Hitting the road....

  Tue., Oct. 12-     Okay, I'm driving the little Bushwacker / mini rig with DUBAI sleeping peacefully in the backseat.

I'm headed to my parents house in Indiana, for my first stop where my mom is going to make me breakfast– or I'm going to eat a bowl of Shredded Wheat cereal with my dad.

     This is the first time my parents will have seen the bushwhacker oh, and the first time my parents will have seemed to buy since to buy growls at my father when she was like months old. In December, she will be 6.

     I passed the giant fishing store with the 30-foot fish on the front of it oh, and the Maine fireworks store oh, so I know I'm getting close. It's 8:44 a.m. oh, and I left home at about 7:15, after getting ice for my cooler. I'm supposed to tell her and 15 minutes, that's going to be a sight to see. 

     I had a delightful breakfast with my parents– mom made me a mushroom omelette dot-dot-dot my fav. 

    Well, Dubai and I have been on the road now, listening to lame 70s hits and stopping at gas stations to go to the bathroom every hour! I wouldn't recommend Southern Indiana to my worst enemy, unless they're trying to go into a boredom-b asedcoma.  

     In about an hour and 10 minutes, we are due to arrive at Bobby Brown's musical Campground. Or is it Bob Murry's musical Campground? Maybe Bob Evans? I can never remember the name of the place.  Evidently, the original owner of the campground oh, about 67 years ago, used to be in the Grand old Opry. I'm not sure, but I think it's a good thing that he's not anymore. 

    But, whoever was Manning the phones when I was intrigued and inquired about the place, told me that there's a place called The Woods where banjo and guitar players go and pick at night.  So I booked a campsite over there. I'm just as much into music as the next guy. I just wonder if they'll have any teeth? Hey, maybe they pick with their teeth?

     All I know for sure right now is that every single flipping semi truck in Indiana is headed south into Indianapolis on the road right in front of me.

     In case you hadn't heard, I'm heading for Bill Monroe's musical camp ground. 

   

 I arrived and there was one man who agreed to play the banjo for me around his campfire; Bill.  Bill is 75 and can't really play the banjo. But he was good company. 

He even tried

to get me to remember something that I learned on the guitar back when I was in high school. All I remembered was that I paid Mike Popovich a bottle of wine to teach me how to play the guitar! 

I wanted to learn Stairway to Heaven, but all I Learned was Norwegian Wood and that Mike Popovich wanted to date me.