The morning starts as it always does. I sit at the kitchen table sipping coffee before I brave the chill air and let the dogs outside. Harley is busy getting out every toy he owns and strewing them over the floor, going back and forth bestowing attention on each one, coming over to drop one in my lap on occasion in hopes that I’ll toss it for him. Laddie is still laying in his customary place by the door, looking up at me with love as I pass but not moving as he usually does to follow me around the camper as I wake up. His hips must hurt. In a moment of feeling like a pup again last night, he went to fetch a toy I tossed. The strength in his legs left him on the turnaround in a pile on the floor. With back legs trembling as he struggled to get upright, he gave up the game to go lay down again. It’s getting harder and harder for him to move as he wishes he could and as he remembers he could. There are days when he moves with fluid grace as if he were a puppy. There are days when his movements become that of an old man and I am reminded that our days together become shorter every day.

All of my animals have held a special place in my heart but none quite like Laddie, my 15 year old Sheltie with the liquid brown eyes. He and I met 13 years ago at a PetSmart during a rescue adoption event…and I fell in love. It wasn’t meant to be that he would come home with me that day however, because he had already been adopted. Two weeks later when I went back to the store, his picture remained on the poster of available dogs. So on a whim I called to find out if it was an outdated poster or if he was still available. I was told that he’d just been returned from his last adopted family and they were going to be quite particular about his next placement, putting him with someone who truly understood Shelties.

Oh… you mean the barking and the herding and the hair??? After all, I’d grown up with Shelties and knew full well what I was getting into. His first three owners didn’t like the barking (resulting in one of them having him surgically debarked as a puppy and leaving him with a squeaky little bark), nor did they like the amount of hair that he generated much less the paths he ran herding circles in in their yards. Classic cases of people getting dogs because they were cute and not understanding the breed.

2 hours later he was a permanent part of my life. And he has remained steadfastly by my side through all that life has thrown at me… the moves, the divorce, the work life that ate most of my time, the laughter and the tears… always stopping to rest his head on my leg and looking up at me with those warm coffee colored eyes.   Shortly after moving to Illinois, he was stolen from my yard only to find his way home 3 weeks later in some of the worst snow of the year. No matter what, we were meant to be together.

As precocious and funny as Harley is, it is Laddie that has truly become the love of the campground and the campers who come through here. Kids and adults alike come by to say hello to “the dog who can’t bark real loud”. He basks in the attention, starting up with his squeaky bark when the petting ends. He’s turned into quite the country dog, laying in the grass alongside the camper regally surveying the acreage and the wildlife around him… looking much like a regal prince. He delights in the treats that Joker gives him at night, often getting so excited that he’ll offer both paws one after the other when told to shake hands for his treat. So far he is managing the three steps into the camper well, though I know one day it will be a struggle.

His legs may falter at times but his love never has!

Just as my love for him never has either.

　

I think my most favorite time of the day is early morning… the time when I sit here at the table and gaze out the window as the day is dawning, thinking and writing and sipping coffee before I let the dogs outside.

And I marvel!

The view is dramatically different from what it was a few weeks ago.  The ground is carpeted with a thick layer of leaves in a multitude of colors that crunch loudly underfoot in the crisp fall air.  The quiet is peppered with the sounds of acorns falling on the asphalt as if it were hail, only to be replaced by the sounds of the squirrels scurrying onto my table outside hiding those precious nuts in my plant dish.  There are no deer right now (they’re here at night) but there are plenty of fuzzy squirrel butts scampering over the leaves and through the trees.  The leaves that still remain on the trees blow back and forth in the early morning breeze.  And I can see the lake from my window for the first time in months, sun glinting off the water with no campers blocking my view.  I can count the number of campers in the park right now on one hand. 

Peace… serenity… calm.

If anyone says God’s hand isn’t in all this glory, they are dead wrong!

The Labor Day weekend is usually the last hurrah of the camping season, full of families who are finishing out the summer with one last camping trip on a three day weekend. Now the campground is sparsely scattered with campers throughout the week… mostly couples who are either passing through or who simply want a few days of solitude and quiet around the campfire in the crisp cool fall air.

