Carlson

By John Carlson— Even if you are one of those nearly brain-dead, thoughtless husbands whose wife complains you never listen to her, here’s a verbal exchange guaranteed to get your attention. “Honey!” Nancy hollered at me recently. “Have you written your obituary yet?” All I could say to that was, “Uhhh …” So to be clear, writing our obituaries is a thing we’re doing these days at Casa del Carlson. We’re not getting any younger, you know? But the fact…

By John Carlson— You know you’re about to get an impressive introduction to modern farming when your nephew’s tractor, hauling a huge planter, pulls up sounding like a Boeing 737 approaching a gate at Indianapolis International. “Holy moly!” you think. Amid flashing lights, there are all manner of mechanical noises and whining turbo sounds. The whining comes from God-knows-what pieces of sophisticated machinery that are mechanically integrated into the vehicle. I specify this fact to make one thing clear: The…

By John Carlson— Come every spring, the most profuse bursts of color out back erupt from our Tibetan prayer flags. They are cheap yet beautiful pieces of eye-catching art. Strung together in twenty-foot lengths of red, white, blue, yellow and green, they lift our spirits with every warm breeze that lifts their edges, promising us the snow is likely finished, and that throwing a pork chop on the grill will no longer require pulling on a parka. Just like cleaning…

By John Carlson— Indiana’s fabled Story Inn is situated south of Nashville, amid thick woods and steep hills where driveways angle skyward at trajectories more commonly found on amusement park thrill rides. Following State Road 135’s twists and turns, every mile seems to take you farther and farther into the past until suddenly you enter the town of Story, population three. You spot the funky old inn, its metal siding stained orange with rust, plus some scattered cabins. Just beyond…

By John Carlson— Yeah, OK, sure, I get it.  The 21st Century is a time of marvelous achievement, what with all the electronic advancements and stuff. But there’s an even more remarkable advancement, one in a totally different field of endeavor, that too often we take for granted. Spiral-cut ham. Now, before continuing, I regret starting off any piece of writing with references to modern advancements, be they in the fields of personal communications or meat. Anymore, “the latest exciting…

By John Carlson— Nancy was rooting around a desk drawer recently when what to her wondering eyes should appear but a restaurant gift certificate sent by my beloved Aunt June. “Eureka!” she hollered, or words to that effect. So five minutes later she had her hair combed, while I had ditched my pajama bottoms and pulled on some actual pants. Two minutes after that we were speeding toward the nearest Cracker Barrel, visions of down-home cookin’ dancing in our heads….

By John Carlson— Welcome to another edition of “What I Did On My Vacation.” Arriving at our usual Florida hangout last week, Nancy and I hightailed it up past our knees into the frothy surf while my buddy, Jimmy Hayes, waved his smart phone to greet us. “Smile, honey!” I urged as we faced him, the dazzling sunlight illuminating our ghostly pale epidermal skin layers. But Jimmy just laughed. “I’m not taking your picture!” he said. “I’m showing you a…

By John Carlson— Every year about this time, winter’s last gasps remind me how happy I am to be too old to ice skate. As kids, my sister Patty and I skated a lot. Home being right off Lake Erie in northern Ohio, where winters were invariably a pain in the tush, our city operated two municipal ice-skating rinks. These were fine facilities, with buildings for skaters to warm themselves in, hot chocolate on tap, and Zamboni ice machines to…

By John Carlson— A while back I saw where some Hoosier lawmaker was proposing popcorn be named Indiana’s official snack. All I could think was, seriously? In desperate times like these, shouldn’t our Legislature undertake a more serious line of inquiry, such as deciding the state’s official double-cheeseburger, which happens to be served at the Workingman’s Friend tavern in Indy? So anyway, go ahead and call me provincial, but the whole popcorn thing is NOT OK with me … ……