Buying a House at a North Vernon Auction
by Kent Pettit
*Author’s note: This is longer than my usual posts—but it’s one of the most meaningful stories I’ve ever written. It’s funny, it’s personal, and it’s a tribute to a remarkable North Vernon woman. Stick with it—I think you’ll enjoy the ride.
Dedicated to Bobbi Morin Ebbing, in loving memory of her mom, Marilyn Morin—a true force for good in Jennings County. May her kindness and community spirit never be forgotten.
And in Honor of Rick Bright and my dad, Kenneth Pettit
It wasn't so much a conversation as a group soliloquy.
Three people, standing within six feet of each other, speaking out loud—not to each other, but near each other. Like neighbors yelling across yards, only with no acknowledgment.
The Crowd Gathers
It happened at an auction in North Vernon, Indiana. A warm fall day. Lawn chairs. A plastic cup of McDonald's sweet tea sweating in the sun like it knows it’s about to be forgotten behind someone's folding chair. Auctions in Jennings County were exciting community events—with a real festival atmosphere. There would be food, fun, and gossip about everyone who wasn't there. Kids would run off and play.
Auctions were great opportunities to catch up with old friends you hadn't seen in a while and to celebrate what it meant to be a Jennings Countian. And they were absolutely nothing like auctions in the big city where I live now—which are rare. Frigidly impersonal. Dominated by extremely wealthy people fighting over the estates of even wealthier people.
In September 1994, my dear great-grandma, Ruth Pettit, was in her late 80s when she made the decision to leave her home on Roger Lane and move to a retirement community. She had lived 25 years in her little house, nestled in a close-knit neighborhood on the south side of North Vernon, my hometown. She and the family decided the best way to both downsize her decades' worth of belongings—and more notably, sell the house—was to let the town come out and bid on it all.
I don't remember seeing Grandma Ruth at all that day. She was the type to be content staying home, avoiding the crowds (which, to be fair, were unusual on Roger Lane). More than that, she didn't need to witness her possessions being divided up between people outside the family. I remember being struck by how different she was from my other beloved great-grandma, Florence Simpson—a tiny old woman determined to be a dominating presence at her own auction a few years earlier, walking around to (dis)approve the proceedings.
The auction block stood right in the middle of Roger Lane. It was only raised a couple of feet, but it seemed to dominate the street—and the crowd gathered around it. Tom Lawson was the auctioneer of Jennings County, a commanding figure who brought order to what could've been chaos. He always seemed to me like a larger-than-life cowboy from out West who, after a life of cattle-wrangling and hard living, came to North Vernon to settle down—as an auctioneer and Century 21 real estate broker. You never saw him without his big white cowboy hat, and even though he was only about 50, he had a beard and mustache as white as Colonel Sanders’s. I don't think he was actually from out West—but he sure looked the part.
As Cowboy Tom belted out the auction chant, his loyal bid-callers, Pascal Hensley and Fred Robinson, would shout “YEP!” whenever they spotted a hand or a nod. Pascal had an athletic build, and his tan made him look like he spent more time at the beach than anyone else in Commiskey. That's the little village about ten miles south of North Vernon—where he lived, and where my mom grew up.
Pascal was a gregarious, friendly guy, and had a son named Isaiah—who was in my class and just like his dad: athletic, outgoing, and even rowdier. Back then, I mostly saw him as an antagonist. Now I realize it was all good-natured. He was a friend—and a comedy genius. Following in the auctioneer tradition (and much to my dismay), he'd grab the pencils off my desk and auction them off to the rest of the class.
The other bid caller, Fred Robinson, was just about the physical opposite of Pascal. He had a round face and a John Candy build, but the same easy friendliness. You never forgot the way Fred called out bids—authoritative but with a touch of humor. He was gregarious, lovable, and always a joy to run into. My friends used to joke about how bad Fred was at golf—but nobody cared. I'd sometimes run into him during my own pathetic round of golf, and he'd always greet with me a booming, friendly: “Hello, Mr. Pettit!”
Grandma Ruth's auction unfolded like most auctions in those parts—sociable, upbeat, and just competitive enough to be fun. Folks were still out for a deal. After a multitude of old furniture and a hodge-podge of trinkets were sold, now came the main event: the house itself. It wasn't large—two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a medium-sized basement. The decor, carpet, and wallpaper were all 20 years out of date—possibly more, depending on how much you fear wallpaper. But it was a solid house with good potential. "Good bones," as they say.
