth, is steadily climbing. The numbers of of kids identifying as trans-gender is escalating rapidly as a result of our encouraging this unholy ideology. We are seeing public events, such as “family friendly drag shows”, encouraging parents to bring their children to watch cross dressing men perform for their “entertainment”.

We allow TikTok to rampage through our youth (30+ percent of US users are between the ages of 10-19, some 30 millions viewers) where such stunts as “knock out” and eating soap originate. The same left wing nut jobs have our youth horrified that climate change is going to soon kill us all if we don’t wash our clothes on a rock and ban gas stoves.

Back to the beginning. In 1968, my world began to harden in front of my eyes. This being said, I evolved from a normal and beautiful experience in life which was devoid of the nonsense we see today. We knew that cross dressing occurred, but not in our world. We were taught useful civic lessons, and were free to choose our political ideology as time went on. We formed our own sexual identity along lines that recognized males and females. We are watching a tragedy unfold, and have yielded to the left in ways that are going to destroy us. Innocence, as we knew it, is rapidly fading from the American way of life and we are mere spectators if we do not step in and crush the woke nonsense that is the way today………

Have a great week…..

SR

His name is Jim Stewart. His long term occupation was as a line worker for GM where his skills resulted in his being a trouble shooter up and down the line, able to fill any position necessary to keep the line moving. Folks up and down the Niangua River know him as River Jim who runs a kayak shop literally on the bank of the river where highway 32 crosses the river, just east of Buffalo, Mo. To suggest he is a master of river lore is an understatement. Jim knows the river like few others in this region.

After earning his pension with GM, Jim began tinkering with Corvettes, having completed several off frame restorations of this automotive legend and successfully running a Corvette business in Springfield. His love for the river and fishing led him to buy his riverfront property years ago on the courthouse steps. He then established a kayak business at this location, named, appropriately, River Jims. Twenty two years of line work at GM has slowed his gait a bit, but has not dimmed his enthusiasm for jerking a smallmouth out of a hole below a shoal on the river.

I have owned a terrific Osagian canoe since 1990, having bought the boat after a float or two on Beaver Creek and the Big Piney river. It has also seen service on the Gasconade, Current, and Niangua. The canoe is easy enough to fish out of and will carry everything necessary for a couple days on the water. Canoes are packhorses and easy to manage in experienced hands. Enter the kayak. It is lighter, very maneuverable, and displaces little water. I recently wrote about the inflatable “Bote” that I acquired which revealed the versatility of kayaking. I suspect I will soon sell my Osagian in favor of the kayak. My inflatable does a lot of things, but the newly acquired Perception 12’ kayak does more and unlike the inflatable, is virtually indestructible. I don’t buy a dozen eggs without research and my inquiries led me to the Perception fishing kayak. This choice led me to Jim, who can tell you more about the other kayaks out there than any of their manufacturer reps.

Jim looks like he sounds. A camo hat perched over his ready smile and Ozark drawl make you want to pour a jigger of good bourbon and listen closely as he pontificates on the merits of his favorite small mouth baits. (Hint: Jim loves top water lures.) He keeps what appears to be a hundred or so kayaks at his warehouse and a good selection in his shop, which in high water may see as much as 5’ of Niangua running through it. No problem, though, he designed his building with flood water in mind. Jim handles his customers one or two at a time and by appointment only as business isn’t allowed to interfere with river time and life in the slow lane. I say that with tongue in cheek as Jim finds time to sell well north of 300 kayaks a year. Jim loves what he does and does what he loves well.

The Niangua river is a Missouri treasure, but can be a crowded venue on weekends with a number of good outfitters with large float liveries in house. As in all south Missouri streams, there are parts of it that don’t see as much activity as other parts, lending them to better fishing. Find an outfitter, rent a kayak and give it a try. Gliding smoothly over clear water on a summer morning is a rare treat for anyone who professes a love of water. Better yet, hit the river with your own kayak from River Jim’s and double your pleasure.

Have a good week!

SR

No misspelling here, we tackled the Niangua river this week in our new Bote (Brand name) paddle boards and kayaks after experimenting with the kids Botes last year. We may never go back to the traditional canoe way of floating. I became instantly enamored with these inflatable conveyances which, for the uninitiated, ain’t your grand daddy’s aluminum canoe! So here’s is the cliff note version of our experiences.

The Niangua is in season, but wasn’t bad this week, save a flotilla of high school girls from a camp somewhere close and an occasional covey of plastic kayaks or canoes. There are fish here, but they have to be shell shocked after a weekend of revelry on this popular river. We picked the right week, as this coming weekend marks the “Pride Float” on the Niangua. There were several floaters who were apparently scouts for the main group of diversity seeking participants, which we are told are divided into a ratio of 80% men to 20% women. This event is sponsored by the prestigious “Camp Daddies”. Gay is one thing, a fact of life these days, but the thought of hundreds of “tucked” women’s bathing suits on men strutting around our sandbars is just too much for this old Ozarkian.

