Page 104 - Demo

102IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON, and John and I had been driving since early morning through southeastern Indiana. As the hours and miles passed, we hadn%u2019t found many older elevators or feed mills to photograph. Then we pulled into the small burg of Cross Plains, and there, perched inches from the asphalt of State Road 129, sat the indisputable shape of an aging feed mill. No longer in operation, it was adorned with bric-a-brac, oddities, and (dare I say it) junk. Sitting on the narrow front porch, which was crammed with %u201cmerchandise,%u201d was a tank-of-a-man with a gray handlebar mustache. John parked off to the side, got out, and introduced himself to the proprietor%u2014David L. %u201cHappy%u201d Chandler. Hap said sure, he%u2019d be pleased to have his old feed mill photographed and put in a book. With that, John turned and motioned for me to bring up a flyer. Hap took the brochure and shook my hand, %u201cGlad to meet you, Lynn. Knew who you were from the calling card your husband gave me.%u201d With that, the three of us wandered inside. %u201cLook around. Move anything you%u2019d like if you need to make room,%u201d our host cheerfully encouraged. While John shot a wooden grain bin, I looked around the interior by myself. What an amazing accumulation of rejects, discards, broken whatevers, and salvaged indeterminates. I smiled at two slender female figurines made of smooth ceramic. Each was dressed in identical Hap%u2019s Blue Mule Trading PostCross Plains, Ripley Co. (618.10)