Authors: Fay Jacobs
Time Fries! (15 page)
Temperanceville? Really? Have you met me?
When RV-owning friends asked us to caravan for a weekend in Temperanceville, VA, the very name Temperanceville gave me the yips. Had the historic town, associated with the Women's Christian Temperance Union, ever lifted its prohibition policy?
Hey, I'm a fair weather camper. Take away my Cosmopolitan and it's just rehab with mosquitoes. I called the campground asking if evil liquor would be allowed to touch our lips there. From sounds in the background, not only was it allowed, it appeared to be encouraged.
Armed with a fully stocked bar and eschewing teetotalism, we set out along the Delaware coast, heading for the Mason-Dixon line. First stop in Virginia was Dixieland Gas. If the South rises again, it will be here. I've never seen so many Confederate souvenirs in my life, and tempting as it was, I opted against the Picket's Charge tote-bag and went back outside.
There, the RV was as dead as Robert E. Lee. My mate sought jumper cables as I encountered a woman admiring our rig.
She: “I've always wanted an RV but could never afford one.”
Me: “You can have this one.”
We got a jump but needed not one new battery, but two. Apparently, lightning had struck one night recently and destroyed the under-rig battery, which, in turn, drained the one under the hood. I guess we lucked out the strike didn't burn down the RV and the house with it. Or did we?
Me: “Do we have replacement value insurance?”
Mate: “Yup.”
Me: “Wow, that could have funded lots of five star hotels.”
When the nasty stare ebbed I learned something. An errant battery part had melted, requiring my spouse to use the fire-starter gun to heat and shrink wrap the rubber battery cable cover like a lamb chop for the freezer. As we stood, toasting the battery compartment, my fears about detonating our second largest asset were not calmed by the sight, next door, of the Miracle Tabernacle Church and Pawn Shop.
Eventually we hit Temperanceville, where the beautiful campground faced Pocomoke Sound, and we situated our traveling condos to make a private courtyard for folding tables and chairs, Schnauzer dog beds, and iPod speakers. I love camping.
Building a fire is outside my skill set so I fiddled while my companions tried to get Rome to burn. Across the way, a camouflage-wearing, beer-bellied Yeti look-alike pulled out a propane torch and whoooosh, instantly lit his campfire. Also his eyebrows. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
Those folks were all finished barbecuing supper and themselves by the time our fire started to crackle. Fortunately, we'd already cooked our Kosher hot dogs on the electric griddle and beans in the electric crock pot. I love camping.
It does say something about our fluid commitment to renewable energy and recycling that we scrupulously separated all our beer bottles, but used disposable plastic liners in the crock pot. Well, it did save our personal energy.
There was an amazing full moon, as we sat around the fire, martinis in hand, anti-saloon league drop-outs telling stories of childhoods spent on the farm eating rhubarb pie, shucking fresh-picked corn and wringing the necks of chickens. Well, the other three did. Best I could offer was ordering chicken broth with matzo balls and wanting to wring the neck of the waiter who put his thumb in the soup.
Camper friend: “What kind of music is this?”
Me: “
Hello, Dolly!
.”
Camper Friend: “I don't believe this.”
Me: “I love camping.”
We also discussed our comprehensive RV departure lists, always meticulously checked before heading out on a trip. Extra fuses, check; emergency food and drink, check; unhooking the rig from garage electric so we don't drag the three-bedroom rancher with us, check.
At which point my cell phone rang (if a cell phone rings in the forest and there's no one to hear it, are there still overage charges?). It was my neighbor telling me we'd left our garage door wide open. So much for checklists.
The night was still young but we were not, so pretty soon bed beckoned. Besides, there's only so much fresh air with a hint of Deep Woods Off I can take. The next thing I know it's dawn and my spouse comes back from a dog walk covered head to toe in thick brown mud, a veritable human sludgesicle.
Seems that a squatting Schnauzer had the acrobatic fortitude to poop on the steep side of a hill by a drainage ditch. A conscientious citizen, my mate bent to retrieve the specimen, lost her footing and, like a car crash dummy in a Kia, suffered a roll-over into the ditch. And apparently, climbing back out required gymnastics, if not crampons and ropes. We saw forensic evidence of the struggle when we went to view the scene of the slime.
Camper friend: “Wow, it looks like a college football game was played in there.”
Camper friend 2: “I can see body parts sculpted into the muck.”
Me: “Yeah, fossilized forms like at the La Brea tar pits⦔
We hosed off the accident victim (memo to self: add extra shoes and pants to checklist), spent a day at Chincoteague visiting the beautiful beach and wild ponies, had a fried seafood lunch along the ocean, then stopped for dessert. One of the homemade ice-cream choices was actually Chocolate Marsh Mud. We deferred to Rocky Road.
Then came a second glorious evening around the crackling campfire, chowing down on microwaved linguini and clam sauce, sipping white wine. I do not believe there is a
Girl Scout badge offered for the making of this meal.
