Ms. Pigette called me the other day to chat about national politics. In reality, she just wanted me to listen to her rant about all the “revelations” spilling out of Washington, D.C.

My answer was short and to the point. “I know you are a great source for political gossip around the Boothbay-Wiscasset region, but, at the moment, I am on vacation and could care less about who did what to whom and why, in Washington, Ukraine, or Turkey.

It was time to go back to my roots: Indiana. Time to see the kids.

It was a bright sunny Maine morning when my bride, the proud East Boothbay native, and I jumped into the car and headed for one of the wonders of the world, the American interstate highway system.

As the miles passed, we tried to decipher interesting license plates. Here is a sample.

A red Dodge sported a plate that said: UZURWDS. We wondered if it was being driven by the mother of a child who was learning to talk. “Use Your Words,” was her message.

A Massachusetts SUV, with an obviously satisfied driver, sported a plate that said “ALLSWELL.”

The plate on a slick black sedan said “FOXXY.” The driver was, too.

Was the driver of a car with the plate “R-D-8” a radiologist? What was the occupation of the pilot of a Mini Cooper with a plate that said “Stress MD?” A psychiatrist, maybe?

In Hoosierland, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the license plate “IU.COM” belonged to a fan of Indiana University, sans Bobby Knight. Their instate rival, Purdue, where the Boilermakers are not having a very good football season, was boosted by a fan with the plate “BOYLER UP.” Although the Boilermaker pigskin fans are sad, they are cheering the university president, Mitch Daniels, who has not raised tuition in years.

And then there was the guy driving the snazzy new red Corvette that zoomed around us on our way to the Mass Pike. He was driving his bucket list sports car with the plate “B4IM80.”

It was a 1,200-mile drive, but pretty easy, that is until we reached Indiana where we were stuck in a 10-mile-long traffic jam.

Once there, it was great to see our kids and grandkids. Although my bride talks to them on most Sundays, there is nothing that will satisfy her grandmother urge like a person-to-person hug. Me too. All are OK, and doing well.

After we retired and spent 15 years in Boothbay Harbor, changes in Indianapolis are startling.

When we first bought a big old Colonial house in downtown that had seen better days (and spent 20 years-plus fixing it up), downtown was at the bottom of a downward spiral. Department stores had vanished, restaurants were vacant and residential real estate was affordable, especially if you didn’t mind working on the house.

Today, the downtown is awash with sparkling new high-rise condos, office buildings, and restaurants featuring cuisine from around the world. And, of course, major league sports venues that host the Colts and Pacers.

All of the new construction is within walking distance of our old home, which is on the market for a fortune. Real estate pros preach location, location, location.

One of the sad notes is that our former home’s side yard has been sold and will soon have a new house built upon it. That means the lovely linden tree, which my bride planted in memory of the huge linden that once presided over East Boothbay’s Barlow Hill, will soon come down.

It is not surprising that when you near 80, things you grew up with have changed. Old friends have moved away, while others have met St. Peter.

As much as I love the Maine coast, its landscape and its people, for me, there is something special about Indiana in harvest time, where current political battles are not on the radar.

James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier Poet, describes it this way:

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock.

And the clackin’ of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens.

And the rooster’s hallyloouer as he tiptoes on the fence.

O it’s then the times a feller is a-feeling at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.”

Older times, simpler times, good times.

Just between us, dear reader, isn’t there something special about watching the sun come up on a crisp fall day?

A day “When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock.”