Kokomo —
I’ve heard the saying, “It’s not where you’re from, it’s where you’re going.” But, for me, I’m more than certain I wouldn’t be sitting at my desk surrounded by turkeys from the Kokomo Tribune’s coloring contest and telling the stories of this city if I didn’t keep in mind where I’m from throughout my life. Those hometown roots of where I’m from have been whispering me in the right direction on the journey to where I’m going, even when I was determined not to listen. I grew up 3 miles from my grandparents’ house, a land of farm animals, pets and a workshop where my Pap taught me to weld and build swings while we waited for the potbelly stove to heat up our hot cocoa. I spent my childhood learning to ride horses - except the time a 4-year-old me thought it’d be a good idea to switch up species and ride a sheep around the yard for the afternoon - and learning about nature while my Pap and I planted a garden every year. Despite a love for city life, my passion for realness had been planted and the whisper of my roots only got louder as I spent my years following college covering stories in Washington, D.C., and, more recently, Indianapolis.
I grew up on a balance beam of playing dress-up and enjoying city offerings while being able to sink my bare feet into the earth of the country, but the balance was harder to strike at 22 than it was at 2. However, a few years later, I met the balance who was born and raised in Kokomo and he ignited my fondness for a city similar to my hometown of Anderson. It’s a town that survived what mine struggled to overcome. As I pass parking lots full of employees and witness downtown undergoing beautification while I drive to work, Kokomo has become an extension of the once-thriving hometown I knew as a kid. While instilling a hope that where I’m from could have a chance of finding its way back home, too.
I may have traded in skylines for small downtown squares and switched the types of sources for stories - my new favorite “exclusive” interview is with Tipton County Pork Festival’s Pork Boy - but every day I drive in to the ease of Kokomo from the city where I live, the whisper that searched for genuineness is happily silenced by a smile of contentment.
[friday] editor/happy to be home
[friday]
LINDSAY: Homeward found
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A day in the life
My love for words was written into a hobby at an early age. I wrote stories about the nature I witnessed from my window, experiences I shared with my Pap and anything that came to mind. From age 9, most of my moments were stories my mind hadn’t written yet. For me, writing was the tool that enriched my experiences. If I went to the children’s museum and saw something that struck me, I’d write about it.
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Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most. -
Kokomo Speedway
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
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Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
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The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
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Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
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The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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Bracket Madness
As a Hoosier, it’s hard to believe Wednesday night marked my first bracket-building experience. Despite my love for sports, I never got into brackets. I’m a one-team-at-a-time gal so in the fall it’s the Colts; in the winter it’s the Hoosiers; and in the spring and summer I go to baseball games for the people watching and soft pretzels. So, I never learned the pros and cons of other teams and what makes them worthy of winning in a bracket.
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Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
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You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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