"Hey, Dad, come over here quick!" "Why, did you find one?" "No, something even better!"

My father and I were looking for mushrooms in Brown County State Park, one of Indiana's most scenic.

"What is it?" "An insulator pin! And an old one at that. Look how it has rotted. Hey, look! There are the metal reinforcements for the crossarm!"

I had just found what I had dreamed about many times before. An old telephone line! I now knew what it felt like to find a few pieces of rotten wood with a bit of metal here and there, hoping to find the beautiful glassware that had once adorned them

"Go ahead and look for mushrooms, and I'll look for some insulators." "No, you don't," he said. "Mother probably has supper ready, and it will take a while for you to convince yourself that you might as well give up."

I didn't argue. For one thing, he was my father; and another, he was right. So, reluctantly, I got behind him on the Yamaha and rode to the campgrounds.

The nearest town, Nashville, is known for its antique shops, with one on every corner. An insulator buff could easily tear out his hair and yell "Heaven!"

When I got back, I went over to Mother and revealed my prize. She couldn't have looked more disgusted. "But, Mom, do you know what this means?" "Go wash up."

When I got inside our motorhome, I found a four-leafed clover lying on the table. I picked it up thinking that it could lend a hand on my "hunt". When I saw the piece of string binding the two clover stems together, I put it down with an "ugh" .

After supper it didn't take long for Mom and Dad to find out I had not forgotten my find, much to their regret. So, potato sack under my belt, I pushed Dad to the motorcycle to drive me there. (I will not drive anything more powerful than a Schwinn since I totaled our station wagon.)

When I got off the motorcycle, I rushed back to probe around where the crossarm was. No luck. Well, I said to myself, let's try farther down the path. I walked and finally found an old crossarm. Yippee! Oh, no insulators. I went farther on down the way, and "squish". Ugh, deer. I looked over in the weeds and saw an old pole. Still, no insulators.

About a mile farther I had not seen anything but a lot of deer "calling cards". Just then, the path went downhill, and there was a little piece of land sticking out. I fought through the stinging nettles, only to find an old tree that had fallen down. But wait! THAT is a pole! THAT pole has NOTHING on it! Crud. I kicked it with my foot, revealing little red ants that were responsible for the pole's-- excuse the pun--downfall.

Hmmmmm.

They reminded me of an incident that happened the previous summer. I found a gold mine. A whole batch of purple 'Tatum #1's, in situ (on the pole). What a pole! At least 25 ft. high. After two legfuls of splinters and an asthma attack, I reached the top. I then noticed there were hundreds of little ants doing the Charleston on my arm. Yeeoow! You never saw such quick work since the flood in the Alka-Selzer factory. I shinnied down half the way and fell the other, batting my arms like I was trying to fly. Come to find out, my partial color-blindness had done it again. They were just cheap ice-blue ones. Aarrgghh!!

I walked back thoroughly disgusted. When I got back to the bike, Dad gave me one of those smiles and said, "Didn't find anything, did you?"

"No, but let me tell you about the one that got away . . ."

(The above is a true story that happened to Gene Hawkins, 16, and he thought it ought to be shared. It shows how we can have big hopes and little results, and then laugh at the incident later. And below are a letter and poem from a 15-year old subscriber.)

Dear Mrs. Harned,

I enjoy the "features" and poems to be found in C.J. of late. But when I found myself wishing even more people would contribute, I stopped and thought, "I'm a collector, too. Right?" So, for what it's worth, I've written my effort. Published or no, at least nobody can say I didn't try!

A PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE

When free time comes up and the need for work goes, 
The thing that I do is to follow my nose. 
It leads me to where there's a pole, maybe down, 
Maybe up, but just full of bright jewels for my crown.

0 mountain! Your beauty is sung far and wide, 
As you stand with great forests and snows down your side; 
But your grandeur and beauty is matched and surpassed 
by the lonely poles out in the woods, topped with glass.

0 rainbow! Your colors are known for the sight 
that they treat to those who can catch them just right. 
Yet, more may be found than you put to the fore, 
On a crossarm with purples, blues, opals and more.

Those bright bulbs of glass have me tangled for good, 
And I seek them in C.J., in meadow and wood. 
Good folks -- the Milhollands, the Harneds, and all, 
Make insulator collecting a (lightning rod?) ball!

John Young