Just For Fun

A What In a Pear Tree?

Posted on November 26, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

In what may have been a kind attempt to bring inspiration to the décor-challenged, one of my friends invited me to go with her to the Festival of Trees last weekend. This is an annual fundraiser for a local organization, where creative people decorate trees and other Christmas decorations to be displayed and then sold. Besides the trees, there are gingerbread houses, seasonal music, and an array of wonderful homemade treats like pumpkin pie and brownies. It was fun.

It was also enlightening. All the lights worked on every single tree. The ornaments were distributed evenly instead of being bunched at the eye level of the youngest decorators. Colors were coordinated. Entire sets of matching ornaments appeared to be intact. I didn't see a single tree with a homemade gingerbread ornament that a small child had taken a bite out of. (Even though crucial dental-matching evidence was lost when the culprit's baby teeth fell out, we still know who did it.)

Several of the trees were decorated around specific themes. One was hung with small toys and game pieces, including Scrabble tiles strung together to form words. It was a cute idea that would certainly fit certain members of my family. Of course, playing Scrabble at the Christmas get-together might be a bit of a challenge if half the tiles were hanging on the tree. Maybe we could just make ornaments out of the Q, the X, and the Z.

The most unique tree in the display was the one with an "outdoor sportsman" theme. I can't remember whether it had camouflage ribbon and shotgun-shell ornaments, though it certainly should have. I rather think not—just ornaments in earthy outdoor colors with subtle accents in blaze orange. Maybe the average fabric store doesn't carry a lot of camouflage ribbon.

Appropriately enough for South Dakota, the tree featured pheasant feathers. Long tail feathers stuck out from the branches at random intervals, with a bunch of them clustered near the top. This may have been intended to look like a star, but to my unsophisticated eye the total effect was more like the way my stepson's hair used to look when he first got out of bed in the morning.

The pheasant theme was carried further with several pheasant-feather mounts that presumably were borrowed from a local taxidermist. It might have worked better had these been full mounted birds. True, a pheasant is rather large to perch in the branches of an artificial spruce tree, but at least there would have been some resemblance to living roosters.

Instead, these were flat—just the pelts, as seen from the top, with the heads sort of squashed into the feathers. Admittedly, it was realistic. A rooster pheasant can end up looking exactly like that if he hangs out in the middle of the highway and dares an oncoming semi to get out of his way.

The flattened pheasants reminded me of another decoration I saw earlier this fall. It was a witch and her broom smashed against a tree trunk, along with a cautionary sign: Don't text and fly. For Halloween, it was funny. For Christmas, you might say it fell a little flat.

But it did give a whole new meaning to the term "flocked" Christmas tree.

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Robert Frost Didn’t Stop By These Woods

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

It's amazing what some people do in the woods.

The Black Hills National Forest is a multiple-use area, and on a shirt-sleeve warm Sunday afternoon in November it was certainly being used.

We were out there on serious business having to do with geology. Well, one of us was. The other, while willing to keep an eye out for the occasional outcrop or carry the rock hammer now and then, was just there for the hiking.

Pretty much everybody else was out on ATV's. We saw several family parties—Mom and Dad on the front seat of a four-wheeler, with two or three little kids squeezed into the back. There were a few hunters, in blaze orange caps and vests, with gun cases across their laps. There were a few hot-rodders whose goals seemed to be speeding over the bone-rattling trails as fast as they could go.

With all these vehicles buzzing up and down the narrow gravel road and dirt trails, walking in the woods wasn't exactly a deep wilderness experience. Not surprisingly, perhaps, we didn't see a single deer all day. We did meet one hunter, though, walking alertly through the trees with her rifle at the ready. She was obviously an optimist; in the unlikely event she did see a deer in the crowded woods, we hoped she was also an accurate shot.

Then there were the intrepid hill climbers on mud-spattered ATVs, with winches and ropes and tire repair kits. A group of them came up behind us in a narrow canyon, announcing their presence with a low rumble that increased to an ominous growl as they came closer.

We moved to the side of the trail, which suddenly seemed much too narrow. I alternated between apprehensive glances over my shoulder and checking the sides of the canyon for possible places to climb out.

But they were the ones looking for a place to climb. They stopped at the bottom of a slope that was almost a staircase of rocks. The lead rider, on his ATV painted with skull designs, took off his menacing full-face helmet and turned into a polite young Air Force sergeant. He pointed out to us the exact rock he had landed on when he had tried this climb earlier in the day and flipped his vehicle.

