The campground where we are staying is pretty small. It's right next to a creek, and it has some adorable little "bunkhouses" that are just wooden tents with bunk beds in them. No amenities. Not that we need amenities....we brought our own. Complete with satellite television and air conditioning. And bloody marys.
A cute little blond girl with pigtails was riding her pink bike around and around the campground today. On one of her passes Gus was sitting in my lap while I read from my Kindle, and she stopped to pet him. Her name is Hattie, she is six years old, and she is very articulate.
Me: How old are you?
Hattie: Six, almost seven. My birthday is in two months.
Me: When is your birthday?
Hattie: October 28th.
Me: Oh, that's my brother's birthday!
Hattie: How old is he?
Me: Let me see.....He will be 53.
Hattie (pointing at Gus): HIM?
I should have known that Hattie would be more interested in the age of Gus, who was present and visible, than she would the age of my brother, whom she is unlikely ever to meet. I quickly corrected myself and informed her that Gus is 5.
She has a Saint Bernard named Moseby and her mother teaches middle school. She claimed her favorite subject is P.E., but then she giggled and admitted it is math. She wanted to hold Gus, which she did briefly, but she wasn't big on dog kisses. She said it would take 100 people to pick Moseby up. I love the perspective of little kids. I'm thinking she really thinks it would take 100 people, since most kids that age don't have a firm grasp on exaggeration yet. Or am I wrong? It's been a long time since I had a six-year-old.
Hattie said she had seen someone riding a bike around the campground and wanted to know if it were me or my husband. I didn't let my indignation show at the idea that she could have confused me with a bald-headed 62-year-old man. I did have on a helmet, after all. I rode up a steep gravel road that Hubby and Gus and I had walked up this morning. It was coming down that I realized I had no brakes. Zero. Nada. Zilch. Note to self: adjust those brakes before riding in the mountains again.
I'm keeping a map of states in which I've ridden my bicycle, and I wanted to add North Carolina. Call me silly; it won't be the first time. The map looks funny right now because I've colored in all the Southeastern states - Georgia (around home and many BRAG rides); Florida (Bike Florida in 1998); South Carolina (a couple of Festivelo rides in Charleston); Alabama (BRAG began just over the border in Eufala one year); Mississippi (I took the bike on one of Hubby's golf/gambling trips last year); Tennessee (having ridden JUST over the border on the Summer Ride a couple of weeks ago). And then there's Iowa, up there all by itself, but by golly I rode all the way across that state too. Twice.
I didn't ride a bunch of miles today, but I did ride UP the side of the mountain. It's by God going on the map.
As for Maddy, we didn't actually meet him, so I don't know what his name really is. But he was pretty angry by the time we saw him. We saw him when he came into the campground pulling a travel trailer, and we watched to make sure he wasn't going to pick the spot next to us. Our satellite dish is sitting in the next camping space, and the manager said it would be okay as long as no one else wanted that spot.
He eventually chose the spot two over from us, and he commenced trying to back it in. It must have been his first time, because he had no clue how to do it. His wife was trying to direct him, but she was probably like me and didn't have a clue what to tell him to do. Since they weren't going to need the spot next to us, we went off on our walk.
We returned about 30-40 minutes later, and he was still trying to back in. Actually he had gotten the trailer backed in, but it was too close to a tree, and now he was trying to get it OUT. I could see Hubby debating with himself whether or not to go over and offer assistance. You never know how people are going to receive such an offer, and they are just as likely to tell you to mind your own business as to be appreciative. It appeared he was going to be able to get out, though, so Hubby didn't butt in. Then Maddy pulled forward, scraped a tree, and sort of ripped off the back part of his travel trailer. I don't think it rendered it unusable for the weekend, although they would certainly want to get it repaired when they went home. (They were from the county where I did the Summer Ride a few weeks ago. Why couldn't they stay home and look at their OWN mountains? I'm just sayin'.....)
We didn't hear any shouting, but Maddy stalked over to the manager's office, seemingly to get his money back. His wife sat down crying at another campsite. I wanted to go over to her, because I knew she felt terrible. Again, I didn't because I didn't know how it would be perceived. She may not have WANTED my sympathy. Before we knew it they were driving off up the driveway, probably headed home. I wish I had gone over to her.
There was one other rhyming word that I could write about, but I couldn't think of a nice way to say it, so I'll just leave it at that.