One of the primary reasons these boats fit our lifestyle is portability. They deflate and fold back into their large roller bag and are tossed into the beds of your truck leaving room for plenty of additional gear. You do need a 12 volt pump less you are in triathlon shape to man the provided oversized bicycle style hand pumps. The pressures are low, yet result in an extremely firm floor and sidewalls. We ‘re talking pressures between 3 and 10 psi. We’re also talking a lot of air at that pressure, thus the need for a pump. These boats are not your discount store rafts, flimsy and likely to leave you at mush bottom eddy when you nick a rock and lose pressure.

Back to the boats. They are incredibly tough, with a double bottom and an inflatable floor that leaves them completely rigid. They easily slip over the shallow shoals, nearly capable of floating over water that that a leaf would drag on. They are also ingeniously self bailing! Getting on the damned thing set me up for a undignified spectacle, in front of bank fishermen and women near Bennet Springs that were at once sympathetic and stunned. I made Joe Biden look like one of the Flying Wallendas with my performance. Very impressive! Then, after my spectacular entry, and only then, did my son-in-law explain the proper way to mount one of these things. Thanks, Tom!

In short, we had a ball! The boats are maneuverable, extremely stable and glide over water with little resistance. Their durability is impressive and the rigidity at such low pressure has to be seen to be believed. As might be expected, there is a catalogue of accessories for them from rod racks to coolers made to fit in predetermined locations. The boats are not inexpensive and the accessories aren’t either, but they combine to make a tidy, light, packable way to see our beautiful rivers. They are not, however, indestructible. When loading my boat in the back of the truck, we encountered a sharp edge where the roll-down truck bed cover is mounted. It made short work of one of the boats sides, opening a cut eliciting gasps from all in attendance. A quick call to the Bote home office delivered a solution to our carelessness, and these sharp edges will be history when I get to my grinder. Botes are many things, however they demand respect.

Another way to enjoy our rivers! Google “Bote” and look this inflatable over. It is well worth it to not have to take two vehicles to the river to enjoy your own equipment! We’ll see you on the river.

Have a good week!

SR

Sharon and I are country people possessing adaptability. We both came from farm backgrounds, but strongly prefer hard surface roads (infinitely easier to keep your motor equipment spotless) and can be a hazard on the road always looking for wildlife. We live across the road from a farm park, complete with farm animals that make farm animal noise and when the wind is just right, emit farm animals aroma. So it is that we bring a touch of the country to our compound in the form of various bird feeders, in a maple tree in front of my office windows. I admire my birds, here is why.

To discourage black birds and starlings, I have a two feeders, a tube and platform, full of safflower seed. These hard shelled seeds present a problem for long beaked birds as they cannot be easily cracked. These feeders have become a destination stop for a rather large flock of doves and they are a joy to watch. They congregate on nearby rooftops and call gently while I replenish their ration daily. They are patient and oh so polite. Unlike my hummingbirds, which can be testy little guys, the doves will congregate on the ground or in the tree and patiently await their turn. They do not run their neighbors off and readily yield to another bird with grace. I have killed many of these guys in years past and suffered through the indignity of eating them after the hunt. They present a real challenge around a corn field and, regrettably, on the table. I doubt I ever kill another one.

I also have two finch feeders. Now these guys are nervous feeders, industrious, pretty, and armed with voracious appetites. I can see why as they are whirlwinds of activity. I see no signs of territorial instinct in these little guys and love their work ethic. They are not as patient as the doves, nor are they as mean as the occasional starling that drifts in and takes over until he figures out the the impossibility of crushing the safflower seed. As we are equal opportunity hosts, we cater to the occasional cardinal or woodpecker. Both are stately and polite when around the feeders.

Finally, in our backyard we planted a hydrangea tree. It is as round as a bowling ball, has large velvety leaves and presents the perfect place for a robin to build her nest and raise a clutch. Mrs. Robin is the most industrious bird on our property. This tree is fifty feet from our deck and our presence is no longer bothering her. Like any good mother, she seldom ventures far from her responsibilities and is fiercely protective of her nest, which is lined with the soft yellow hair that Tazzy has donated to her nursery. We hope her efforts are rewarded with new robins to add color to the neighborhood.

These little guys get it right. Their peaceful nature is a welcome respite from the viciousness of the world we live in. They know how to mingle without killing each other, willingly share the rewards of the feeders and work hard every day without complaint. One could suggest that I am easily amused, but they would be wrong. My birds have taught me a lot about social order, survival and reasoning on a level we will never understand. The hours at my desk, gazing out at the activity around the feeders has been rewarding. There is a sense of peace and certainty around these guys. As I write there are 6 doves either feeding or waiting, 3 finches sharing the tube and a single Robin searching out earthworms up after the irrigation system shut off.

Peace. We could all use a bit more of it.

Have a great week!

SR

Seventy-nine years ago, give or take a day or so, a B-17 Flying Fortress began a flight into Germany on a bombing run. The airplane was crewed by some of America’s finest generation, young airmen who fully understood the perils of soaring over Germany to further the war effort and bring Hitler and his minions to defeat. The B-17 was a formidable airplane, heavily armed and flown by well trained crew members one of which was a young Missouri Lieutenant named Melvin Meyer. Lt. Meyer had no way of knowing that on this day, he would meet the man about which the Bible in his flight jacket was written. It would be 79 years before the Lieutenant would be buried in his beloved Missouri, with full military honors.