I was told that there would only be one other weekend that would be fairly busy… the weekend before Halloween when a lot of campers would come out as they traditionally have in groups to have an impromptu celebration. So since I knew it would be a somewhat festive weekend with more kids here than the usual fall weekend would usually see, I made plans for a few decorations around the campsite and an impromptu pumpkin painting contest for the kids who would be here. I spent the week ringing the site with ghosts on stakes and concocting a lighted spiderweb to string between the large trees in front of the camper. I readied the paints and the pumpkins I had available for the artistic endeavors of Saturday, thinking back over the years when Amy and I would sit and paint pumpkins together at our kitchen table and make final plans for her costume.

I was ready…. I was prepared…. NOT!!!

By Wednesday it was becoming apparent that this was not just going to be a busy weekend… this was going to be the busiest weekend we’ve had, topping every summer holiday weekend. The campers pulled in non-stop on Wednesday, continued pouring in on Thursday in the pouring rain, and by late afternoon on Friday we were full. No room… not one space left! I battled writers cramp while writing ticket after endless ticket. I told parents about the pumpkin painting contest, warning them that since there were only 20 pumpkins available they might want to bring their own if they didn’t want to take the chance of there not being one when they got here. I watched campers set up their Halloween decorations before they even set the camper. I gave out balloons to hang on posts so that the kids would know who was open to trick or treating on Saturday night. I ran out of balloons to give to campers to hang on their posts.

This was not going to be a busy weekend… this was turning out to be HUGE!

After 8 hours straight of writing out permits on Friday, I wandered around the end of the camper that provides an overall view of the campground and my jaw dropped. Campers had not just decorated their sites… they had created masterpieces of light and sound and sight that resembled a carnival midway in preparation for the trick or treating Saturday night. I was speechless as were many of the campers who happened in.

Saturday dawned sunny and cold. The morning was spent getting tables ready for painting and the small prizes put together for the “winners”, knowing full well that 20 pumpkins were going to go fast and hoping the paint and varnish would hold out. And coming to grips with the fact that we could only go as far as the supplies allowed. The whole point was for the kids to have fun.

And they did! All 36 of them that showed up from the ages of 3 to 12, some taking pumpkins that were provided but most bringing their own. The next hour and a half was spent watching bright shiny faces slathering paint on pumpkins in all manner of design… some discernable and some not. There were 10 year olds who agonized over the next color to place on their creation and 3 year olds who were happily slapping paint on in random order just like the bigger kids. And there were smiles and laughter… what it was all about.

The parents that came with them? WOW! They pitched right in helping me write names and site numbers on the bottoms of pumpkins, opening jars of paint. helping mop up spilled paint and smiling bigger than the kids were if that is possible. More than a few said “You ARE doing this again next year aren’t you?” Well of course! A bit more finetuned perhaps, but that is a definite!

It was for the kids… but it wound up touching the parents as well.

Joker, who had claimed he was staying away from it all as much as possible, was the big surprise of the day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching while I was busy with the kids, coming over after the last one had left to say “Real good job mama… I’m making a quick run to Walmart.”

An hour later I had finished the last of his clown makeup, helped him put on the suit and rainbow wig and watched him ride off on his motor scooter, laughing and joking and putting smiles on the faces of children and adults alike. He had the time of his life! As I did watching him.

At 5 the awards were given and the extravaganza began! The sky over the campground was filled with light and the sounds of children. There were arches of orange lights, graveyards with spooky sounds and fog machines rolling, Halloween spookhouses, hanging ghosts and ghouls, bouncy bins in the shapes of ghosts and pumpkins, a 10 foot tall bowling pin walking the campground with a Spongebob Squarepants, a pirate urging the pickup truck he was riding in the back of to “Go faster matey”, not to mention a certain motorscooter riding clown who was in his glory at our site. There were spooky costumes and cute costumes and more Hannah Montanas than I could count. So many kids that I ran out of candy (4 big bags worth).

By 9 the campground was quieter than I’ve heard it all summer… kids tucked around the campfires digging through their candy bags, giving all the adults time to sit and breathe.

As we sat around the campfire with friends who had joined us for the weekend, the man who had “pooh-poohed” doing much for the weekend gave me a kiss… rubbing some of his leftover clown makeup on my nose and said… “Just wait till next year!”

I can’t wait!

　

　

　

　

There are so many things to do over the next few days to get ready for the onslaught of campers who will be joining us at the campground for the traditional “Halloween weekend” albeit a week early. There’s a lighted spiderweb to concoct, bats to string with fishing line, certificates to print, prizes to prepare, and pumpkins and supplies to be gathered for the big pumpkin painting contest. And I had errands to run in town before all that work began.

