noblesville

NOBLESVILLE, INDIANA

Before we left our cousins, Joe sat down with Freddy and gave him a nearly complete collection of mint commemorative quarters. They had a great time sorting them out together.

Joe promised Freddy that he would try to keep any other gophers on the Green Mile until we get back next month, when he and Freddy can continue the solemn duties of "Old Sparkie."
    Our troubles began on Thursday night, when Diane noticed that the vent cap over the bathroom was leaking rain onto the rug in front of the commode. I tried to take the inside molding off and repair it from the inside because of the rain. Much of the wooden ceiling, though, is old, somewhat rotten, and the screws aren't biting wood, so it was pretty futile. Later, when we went to bed, after emptying the drip catching cooking pots, Diane realized that the vent over the bed had started leaking, too, and there was a large wet spot on the bed, not at all like other--well, excuse me.
    Diane's way of solving the problem, as the wet spot was on my side, was to sandwich me between two towels, so I wouldn't get wet.
    "Now, don't move," she said. "You'll roll out of the towels."
    "But, couldn't we--?"
    "No. You can't move."
    "But we could--"
    "No. Stay on your back and don't move."
    "Okay. I can handle that if you--"
    "No. Just go to sleep."
    "But I can't sleep on my back as a towel sandwich, unless we do something to make me sleepy."
    "Would you like me to read to you?"
    "No. I would like you to--"
    "No. Go to sleep. I don't want to get dripped on, either."

    After a lame breakfast of coffee and a couple of cold cookies, we drove out on Pontiac Road, and after a few minutes of arguing over the directions we were now reading backwards, got on the Interstate, heading south. When I stopped for gas, I remembered the problem we had three days earlier, when the engine refused to start at the campgound. This time I changed the key--nothing happened, over and over again.
    Finally, a good samaritan came out of the gas station and helped us out. "The problem is in your starter. Have you got a hammer?"
    I had Freddy dig a yellow handled hammer out of the seat in the camper. The man gently tapped the starter and I was able to start it up. Whoever you are, sir, thank you so very much. We didn't know WHAT to do!
    So off we went, hopping to make it to Noblesville before the starter pucked out entirely. Our next stop was Fairmount, Indiana.
     A long time ago, maybe as much as twenty-five years ago, I had been to Fairmount, searching the cemetary in vain for the grave of James Dean. I remember tripping in a half dug (or half sunken, which is worse) grave, then being chased out of the cemetary by a bat when it got too dark to search any longer. Well, times have changed.
    Fairmount is now a huge tourist center: JAMES DEAN COUNTRY, WHERE COOL WAS BORN. I think Jimmy must be rolling in his grave, laughing at the things being done in his name. Now you can see the James Dean birthsite. (The home doesn't exist anymore, but there's a plaque on the ground.) The James Dean park has a James Dean bust to commemorate the 40th anniversary of James Dean's death.) There's a James Dean memorial Gallery where you can buy James Dean memorabilia and for $3.50 tour seven rooms of souvenirs--James Dean costumes, James Dean scripts, James Dean high school yearbook pictures, James Dean etc. I drink to you, Jimmy--not to the phony icon, but to the man who helped shape a generation--my generation.

The one genuine place in town was the cemetary. It had a few signs pointing to Jimmy's resting place, but other than that, it remained untouched by the moneymakers. Several true fans had placed fresh flowers around the monument. I added a stone of my own to those that had been placed on the gravestone, and reminded Freddy of Grey's "Elegy," "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

    Somehow, I knew I would have no trouble starting my engine at Fairmount. We did have a problem when we had to find a dumpsite, because, in the words of the immortal Cousin Eddie, "The Shitter's Full," but a tap with the hammer put us back on the road.
    I thought that maybe I could replace the starter myself, so I called my friend, Gary, for his advice. He said I should be able to install it myself and suggested that it should cost between $80 and $120. He was right and he was wrong. I was able to replace it myself, greasy and filthy though I was, especially in the rain, but it only cost $29. Now, that was a happy happy thing for us, especially after the hour I waited trying to get the courage to start the engine and it started fine, better than ever!
    I also fixed the radio that had crapped out on us--the fuse blew again--and took about an hour to caulk the leaky roof, then cover it with a tarp so the rain wouldn't ruin my caulking job. I can't spend another night as the meat part of a towel sandwich.
    Saturday's show was not a winner. We made the cost of the table, but nothing approaching Stoughton. There's still tomorrow, so we'll just have to see what happens.
    Freddy's cat. Gidget, did very well, amassing sixteen ribbons and two rosettes, enough to qualify her as a champion! Tomorrow, there's a really good chance that she will earn enough points to be a DOUBLE CHAMPION!

Meanwhile, the owner of the champ found another place to fish and fish and fish.

    Sunday: Gidget got her second championship, but didn't make any more finals, so it was sort of a hollow victory. Still, there's a double champ in our family now--we've been paraphrasing that song Rod McKuen wrote for the first "Peanuts" movie--"Champion Gidgie Brown; it has a lovely sound," etc.
    The morning started pretty slowly as far as sales went, but then a woman came by who loved Bengals and wanted everything we had with spotted cats. We sold two big cheetah lamps and a big statue. After that, the gate was pretty steady. We didn't make a killing, but we made our average.
    Financially, we're okay. In four shows, we've made a little over $1200, so the trip is paying for itself, as I hoped. We're also meeting other vendors who have advice about other good shows, so we're learning where to go next year. Even if we stop vending in the fall, we'll probably still do this next summer--it's a great way to pay for the vacati--OH MY GOD! DIANE JUST GOT OUT OF THE SHOWER, SCREAMING.
    "What is it? What's the matter," I cried.
    "A SPIDER! A GREAT BIG HAIRY SPIDER!"
    "Where is it?"
    "HURRY! HURRY!"
    "I'm coming, dammit."
    "OH SURE, I TELL YOU TO HURRY AND YOU JUST AMBLE ON OVER LIKE IT'S NOTHING."
    "Okay, I'm here. Where's the spider?"
    "THERE!"
    "Where?"
    "KILL IT!"
    "I can't even see it. Let me get my reading glasses."
    "OH. NEVER MIND. I KILLED IT MYSELF WITH MY SHOE."
    "Where is it?"
    "THERE!"
    "Where?"
    "ON THE FLOOR BY THE REFRIGERATOR."
    "I can't see it."
    "THERE!"
    "That little spot on the floor?"
    "ITS LEGS ARE ALL CURLED IN NOW."
    "Oh."

After those two lamps sold, we found a gaping hole in our stock. Nearly all of the big statues are gone, along with most of the purses. The stock we can get mailed in is in great shape--oddly, it's the Chinese imports that are moving. A woman we met at the shop, Debbie, who had a competing business with the clever name of Purrfect Gifts, was kind enough to help us out. Debbie told us we could find a large wholesale importer store just south of us in northern Indianapolis. We decided to spend the night at River Bend Campground, and go shopping on Monday morning.

It's a nice enough campground, with a big river for Freddy to fish on. In the meantime, Diane is doing some laundry (not much--they only have one washing machine). We're all enjoying the hookup--sewer, water, and electric. We can shower and shower and shower and flush flush flush and wash the dishes and wash our hair and flush flush flush until everything, both ourselves and the holding tanks, are clean clean clean.

CHAPTER ELEVEN