Horn Bar

It seems like everytime I go to plant a thought in my blog, it grows into a wild meadow of random musings that seem to ramble on as far as the eye can see, but is eventually contained within its original boundaries, and ultimately arrives back at its origin, but now with a slightly different perspective.

or it could just be that I ramble.

This is one of the reasons I moved back to Indiana.

Friday night, and Debbie and I traveled to some town, yet unidentified, nearly an hour North of Noblesville to see her son, Sam, and his Lapel Bulldogs play the Tri-Central Trojans on the opening  Friday night of the 2007 IHSAA football season.   The Indy Star, and 1260-WNDE had been hyping a couple other games all day, like Cathedral vs. Carmel, but I couldn’t have been a bigger fan than I was at this game.  Yeah, I was a homer in the visitors’ stands, rooting for my girlfriends’ son, but I haven’t enjoyed a game like that in some time.  And it didn’t suck that Sam, a sophomore Safety, was one of the mainstays of the Lapel defense tonight in their 27-7 win.  He had several key tackles, and only missed an interception, when the receiver desperately swiped at the ball in Sam’s arms at the last moment, knocking it to the turf.  Great defense by the offense.  Sorry;  I got caught up…

As I sat in a visitors’ bleachers that featured more fans than the home side, I found myself cheering, fist-pumping, and turning around to comment to the guy behind me, who I’d never met (it’s a guy thing), on all the remarkable plays.   I think I may have sounded convincing as a real Bulldog fan, and I’m surprised that no one asked which kid was mine, although, several Mom’s asked Debbie if she was Sam’s mom.  But I suspect that had more to do with planning the weekly team dinners that the mom’s schedule and prepare, than to comment, woman-to-woman on the actual play.

I remember early in the 1st quarter, when I saw the 16 Tri-Central cheerleaders in a tight pack, heading around the surrounding track toward the Bulldog bleachers, and I commented that it looked like a rumble was imminent.  Sadly, they only did a goodwill cheer that was barely audible or memorable.

I was humored by the home-team band that was outnumbered by the pack of cheerleaders.               But they played valiantly, and the Band Director looked heroic atop the press box, as he directed his band of farm-kids playing in the clearest field in the county.

I found myself praying in the stands late in the 4th quarter when a Tri-Central kid was taken off the field on a stretcher wearing a neckbrace.  And I was concerned to think that I might not find out how he turned out.  And I felt guilty about my impatience to get him off the field, as there was less than five minutes left to play in the game, and I have to work Saturday morning.

But the game finally ended in favor of Lapel, and the team gathered and treated us, the traveling Bulldog faithful, to a somewhat rousing rendition of the Lapel fight song.

As we pulled out of the Tri-Central High School parking lot, onto the mile long gravel road that bisected two cornfields, and led to Highway 19, I looked around, and was somehow reminded of the closing scene of "Field of Dreams", where the camera pans up, and you see streams of headlights in the dark heading toward Ray’s field.   I thought of how we had arrived tonight, driving in a virtual high school caravan up Highway 19, into farm country, and had driven through the tall August corn to the opening that was an Indiana high school football field.  It may not have been a field of dreams, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this evening was truly a genuine slice of Americana, and it was happening in my home state.  Even if I didn’t have a clue what town I was in.

And this is one of the reasons I am so glad to be back home again in Indiana.

I can’t wait to see a basketball game this Fall at the Wigwam.

(pictured…Grandpa Ora in 1918, and my mom, Jeanette in 1948)

Today was a very nice Sunday to be off from work.   Yes, it was over 90 degrees for like the 27th day in a row, but it was a good 92*.   Debbie and I drove out to Westfield to see her brother, John, his wife Lisa, their adorable three year old Nicholas, and 4-week old Cassandra.   Little Nick was so cute when I introduced myself, and said, "It’s nice to meet you", and he gave me a great big 3 year old hug and said, "I missed you!"  I didn’t remind him that we’d just met.  I couldn’t spoil the moment.

John lives on 13 acres in a beautiful 108 year old farmhouse, and they have four horses rotating four fields of their homestead.   We got to spend some time feeding them horse treats (which Debbie had in her car….don’t ask), and petting  wherever it is you safely pet a horse.  I never quite figured that out, so I petted them like I would a dog.  Except I couldn’t get them to roll over so I could scratch their bellies.  Of course, one similarity between dogs and horses is that, if you pull a treat out of your pocket and give it up, you will have the dog or horse in your pocket until you vacate the property.      They are relentless.  And it tickles.

So between horses nuzzling the pockets of my cargo shorts, and sweating up a 92* lather on their coats, and then rubbing up against me, I was probably smelling a little horsey the rest of the day. 

Which was confirmed later.

Much later, when I got home, I saw that the neighbors in Mrs. Adairs’ old house behind us were working in the yard.  Mrs. Adair hasn’t lived there in maybe 20 years, but when you grow up in a neighborhood, and then go back, every house remains identifiable by the neighbor who lived there the longest through your childhood.  And in the case of Mrs. Adair, there is a longstanding family joke involving dear Mabel and brother Kirk, who as a youth, came running into the house, and was seemingly five minutes into his story before he got to the part about Mrs. Adair falling in the yard, and who was, in fact, still laying out there.  She came out of that incident alright, but this story always comes into play when one of us is telling a story, and invariably gets sidetracked into trivial detail and periphery that does little to arrive at the point of the original story currently being told.  It’s called a "Dirk" story, and…well, it’s kinda hard to explain.

