The woman with the clipboard met me at the landfill gate. My little blue pickup truck was out of place among the giant garbage trucks. My load was just one tarnished old statute of a civil war era family embarrassment.
She tried to talk me out of dumping it, suggesting it should go to a museum. I told her the tale that I found on the family tree website. Most people are prepared to hear anything about the horrors of war, but not when it involves puppies. Hundreds of puppies.
I paid the dump fee and she waved me in.
We made reservations today for our next stop. Two days in Starkville. Back on the road. Finally.
For so long there were so few people that now that the park is full I’m feeling claustrophobic.
My new bike tires were supposed to be delivered today. The tracking app says they were delivered. They weren’t delivered.
I must now admit that I was very worried about the concept of getting back out in the world. Those fears are gone. We are in a wonderfully unfull park with a muddy lake and many of what I’m assuring Pat are not bats.
In the local grocery store nearly everyone was masked and stayed away from each other. WalMart was as bad as ever.
It was nice driving again and seeing new sites, but after an hour my right leg and elbow were hurting.
Yesterday, when we arrived, the lake was way low. Today it is lower. The birds are having a field day picking somethings out of the mud. The “night birds,” as we have decided to call them, are swooping up the sunset bugs.
Several spaces away are several motorcyclists. Not in tents though. They are actually pulling tear-drop trailers with their motorcycles. Get a car dude!
We got lost today and wound up going to the wrong park. What we wanted was Chicot State Park. Where we nearly wound up was Chicot County Park. The park-naming people in Arkansas have no imagination.
Oh yeah, we’re in Arkansas now, though just barely. We’re about two miles from the Mississippi River.