Where are we going??

I was surprised to see the elderly couple pass the front window of the lounge ten minutes after the wolf watch shuttle pulled away from the office. They had started the hike up to the preserve almost three hours earlier. I opened the front door and asked, “Have you seen enough of the wolves and are no longer interested in the talk?” In an exasperated tone the woman replied, “We have been walking for nearly three hours and still have not found them!” I couldn’t believe it. I hurried them into my van and told them I’d give them a ride up so they could join in the talk that had just begun. As we were on our way up through the tent section, the woman sheepishly admitted they had gotten lost. “I can’t understand it” she said, “I’m usually very good with maps, and my husband use to read maps for the Pentagon.” I nearly drew blood as I bit my tongue hard to keep from laughing. I could feel her husband’s embarrassment at her remark. I said a silent prayerof thanks that her husband was retired, as I opened my door to let them out at the preserve. Otherwise, I thought to myself, we may have been bombing Spain instead of Iraq during the Gulf war!

I’ve noticed a subtle shift in the mental capabilities of the general public in the thirty years since I married into the tourism industry. If I were to name one facet of this unfortunate change, it would be the loss of common sense and the ability to follow directions, more specifically map-reading.

The government grants thousands or even millions of dollars, for inane studies on things such as methane gas produced by flatulating cows. I wonder if I could get a grant to study the general public’s lack of ability to function when removed from their “natural habitat” in the urban jungle. Does the lung function improve when taken away from the pollutants that are inhaled day in and day out? Is it the sudden infusion of clean air that clouds their mental capabilities? Perhaps it is the absence of concrete and the exposure to large patches of sky edged by trees, rather than the slivers of sky normally seen between buildings, that disorients them after they take three paces off the sidewalk. Whatever the cause, something needs to be done before all of humanity is wandering around in a daze.

Last week it took more than a half dozen calls for a camper to find our office. They were less than eight miles away. Finally, they called when they were only two turns from the camp. Repeating the directions for the tenth time, I hung up the phone and pulled out a sign-in sheet and pen, marked a car tag and got a map ready for them. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “We are there but can’t find the office” they complained. Confused, I looked out the window but saw no car. “We are at number 22,” they added. I was more confused now because site 22 is not along the road, and I never saw the car or headlights pass the office. Insisting they were at our campground sign, I walked out the door and scanned the road out front where the sign stood. Still no sign of them.

Finally, after questioning them further, they told me what I wanted to know. “We are at the corner of Wishing Well Road and Frog Pond Road, and are looking at your camping sign.”

I asked, “What does the sign tell you to do?”
“It says turn left.”
“Then turn left,” I replied “And at the end of Wishing Well Road, you will see another sign that tells you to turn left onto Mt. Pleasant Road, and we will be a half mile down on the left” Finally, after six phone calls, thirty minutes, and navigating four roads and four turns in six miles, they arrived.

Somehow over the years, people have lost the power of reasoning and the ability to follow even a simple map. We always highlight the route to their individual campsites in neon color, as we verbalize the instructions. Mind you, every site is numbered, both on the paper map and on the tree in front of each site. We have even gone as far as to walk them to the edge of the sidewalk, point to two bright green recycle barrels, locate the barrels on the map that they have clutched in their hands and tell them to turn right at those barrels. Yet, the moment the key is place in the ignition of their car, they go brain dead, and you watch helplessly as the car glides past the barrels and in the opposite direction from where you just pointed. You can almost see the ineffective spark of neurons in the brain trying to make a solid connection. Yet these same people can find their way through the most difficult mazes on video games, while slaying the various opponents designed to thwart their ability to reach the next challenge. Is the general public becoming incapable of following a map that isn’t electronically changing as they move forward?

The A&P food store is one destination everyone asks directions to. “Make a right out of the campground, go to the end of the road and turn left onto Rt. 94. The A&P is at the first traffic light.” Seriously? How hard is that? Yet they insist on the address so it can be programmed into their GPS. Not only can people not read maps anymore, they cannot follow verbal directions. Ladies room? “Follow the red arrows on the sidewalk around to the other side of the building for the ladies room.” Two seconds later they come back and tell me it is locked. Why? Because they followed the arrows only on the first side of the building, and did not turn the corner along with the arrows and sidewalk, and are trying to get into the maintenance closet. What is it that inhibits the ability for people to take advice or think things through? Is it the preservatives in the foods we eat? The hormones injected into meat? Maybe it’s the pesticides that are used. Although, if that is the case, perhaps we should bring back DDT when simple common sense was… well, common!