I remember exactly where I was standing—on Grandma's tiny front porch—when the crowd began to hush and Cowboy Tom launched into a chant so rhythmic it could've summoned livestock." Just a few feet apart stood three pillars of the community: Marilyn Morin, Rick Bright, and my dad, Kenny Pettit.
An Icon and a Lovely Gal
Marilyn Morin lived just up and across the street from Grandma on Roger Lane. She may well have been the most dynamic woman in the all of Jennings County—a community leader, a firebrand for justice, and the go-to person anytime there was a cause worth championing. She fought hard for senior citizens, underprivileged families, and basically anyone who needed a champion.
I remember at North Vernon Elementary, Marilyn coordinated a program called "Foster Grandparents," where older folks would come into the school and work with the kids who especially needed them. It was brilliant—mutually fulfilling a need on both sides. Marilyn was a force. Fierce, compassionate, unrelenting when it came to doing what was right.
On top of that, Marilyn was savvy and immensely practical. I don't remember the exact occasion—maybe Career Day—but in fifth grade, we all filed into the gym to hear her speak. Her topic was staying in school and earning a decent living. What struck me wasn't just the message, but how she didn't talk to us like we were ten. She talked to us like we were one bad choice away from needing a second shift at the Arby's. It was a real come-to-Jesus moment. She was the first person I ever heard explain what minimum wage was—and I decided right then and there I wanted nothing to do with it.
But more than that, her no-nonsense delivery told me she was not to be trifled with. She wasn't physically imposing—slender, thin-faced, bespectacled—but she carried herself with such a mix of confidence and kindness that she somehow managed to be both formidable and approachable at the same time.
My family was close with her husband's aunts, uncles, and cousins, but even though my great-grandma lived right across the street from them, my folks didn't really know Marilyn or her husband, Jim. They were "in town" people. We (and their Morin relatives) were country people. And in Jennings County—at least back then—that was sometimes a meaningful distinction. That said, Marilyn's daughter Bobbi was well known to me. We were in the same grade all through elementary and middle school. Most of our interactions were—charitably—on the prickly side: in class, at lunch, on the playground, and especially during our time together on the middle school academic team.
To be fair, my friends and I were usually the problem. Bobbi was too kind to start trouble. I still remember the first time I heard her name—in first grade, I blurted out, "What the heck kinda girl is called Bobby??" Then I doubled down and started calling her Robert. Shockingly, that didn't go over well. Eventually, a teacher pulled me aside and explained that yes, girls can be named Bobbi—and that the "i" at the end is how you know. Years later, I realized Bobbi had shown me a kind of grace most kids wouldn't have. She could've made me feel like an idiot (I earned it!), but she never did.
But grace doesn't mean being a pushover—Bobbi definitely didn't put up with my shenanigans. She could give it right back—and get under my skin when I deserved it. And every so often, I'd run into the impressive, sainted Marilyn and think, "Maybe I shouldn't mess with Bobbi so much." To make matters worse, my great-grandma would go on about how much she liked those Morin girls across the street. "Such sweet girls, always playing so nice together" she'd say. Every time, I'd feel a little twinge of guilt.
Looking back, Bobbi was enough like her mother that I should've known better than to mess with her. If I hadn't been such a jackass, I might've had the good sense to hang out with a really cool gal. Today, she is a wife, mother, a force for good in her own right, and all-around grand lady.
Rick and the Chicken Fortune
Also highly respected in North Vernon was Rick Bright. The Brights, as a family, were known for being successful businesspeople and prominent members of the community. My own encounters with them were always very positive. They were competent and confident. Some worked in insurance, but Rick—and a few others—were in the restaurant business. Rick owned the local Kentucky Fried Chicken. By 1994, the official switch to the sleeker "KFC" branding had long since happened, but that didn't stop some Jennings Countians from still calling it the far more hilarious-sounding "K-Y Fry."
Rick had the build of someone who lifted buckets of chicken more than weights—sturdy, not soft. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that said, "I own the best chicken in town," without actually saying it. And he probably did. In a town with limited dining options, Rick's KFC felt like fine dining—if fine dining came in a red and white bucket. His fried chicken empire was so well-regarded, folks assumed he must be a man of some means, which in Jennings County meant two cars, a ride-on mower, and maybe even a house in Green Briar Estates, a wealthy neighborhood on the southeast side of town.
