Meatballs and Covered Bridges

A couple of weeks ago on Labor Day weekend we took a drive out to Indiana.  It was a spontaneous adventure. Our mission:  Check out the "Little Italy" festival in Clinton, Indiana.  Then, maybe find some covered bridges (they are fairly prolific and the area is quite proud of them).

When we arrived to Clinton, Indiana, we were surrounded by a scene stuck in the 50s.  I've been in the midwest long enough to know the type of small towns that are scattered across the counties, left behind because they are just a few miles away from the Interestate.  We were greeted by the smell of marina sauce, fried snickers, and farm equipment.

Our luck could not have been better, because just as soon as we made our rounds of the artery-clogging booths and ederly arts-and-crafts vendors, we saw that they were going to start the meatball eating contest.  The children's contest was amateur hour.  What I was interested in was the Men's division.  The real olympians of gorging yourself with balls of meat.  I hope I captured "The Last Meatball Supper" adequately.

It was quite impressive to witness in person.

After we had our fill of nachos and diet soda, we headed out to find the old, forgotten, dusty roads that wound around and through some covered bridges.  I had never seen one in person, and they were kind of fun to photograph.  Christina was a little anxious driving over them, but I've seen the trucks people drive around these old dirt roads, and I knew we'd be fine.

And we were.