Maybe it comes down to the fact that people today feel no obligation to listen to anyone but themselves, and therefore, can’t follow verbal direction because they tuned the speaker out the moment they realized the voice was not their own. Children no longer listen to those in authority, including their parents, and parents don’t listen to their children.
Do you remember when we were young? The teacher would tell all of us to
“put on our thinking caps” when there was a problem or question we didn’t know the answer to. Our brains were always working, ciphering, finding the answers logically, and memorizing. Basic math skills have perished with the calculator. People talk on phones more now than ever, but can’t remember the number they dial multiple times per day because the phone remembers it for them. Writing skills, spelling, and grammar have gone by the wayside, replaced with internet slang and text lingo. Our brains are becoming more obsolete with each technological breakthrough. We have become reliant on machines to do our thinking and guide us to where we want to go. We no longer value the individual thinker and are enslaving ourselves and our children to the fashion and mindset of whoever is in vogue at the present moment, because we no longer think for ourselves. Someone or something is solving all of our problems for us. Are we becoming nothing more than drones? Hmm… are we still in the Milky Way? Or has Earth somehow fallen into the Delta Quadrant and we are now part of a pseudo-race of cybernetic beings referred to in Star Trek as the Borg Collective.

Then again, maybe we are just being poisoned by the gas from farting cows.

Yolanda Made Me Do It

If it is in fact true what my family claims concerning the possibility of me having multiple personality disorder, or more correctly, dissociative identity disorder, then I will admit that this recent customer met at least three of them in the past ten minutes; the last of which being the dreaded Yolanda.

I wasn’t supposed to be working and dealing with customers. I was just sitting in front of the office in pleasant conversation with a friend under the gazebo. I purposely avoided going into the office so I wouldn’t get sucked into the frenzy of wolf watchers and campers. I was recuperating from lung surgery, still in pain and not up to working, as I got winded easily. I felt I had enough staff on hand to allow me a day off. I was wrong. A wave of regret washed over me as my son came out of the office with a woman not three paces behind. I could read the forewarning in his expression as he tried a larger stride to allow a few seconds of verbiage before she was alongside of me.

The woman sat on my bench, smiled sweetly and demanded a poster hanging in the office be removed immediately because she thought it was offensive. I smiled back and answered simply “no”. The poster in question was given as a joke because of the continuous problems with spoiled undisciplined children who are allowed to run rampant in my store by their parents. The poster depicts two mischievous looking blond haired boys shaking what looks like their fists but on closer inspection reveals the slight lift of the middle finger. The print on the poster states: Notice to parents, unattended children will be captured and sold as slaves.
This poster gets humorous reactions from customers of all race and age. I have been asked if I sell copies of it so many times, that I reproduced it on letter size paper and give them away to anyone who asks. Children giggle nervously and adults laugh. This woman was devoid of humor.

She moved closer to me and again insisted the poster be removed. Again I calmly responded with a no, but suggested if she doesn’t want to look at it, she need not go into the office. Moving closer still and crossing the invisible boundary into my personal space, she would not give up on her mission. I believe that was when Francine, the business personality of my family’s D.I.D diagnosis began to drop like a curtain over my countenance. “I accept your opinion, but disagree, and the poster will remain where it is”, she was told.

The woman insisted the poster offended her children because “it” was in their DNA. Although she was white, her husband was Afro-American. I looked in disbelief and chuckled as I responded. “Lady, trust me, there is a lot of stuff in my DNA and my ancestry, and I’m over it and have dealt with it.” I suggested she take her children out of the store and leave. But she had no intention of leaving until she badgered and intimidated me into removing the poster. I replied, that my ancestors were not slave owners, neither her husband nor her children were slaves, and it was time they let go of the past. I also reminded her that it was my property, my store, my window, my poster and my choice as to what I have on my walls. She threatened not to come back again, to which I replied it was her choice and I wouldn’t lose sleep over that.

Seeing I was getting winded and stressed, my friend repeatedly told the woman I was not well and she needed to leave. Still she refused. Trying to maintain some sort of composure I again suggested she take her children home. That was when she admitted that her children were not even at the camp that day. Trying to understand, I asked how old her children were. When she told me they were in their 40s, I was incredulous. I could feel Francine was struggling to stay in the forefront, but by now, Yolanda was emerging and rising like a suffocating mist. The more I denied her wishes and told her to leave, the more she moved into my personal space and refused to go until she got what she wanted. Yolanda grew like a genie from Aladdin’s lamp and commandeered my being. I felt my blood pressure rise like the mercury on a thermometer, my heartbeat doubled and the rage I had been suppressing caused my throat to restrict. I felt myself become an observer as Yolanda took complete control, determined to finally end this stalemate.

I vaguely remember feeling my lips move, and hearing a voice that sounded familiar, but not quite my own. It was loud and strained, and the words just spilled out taking all the strength that remained. “Get the f--- out of my face and off my property now or I’ll have the police escort you off!” I was spent, but I was finally heard. My husband came out of the office and made the woman and her husband leave the premises. Yolanda retreated into the recesses of my brain as quick as she had emerged. I glanced at my friend and sheepishly stated, “Yolanda made me do it” and we laughed, relieved that it was over. As I turned toward the door, I realized a man had been close enough to have heard my explosion. I apologized to him and he made us laugh again when he shrugged, and said, “hey I’m from New Jersey, that was nothing!”