There is a gaggle of individuals who call themselves “History Flight” that work to locate the remains of our servicemen and women killed in combat. After the Lieutenant’s plane went down, his remains were deemed to be unrecoverable, as was the case with so many of our warriors who disappear in the fog of combat. Relying on electromagnetic scanning, high resolution maps and old military maps this group utilizes the latest in technology to locate crash sites and such with the help of archaeologists who are a member of the team. This crash site resulted in the discovery of the complete outline of the bomber with the engines and cockpit clearly discernible. After mapping the location of the aircraft, the archaeologists went to work and recovered both human remains and personal items that led to the identity of Lt. Meyer. Of interest, his Bible was located in a pocket of his flight jacket, oriented over his heart. The Master already knew Lt. Meyer and welcomed him home to that special place in heaven reserved for our warriors.

Lt, Meyer’s burial, so close to Memorial Day, says a lot about our country and our people. We honor those over this long weekend that have died for our country. Sadly, we often lose track of just what the Holiday means. Most Americans have no idea what it is like to awaken on a given day and begin another deadly confrontation with one of our enemies. They will not feel the cold shiver, even on a hot day, that results when you close with an enemy, knowing that one of you is not going to live beyond that moment. This was the day, for so many, that life ended in a blinding flash. It is a character building experience, both humbling and elating when you are the victor. This holiday is about those that did not win their engagement and came home having given that last full measure.

Take a moment over the holiday to say a prayer. In your thoughts to God, mention those that have died guaranteeing you the immense freedoms this country enjoys. Take an extras moment to thank Lt. Meyer…..and welcome him home to Missouri. It is the least we can do.

Have a wonderful weekend and week ahead.

SR

This week we enjoyed a productive trip back to Cleveland, Ohio where a final series of tests indicated I would likely be around for a while longer. We have learned to be efficient in our 750 mile drive to and from the Clinic, establishing our favorite motels and restaurants along the way. My last test on Tuesday ran us a bit late as the doctor wanted to explain the results personally, causing us to leave town later in the day than planned. No problem, we would drive until tired and find a motel along I-70 for a few hours sleep before the final stretch home. This is a risky strategy as we stopped somewhere between our known locations. We found the Bates Motel of movie fame. I’ll explain.

Sharon and I are frequent commenters on both Trip Advisor and Yelp, always candid and never cruel. We have had terrific luck relying on Trip Advisor for recommendations as we tour the country. The commenters on the motel we chose got it wrong, with rave reviews and suggestions of cleanliness and comfort. If ever you have wondered about the concern with AI, our experience here might help, as either the commenters are lying or we are seeing AI at work. We were oblivious as this place had won an award in 2022 on Trip Advisor.

This hotel was far from “quaint” and “showing a little age”. It was decrepit and worn out. I am sharing this experience not to disparage the place, run by a gentleman (Norman Bates?) from a third world country, carefully ensconced behind a glass booth in the “lobby”, as in the end we laughed about the experience. Sharon, Tazzy and I opened the door to our room, under the outdoor stairs, to find a stained white bedspread that was every bit as thick as a sliver of parchment. I hopped down to the office and made my concern known to “Norman”, who smiled and apologized. We were exhausted and decided that if I could survive sleeping in a Vietnamese ditch while being shot at, we could survive a few hours here. The bed was mushy, obviously long overdue for replacement and the A/C was loud enough to cover the sounds of chainsaws and such in the middle of the night. We hopped into bed and attempted to sleep when I asked Sharon if Tazzy was still with us as the crack between the door and jamb was sufficient for him to wiggle through. We laughed about our skills in seeking only the best in accommodations. The toilet was not equipped with seatbelts which it needed to keep from being thrown off into a plastic tub that had been shoehorned into the space reserved for a shower.

We dozed off, I am sure with one eye open. About 1 AM the A/C quit, sparing us the noise but returning the room to a stuffy, humidity laden torture chamber. The ambience was enhanced by the faint odor of sweat and disinfectant. We were both awake. We jumped up, dressed and departed after a leisurely three hours of bliss and hit the road. Honestly, you would need hazmat gear to raze the place, which is obviously indicated. Our adventure was not quite over, though, as we needed fuel.

We stopped at a smaller truck stop where I was met by a lady of the night wearing ONLY a bed sheet, shawl style, hurrying to the restroom while her fiscal analyst waited in the car to hustle her back in service to the parked trucks out back. Time is money to these independent contractors. Sharon also saw this hard working woman and we shared yet another laugh. I-70, in Indiana, is bad but as I live and breathe, it is hell after dark. We made it to St. Louis just after daybreak and coasted home better for the experience.

After Tazzy’s deposit is returned, I intend to provide Trip Advisor with a factual overview of the place, but meanwhile when you are anywhere near Indianapolis, choose your accommodations carefully. There really is a Bates Motel. Our RV never looked better………another lesson in the books!

Have a great week!

SR