Wednesday, 9 May 2007
In the northwest quadrant of Ohio, northwest of Columbus, is a locally important town called Bellefontaine. The local pronunciation is belle-fountain, avoiding any pretense of fanciness, just plain American.
Once, I stopped in Bellefontaine for a big lunch. This was aeons ago, in another life. It was Sunday, and the tables were full of the after-church crowd. By herself at the next table sat a lady, dolled up in a suit complete with a fur shawl, and, I guess being bored, or just seeing it as her right as a life-time resident, she began chatting.
The upshot was, by the time we had finished eating, we traipsed out to her shiny new-model Cadillac sedan, and she opened the rear door to display, well, footwells full of glacial cobbles. Which she said had faces on them.
She even popped the trunk to show me her favorites, and with a pencil drew in a face or two so I’d know exactly what she was talking about.
I’ve lost track of the small travel-sized example she gave me, when she finally let me go on my way.
These days, I don’t lunch in Bellefontaine any more—partly to make the north-south trip go faster, and partly because I don’t need any more cobbles.