After dining, we offered dueling tales (thankfully, not dueling banjos) of farm animals and Broadway legends, along with copious anti-temperance league activities. And while the league may have succeeded in enacting Prohibition in the early 20th century, the term temperance originated to mean moderation in the indulgence of all the appetites. I know it was aimed at the first degenerates to sit around a camp fire making chocolate and marshmallow S'Mores.
Back at home, after a weekend of intemperate eating and drinking, it was tough to face the bathroom scale. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
They say that good fences make good neighbors. Not on my street. We love our neighbors. Although in this case, a big bottle of Febreze might make better neighbors.
One day recently I saw several cars on my neighbors' driveway, figured they were in town and walked across the street to find them. There, in the garage, stood Neighbor One and a pal, each holding a black and white furry baby in their arms. The women wore sly smiles.
“Want a kitten?” asked Neighbor One.
I eyed the long bushy tails on the fur babies suspiciously. “What are they, baby skunks?” I asked, warily.
“Yes,” said the pal, who was volunteering for some kind of wildlife rehab organization. “Aren't they cute?”
“Yes, but aren't they going to spray you? How can you just hold them like that?”
“Oh, they're too young to spray yet,” said the volunteer. “We've been holding them for a half hour and they're fine. Want to hold one?”
I held out my hands, and cradled one of the pointy-nosed, bright-eyed cuties in my arms. The little bastard looked up at me, and, apparently struck by sudden puberty, let loose with some sort of aerosol from his butt and EWWWWWW.
I tossed junior back to the volunteer, just as the girls started wrinkling their noses and backing away from me. Step away from the Fay.
I've been skunked before, by a contractor who failed to finish a job, or, my sister who usually sticks me with the check, but this was getting skunked in the stinkily literal sense.
PEE-EW. I stood there, reeking. “Why me?” I looked at the two women still holding black and white fur balls. You've been cuddling these skunklets for a half hour and nothing. He takes one look at me and hurls a stink bomb. So much for them being
too young to vote. Shit.”
“It's not so bad,” said the volunteer, “it will go away in a minute. He's just a baby.” I bent down and wiped my hands on a towel on the garage floor and then sniffed my palms. AUUGGGHHH!!!!
At which point Neighbor Number Two entered the garage saying, “Omigod. I'd know that smell anywhere!” Getting the gist of what happened, she said, “You have to get those clothes off, and not over your head or your hair will stink. And don't even put them in the trash, you have to find a dumpster, or burn them, omigod.”
And with that, she grabbed a scissors, saying, “I'm going to help you,” and cut my new golf shirt down the back and started to peel it off me.
“Wait, I have to get across the street first,” I hollered, understanding that our road is a busy cut-through for traffic and not wanting to be in the newspaper as the Seaside Drive Lady Godiva. That could have caused a pile up or two.
So I started hauling butt across the street, my shirt flapping open in the back like a hospital gown. Neighbor Two caught up with me, walking behind me to keep me decent. When I hit my driveway, she retreated, I opened the garage door, closed it (this is important) and stripped. It's a very odd feeling standing buck naked in your own garage, stuffing your clothes in a plastic bag and sealing the bag like it contains Anthrax.
So I went inside, showered twice, lathered, rinsed and repeated ad nauseam, and finally emerged in clean clothes. Most of me was okay, but my right palm still had an eau d'skunklet aroma.
Recalling the old wives' advice to wash in tomato juice when you are skunk sprayed, I grabbed a bottle from the cabinet, put some ice, vodka and the tomato juice in a glass and had a few sips. Then, I stood over the sink and poured the remaining tomato juice over my hands. Handwringing ensued. Perhaps over how many Bloody Marys died in this process.
During the next several hours I crossed my palm with Febreze, Glade solid, Ban deodorant, and a variety of hand creams. Honestly, there is just a hint of skunk aroma left. I imagine it will dissipate before we next have to shake hands.
I suspect that “They're too young to spray” now belongs in the hall of fame with “You can't get pregnant the first time,” and “The check's in the mail.”
When Bonnie came home and heard the story, she banished me to the porch until she was sure there was an all-clear. Out there, I paced like Lady Macbeth, rubbing my hands together, channeling some crazed Shakespearian, staring at my palm and yelling, “Out! Out! Damned Skunk.” Just to be safe, I had another Bloody Mary for internal protection and soaked my palm in some more tomato juice. Perhaps Clamato would have been better. Darn, I could have had a V8.
When Bonnie and Moxie agreed that I passed the sniff test, I was allowed back in the house. In the ensuing days I discovered that half the lesbians in Rehoboth had been playing with those skunk babies, and nobody but me got spritzed. Lucky me.
No harm, no foul, except for the loss of a great golf shirt, a ridiculously expensive brassiere, and my pride. It's tough knowing you're the only one who got skunked. But hell, I choose to think of it as a gift from that stinky little fellow. He made this
Letters
deadline a no brainer.
Thanks, little buddy. Sing with me. “Arrivederci, aroma.”