September 6, 1995

Dear Mildred,

We’re hosting at Ozark Campground; the trailer and this place feel like home.

So far I’ve walked up the hill to the highway twice and once a black butterfly hitched a ride on my shoulder. I’ve tossed a green lady bug out the door and watched her bounce on the air and fly away. I’ve been barked at by a 100-pound puppy and complained to by a man named Ernie who rode in on a motorcycle and found cow piles in the campground. I’ve watched a small armadillo stroll down the road with its mind on something else, just browsing the ground, probably humming to itself. It didn’t notice Gerry and me at all.

Over the labor-day weekend we counted tents and people and sang “Let Us Gather By The River” with the crowd at a ranger presentation. We saw three boys ride their bikes on the trail which isn’t allowed. Gerry put up a no-biking sign on a post and, for a few minutes, he probably wasn’t popular. We met four people riding horseback who wanted us to watch for a loose horse named Painter who would be pulling a long rope behind him. (Painter was found the next day in a supermarket parking lot.) We’ve also seen a tree on fire on the highway and filtered our drinking water to make it taste better. The water to our trailer tastes like someone washed their feet in it after stepping in one of the cow piles. This brings things up to date.

This morning, I sat beside the window, drank orange juice from a red cup, and thought about the day’s possibilities–picking up trash–and wasn’t crazy about them. I looked out the window and I saw a woman walking two skinny dogs and noticed that the three of them looked alike.  I overheard a man say, “Every time the sun comes out some dinky cloud covers it up” and I liked the word dinky and realized that I don’t use it enough.

We had 106 campers, yesterday. Now 14. And some of them are leaving. The loveable silence runs down my ears erasing all harsh sound. A bird sings. An insect chatters. The grass is quiet. The trees look taller. I think the trees had huddled down to protect themselves from the jolts of noise, moving bodies, and cars driving round and round.

Our job doesn’t include picking up trash after a crowded weekend. We do it to help the cleanup crew who are kind to us and always respond to any request–especially James who wears a straw hat and cleans the bathrooms so faithfully and thoroughly. And we do it to make sure we earn our right to camp here with free space and full hookups–electricity, water, and sewer.

Trash detail is nasty work. I wish everyone would clean his own campsite, leaving nothing to look ugly for the next camper. And some do. But there are slobs who think only of themselves, and someone will always have to clean up their messes.

I didn’t look forward to it but, as I picked up gum wrappers, bottle tops, and cigarette butts, I saw a butterfly with reversible wings–white and silver on the outside, orange and black on the inside. When I crawled under some brush to reach a beer bottle–I’d never have been in that place otherwise–I found a patch of blue day flowers blooming. I pulled on a piece of pink yarn buried in the dirt and found that it was tied in a bow around a rock. Now this was a mystery so I made a wish on it, dropped the rock where it belonged, and put the yarn in my trash bag. My wish came true. I wished for a chocolate brownie before the day was over. So we drove into Jasper, went to the Spice of Life bakery, and bought one. I couldn’t take the chance that a wish on a piece of string tied in a bow on a rock would create a brownie?  My taste buds had put on their dinner clothes, got all gussied up for chocolate, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

We got sweaty and filthy on our work detail; our glove fingers were black; other people’s trash doesn’t look lovely or smell sweet. And yet it was an interesting day. Hope yours was too. We think about all our friends a lot. In a way, we’ve not really left. We’re in town once a week for dental work and errands. When we leave here in October, the adventure will really begin. Take care.

Love

Rosalie (and Gerry too.)