So what was I talking about…..

 Oh yeah, since we hadn’t yet met, I introduced myself to the couple, and their very large Great Dane, Laser.  As we talked, Laser was very friendly and let me scratch his ears.  But I didn’t ask him to roll over for a belly rub.   We noticed that he was really sniffing my pants, and I explained that I’d been on a farm with horses, as well as, three other farm dogs, so Laser was surely getting a virtual country farm potpouri of fragrances.  But when I mentioned horses, neighbor Mike knew why Laser was so interested.

Mike and Laser used to live out in the country a few years ago, and once, for two weeks, Laser went missing.  Finally, they found him at a nearby horse farm.  He had been running with the horses for two weeks, and didn’t really want to leave.  And apparently, the horses liked running with the big dog.  sorry, I couldn’t resist.  Bad joke, but Mike said that the story is true, and I know he wouldn’t lie.

Wow.  I just remembered that when we had lunch at Arby’s today, Debbie mentioned that she really likes their Horsey sauce.  Coincidence?  I don’t think so.

So those were some of the highlights of my Sunday today, which apparently carried some sort of horse theme, much like Sesame Street today being brought to you by the letter "J", and the number 7.

Stand by for the Super Grover revolution, which starts August 20, 2007.  Elmo is going down.

ok, so I’ve been carrying this story about my Grandpa and Oscar for years, and always believed my Grandma Hilma, who had once said she thought Ora’s real dad was a Southern Indiana farmer of Native American Indian decent.  I guess I should have asked my dad or his sister.  But that would’ve been too easy.  Aunt Rosemary says that Ora’s dad was a pharmacist named Harrison.  I was close.

And all this time, I’ve been telling people I’m part Indian.  Guess that was just in high school.

(pictured at left, Great-Grandma Dora and Great-Grandpa Oscar)

My name is not Hornocker.

It’s not that I’m an international spy, or in witness protection, or even adopted.    Although, I am the only one in my immediate family with blue eyes, and a name that does NOT start with "K".   Hmmmm…

It’s a family story that spans four generations, and begins with my dad’s father, Ora.   Ora was born in 1897, in Southern Indiana.  I was never quite clear, and perhaps Aunt Rosemary can clarify, but either before he was born, or shortly after, the genetic father left the scene.   However, while Ora was still an infant, Oscar Hornocker became involved with Great-Grandma Dora, and they were married, and although there was never an official adoption, Ora received the name Hornocker.

I remember back when Grandpa was nearly ninety, I was driving him to the store, and I had been interested in geneology and family ancestories, so I ask him about the identity and background of his "real" father.  Grandpa became very agitated, and exclaimed, "You’re a Hornocker!  Oscar Hornocker was the best father a boy could ask for, and that’s all you need to know!"   I chose not to pursue that line of questioning at that point.  

By 1930, he had wed Etta, and bore Albert Monroe Hornocker, my dad, and later,  my Aunt Rosemary.   My dad, Al, had five kids, including two boys, myself, and brother Kirk.   Kirk has three beautiful girls, and I have lots of wonderful nieces and nephews, but no kids of my own, despite twelve years in a Detroit marital intitute.

It has occurred to me in recent years that, unless Kirk or I produce a son, the borrowed name of Hornocker will fade out after a relatively brief three generational stay in Lafayette and Anderson, Indiana.   Kirk is done having kids, and I don’t see it happening to me at this point in my life, so it seems unlikely that another Hornocker boy will extend us to a fifth generation.  Which is a little sad, because, in my forty-six years, I have never run into another person named Hornocker, so it’s not like the Smiths or the Jones’ are losing a vital branch to the family tree.

Actually, I have met one Hornocker.  Earlier this summer, when I first moved back to Indy, I went to a meeting for all the Starbucks store managers in Indiana.  I met the manager of the Starbucks in Speedway, which is only five minutes from my store on the near-westside, and his name is Adam Hornocker.   We both asked our families, and it turns out that Adam had a relative related to Oscar,  so we are sort of related.  But perhaps not by blood.

So I’d like to somehow thank Oscar Hornocker, and his kin for letting us borrow their name for a century and a half, give or take.  I’m proud of the name, and I don’t think we’ve muddied it up much under our watch, other than the whole Purdue connection.   I’m somehow reminded of what John F. Kennedy said to a frenzied crowd in Berlin back in 1960-something.  But unfortunately, my German name is borrowed, so I don’t "Spechen zi Deutch".  But it was something like…..

"Eich Bien Hornocker!!"

Grandpa was right.  I’m a Hornocker, and that’s all I need to know.

               
                                 Screen Saver
 
I was thinking about computers and home fix-it projects
recently as I was chaulking my bathtub and re-screening
doors and windows in my condo.  If you had told me a month
ago I’d be able to do that, let alone know what spline is,
I’d have laughed. But then again, I did install a sump pump
all by myself last fall.  And it still sumps.  Or pumps.
Or whatever it’s supposed to do.

love you, pop!!!     jb