Dispatch from Indiana, pt. 2

Events in this post are part of the trip documented in the previous post "Unscheduled Departure." The following photos come from my co-correspondent, Honeysuckle.

So I’m doing these out of order, simply because, well, these get better as we go on, and really - what better way to begin work in 2006 than with a picture of me looking tense around large animals? As I may have mentioned before – cows are like dogs - gigantic, motorcycle-helmet-sized-turd-spurting, smelly, frighteningly curious dogs that can trample your spinal column. I’m not sure what these ones are more curious about – Schutte taking the picture, or the tenderfoot in the khakis and the windbreaker. At the time this picture was taken, I was the closest I’ve come to this many cows in my life without the protection of a fence. You may not be able to tell from this photo, but I’m pressing a lump of coal between my asscheeks into a diamond. Cameron’s got NOTHING on me.

These cows, by the way, are Vic’s – a man so tough, he fell off the roof of his barn and drove to the neighbors to raise help with two broken arms. Kinda casts my complaining about being out of Band-Aids yesterday into sharp relief.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve grown to appreciate cows after my trip. And they can be awfully cute.

'Possums, on the other hand...

So yes, my worst fears have been realized – a hot woman comes up out of nowhere to the car I’m riding in, which is good, but she’s holding a dead ‘possum, which is not. To clarify - I am not smiling in this photo. That is not a smile. That is a grimace. That is the look of a man who loves nature, except when its freshly-dead ass-end is being thrust into his face by people he had grown to trust in the last few days – trust irrevocably broken by this moment. I’ve noticed that since my visit, Budweiser has borne a slight aftertaste of fear, adrenaline and regret.

On the left – Schutte’s sister. In her hand – one ‘possum, gone onto a better world. Next to her – one citified dork wearing a Carhartt vest, holding onto a beer bottle containing the last dregs of his dignity. On the right – Schutte’s future sister-in-law, holding the toilet paper we used to vandalize the home of some man that had done some wrong to some member of the Schutte family – the details are unclear. It should be clear, however, from these photos, that if you wind up in Milhousen, Indiana for some reason – DO NOT FUCK WITH THE SCHUTTE WOMEN.

Otherwise – you might wind up with a dead animal in your mailbox.

It’s like the Godfather down there, except the horses keep their heads. And they drive combines instead of Packards.