The morning dawned cooler than usual for a summer day in the South. A gentle breeze blew across West Point Lake on the Georgia-Alabama border. As I stepped out of our camper to savor my first cup of coffee, I smelled breakfast cooking at other sites, heard the birds herald sunrise and viewed this part of God’s world awakening.
Before long, Albert, coffee mug in one hand and the leash of his poodle Cookie in the other, interrupted my reverie by walking into our little nook and introducing himself as campers are wont to do. A retired employee of a tire manufacturing company, he had driven 50 miles from home to camp with his handicapped wife and grandson in this Corps of Engineer park. It didn’t take long for him to change my mood.
“It’s a beautiful day, unreasonably cool,” I commented.
“It’ll rain before the day’s over, watch and see, “ he replied.
“We’ve just started camping and love it,” I changed the subject.
“It can break the monotony of home, but it gets old quick,” he responded. “Since you’re new at it, let me give you some advice. Pack as much food from home as you can. It’s cheaper that way.”
“We enjoy stopping at a grocery store and buying regional foods of an area,” I tried to explain.
“Hmph! Cost you three times as much.”
He didn’t like taxes, the tires on our truck or truck drivers for that matter. He said, “I gave up driving our RV on the Interstate after I overheard on our CB two truck drivers plan to murder me.”
I knew he must be a lonely man, but I was ready for Albert to leave. I didn’t want to hear his woeful tale because we’ve all experienced the uneasiness of being sandwiched between two 18-wheelers in the slow lane of the freeway. Besides, my husband and I opt to take the back roads from campground to campground. It may be slower, but we certainly see more of the country side.
Within a few hours, our little camper in tow, we had traveled deep into Alabama. In a small city, we stopped for a traffic light where the highway made a sharp left turn. Across the road, with blinker also indicating a turn in the same direction, sat an 18-wheeler. When the light turned green, the driver motioned for us to go ahead of him.
With his keeping oncoming traffic at bay, we made the turn quickly. Soon after, the semi driver, using a passing lane, zoomed by and the driver waved. What a different scenario than the one Albert had described that morning. What a reminder about the evils of stereotyping anyone!
As we drove on, we passed acres and acres of peach orchards until temptation took hold. We eased off the highway at the next road stand. Baskets of peaches, from bushel to pint lined the shelves. The sweet aroma hung heavy in the air. I asked the vendor that since we were traveling, could we buy just four peaches. He extended a large basket tour me. “Pick the ones you want,” he said.
I selected four ripened to a deep, rich color, the sticky fuzz and juice from an over ripe one I had touched clinging to my hand. “How much do I owe you?” I asked, reaching for my billfold.
“Just enjoy them and your stay in our state, “ he said.
“No,” my husband and I both protested.
He shook his head. “It’s a gift; take it.”
We thanked him, placed the fruit in the cooler and headed on to the next campground.
At every campground, I am always amazed by the friendliness of the children. They all smile and say, “Hello.” It’s as if that old warning about the dangers of talking to strangers has been abandoned. I love it, because at other places, like malls, I refrain from speaking to youngsters since I, too, had similarly cautioned my own children when they were young. I respect the rules of parents.
Likewise, the children in campgrounds enjoy one another’s company even if they have never met before. Bicycle brigades line up and sail along the paved roads. For a brief respite, the young travel farther and raster than they ever can in their neighborhoods.
In the last campground of our trip, the ice cream truck came. And with its old familiar ring, the young at heart, whatever the age, the dogs, and yes, even the ducks, migrated toward the sound.
Yet only an hour later, another sound, a siren pierced the late afternoon calm. We could hear it grow louder as it came down the highway from town. When it turned in at the gates, the campground host, sitting on ready in her car, led the ambulance to the site of the call. As surely as if the vehicle had been the ice cream truck, campers from across the park moved toward the mournful wail. Quickly, the paramedics removed the octogenarian patient, suffering a stroke, from a large RV, placed him in the ambulance and sped away. With the departure, the crowd slowly dispersed. No one said a word, but our faces all wore the same expression. Could I be next?
Sad? Of course, anyone’s pain is sad. But as one of the campers observed later, at least, the man was doing what he loved when he fell. He wasn’t locked in a prison of his own creation, wallowing in self pity.
Whenever the old familiar, calliope-like tune of the ice cream truck sounds, stop. Even if we don’t buy a treat, let us savor the moment and the memory. As the siren reminds us, life is far too short to bury it in bitterness.
1999
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