So I decided to start my day with a walk to the lake in the crisp cool fall air. The only sounds in the air were the leaves crunching and rustling under my feet as I walked, an owl in a faroff tree who was welcoming the morning as the skies lightened, the sound of squirrels chattering as they raced among the trees and the sound of the water coming in against the rocks on the banks of the lake. Every sound seemed amplified in the sharpness of the air. Glad I wore a jacket, I sat on the bank for awhile before turning around to head back to the camper and into town on the first leg of the day’s “to do” list.

The day continued with weather as beautiful as it began. The sun warmed the air enough to make me ditch the flannel shirt I wore over my tank top as I worked outside. Harley was actually behaving himself and not launching himself into a howling fit everytime I walked out of his sight. Several campers whom I hadn’t seen for several months stopped to say hello and chat for awhile.

Idyllic, right? Yes but for one small thing.

Or should I say small things numbering in the thousands!

Ladybugs! A literal infestation of ladybugs invaded the area, peppering the camper with their bodies, coming in the house before I could slam the door shut on them. In my hair, in my eyes, in my shirt, crawling in my coffee. And I would not be wrong if I said they numbered in the thousands.

Not the “normal” ladybug that we are all used to during lazy summer days. These are the kind that flee the soybean fields when harvest begins, having been introduced to the fields to help protect the crops only to find themselves needing a new place to land when the cutting begins… and FAST! So they flocked here today, working into every nook and cranny they could in an effort to come inside. Glancing at the door that has not been opened for the last two weeks, I saw nothing but ladybugs on the inside of the door prevented from coming in further only by the screen door. They came in on my clothes and they crawled through the crack in the door. They fell off the ceiling onto the table and they stunk when I crunched them. And if I should find one on my arm? They bit!

I began to feel a bit like I was living a remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” only with a different cast of characters. The little bugs that I always thought were so gently and cute seem to have turned into killers today!

Why do I get the feeling that before I step out of the door tomorrow that I’ll be peering anxiously outside to see what’s out there?

Joker and I took off yesterday to do a few chores.  Heat tape for the water lines, some insulation stripping for the doors and checking on some insulated coveralls for him for when he needs to be out this winter doing stuff outside.  So like all good country livin folk, we head for… Rural King!

Let me tell ya… I LOVE this place!  I could wander for hours through the aisles, crammed with things that meet both the domestic side of me as well as the mechanical/outdoor girl I’ve become over the years.  I can bounce between the housewares and the hunting gear and be totally content.

Off we go in separate ways… only to have Joker find me trying on bomber caps and thinking of Elmer Fudd but my goodness those things are warm and soft and furry and aren’t they so ugly they’re neato???  Once he quit laughing, he threw it in the cart for me, admitting that it WILL keep me warm this winter. 

A far cry from the dressier winter hats I used to have for my winter coat… but oh I love this hat!

One quick left turn and we find ourselves at the coveralls… a long huge wall filled with golden brown, stiff as a board, corduroy collared coveralls that can stand up in a corner by themselves without a body in them.

And once he has selected the appropriate size and length for him, he turns to me and says… “Now we need to find one for YOU.”  Protesting the fact that these things are NOT cut for women, I prove the fact by trying one on.  With the waist where it’s supposed to be and fitting quite well, the top of this thing is another matter.  I look like the StaPuff marshmallow man!  I could walk into the grocery store and stuff ten 20 pound turkeys into this thing and STILL have room.

“See?  It doesn’t fit right”  I said with a smug grin as I danced from one foot to the other trying to get them off and keep my balance.  “This is exactly why I bought women’s cut camo for hunting and they don’t make these for women.”

I’m here to tell you that it didn’t work… “Try the bibs then cuz you ARE going to get some and be warm this winter.”

So I did the hop and dance number again trying on the bibs with a small pout…. which fit.  Which went in the cart… I had no choice… at least they fit!

My hat will not match my coveralls but at least I’ll be warm.

Driving back through the country, I thought about how life has changed… my winterwear is now ‘chic mismatched durable” rather than “chic”  I wouldn’t trade it for the world!

And then I thought about how life’s gone full circle.  I remember the same hop and dance number performed with my mom’s help as she bundled my brother and I into snowsuits and boots and hats and mittens for what invariably would be a two minute romp in the snow before we’d have to come in to go to the bathroom… only to repeat the hop and dance process again.

Why do I get the feeling that that’s gonna happen again?  Only this time without Mom’s help.