I took a slow and deliberate breath as I tried to unlock my clenched jaws. I could feel the volume of air increase as my nostrils flared and my lungs expanded until a sharp pain in my chest forced the air through my mouth as my jaw slacked. I was making a conscious effort to control my breathing and bring my blood pressure back to normal as my anger waned. I was annoyed with both the customer who I had just finished dealing with as well as myself for allowing her to bring me to the precipice of blind rage.

Hindsight is always 20/20. After the fact you review and think of different ways to respond to various situations. Unfortunately, you are not always able to call “do-over”, but if I could, I would have liked to delve further into the DNA reference. I would have liked to remind her that there were white slaves too, as well as Jewish, Roman, Egyptian, and so on. I’m not sure when “slaves” and “black” became synonymous. I almost went inside, got a copy and posted another one on the outside window, but managed that small amount of restraint. Perhaps it was her ancestors who owned slaves and she was trying to overcome some sort of ancestral guilt. I concede the past needs to be remembered so that history won’t repeat itself, but we also need to remember it is in the past and hatred and prejudice should not be perpetuated. I am just grateful that Yolanda retreated when she did or she may have suggested a lifeguard be hired for their gene pool, or perhaps they should pull the plug, drain it completely, and not procreate.

Can you say E-eeew Coli?

Every campground has a dumping station. This is where trailers can empty their waste-water holding tanks. It is also a place for a kind of entertainment called people watching. Think of it as being on a boardwalk, sitting on the bench, and watching the public pass by. It is amazing what we reveal about ourselves without intention. As an observer, it is fun to imagine a person’s occupation or character by how they look or dress, whether their hands are calloused or manicured, if they were friendly, grumpy and so on.
The gazebo and sitting area outside of the office is the equivalent to front row, middle seats, under the big top and the dump station is the center ring in our little circus. It is where our seasonal camper coffee club gathers each morning to do their people watching. When a trailer pulls up to dump, it’s as though the circus ringmaster has come to introduce the main act and draw everyone’s attention to the center ring. The anticipation is almost palpable as all eyes do a quick scan of the newest performer. Then, in almost a fever pitch, the assessments and betting begin; “Pro or newbie?” Gloves or no gloves?   Will they wash their hands when they finish?, Will they rinse the sewer hose before putting it back?  And on and on it goes, until the unit pulls away and they wait for the next unit to provide the encore.
Last week, I wished I had a video camera on the dump station so that I could have played back the unit we had mid-week. No one was around to watch, with the exception of the few of us working in the office. The ease of his approach and knowledge of how far forward he needed to be in order to line up the valves with the septic cap told us he was not a newbie. What happened after, had us naming all the occupations we prayed he wasn’t involved in, chef being at the top of the list.
As he pulled the sewer hose from the storage compartment, he simultaneously lit a cigarette. Not wearing any gloves, he proceeded to hookup to the waste water valve and dump the holding tanks, all the while handling the rinse hose, which had, just moments before, been down the sewer hose of the previous unit, and putting the cigarette in and out of his mouth. You can almost see the e-coli and other bacteria jumping from hand to cigarette to mouth. When the tanks were emptied he rinsed the area while the water splashed his sandaled feet, hung the hose and wiped his hands on his jeans, shuffled his feet twice in the gravel, so as not to put mud on the floor of the truck, hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, and pulled out. All the while the audience in the office gasped, groaned, and gagged in disbelief.
One must wonder about his personal hygiene training. Was this man an orphan? Did he not have a mother growing up? Obviously, if he didn’t wash his hands after that repulsive show, it would be a safe bet that he doesn’t wash after using the bathroom. Perhaps he worked in a sewer treatment plant, and the concentration of bacteria is all relative in his mind. We wondered if his lady was o.k. with his personal hygiene habits. I myself know that on Wednesdays, when my husband has to pump out the holding tanks of all the seasonal trailers, even though he wears gloves and washes his hands after the gloves are removed, he could not possibly exude enough pheromones for me to feel any attraction until after he has showered and scrubbed every inch of his body.
I contemplated relocating the antibacterial hand wash in the store to a more visible spot, but as he pulled away, my subconscious propelled me to the back room where I washed my own hands in a futile gesture of hygiene by proxy.

Granma needs a dryer

When you have a campground, it is important that an owner, manager or at the very least, an employee lives on the camp property. The ability to see the residence gives a feel of security, and accessibility to the customers. You do have to give consideration as to who that person will be, since they will be in a position to be observed by campers in their daily living habits. Off duty behavior can leave a big impression.

We have a cottage in the center of the camp by the swimming lake that was at one time a rental unit. After my husband’s youngest brother married, their parents turned the family home over to him and moved into the cabin by the lake. Not the wisest decision for an abundance of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that there was a full flight of steps which separated the kitchen & bathroom level from the bedroom and living room level. My in-laws being in their 70’s would have fared better in a ranch house. Dad however was set on living in the cabin, and whatever dad wanted mom granted.
Mom had a problem with blood pressure. I often wonder if high blood pressure is just another occupational hazard in owning a campground. It’s amazing how quickly your pressure can rise when dealing with the public on a daily basis. Not everyone is a pleasure to deal with and that includes the owner as well as the camper. There are situations that cause such a surge in pressure that I can imagine a simple bug bite at the right time and in the correct location could cause an arterial spurt causing you to bleed out where you stand.
One night, she went downstairs and blacked out, hitting her head on the concrete floor. The resulting brain hemmorrhage unfortunately aged her by about 10 years. For the most part they lived simply and quietly like most senior citizens. Occasionally, though, she would forget there were other people around.