He made it this time, and so did his friends. Each four-wheeler crawled up onto the first ledge at just the right spot to avoid getting hung up on the big rock in the middle, jumped sideways at just the right angle to make it to the second level, then growled on up between rocks that a mountain mule might have balked at. It was impressive. It was amazing to watch. Personally, though, I'd feel safer on a mule.

We went out again the following Sunday, not in shirtsleeves this time but in warm coats, heavy gloves, and long underwear. It was 31 degrees and snowing. Oddly enough, we had the silent, peaceful woods to ourselves.

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A Halloween Whooodunit

Posted on October 28, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat . . .
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon."

There seems to be a cat-lover in Newell, South Dakota, who isn't familiar with Edward Lear. Or maybe the place is simply fresh out of quince.

It seems that the town has had a problem with an over-abundance of feral cats. For small-town law enforcement, dealing with stray animals comes with the territory. This is not necessarily a trivial task in western South Dakota, where every now and then a wandering feline turns out to be a mountain lion. Still, complaints about stray cats probably aren't a top priority for the sheriff's office.

The priority may have moved a little higher in recent weeks though, when apparently an unusually high number of Newell's feral cats were disappearing. The authorities tend to get nervous about the idea of citizens randomly dispatching strays with .22's or BB guns within the city limits. Perhaps the sheriff's officers were even concerned about the slight possibility that somebody might be killing cats for twisted and gruesome reasons.

Somebody was killing cats, all right. Very dark and early one recent morning, the sheriff caught the perp red-handed.

Er—make that red-clawed. A great horned owl swooped down from a tree, grabbed a Siamese cat, and proceeded to have it for breakfast. There was no word on whether it used a runcible spoon.

"Runcible," by the way, is a nonsense word invented by Edward Lear. A couple of sources describe it as a spoon with short tines on the end, what we now call a "spork." A couple of other sources maintain, from the way he used the word in a couple of other stories and from one of his own drawings, that Lear simply used it to mean "gigantic." The latter meaning seems more logical, and also makes a runcible spoon an appropriate utensil for any bird big enough to routinely capture and munch on full-grown cats.

But the plot thickens. For one thing, the owl caught with its Siamese take-out wasn't working alone. Two of the birds have been seen in town. Second, catching them in the act doesn't mean the sheriff's office can do anything to protect the innocent cats of Newell. Great horned owls are a federally protected species, and it's illegal to harm them.

This could be a real problem. The owls, which can grow up to two feet tall with a wing span of 60 inches, are powerful predators. They eat practically anything, from rodents to skunks and even porcupines. A small town with plenty of cats gives them a handy all-you-can-eat buffet, and they probably can't taste the difference between a stray cat and someone's much-loved pet.

This raises an interesting question. What exactly would the federal authorities consider "harm"? Would someone be prosecuted for sending a pair of great horned owls down the mighty Missouri in a pea-green boat? Surely not, as long as they were supplied with plenty of quince and a couple of runcible spoons.

Categories: Just For Fun, Wild Things, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Fall and Flying Objects

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

Why do so many more jet trails show up in the sky this time of year? I'm sure there's a good scientific explanation based on such factors as air temperatures and winds aloft, the refraction of the light based on the angle of the sun, and other things about which I don't have a clue.

I could look it up, I suppose, or ask someone who took more science classes than I did and probably paid more attention during them. Or I could just enjoy the patterns of the white streaks against the blue autumn skies, and let it go at that.

It's been a beautiful fall in the Black Hills this year, and we've appreciated it all the more because last year we didn't really get one. October started out with snow and bitter cold, which caught many of us unprepared in matters of snow tires, storing garden hoses, and getting out flannel sheets. Even worse, it caught the trees while the leaves were still green, so the fall colors consisted of brown, brown, and brown. This year, though, the trees got to dress up in their best yellows, reds, and golds. Mild days and crisp nights allowed the leaves to stay on display for a long time before they let go and flew to the ground.

Autumn also brings some less appealing flying objects. Our house has been full of flies and wasps. As far as I can tell, they hatch out somewhere inside the window sills, where they become trapped between the window and the screen. Sometimes they crawl around in there, buzzing and bumping up against the glass, until some kind soul can't stand their noise any more and opens the window to let them out.

