Going to the Ox Roast
In that great expanse of America located in what my liberal friends call fly-over country, somewhere in between New York City and Los Angeles, is the little town of Shiloh, Ohio. It is located about 20 miles northwest of Mansfield near the bustling towns of Plymouth, Willard, and Greenwich (pronounced Green Witch). About 10 miles up the pike is the town of Shenandoah (pronounced shawn-a-door), just a little ways from Celeryville. Population is about 850. It has a diner, a Methodist and Lutheran Church, a post office and a bank, and an historical society. My late father-in-law’s barber shop still has the barber pole outside even though the space is now occupied by a beautician. This is America. I have never been one to ascribe some sort of special status or wisdom or insight to life to those who live in small towns, or any one else for that matter. On the other hand, I am not willing to dismiss them as country rubes and racist bumpkins who cling to their bibles and guns because they d