One day, my son came rushing into the office to tell me to have his father stop grandma from hanging her laundry outside, now that they are living in the middle of the campground. Thinking his motive was embarrassment for his grandparents hanging on to old habits, and not always embracing the progress made in technology: i.e.: electric dryers, I tried to reason with him. I reminded him they are from a different generation and Grandma enjoys hanging her clothes outside and likes the way they smell after being in the fresh air. “No, she’s doing ALL her laundry”, he said. Still not comprehending what the problem might be, I answered with a “so what?’

That’s when my son made himself clear. He literally meant ALL the laundry. As in she’s not wearing clothes while hanging the wash! That facilitated a call to my husband to rush over to camp and get Granny inside and explain why she shouldn’t wait until there were no clean clothes before doing the wash. Later we had to laugh, my son claiming he thought he was going to go blind, and would probably have nightmares for the rest of his life. I guess seeing your 78 year old grandmother without clothes is not the image a 15 year old boy wants imprinted on the retina! Lucky for us it was a weekday and there were not many campers around.

Inhibitions were never to blame when it came to my husband's parents. They lived in a different time and place from which I was raised. Our cultural clashes were often used as fodder for stories from both perspectives. I find myself missing them now that they're gone but keep my fingers crossed tight that when I'm old, I'll remember to keep up with the laundry, and not give my kids anything to blog about!

Memorial Weekend 2010

Thursday morning of Memorial weekend and I approach the coffee pot. Coffee being my morning oracle, I pour with caution, first taking in the aroma, in the same way one tests the water by dipping their toe in the pool before jumping in. The first sip of coffee can set the mood and method in which you approach the situations that arise for the
remainder of the day.

This morning’s coffee was no elixir, but it wasn’t terrible either. Just on average cup, foretelling what could be an average day. Although weekends usually begin on Friday, holiday weekends can be the exception to the rule. Some people take off Friday and come a day early to extend the 3-day weekend into four. We were expecting only a few of them to arrive this afternoon. Thursday arrivals help reduce the mayhem created by fifty or more sites arriving at the same time to check in. There are times that our quiet country road mimics the LA freeway during rush hour.

I glanced at the clock, 7:45am. I carried my cup to the laptop that springs to life at the touch of a key. Checking the various e-mails, I discover there is nothing imperative that needs my attention in that department. Reviewing the weekend’s planned activities; I do a mental check to see if everything is at the ready. Organization not being my forte, I have to make a concerted effort when it comes to holiday weekends. There are periods of time when it becomes so hectic in the registration office that it resembles the floor of the stock exchange, with employees scrambling for registers, bodies clashing together at every turn calling out needs and demands in a frenzied commotion. It always happens that campers arrive at the same hour throngs of wolf watchers arrive to register. The day went without any serious mishaps and I closed the doors and went home at 6:30. We were invited out for dinner and I decided to go for it, knowing it might be the last good meal until Monday night. My husband, workaholic that he is, opted to stay home and finish the mowing he didn’t get to do on Wednesday. I smiled to myself when it began to rain while at dinner. I knew he wouldn’t be working into the night and might get to bed at a reasonable hour.

Being the insomniac that I am, I often claim to wonder at the ability that my husband, has when it comes to slumber. However, if one reviews his daily activities, it is a wonder that he can function for as many hours as he does. This week especially, most days he was out of bed by 6:30am and didn’t come back to the house until 9pm. Doing backhoe work, mowing and all the various other jobs, causes near coma-like sleep when he finally collapses onto the bed after his shower. His hours are not just long, but full of strenuous, physical work.

At dinner, we discussed the ability to sleep that most around the table possessed. I am always amazed that there are folks who really do get 6 to 8 hours of sleep on a regular basis. I am lucky if I sleep for an hour without waking. A sleep study revealed I wake 6 to 10 times per hour on average. It is something I’ve gotten used to over the years, and I think if I did sleep now, the brain mass which we refer to as my evil twin would be to blame. What keeps me awake most times is a jingle or song that gets stuck on replay in my brain. Of course it didn’t help when at dinner, everyone was recalling theme songs from old TV shows and commercials, trying to guess which one would replay in my head tonight.

At 5 am I couldn’t lay in bed any longer so I decided to e-mail two of my dinner companions their answer. The e-mail went like this…

"Be glad I’m not calling you!
Here we come, walkin down the street, we get the funniest looks from , everyone we meet!
hey, hey we're the monkeys , people say we monkey around, but we're too busy singing to put anybody down....................

what do you want when you gotta have something ..and it's gotta be sweet...and it's gotta be alot.. and you only have a dime??

don't forget
hotdogs, armour hotdogs, what kind of kids love amour hotdogs, big kids little kids, kids who climb on rocks, fat kids, skinny kids, even kids with chickenpox love hot dogs, armour hot dogs, the dogs kids love to bite!

need we go into oscar meyer weiners?
goin back to bed now!!!"


