Horn Bar

Mom says, if you can’t say something nice……

Last Friday night, Debbie and I wanted to go out to dinner,
and I’d been thinking about this bar/restaurant I’d heard about
in historic downtown Noblesville.  I was even thinking I’d been there
before with my brother, but that could have been in a past life.

But whether or not I’d been there, I could’ve sworn I’d heard they had
great ribs, and I really believed the sign that touted "Syd’s Fine Food".

I was thinking it was a little like Bonge’s.  Old, historic building and bar,
re-invented as a nice, or decent restaurant. 

The brass plaque out front says that it was built and opened as a bar
in 1889, mainly to serve as a respite for the rail travelers getting off the
train that traveled down the tracks that still run North through the middle
of a main downtown street past old and restored City Hall.

I think the old drunk guy singing in the country trio up front as we were leaving
got off one of those early trains, and never left.

Once I got past the expectation of Syd’s having fine food, I didn’t stress so much
that my dinner was cold, and my ribs and Debbie’s tenderloin (as big as your head)
were as bland as you can imagine.  The lasting impression was that Syd’s is a
"local bar" that happens to serve food.  It might have helped if the ribs had been
as smoky as the bar, but next time I’ll just get the "bar burger".

It seemed like there were alot of familiar faces and friends sharing a Friday night
in their favorite local spot.  They just weren’t familiar to us, so we people-watched
for a little while, and eventually made our way onto Logan Street, and landed a block
away at a local brewpub, which appeared to be the next generation’s "local spot".

We finished the evening at their bar, enjoying pints of the local wheat beer, as well as,
the Raspberry Bourbon Barrel Oatmeal Stout, all brewed in the room behind the bar.

In the end, we actually enjoyed both local establishments.  We just had different initial
expectations going in for each place.  But for all the times we’ve chosen to eat at
"TG-O’ChiliTuesBee’s", it felt good to be spending our money in the local spots.

Next time, we’ll introduce ourselves to the regulars. 

My truck turned over 100,000 miles on the way home from work today.

Now, I don’t know if this is just a guy thing, or if I’m just a nut,
but it seemed like a somewhat monumental, and memorable, if not personal
occasion to me.  I can’t be alone in this, because I Googled "100,000
miles on the odometer",  and I hit on hundreds of pictures of odometers
turning over from 99,999 to 100K.  

And, in my defense, I did NOT take a picture while I was driving.
I let Google handle that detail for me.
I may talk, text, and even eat my #7 Whopper Combo meal while I drive,
but I draw the line at taking pictures of my instrument panel at 74 MPH.

I remember one day, back in the early ’80’s, I was driving the old family
car (a vintage 1977 Chevy Impala red station wagon, with the
cool rear facing back rumbleseat…see picture above), and I saw that I
was approaching 100,000 miles, so I drove over to Macy’s house, and I
made him and his brother ride around Forest Hills in "Big Red" with me, until I hit 100K. 

I remember being a little disappointed that they didn’t quite
share my level of enthusiasm for the moment.

But I digress….

As I watched my digits flip today, I began to feel conflicting emotions.
I was thinking that, even though my little pickup had turned the corner
on 100K, I don’t think of it as an old truck.  Heck, I still have five payments
left before it’s paid off, and I bought it nearly five years ago, in hopes of driving
it for many years after my auto debt was done.  And even though I’ve already had
to put some money into new brakes, tires, a transmission situation, and an evasive oil
leak, it still drives like a much younger truck, and does not give me any reason to think
that it won’t carry me toward a more magical milestone of 200K. 

It just seems like 100,000 miles isn’t what it used to be.

Much like 500 home runs in baseball, or 1000 yards rushing in football, or 200 MPH
in Indy car.  Times have changed, and many of the old milestones have been minimized.

I suppose I thought of this, indirectly, on my recent 47th birthday, when some of my
contemporaries joked about getting another year closer to the 50 year milestone.

I don’t feel old at 47, and I can’t imagine I’ll feel any differently three years from now.
Even if Debbie’s grandkids call me Grandpa Jay. 

Granted, I’ve lost a step, and I can barely keep up with my nieces and nephew
let alone my youth group kids.  And the aches and pains have progressed to a point
that I may have to actually break down and go see a doctor about that neck/back thing.

And I’ll admit that, when I get in and out of my truck. I’m not sure which of us groans louder. 

Thanks to good genes, I haven’t replaced any parts, but I should probably
be a little more conscientious about what fuel I put into my tank, or the engine may seize up. 

They say that 50 is the new 40, so when I do turn fifty, I don’t think I’ll feel like my life is over. 
I’m confident, or at least I have myself fooled into thinking, that I have many more miles and milestones ahead of me.

I’d like to think that 100,000 miles on my truck could eventually turn into 200,000 miles, or more.
I’m not as certain that 50 years of my life will eventually turn into 100 years. 

But then again, technology marches forward, and my Grandma Horn did live to be 98,
so you never know. Either way, as I accelerate past 100,000 miles and 50 years, I
know that I’m going to enjoy the ride for as long as the engine runs true. 

My 15th birthday, 32 years ago Monday (3/10)