October 1, 1995

Dear Lathan:

It’s night time and there’s nobody but us in the campground. Just us and the insects. Over the weekend, we had forty-two guests. Oops. Someone just arrived. G’pa is talking to them now. I can hear what they’re saying; they’re a couple who just got married last night. Honeymooning in Ozark Campground. Wow! They’re from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. So, it’ll be just us, the insects, and some newlyweds.

Friday, we attended a farewell cookout for the seasonal rangers and maintenance people. It was held on our pavilion. These are people who only work seven months during the year. We ate a variety of foods but deer meat barbecued in circles of crisp bacon(delicious) and a Dairy Queen ice-cream cake with AMF written on it were most memorable. No one knew what AMF meant; the district ranger claimed it was “Adios my friends” which I doubt. They weren’t very well prepared for this event and had to borrow utensils, bowls, and cutting knives from us which we were pleased to supply. We were honored to be invited by two of the maintenance people– Mr. Breedlove who has helped us often over the years, and by James who wears a straw hat, cleans our restrooms, and empties the trash cans. James is seasonal. On his last day, he left us a large supply of trash-can liners. I’m not sure I like that gift. It may mean a new duty–driving a large, blue truck, dumping trash out of the cans (relining them), and hauling the trash away to some mysterious place of trash and mist where a lingering smell curls and growls close to the ground. Grandpa will have to do it; I cannot drive a truck; I cannot lift trash; I don’t have enough intelligence to reline a trash can.

I’m writing this on Sunday. This morning, we went to Jasper to the United Methodist Church and this afternoon, G’pa found eight young men in the river, by our beach, with two trucks–one of them buried in muddy water–stuck–and the second was trying to pull it out. G’pa called a ranger on our radio, but they got unstuck and were on the way by the time the rangers arrived. How they got there with trucks is still a puzzlement to me although Grandpa understands it perfectly.

As we sat outside, this afternoon, two trucks passed by and the occupants had green faces and waved at us with green hands. Hunters, hoping to blend into the forest. Hunting season is creeping into the woods and I don’t like it. Squirrels and cotton-tail rabbits have been in season for a while and, today, opens deer hunting with bows and arrows. Now, men in camouflage will flit through the woods acting like Robin Hood. If G’pa and I go hiking, we must wear bright colors. We must not scurry up trees like squirrels, bound swiftly through the brush like rabbits, or leap elegantly like the deer. I’m on the side of the animals. I don’t like to see men with green faces; I don’t like to be waved at by green hands. I like squirrels, rabbits, and deer better than guns or bows and arrows.

The newlyweds just came to the door. They ran their car battery down because they kept the lights on so they could see to put up their tent. G’pa has gone to jump start the battery.

Friday afternoon we walked to the highway, and I almost picked up a snake. I thought it was an old shoestring at first. Then I thought it was the empty skin of a snake–or a dead snake body. It looked crumpled, curved, crushed, and dry. Sort of flattened into the personality of the road itself–roughed by the reddish dirt and covered, here and there, with the road’s fine, tan dust. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to pick up an empty snake skin or dead body but I did and, as G’pa and I bent for a closer look, it seemed to dry and crumple more even. It seemed about to fall apart. I reached down to touch it and–whoosh!–it smoothed, straightened, plumped up, and moistened itself into life and zipped into the woods. Like a miracle it lost the lifeless, road personality, shook off the dust and was gone. Nature is so marvelous! That a snake could transmogrify itself into the look of empty death, to fool us, and then back to feisty life in an instant–that is a miracle. Transmogrify is a favorite word of mine–it means to change completely in a way not understandable. I had a teacher who always said it in a deep voice and made the o sound last awhile. He’d drag the o sound out. So, that’s how I always hear it in my head when I read it or write it. That’s the way I say it aloud. Trans-moooo-grify–deep voice. G’pa thinks the snake was a baby rather than a small kind of snake. It’s mother probably told it “Stay out of that road. Humans go on it. They are big and ugly and dangerous. If you ever meet one use your blending talents. TRANS-MOOOO-GRYFI(deep voice) yourself until you look like your own empty, dry skin.” Which he did. And my mother always told me, “Never pick up anything that might be a snake.” And I never will again.

That’s as newsy as it gets. Love, Grandma