The sign on the door states we open for business at 9am, but I wanted to get in early so all the preliminary prep work would be complete, and I’d be able to enjoy my coffee while it was still hot and fresh. Too often, I get one or two sips before I’m interrupted and set the cup down only to find it hours later, with an uninvited insect that did a swan dive into the black abyss. This memorial day, being the first weekend filled to capacity, I was mentally gearing up for the hours I’d be spending in this building, where we spend all but the time we set aside for sleep.


The phone started ringing before 7:30 am with campers who waited until they got a favorable weather forecast. The flaw in their plan is that by the time the weather is predicted, all the sites are full and they have nowhere to go. Holidays being a 3-day minimum weekend, people expect you to reserve just for Saturday night and not only do they become indignant that you require 3 nights, but they do not believe you when you tell them there are no sites remaining.

I unlocked the door as I took my last swig of coffee, debated having breakfast, but did not follow through. Regretting that decision at about 10am, my stomach growled at the people signing in for the wolf watch. I couldn’t wait for the frenzy to subside at 10:30 when the shuttle to the wolf preserve would pull away from the front of the office with eager animal lovers. Before the dust settled, I found myself foraging for food in the kitchen. Hmm, no time to cook anything and the milk was on the verge of being chunky.
I popped a handful of dry cheerios in my mouth just as the phone rang, so I hurried back to the office garbling into the cordless phone the message I have repeated hundreds of times all week. “no, I’m sorry we are full for the weekend – no the cabins and rv rentals are full – no there are no campsites available either, we’re full. No, I do not know where you can find a campsite, holidays book a month or more in advance. No, we have nothing for just Saturday night, it’s a three night minimum. No we are completely filled until Monday…yes I am sure…. I hang up as the other line is ringing only to go through the entire dialogue again and wonder what part of “no we are full” do they not understand.

There was a steady flow of campers checking in throughout the day. It was helpful that there were no wolf watches in the afternoon. Lunch and dinner was the leftover ziti I made on Wednesday. All in all, things went pretty smoothly and everyone that we expected in was here by 10:30pm. I started to cash out the registers as my husband went to mop shower floors. We checked the bathrooms to be sure toilet tissue and hand soap was well stocked, and arrived home at 10:45 as the rain started to fall. Rain at that time is a godsend and means that my husband and my son won’t have to walk camp to be sure everyone is quiet, so others are able to sleep. Rain drives everyone into their tent and prevents the talking and drinking around the campfire. We were thankfully in bed by eleven.

The first of the three night holiday now in the past, I was trying to store up energy to face the next three days. Tomorrow would be Saturday, but I tried to trick my mind into thinking this day, hectic as it was, never happened, and it will be Friday tomorrow, leaving the normal 40 hours in three days schedule rather than the 50-52 hours put in on three night holidays.

Saturday began early, just as the previous day, with coffee, no breakfast and phone calls
Wolf watchers and campers were registered and the phone continued to ring off the hook. When the morning wolf watch returned at noon and finally finished their shopping, we were all wondering what we might eat for lunch. Luckily I had the foresight to defrost some sausages and my daughter had put them in the oven, sautéed peppers and onions and we had a quick lunch. Mid afternoon the treasure hunt had been solved and my son and his fiancée who also works here, were organizing kids for the shooting contest in the lounge. They had to knock down a pyramid of coke cans with a gun that shot ping pong balls. With that finished, we settled in for the rest of the day’s normal activities in the store. Once again, was the steady flow of customers in and out of the office and store, making purchases and asking directions to events and attractions in the area. The phone still rang with people hopeful that there might have been a cancellation, and us telling them over and over that we are full. Being a holiday weekend the amount of people for the wolf watches was astounding. Evening approached and things slowed down as people began to settle in front of their campfires. Dinner consists of a package of bright orange colored cheese crackers grabbed from under the counter. We had posted that the store would close at 9pm and it seemed we were actually going to be able to accomplish that. We cashed out and did the normal routine of closing up and went home. We looked forward to watching some TV before my husband had to go and walk camp. At 9:30pm we had our first phone complaint of noisy campers. My husband explained that quiet hours didn’t start till 11pm, but since the caller made it sound like the noise was over the top he decided to make the trek up to the tent section to ask them to tone it down and remind them that 11pm was quiet time. When he arrived, he didn’t think it was very loud, but cautioned the offenders on how far voices carry at night.
Between 10:30pm and 12:30 am we received three more calls regarding the same sites by the same callers. The last call came just as I had begun to fall asleep. I tried very hard to keep my temper when they complained about this being the fourth time they had to call with no result. I reminded them that the first calls came before quiet hours were in effect and they could barely be heard outside of their sites when the manager was up there. I did however assure them he would once again go up since it was definitely after quiet hours now, but to come out of the tent so he might speak with them also. When my husband returned, he told me that another nearby site remarked the loudest thing they heard was the complaining campers yelling obscenities to the others to be quiet. I suspect they were just annoyed with the rain and trying to find a way to get a refund. When they realized that wouldn’t work, they added a complaint that people were walking down the road at night with flashlights. My husband assured them that he was not going to prohibit people from walking to the bathroom at night and told them not to call again. We had another site that we did not rent because it needed more work, but told them they could move in the morning if they so desired. Although the phone did not ring for the rest of the night, all chances of falling back asleep were done for me. I got out of bed and read for the rest of the night until it was time to go back to the office.
Sunday was pretty much a rerun of Saturday. We moved the campers who complained the night before to another site and they were thrilled with the new location. It was hard to keep up with the rental of paddle boats, kayaks and mini golf. As I recall, breakfast and lunch was graham crackers, popcorn and an ice cream bar, but my daughter made a great salad for dinner. Once again, we closed about 10:30pm, my husband walked camp and we went to bed.