Sometimes they slip under the edge of the screen into the house, where they buzz back and forth until they collapse on the dining room table. There they lie on their backs, legs kicking faintly, buzzing intermittently like a toy whose battery is giving out, until they expire.

I am not unsympathetic. I don't kill these innocent creatures wantonly or maliciously. At the same time, I don't really feel it's my responsibility to rescue them when they crawl across the kitchen faucet, ignoring my efforts to shoo them away, until they slip and fall into the dishwater and drown.

Compassion and understanding, however, were not my first reactions the other day when a wasp got caught in my hair. I could feel it crawling around in there, buzzing frantically much too close to my ear, and after trying to shake it out and brush it out with my fingers I made a dash for the bathroom to grab my hairbrush and brush it out before it stung me.

The other night at bedtime was the last straw. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and there on the floor was the biggest spider I had ever seen. (Well, except for the tarantulas at Reptile Gardens, which don't count as they are safely behind glass instead of in the middle of my bathroom.) This one was huge and thick and black.

For an instant I stood frozen, trying to decide whether to step on the spider, run for the flyswatter, or just screech. That instant gave me a chance to take a closer look at the terrifying critter.

It was a plastic hair clip. Never mind.

Categories: Just For Fun, Wild Things | Tags: , , , , , | 3 Comments

No Fair Skipping the Q

Posted on September 23, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

If you're going to entertain yourself on a trip across western South Dakota by finding the alphabet (in order, and no cheating by skipping the Q) on billboards, I'd suggest starting well east of Kadoka.

That's assuming you're traveling from east to west. Going west you're heading toward the Black Hills, with its tourist attractions eager to catch the attention of I-90 travelers. Going east, don't bother with the game, because the billboards are so sparse that between one and the next you'll forget which letter you're looking for.

The challenge of the billboard game, of course, is finding the rarer letters: X, Z, and the infamous Q. The X (as in "exit") isn't a problem along the Interstate. The Z is rarer but not impossible, thanks to the CraZy Horse carving and occasional other amaZing attractions. Q can be more of a problem; thank goodness for Quick stops, antiQues, and Quiet campgrounds.

The hardest letter to find here, surprisingly, is J. This is why it's important to start east of Kadoka, where there is a sign advertising the Flying J truck stop near Rapid City. (Back when it was a Conoco, J's were really scarce.) For the discerning, there is also an inconspicuous J near the bottom of a billboard at the Kadoka off ramp. If you miss either of these, you might as well start hoping someone passes you in a Jeep.

During a recent trip across the western half of the state, I noticed quite a few new or freshly painted billboards for Black Hills tourist attractions. Based on this as an informal indicator of economic health, South Dakota is doing well.

I do have a few suggestions, though, for tourism businesses. As long as they're refurbishing billboards, how about making a few additions? Wall Drug could advertise its Zany cowboy Quartet and Quirky back alley and let us know the roaring T-Rex will make us Quiver in our flip-flops. The 1880 Town could add a Quick-draw contest. Reptile Gardens could promote its Jumping cockroaches and Jungle flowers—or maybe they could add a Jaguar or a Zebra.

You may think by now that I am a fan of billboards. Not so much. I do think they have their place—which probably includes the long stretch of Interstate across western South Dakota.

Still, creative travelers don't need billboards to entertain themselves. My daughter used to keep herself occupied by counting road kill, which she wrote down in a notebook under various categories: pheasants, deer, rabbits, raccoons, skunks, and UFO's (Unidentified Flat Objects).

Even someone who likes billboards might have to admit that there are way too many of them along the last few miles east of Exit 61 as you approach Rapid City. The road is littered with billboard after bigger billboard after enormous billboard, flashing lighted ads, and such an ugly clutter of signage that you can hardly find the exit. It isn't exactly the best way to welcome travelers to the beautiful Black Hills.

It reminds me of a parody by my favorite poet, Ogden Nash:

I think that I will never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
I'll never see a tree at all.

Maybe some of the Exit 61 signs could be removed and spread out along I-90 eastbound. Only, of course, if they have plenty of Q's, Z's, and J's.

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Wolf Creek Pass, Way Up On the Great Divide

Posted on September 16, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

If you're young enough or sophisticated enough that the title of this post didn't trigger a tune in your head that involves trucks and chickens, you might want to do an Internet search for C. W. McCall. Another choice would be to call me and have me sing you the chorus. I recommend the first option.