Whenever I'd go into the KFC as a kid, I'd often see his wife, Sue, behind the counter in the traditional uniform and paper hat, working the register and running the show like she'd invented fried chicken herself. Even though she and Rick owned the place, Sue's quiet authority earned her more respect than any title could. Her mother, Mary Bland, was a local political powerhouse and friend of my equally political grandparents. Mary always greeted me like I mattered, and I liked her a lot.
The Flying Farmer
My dad was the most rural of these three rural people. Back when I was a kid, everyone called him "Kenny"—family, friends, folks around the county. But sometime in the last 30 years, he decided to go by “Ken,” which I've never loved, mostly because it sounds too much like my own name. But hey, he gets to call himself whatever he wants. Dad stands about 6'2" and is still in excellent shape.
He was a star defensive player at Jennings County High School—he once leveled future Notre Dame and NFL quarterback Blair Kiel. Like every other member of my family, his athleticism left me in the dust. He's built like a well-trimmed defensive tackle. I, on the other hand, got my spindly, lanky frame from my mom’s side—built more for reading than for tackling.
My parents had me at the ripe old age of 18, but they had overcome as much poverty as most of the folks swarming the auction block. Dad had worked more than his share of lousy jobs with lousy pay and even lousier bosses. It's probably why he's always been extremely frugal.
Early on, Dad farmed with my grandparents while holding down a regular 9-to-5. Back in the '70s and '80s, my grandpa ran a sprawling operation that stretched across most of southern Jennings County. In fact, he farmed land owned by several of Bobbi Morin's extended and distant relatives. In those days, we lived in a tiny, rundown 19th-century brick house right across the road from my grandparents in Lovett Township. It had charm, in the same way a haunted doll has charm.
By the time of this story, Dad had become a dairy cattle nutritionist with clients scattered across a tri-state area. These days, he does pretty much the same work, only now he owns the business. Most of his clients are Amish and Mennonite farmers, and I think his homespun wisdom and no-frills sensibility make him a perfect match for those hardworking folks who live like it's 1885 on purpose.
Dad also became a small-engine pilot somewhere along the way and still flies a few times a week. My wife and son jump at any opportunity to go up with him—Emily even takes over the controls when he lets her. As for me? I keep my feet on the ground. I don't do small planes. If it's not shaped like a commercial airliner and filled with screaming children and stale pretzels, I'm not boarding.
I think my dad's role in this story boils down to loyalty—specifically, loyalty to his grandparents and the traditional way of life they represented. My great-grandparents had moved off their farm in Bigger Township and into the little house on Roger Lane back in the late 1960s. For the family, Roger Lane held a lot of cherished memories, and for us great-grandkids, it was the only home we ever associated with Grandma Ruth.
Letting it go for a senior apartment was a huge leap—not just for an elderly woman, but for a family that didn't do change easily. All of that, I think, explains why Dad felt so strongly that his grandma should get her money's worth—and why he bristled at the idea of some well-off buyer swooping in to lowball the sale.
So you might say the following awkward incident was rooted in a classic country vs. city rivalry. Of course, having now lived in a major metro area—and being married to a lifelong city girl—I find it hilarious to apply "city" to a town of 5,000 that's nowhere near an actual metropolis. But in Jennings County, at least back then, some folks drew that line with conviction. And maybe that dynamic was at play here, if only quietly.
Three Monologues and a House
I don't remember the opening bid for the house—let's say it was $50,000 (remember, this is 1994—back when that still got you a livable house and not just a storage shed in Indianapolis). The last of the trinkets and odds-and-ends had been auctioned off, and now we all stood for the main event: the house itself.
I stood on the edge of Grandma's tiny front porch, just to the left of my dad. A couple of folks I can't recall stood beyond him, and then came Marilyn Morin. We were all within a six-foot radius, forming a lopsided semicircle. Rick Bright, meanwhile, hadn't joined us yet—he stood a good thirty feet off, still mingling or plotting or doing whatever successful chicken moguls do before buying real estate.