By Monday morning, my body and mind were battling over going to work. I was praying for 6pm to arrive so that I could go home. First thing in the morning as I unlocked the front door I caught the distinct odor of steak on an open fire. That sealed it – I needed to have steak for dinner and nothing else would do it. Monday the minutes seemed like hours, and I was impatient for the day to end. Feeling total exhaustion, what kept me going was the thought of a juicy steak. Being Monday, all local restaurants were closed so we had to drive to Stroudsburg. The steak was wonderful and filling. Finally at home, we sat down to unwind from the weekend. I was sure I would get at least a couple of hours of sound sleep and couldn’t wait for my head to hit the pillow. I awoke at 1am, and had difficulty falling back asleep until about 5am, but was not worried because I did not have to get out of bed till 8:45. At 6:45, the phone rang. I reluctantly answered only to find someone on the other line asking about fees for the dumping station. He was not one of my campers, but rather the type who camp for free in mall parking lots and then is looking for a place to dump and drop off garbage. What is he thinking calling at this hour? I told him to call back after 9 when the office would be open. But he continued to ask more questions. Annoyed, I dropped the phone back in the cradle mumbling, one three-day holiday weekend down, only three more to go.

It's o.k.? They're permitted to roam free?

I inserted the key into the front door lock and clenched my teeth as I twisted my wrist. My wince was audible as I grabbed at the key a second time, changing the angle of my arm as I unlocked the door. The pain caused by 20 years of untreated carpel tunnel was exacerbated by the increased barometric pressure due to the approaching storm front. It was a long day and even though I knew sleep would not come easily, I looked forward to my bed and the relaxation I planned to revel in.

Weekends are exhausting and long, and it was only Friday night. The preparation starts as the previous weekend ends. Monday morning you awake with anticipation of accomplishing all that needs to be done before the campground fills. The weather forecast will dictate the order as well as the timing in which the various jobs must be completed. Weed whacking needs to be done again as well as re-mowing the grass. Bathrooms and showers are scrubbed from the weekend that just ended, reservations need a double check to be sure all deposits are received, and no sites have been double booked. Rental trailers and cabins are cleaned and readied for the next occupants. Garbage and recycling needs to be picked up and set out so it can be hauled off the premises only to repeat the entire exercise again. Needed repairs are always multiplying faster than anyone can keep up with. Soda, ice cream and candy vendors must be called with orders so you are fully stocked for the onslaught of campers that will arrive on Friday. Stockrooms are plundered; and all the while the phone rings non-stop with people calling with last minute plans, hopeful that you will be able to pull new sites out of thin air, so that they may disprove the lesson of Aesop’s fable depicted by the ant and the grasshopper. Every year we are amazed how many people do not plan ahead on a beautiful weekend of the summer?


I walked into the foyer without the need of lights; the route to my bedroom imprinted on every cell of my being. I’m grateful that my home is a split level and has 5 less steps to navigate than a 2-story house. My movements were as fluid as a well rehearsed dance, as I shed my clothes walking toward the bathroom, and donning the nightgown hanging behind the door. I brushed my teeth, swallowed my pills and collapsed onto the bed without enough energy to pull the heavy quilt on top.
One deep breath and I exhaled just as the muscles in my body began to release their white knuckle hold which kept my bones erect. And then it happened. I am convinced there is some neurological anomaly in my brain that causes a tune to permeate my subconscious at the very moment it should be shutting down for sleep. Tonight’s torturous selection was the theme song from the “Flintstones” cartoon. I was not having a yabba dabba do time!

Tossing and turning trying to remember any other song, I kept returning to “that modern stone age family”. It was amazing how the lyrics were stored in my brain without my knowledge. Perhaps that explains the inability to retain something I wanted to remember that occurred only moments before. The recesses of the brain fills with inconsequential junk which pushed the more recent mental notes to the forefront causing them to fall off the cranial clipboard with no hope for retrieval.

