Indiana is flat as a pancake – which is good for us, especially with thundershowers on and off all day. We’ve made good time and we’re stopping now at a motel about halfway between here and Chicago. It’s on a busy road on the edge of cornfields. It’s too early for corn. Plus, this corn is feed corn, not eating corn. But my mother got milk and food and even a copy of the Franklin Evening Star. She tells my father the fight at Monte Casino may just about be over. Then she laughs at this poem by Ogden Nash. My parents think he’s pretty funny, punning on his name like that. Tomorrow we’ll swing northwest for Chicago.