As we waited for the house bidding to begin, the energy shifted from chatty to charged. Marilyn, spotting Rick across the yard, leaned toward someone nearby and said—just loud enough for me to hear—"I really hope Rick buys it." Then she started quietly urging him on, her voice just above a whisper: "Come on, Rick...come on, Rick"—like she was trying to will him into action through sheer community force. (And if anyone could do that, it was Marilyn.)
Eventually, Rick zigzagged through the crowd toward the porch—not because we were standing there, I don't think, but because from that angle you got a better view of the auction block. And maybe a little shade. Strategic and stylish, as ever.
And we were off! Cowboy Tom launched into his auctioneer song: "Who'll give me a fifty-thousand-dollar bill—now 51, now 52, now 53 and 54 and 55..." With every rising thousand, hands shot up across the crowd. Pascal and Fred kept pace, shouting their signature "YEP!"s like human exclamation points, rapid-fire and right on cue.
Things were heating up fast. The bidding had gone from playful to cutthroat. But from where I was standing, Marilyn's indirect pleas were starting to cut through everything else. She wasn't talking to Rick directly—no one was talking to anyone directly—but she was talking about him, near him, and just loud enough for everyone else to hear.
“Come on, Rick!” she said, her voice raised but still not technically direct. “Buy it! We need you to be our neighbor—or at least fix it up and sell it to some good people!”
Rick didn't move. Didn't flinch. If he heard her, he gave no sign. Just stood there, arms crossed, the picture of restraint.
Marilyn, undeterred, doubled down: "Somebody's gonna get it who won't take care of it!" Again—not to Rick. Just to the universe.
Then Dad jumped in—again, not talking to Marilyn or Rick directly, just projecting his thoughts like a sermon across the porch. "She needs to stop sayin’ that!” he barked, to no one and everyone. “Rick Bright’s just waitin’ to swoop in for a steal. Sure, he fries a good chicken—and yeah, he’s Mary Bland's son-in-law—but he's gonna try to steal it! Maybe Mary's around here somewhere to talk some sense into him!”
It didn’t take long for Rick to finally respond. Not to Dad. Not to Marilyn. Just out loud, like he was setting the record straight for the town historian. "No way,” he said flatly, arms still crossed. “I'm not paying that much for this house!"
It was the first direct line in the whole scene—and somehow it only deepened the comedy. Three good-hearted North Vernon icons all talking out loud but past each other, trying to out-care, out-bid, or out-moral one another in a bidding war none of them ever actually entered.
When the bidding finally ended, Marilyn said—again to no one in particular—“I wonder why Rick didn’t buy it?” Rick answered, just as publicly: “No way—I’m not paying that much.” The tone of his voice carried that slight air of: This place isn’t worth that kind of money.
Instead of feeling relieved that Grandma hadn’t been low-balled, Dad just got more perturbed—maybe even a little offended—at Rick’s tone. "This house?” he thought to himself, bristling. "I knew it. Rick Bright figured he’d let everybody bid low and then swoop in for a steal.”
That word again—steal. It had already been tossed around a few times. And yet, none of the three—Rick, Marilyn, Dad—were actually speaking to one another. Just broadcasting their opinions into the autumn air, like a three-way conversation held entirely in monologue.
They weren’t passive-aggressive—not because they were above it, but because they were just a little too polite to be aggressive, and a little too honest to be passive. So instead, they settled for the middle ground: talking out loud at each other. Not to. Not with. Just…near. Clearly hoping to be heard. But never actually engaging.
Aftermath on Roger Lane
Dad left feeling somewhat vindicated, though still a little miffed. Rick Bright, meanwhile, seemed to shrug it off like grease off a fryer basket—probably thinking “I’ve got chicken to fry.” Ever the pragmatist, Rick moved on to matters he could control—like the Reds’ outfield lineup next season.
And poor Marilyn Morin walked home, a little disappointed, dreams of a good neighbor fading with every step. Rick hadn’t bought the place, and now she could only hope it wouldn’t end up with someone who collected rusted-out cars and sat in the yard with beers on ice in the kiddie pool.
Worst of all, Ruth Pettit was no longer across the street—no longer there to sing Bobbi’s praises—or scold me by proxy with perfectly weaponized offhand remarks like, “That Bobbi is such a nice girl.”
And so, Bobbi went on to greatness, following in Marilyn’s sainted footsteps—while the guilt train rolled on with a certain yahoo as a passenger.