I decided to put into practice something I read about insomnia. Don’t lay awake, get up and do something. I grabbed my Kindle and went downstairs to read. I read for a few hours when my eyelids began to droop. First I tested my brain by flashing a mental picture of Fred and Barney, and finding no compulsion for replaying their song in my head I walked up both sets of stairs to the bed. It was now 3 o’clock am and I held little hope for a good night’s rest not to mention sleep.

I lay in bed thinking of how to organize the day so that it unfolds without a wrinkle. Put the coffee on first, put in the register drawers, check through the restrooms to make sure they are clean and toilet paper holders are filled. Next look to see what event is on the schedule and organize the needed supplies to carry it through to completion. 9:30 until 10:30 will bring the commotion of wolf watchers signing in, getting tickets, and directing them where to park; which way to go if walking up and where to wait for the bus if they decide they need to ride. There will be a lull between 10:30 and noon where it will just be campers getting their morning coffee and firewood. Then at noon, the morning wolf watchers will descend on the store to look for gifts and souvenirs. From 1pm to 3pm we return to being a campground, 3-6pm will start another round of wolf watchers and finally at 6pm we will be back to only campers filing in and out until 11:00pm when we cash out the drawers, run the reports, walk camp to be sure everyone is quiet and stumble up the steps again.

During this mental planning, I must have fallen asleep. In my dream I imagined a phone ringing. Hearing the rhythm I started to count them, one….. two…..on the third ring, I realized I was not dreaming, but listening, and I grabbed blindly for the phone trying to see which line was ringing. It was 6:30am.

“ Camp Taylor” I answered. Hearing the caller identify herself as the 911 operator jolted me into a full alert. “What is the problem?”, I asked, not really wanting to know but running all the possible scenarios through my mind in a flash. Heart attack, stroke drowning, fire, 3rd degree burns, broken leg…..the possibilities were endless. None however were the case.

“I have a camper on the line and he said there is a bear in their campsite” she explained. As my thoughts collapsed on each other, I could only respond with a single word. “So?” I answered.
“Oh, it’s o.k.? …. Are they permitted to roam free?” she responded.
I was too tired and baffled at that implication to have asked her to send the police to arrest the bear, so instead I simply requested to speak directly to the camper himself and she patched me through.

“You did not put your cooler in your car as you were told, did you”
it was more of a statement than a question. His meek response confirmed my suspicion. “It won’t leave”, he said in a worried tone. “It keeps coming closer to the tent and I have children in here”
“I’ll be right there” I answered, put the phone on the cradle and with reluctance, pulled on my jeans and searched for the rest of my clothing and car keys. My husband joined me and now that we were awake, rehearsed witty answers for the 911 operator in the unlikely event this circumstance should repeat itself. The absurdity of the situation brought back the familiar lyrics. …”lets ride, with the family down the street, through the courtesy of Fred’s two feet….
The car coming toward him was enough to move the bear away from the ransacked cooler and we approached the camper who was peeking out from under the tent flap. We surveyed the contents strewn about the overturned cooler as the camper crawled from his igloo- like shelter.
When the gentleman apologized and explained he thought we were just kidding about the bears, I was starting to seethe. Who would joke about something like that?. The seethe however soon dissipated into a laugh when he proceeded to demonstrate how from inside the tent he was whispering “shoo” to the bear so as not to awaken the other sites around him.
I shook my head in disbelief as my husband tried to explain to him the futility of his actions. “Seriously? A little purple dome whispering “shoo” or a cooler full of bacon, cheese and hotdogs, which would you choose if you were him?” I asked, as I reached for the car door knowing full well that the opportunity for sleep would have to wait for another 17 or 18 hours. By now every corpuscle of my body was clamoring for coffee.
I dropped my husband back at the house so he could get his vehicle and went to the office to make the first pot of Folgers. I began singing to my self…”have a yabba dabba do time, a dabba do time, we’ll have a gay old time”. As the door opened and my husband walked in, I was half expecting him to call for Wilma!

I poured my first cup of coffee, walked into the lounge and sank into the large chair in front of the fireplace as I let the flow of caffeine enter my bloodstream. I glanced at the clock. One hour before we open… I closed my eyes and willed the tension from my body, mentally preparing for another day.

Love is Blind

When you are young and in love, you look at the world through rose tinted glasses. When I accepted my husband’s marriage proposal, I told him I did not care where we lived as long as we were together. I believe I even went so far as to say I’d be willing to live in a tent with him, since we needed to be close to the family owned and operated campground. I was encircled by the whirlwind of romance. Looking back, it would be more accurate to state that I was in the eye of a hurricane.
What can I say? My glasses were as thick as coke bottles, and well tinted!
In retrospect, a tent would have been an upgrade from what we had to live in. It was a 20 year old 10x50 foot mobile home that was not maintained by any stretch of the imagination. When their renters moved out, we spent a week cleaning the nicotine off the ceiling and walls. The counter that held the sink was collapsing, and had to be propped up by a pair of 2x4’s so the food did not slide off onto the floor. The sink was pink, the stove was gold, and the fridge was the original Frigidaire that my husband’s parents bought when they first married back in the early 1940’s. You know the kind--, rounded top-- tiny box in the middle of the top shelf that held one ice cube tray and one half gallon of ice cream. You had to finish the ice cream fast, otherwise the frost would develop around it, entombing the contents until you unplugged the fridge and hacked away the ice with a hammer.