For the rest of you, feel free to hum along while you read. You can thank me later for getting the song stuck in your brain for the rest of the day.

Traveling spontaneously, without a schedule or advance reservations, can be wonderful. It gives you the freedom to change your plans, go where your fancy takes you, and follow your impulses.

After a hike down into—and back up out of—Canyon de Chelly on the Navaho reservation in northeastern Arizona, we headed for Colorado. Our plan was to spend the night at Durango and then head east and north in a relaxed and spontaneous manner. It was an excellent plan, made in blissful ignorance that on Labor Day weekend there is a motorcycle rally in the southern Rocky Mountains.

When we ambled into the Comfort Inn at Durango about 7:00 p.m. and said we wanted a room, the young woman at the desk was too polite to say, "Are you nuts?" She merely explained that every room in Durango was full. She suggested we might find one 60 miles east at Pagosa Springs.

A bit discouraged but still spontaneous, we drove on to Pagosa Springs, where we trotted into the lobby of the first motel we came to. "Sorry," the clerk said. Everything in town was full. He did think, though, the very expensive lodge just down the street had a couple of suites left.

We negotiated our way through a maze of service roads to find the very expensive lodge, screeched to a halt in front of its very expensive looking lobby, girded up our wallets, and hurried in—just in time to hear a biker tell the desk clerk, "Your last room? We'll take it. Guess it's our lucky day, huh?"

Certain that this same biker had passed us on the road a few miles outside of Durango, and wondering why there was never a highway patrolman around when you needed one, we went back to the car.

According to the map, the next town was South Fork, 44 miles away. The road, up and over Wolf Creek Pass, was marked as a "scenic route." Since it was after 8:30 and full dark by now, this designation did not cheer us. We were tired, cranky, and carefully not thinking about either the possibility of sleeping in the car or the intermittent grinding noises the brakes had been making all day.

In a dogged but spontaneous manner, we headed up Wolf Creek Pass. It was a classic mountain road, winding its way higher and higher around sharp curves and steep grades and switchbacks. There was an occasional scenic overlook. We didn't stop.

Finally, near the top of the pass, we did pull over and get out to stretch and wake ourselves up with a little fresh air. It felt fresh, all right—about 40 degrees fresh. Still, we stood outside for as long as we could, looking at the scenery.

Yes, scenery. Stars. At that altitude and distance from any town, the stars were visible in a way most of us in our street-lighted communities rarely see. The Milky Way was a bright path across the sky. Constellations were vivid shapes against the darkness. It was (at least to the non-geologist in the party) even more awe-inspiring than the grandeur of the canyon we had explored at the beginning of the day.

Eventually, shivering, we got back into the car and headed down the mountain. A few miles further on, we found the elderly but clean Wolf Creek Ski Lodge. It had one room left. We settled in gratefully and slept the sound sleep of those who enjoy relaxed and spontaneous travel.

We were even more grateful the next day that we hadn't had to drive another 120 miles to Walsenburg. They were hosting a classic car rally.

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Wait—What’s That Fly Doing In My . . . ?

Posted on August 6, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

The backstroke, presumably. Or maybe the crawl. But whatever style it's using, that fly is swimming for dear life, because it isn't in the soup.

It's in the urinal. (For someone with less restraint, this would be a perfect place for a truly tasteless comment about pee—er, pea soup. Luckily, I refuse to indulge in such low humor. It would be hitting below the belt.)

But back to the fly. Flies, rather. I haven't seen them myself, but I am informed by a reliable source that in the men's bathrooms at Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, there are flies in the urinals. This is not a reflection of the hygiene there—we are talking about the Dutch, after all.

Nope, these are painted flies, realistic little critters manufactured into the porcelain, rather like their prehistoric ancestors frozen in amber, except not as collectible. They are there for a reason—target practice. According to my reliable source's reliable source, adding the flies has improved the accuracy of airport urinal users by 80%.

And just how did they come up with that statistic? Who collected the information? It seems to me that peering over a guy's shoulder to assess his accuracy wouldn't do much to improve his aim. Besides, stationing an unfortunate researcher in the men's bathroom with a notebook for long periods of time just might result in reports of suspicious loitering and possibly an arrest. "Research? Yeah, right, buddy. You can tell that to the judge!"

Maybe they just asked for an estimate from the people with the most to gain from the project. I'm sure the workers who clean the bathrooms would be delighted with an 80% improvement in hitting the designated target.

