Adventures with Geannii

 World’s largest Tri-State-Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland Indiana. Forty acres (at least) of flea markets, tractors, and engine exhibits. If you don’t know you need it, you’ll find it here. I kept reminding myself: I need nothing. I am downsizing. I am only window shopping. See what treasures other people once thought they couldn’t live without… and are now hoping to unload on someone else. Then I found it. A child’s iron. An actual working one. I picked it up and showed Pam. “This is exactly like the one Dad brought home for JoDee. She was about three. I was the much more mature age of six.” That little iron plugged into the wall and got hot. Very hot. Mom warned us: “Do not plug it in. If you forget it in a pile of clothes it could catch on fire, and we’ll all die in our sleep.” One day, JoDee was suspiciously quiet. Mom sent me to check on her. I opened the bedroom door and there she was: ironing clothes, little iron plugged in. “Mom said you can’t plug it in!” I yelled...

 Who doesn’t dream of playing on a Baby Grand Piano? In my imagination, the paparazzi were snapping photos, fans were fainting in the aisles, and a spotlight followed me like I was a rock star. I imagined myself in a sleek black dress with a dramatic cape. I’d flip it back, glide to the bench, and sit down ever so gracefully. The audience would hold their breath, waiting for the first note like it was the unveiling of the Mona Lisa. What would I play? Mozart? Beethoven? Or the William Tell Overture —because nothing says “heroic entrance” like the Lone Ranger theme blasting through a recital hall. Heart racing, fingers poised, I prepared to unleash a symphony the world would never forget. My six childhood piano lessons—yes, six!—had finally prepared me for this moment. Then I struck the first note. ‘Yankee Doodle!’ Wait… what? Did I just… oh no. My fingers had apparently developed a rebellious streak. And then, without missing a beat, I Dropped My Dolly in the Dirt followed lik...

 Pam’s adult kids always make me feel welcome when I visit Indiana. Really sweet. This last trip, her son Spencer—invited us to dinner at Texas Roadhouse. Which is already funny because Texas Roadhouse is where you go if you can’t afford therapy. Unlimited bread rolls? Yes please. Now, before dinner, Pam casually mentions, “Oh yeah, we stopped by your house earlier. Took a little self-guided tour.” Spencer dropped his fork. “YOU went inside my house?” This man looked like the police had just asked him if he owned a shovel and a suspiciously large backyard. I quickly jump in, “No, no, no—we didn’t go in to see if you clean. We just looked around a little. I loved the Harley Davidson room with the two motorcycles in it.” Because nothing says bachelor pad like, ‘Forget a sofa—let’s just park the bikes indoors.’ But Spencer is still panicking. His girlfriend’s staring at him like, do you live in a garage? And then—Pam. Oh, sweet Pam. She says, “Well, I didn’t show her the man...

 This year Pam invited me to Indiana for the World’s Largest Tri-State Gas Engine and Tractor Show. Yeah. Because nothing screams “bucket list” like antique carburetors and old men in overalls. Forget Paris, forget Rome. Portland, Indiana—baby, that’s the dream. I went up a few days early to hang out with Pam. She loves shopping… unless it’s Wal-Mart. Every time John and I said, “Let’s go to Wal-Mart,” she groaned like we’d suggested a colonoscopy. “NOT WAL-MART.” So, instead of shopping, Pam decided: “Let’s get Calvin to take you for a spin in his ultra-fast race car.” Now this car is a Mach 1. 480 horsepower. Six-speed. Rev-matching transmission. Posi-traction rear end. Basically, if a midlife crisis and a death wish had a baby—this is it. I climb in and ask the reasonable question: “Do I need a helmet?”  “No.” Oh, okay—so you’re just planning to scrape me out of a cornfield. We take off. Boom. We’re flying down these Indiana backroads. The G-forces push me back so h...