Usually when Dearly Beloved and I drive to Indianapolis in the winter, our visits trigger an arctic blast of frigid winds and stinging snow. So why do we go in winter?
We go to witness the Indiana religion: Basketball.
This is oldest grandson’s senior year in high school. He doesn’t plan to play in college, so we went up to watch a couple of his last games. As soon as we crossed the state line into Virginia, we found snow covering the ground. Surprisingly, the farther up we drove, the less snow we found. The temperature rose to 70 that weekend.
By the time we reached Indiana, we didn’t need the usual assortment of snow boots, gloves, or scarves. Heck, we didn’t even need a coat.
Old Man Winter must not have recognized our car.
The pale residents of Indianapolis immediately hit the sidewalks as if someone had rung a citywide fire drill. They walked their children and pets, bicycled, jogged, and crowded every outdoor restaurant table in the city.
Our grandsons reminded us of kids on a snow day here in North Carolina, basking in the warmth!
DB and I have come to realize that these two grandsons are Midwesterners. They were born in Indiana and have never lived anywhere else. Livermush and hushpuppies have probably never entered their vocabulary, much less their stomachs. I don’t know if they even eat grits. Their only nod to southern cuisine is the cartons of Cheerwine that we take for them when we visit.
There is not so much as a hint of southern inflection in their speech. “Southernness” must not be passed along through DNA, but there was one brief incident which gave us hope.
Senior grandson went out with a girl-space-friend (not a girlfriend, he pointed out) on Saturday night. While he was out, his younger brother texted an urgent message to him:
When you’re on the way home, please stop someplace and get me some sour Gummies and sweet tea.