Some of you—parents of little boys, for instance—might be interested in trying this technique at home. If so, I'd recommend an alternate version. It doesn't involve installing a permanent fly in your toilet bowl that might be a bit startling to guests.

All it takes is some Cheerios. I've seen this recommended as a toilet-training aid for little boys; you just drop one in the bowl and encourage the trainee to sink it. (M & M's might work, too, but that would be wasteful. I wasn't even willing to sacrifice one just to find out if it would float.)

I didn't realize this technique had its own theme song until we got a DVD of the Vermont folk group The Woods Tea Company. One of their songs is "Sink the Cheerio," by Pete Sutherland. It's a lively tune that, appropriately enough, is somewhere between a sea chantey and a drinking song.

It is also just reminiscent enough of "Sink the Bismarck" to give the whole endeavor a sense of purpose. It serves as a reminder that, if you want to succeed, it's important to have a clear target. Especially if you're trying to hit it on the fly.

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Not Worth the Paper It’s Printed On?

Posted on July 30, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

There it was, in the grass right beside the road. Cash. A bill that, even at first glance, was obviously larger than a one, a five, or even a ten.

Maybe some of you take your daily walks in the kind of neighborhoods where people go around with so many hundred-dollar bills in their pockets that they're likely to lose one every now and then. That doesn't happen where I live.

Oh, it's a nice neighborhood, a wooded, hilly area on the edge of town where the deer consider front-yard flower beds a place to go for lunch and where walkers are more likely to encounter mountain lions than muggers. Still, people don't scatter cash around with reckless abandon. The most money I've ever found during a walk was a ten-dollar bill, and I felt guilty about that.

So seeing what looked like a hundred-dollar bill in the ditch was the most exciting thing that had happened to me that day. (True, it was only 7:15 in the morning, but still.) Until I picked it up and realized it wasn't a hundred-dollar bill.

It was a million-dollar bill. It looked reasonably real, too, with the funky shaded color of new U.S. currency, official-looking seals and signatures in the right places, and an appropriately offset picture of our 19th president, Rutherford B. Hayes.

I might have gotten a lot more excited, except I happen to know that the government of the United States doesn't print million-dollar bills. The largest denomination that's been printed since 1969 is the hundred. The few remaining $500, $1,000, $5,000 and $10,000 bills that might still be around are taken out of circulation whenever they show up. These are still legal tender, though, so if you happen to find one in a ditch be sure to check it out carefully.

Fake or not, I stuck this one in my pocket to take home. Without my reading glasses, I couldn't make out the two scroll-like areas on the back that were filled with teeny, tiny printing.

Actually, reading glasses weren't enough. It took a magnifying glass. I learned that the "million dollar question" was whether I had a prayer of getting into heaven. The answer was no, unless I would repent and turn from sin—said sin being specified as lying, stealing, blasphemy, and adultery.

This inspiring little diatribe raised several questions. First, since meanness, violence, and murder weren't listed, are those behaviors okay? Or, even with the teeny, tiny print, was there just not enough room to list them?

Second, if I'm walking along minding my own business, and I pick up a fake million-dollar bill that's lying by the road, does that make me a thief?

Third, if a religious organization prints fake million-dollar bills, hoping to entice people into picking them up, isn't that more than a little bit like lying? Wouldn't it also qualify as leading people into temptation?

Fourth, is it really a great idea, once you have people's attention with a fake million-dollar bill, to print your message so small that they have to use a magnifying glass to read it?

And finally, why pick on Rutherford B. Hayes? The man never got a chance to be on our genuine currency. Using his image on a fake is only adding insult to injury. Maybe his descendants should sue. They might get a settlement. It might even be paid in million-dollar bills.

Categories: Just For Fun, Money Matters | 3 Comments

Psst! Wanna Buy A . . . ?

Posted on July 16, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

Somebody, somewhere, must have sold my email address. A couple of months ago, I started getting tons of spam. Most of these weren't obvious online scams, but semi-legitimate messages from people all over the Internet wanting me to buy stuff that some of them may have even actually had for sale.

If I had only taken the time to respond instead of just deleting the messages, here are some of the ways I could have enhanced my life:

I could have eliminated my credit card debt. Oh, wait, I haven't had any credit card debt for years. I could have improved my credit score—maybe by getting rid of all that debt, or maybe by applying for one of the many job opportunities that were sent to me.

