I try to fly back to see my parents at least twice a year and August is always a good time to visit. They have a place at the lake and it's nice to get enought heat and sunlight to stave off the rickets caused by four months of living under the unrelenting fog of a San Francisco summer. Plus it gives Mr. P and my dad the chance to discuss such weighty issues such as: fishing techniques, fire tending tips, and the best location for ski-to-yurt based vacations. However, this year they unwittingly fulfilled all of Mr. P's wildest Midwestern fantasies by going and buying a house in the country. Not just any house in the country but a house that borders the heart the second largest Amish community in the world. It is the country with a capital C.

When Mr. P heard they'd moved to a larger house I told him not to get his hopes up as my parents' guest accommodations have always been spartan to say the least and something as insignificant as a new house wasn't going to change that. They own a dining room they turned into a study because they're not joking themselves into thinking that anyone in the house would cook a meal that requires serving in a separate room -- that's what restaurants and Powerbars are for. In fact, I noticed the chandelier in the dining-room-now-study had a carabineer holding up the light fixture so no one would hit their heads. (see fig. a) Although, in their defense, it was a gold tone carabineer to match the brass chain. These are not people who would waste a whole room on beds people only sleep on once or twice a year. So I took a couch, Mr. P got a cot.

fig. a

Much to Mr. P's delight as we awoke the next morning he learned we were "going into town" to have lunch at an Amish restaurant.

After carbo loading on noodles, mash potatoes and cinnamon bread we drove home past the Amish section where Mr. P was chagrin to find out that somehow cell phones are allowed amongst the plain people. I, on the other hand, was willing to cut the people some slack. You mow four acres of lawn with a push mower in wool pants held closed with straight pins and see how disciplined you are about excluding solar power-heated gravity fed showers from your experience.

The next day we went to visit the bison at a local forest bison refuge. Which were a totally different forest bison herd than the one that lives at the edge of my parents backyard, those are meat-bearing bison. Bison, they're all the rage in Northeast Indiana.

The guide told us that the bison form very tight family bonds and that in the Spring when the staff needs to vaccinate them they bring in a shaman to calm the group as they separate mothers from calves to give them the shots. This is necessary because, as we were told, if stressed too much bison can drop dead of a heart attack on the spot. Which made me wonder about the buffalo hunting tribes of the Great Plains and really how tough it may have been to take down such a creature -- unless the plains bision are sturdier than forest bison it would seem that jumping up from behind a rock would get the job done.

Then we went to the lake for a day or so, fished, boated, fished, made a fire, barbequed, fished.

As a special treat on our last day my parent arranged a hot air balloon ride. I'm afraid of heights so it wasn't such a great pleasure for me but Mr. P enjoyed himself, even if the fire giving us lift was slowly toasting the top of his head.

Once we achieved a few hundred feet of altitude and the fire calmed down I was surprised that we could hear people shouting from the ground and they could hear us. We passed about half a dozen houses where kids were dancing around shouting "Land here! Land here!"

We'd taken off near sunset and after about 45 minutes or so it was getting too dark to see power lines and other dangers so the pilot decided to land in a field he spotted. As the balloon began to set down we heard a sort of angry bellowing noise and a group of cows emerged with a definite air of menace from the edge of the pasture. I never really thought of cows as particularly frightening but they were not enchanted by us and began advancing in a most unfriendly manner so the pilot gave the balloon a quick blast, we jumped a barbed wire fence onto a country road, deflated the balloon, packed up and drove off.

The chase vehicle brought us back to the landing area where my dad met us to pick us up. We were then given our choice of champagne toasts, traditional or German. The pilot let my dad decide and he chose German, of course. So they asked Mr. P and I to kneel on blankets, made us drink a cup of champagne without hands in one gulp, proceeded to set my hair on fire then dowsed it with more champagne. My dad, by the way, thought this was completely hilarious.

The next morning Mr. P and I bid a fond farwell and flew back home. I'm sure that clump of hair will grow back in time for Christmas.