The amount of nicotine on the paneled walls and ceiling was repulsive to me. The latest tenants were told to leave in February, so that we’d have time to clean and do necessary repairs. After the third scrubbing on the ceiling, we made the decision to paint. It was impossible to remove the swirls of brown on white, since the years of nicotine coating would shift with every wipe. The first coat of ceiling white served as a primer, and we left our paint rollers standing on paper towels to drain on the kitchen counter with a small sense of accomplishment. I might mention the accomplishment was not only that the ceiling was painted, but that we were able to get the rollers to remain vertical. This was due to the fact that the kitchen counter was collapsing and was tilted at about a ten degree angle.

My heart sank just a bit the next day when we entered the trailer to apply the second coat of paint on the ceiling. It wasn’t just that I was hoping the paint would have hidden the swirls of nicotine more than it had; it was because our paint rollers were standing on the paper towels and filled with dog food! That was when it hit me. We were not going to be living alone! The years of tenants with dogs, the age and level of deterioration of the unit, and the resourcefulness of the uninvited squatters had turned my home into a food shelter for mice. To this day, I hate the thought of sharing even the tiniest corner of a room with those little rodents.

Another distinguishing feature of our first home was the total lack of insulation in the walls. There was the aluminum skin of the mobile home, four inches of air space and about 1/8th inch thick paneling which was the interior wall. We realized tinsel on the Christmas tree was not an option, since it kept blowing off due to the lack of insulation. It was the only place I knew of that you can sit inside watching TV and leave with a windswept look to your hair.

A hole in the wall above the guest room bureau was repaired by the previous tenant by screwing an old framed mirror, (which no longer had any silvering on the back side) over the gaping hole in the paneling. This same flair for repair was used in the shower above the faucet. Judging by the height and placement of the shiny patch, I believe the previous male tenant thought himself quite the ladies man.


I would not have described myself as a city girl, even though I was from Trenton. My neighborhood back then still had woods, a swamp, and blocks that remained undeveloped. My father and brothers were into hunting and fishing and our yard, though not huge, had almost every kind of tree, shrub and flower that you could imagine. Hence the reason there were only patches of grass where the sun managed to slip through the boughs of overlapping trees. We were raised with bb guns and bows and arrows. No toy arrows with suction cups, they were for sissies. We ate venison, pheasant and fish quite often, since my father was either hunting or fishing every weekend that I could remember. We also had plenty of meats because that was his business. He was a butcher and owner of a wholesale meat co. It was the vegetables and fruits we yearned for on a regular basis. When we did get them, dad went to the extreme. Mom would complain she’d like to have bananas, so dad would bring home a case of bananas, not just one bunch. Everything arrived by the case, so you’d have to gorge yourself on that particular treat until it was gone or ‘til you couldn’t look at another piece of that particular fruit.

Still, I was not prepared for the culture shock that hit me when I started dating a Taylor.
I learned early on that dating a campground operator, meant I would have to come to him from April through October, which was the camping season. I tried to come up to the campground every weekend I could. I’d tag along with him while he worked. As I stated earlier, my rose tinted glasses were as thick as coke bottles. Picking up garbage at the sites and walking camp at night were our “dates”. Yet being young and in love made even the dirtiest of jobs fun.

Eating at camp was another story altogether. I realized with some trepidation that the Italian cuisine on which I was raised would not be on the menu in Columbia. I never knew what Clate’s mom would be serving. To be on the safe side, I’d make a slight detour through the drive thru McDonald’s and eat before I arrived. Venison, and chicken were totally acceptable, but each time the frog legs, rattlesnake, duck, squirrel, eel and turtle were served, I made a mental note to support Mickey D’s to ensure they’d never go out of business, and I would never starve to death in this culinary black hole I ventured into. Rodent pot pie was not something I ever cared to become accustomed to.

I was however, accepted into the family from the first day they met me. That is, until we announced our engagement. From then on, any mention of a wedding prompted an immediate change of subject. I was sure they hated me. Instead, as time passed, it became apparent to me that they worried I would not like living so far from my family Their biggest fear was if I left, their son might leave with me. Clayton was the one they depended on for running the business. Once they realized I was here to stay, I do believe they treated me as well as if I was their own daughter.

Over the years, the lenses have thinned, and the rose tint has faded, though thankfully not where my marriage is concerned. I do not need any glasses to see how lucky I am in the choice I have made.
I am now firmly rooted into the lifestyle of campground owner/operator. Well, rooted may not be the correct choice of words. More like Alfred Lloyd Tennyson’s poem “Flower in the Crannied Wall”. I’m just waiting to be plucked from the cranny!