Or I could have ditched work entirely and taken a vacation abroad. For some reason, an industrious email marketer somewhere had the idea that I desperately wanted to go to Italy. (Not, presumably, by charging the tickets to a credit card.)

I could have stopped snoring—whether my own or my spouse's, the email didn't specify. I could have signed up to get a monthly bag of coffee. (If you can't sleep, you can't snore, right?)

I could have kept my pets from barking. I could have helped my pets sleep better. Maybe because I stopped snoring? Too bad I don't have any pets.

My favorite piece of spam, however, came from that always-reliable source, Nigeria. I quote: "During the auditing and closing of all financial records of the Central Bank Of Nigeria it was discovered from the records of outstanding to be transfer to your account but then will had that you are dead, now that i find your email address and some personal information, i decide to mail you just to confirm if you are dead truly."

I wonder whether my failure to reply was taken as confirmation of my demise.

As a result of moving and updating my website this week, I was unable to send or receive email for one whole day. The withdrawal symptoms weren't pretty, but with the help of caffeine, chocolate, and a support group (online, of course), I was able to get through the trauma.

Like many other difficult life experiences, though, this one had a silver lining. Ever since I got the email working again, I'm not getting any spam. It's a great relief. But I do hope the nice man at the Bank of Nigeria still believes I'm dead.

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“It Was a Dark and Stormy Night . . .”

Posted on July 2, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

All the classic elements were present: The group of people thrown together in a primitive environment. Attacks by wild beasts. A less-than-successful search for food in the wild. Fire. Floods. Ominous weather. Gunfights. Mysterious, threatening strangers. Even a pregnant woman ready to go into labor at any moment.

It could have been a great low-budget scary movie. But, actually, it was just another typical family camping trip.

Just in case a little hyperbole may have crept into the first paragraph, perhaps I should clarify. Maybe a campground along the Missouri River in eastern South Dakota doesn't exactly qualify as a primitive environment. But hey, the cell phone coverage was spotty at best—and the closest wireless Internet access was at least three miles away.

The wild beasts? Okay, they weren't bears or mountain lions, but mosquitoes. There were hordes of them, though, and they were vicious. The search for food in the wild? Well, those who went fishing didn't quite catch enough for everyone for supper.

The fire, of course, was necessary for the roasted marshmallows and S'mores. The flooding and the ominous weather were real enough. Just ask the two people who went swimming under what in drier years is a picnic shelter. The thunderstorms, thankfully, passed north of us and all we got was a few drops of rain.

The gunfights were real, too, with countless shots exchanged from loaded weapons. One of the main participants was a retired law enforcement officer. The other was a toddler with less training but at least as much determination and a pretty good eye. The innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire didn't seem to mind. It's not a bad thing to be shot with a water gun on a 90-degree day.

The nine-months-pregnant mom missed her great opportunity by not going into labor. Her husband swore he could have the camper hooked up and on the road in seven minutes if necessary, but he never got the chance to prove it. Oh, well. Some people just don't have a full appreciation of the finer points of dramatic tension.

The mysterious, threatening strangers? Unfortunately, they were all too real. The fright factor is a little too genuine when you're awakened at 2:00 a.m. by a couple of drunks shouting and beating on one of the tents in your campsite. Even if the tent isn't yours, you're uncomfortably reminded that tents don't come equipped with deadbolt locks.

When the staggering pair came back at dawn, they decided for some incoherent reason of their own to pull a marker post out of the ground. This was in front of the family tent where four little kids were sleeping. Their mother's reaction was, "Get the baseball bat out of the van!"

The drunks were hustled off down the road by a pair of brothers-in-law who were more than big enough—and mad enough—to handle them even without the bat. The loaded water guns, though, might have come in handy. Meanwhile, back at the tent, someone else was calling 911. It was quite satisfying a bit later to see a burly cop, looking like a stereotype straight out of Hollywood, holding one of the drunks upright by a pair of handcuffs as he marched him past our campsites. One of them was arrested, and their hearty-partying group was evicted from the campground.

We learned later that the drunks were part of a large family reunion whose members had reserved about 20 campsites. I'd love to have heard the story from that family's perspective. Were the rest of them angry at us for turning in their sons/grandsons/nephews? Or did the drunks belong to "that" family—the one that the rest of relatives only invite to reunions because they have to? Maybe it was a relief to have them gone.

I just hope the reunion organizers had taken all their group photos the day before.

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel, Wild Things | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments

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