town.”
It was September 23 rd –the first full day of fall and my birthday. Patricia suggested we take the day off the road to celebrate. “This lake is a pretty place. Let’s spend your birthday here.”
“But what I really want to do is walk,” I said.
So we packed up and headed out of town. On the edge of Sturgis we stopped at a supermarket where Patricia went in for groceries and I stayed in the parking lot with Della. While she was shopping, the fluffy cumulus clouds that had dominated the sky began to twist and swirl into ugly gray thunder-heads. By the time she came out of the store with a full shopping cart, the sky was completely overcast and the smell of rain was in the air.
Patricia opened the kitchen door of our cart, looked up and said, “Wow! I can’t believe how much the sky changed while I was in that store.” She shook her head and started stuffing supplies wherever she could. “This isn’t looking none too good to me.”
Sturgis is situated on a low ridge. And as we walked down it into the farm lands, lightning began to streak down into the valley and strike up on the hilltops all around us. Instead of rumbling about in the clouds, the thunder cracked and exploded across the sky. We were a little over a mile from the supermarket when heavy drops started splashing into the side of my face. So we pulled our rain suits on, and I had just snapped mine shut, when the downpour commenced. It was a loud storm, so I was yelling when I said to Patricia, “You climb in the cart! No sense in both of us getting soaked!”
For better than an hour Della and I trudged north along US 60 through the deluge that swept across the highway in curtains. We were about five miles out of Sturgis, when suddenly the air directly in front of us exploded with a blinding white flash. The boom made my ears pop, and Della reared up with a grunt and a snort. From the cart, Patricia screamed, “Holy Shit!”
Then she yelled, “Are you okay, Baby?”
“Damn, that was close!”
A mile farther we came to an abandoned farm on the right side of the highway. Out front was a huge spreading oak. We were pulling under it as the rain began to let up, and by the time we staked out Della, it was just sprinkling. So we took advantage of the lull and pitched the tent.
Ours was not an expensive state-of-the-art tent. It was a cheap dome that we bought at Wal-mart. No matter what we did to it, the seams on the bottom leaked. Then in Paducah, a zipper on one of the two front doors failed. So in Marion I sewed that door shut.
Under the Kentucky oak tree, as I staked the tent down, the sky opened up with another downpour. Patricia scrambled inside with her arms wrapped around our bedding. I was about to pound a stake down through the soggy grass, when I heard the tent door zipper stop abruptly. My wife screamed. “Not now!”
“What’s wrong!”
“Now
this
stinking zipper won’t work.”
I scurried around to the front of the tent. The rain was tumultuous, and the door was wide open with the storm pouring in on our bed. It was a southern wind, but not a warm one. For the first time since we hit the road, I felt cold. Wet and cold, and it looked like bedtime wasn’t going to be any better.
We tied a big piece of plastic across the top of the tent so it hung over the open door. It didn’t keep all the rain out, but it was better than no door at all. After our bed was made, Patricia and I climbed into the cart and waited for the rain to let up.
In the middle of the downpour I announced, “It’s toddy time.”
For my birthday, we bought a bottle of bourbon. Our intention was to toast my birthday before we went to bed that night. So, as the storm raged on I pulled the bottle out from under the cart seat and poured some into a plastic cup. Then I asked my wife, “Would Madame care for a shot of water in her cocktail?”
“But of course.”
I held the cup out in the storm for a moment.
After a toast, Patricia sighed. “I
It was September 23 rd –the first full day of fall and my birthday. Patricia suggested we take the day off the road to celebrate. “This lake is a pretty place. Let’s spend your birthday here.”
“But what I really want to do is walk,” I said.
So we packed up and headed out of town. On the edge of Sturgis we stopped at a supermarket where Patricia went in for groceries and I stayed in the parking lot with Della. While she was shopping, the fluffy cumulus clouds that had dominated the sky began to twist and swirl into ugly gray thunder-heads. By the time she came out of the store with a full shopping cart, the sky was completely overcast and the smell of rain was in the air.
Patricia opened the kitchen door of our cart, looked up and said, “Wow! I can’t believe how much the sky changed while I was in that store.” She shook her head and started stuffing supplies wherever she could. “This isn’t looking none too good to me.”
Sturgis is situated on a low ridge. And as we walked down it into the farm lands, lightning began to streak down into the valley and strike up on the hilltops all around us. Instead of rumbling about in the clouds, the thunder cracked and exploded across the sky. We were a little over a mile from the supermarket when heavy drops started splashing into the side of my face. So we pulled our rain suits on, and I had just snapped mine shut, when the downpour commenced. It was a loud storm, so I was yelling when I said to Patricia, “You climb in the cart! No sense in both of us getting soaked!”
For better than an hour Della and I trudged north along US 60 through the deluge that swept across the highway in curtains. We were about five miles out of Sturgis, when suddenly the air directly in front of us exploded with a blinding white flash. The boom made my ears pop, and Della reared up with a grunt and a snort. From the cart, Patricia screamed, “Holy Shit!”
Then she yelled, “Are you okay, Baby?”
“Damn, that was close!”
A mile farther we came to an abandoned farm on the right side of the highway. Out front was a huge spreading oak. We were pulling under it as the rain began to let up, and by the time we staked out Della, it was just sprinkling. So we took advantage of the lull and pitched the tent.
Ours was not an expensive state-of-the-art tent. It was a cheap dome that we bought at Wal-mart. No matter what we did to it, the seams on the bottom leaked. Then in Paducah, a zipper on one of the two front doors failed. So in Marion I sewed that door shut.
Under the Kentucky oak tree, as I staked the tent down, the sky opened up with another downpour. Patricia scrambled inside with her arms wrapped around our bedding. I was about to pound a stake down through the soggy grass, when I heard the tent door zipper stop abruptly. My wife screamed. “Not now!”
“What’s wrong!”
“Now
this
stinking zipper won’t work.”
I scurried around to the front of the tent. The rain was tumultuous, and the door was wide open with the storm pouring in on our bed. It was a southern wind, but not a warm one. For the first time since we hit the road, I felt cold. Wet and cold, and it looked like bedtime wasn’t going to be any better.
We tied a big piece of plastic across the top of the tent so it hung over the open door. It didn’t keep all the rain out, but it was better than no door at all. After our bed was made, Patricia and I climbed into the cart and waited for the rain to let up.
In the middle of the downpour I announced, “It’s toddy time.”
For my birthday, we bought a bottle of bourbon. Our intention was to toast my birthday before we went to bed that night. So, as the storm raged on I pulled the bottle out from under the cart seat and poured some into a plastic cup. Then I asked my wife, “Would Madame care for a shot of water in her cocktail?”
“But of course.”
I held the cup out in the storm for a moment.
After a toast, Patricia sighed. “I
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