I'm writing from the warmly beating heart and overly large bosom of Kentucky. This part of Kentucky smells like sorghum, bourbon and biscuits and all the blackberry tangles are a riot of little white blossoms.
Keith had his official swearing in ceremony, which I attended, in a curve friendly little dress and heels, at the request of himself. I didn't expect to be so deeply moved by the sight of my husband, his hand in the air, proudly swearing to defend and uphold the Constitution of the United States, but I was.
It was a pretty little ceremony, on a grassy quad beside a brick building. Two soldiers held the American flag up and the rest of the men stood in formation. It was a very sunny, peaceful morning and everything was drenched in rich, Kentucky green. The CO said "Outstanding!" a lot and seemed to be always bouncing on the balls of his feet even when he wasn't.
I was also presented with a plaque and shook hands with the CO, who thanked me for giving my husband over to the service of his country for another ten years. I told him I was proud to do so.
The CO asked if Keith wanted to say a few words and he surprised me by absolutely wanting to. He strode out in front of the small formation and said that when he first moved here, he'd heard that their company was the best and that he had found it was true and that it was a privilege to be working with the best. After his confident, casual little speech all the men grinned and there was a general cry of "Hooha!"
Keith then put his arm around me and bent down, but I was shy and turned my head and he got my cheek instead of my mouth.
"No kisses for me, woman?" he asked, with his blue eyes so shy and light, so I stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth to the amusement of the men.
So now I'm officially an Army wife; I have the plaque to prove it. I'm unexpectedly attached to it and have put in on the mantel. It doesn't match anything else up there, but that doesn't matter.
We left immediately afterward to go adventuring. We had booked the girls in a nice little kennel for two nights and had researched some good ATV trails in Kentucky. We left the house, loaded down the four wheeler, tent, gear, food and booze; three hours later we arrived at our destination only to learn that the flood water had closed the site down, even though we'd called ahead and been assured it was still open.
So there we were, stranded in the hot afternoon, all packed up and no place to go. Then we found This Place. This place is a privately owned RV park and tent camp site, with ATV trails. When we first arrived we were so glad to find a place that it seemed like heaven. Shortly thereafter though, our impressions began to evolve.
We began to realize that people actually live here. Here, the RV lifestyle is not so much about retirement, the thrill of the open road and taking the grandchildren to see the Grand Canyon. No, no. Here, it's all about parking the working refrigerator outside the RV which is up on cinder blocks and sheltered by a tarp canopy. Here, it's about building a little deck off the RV and putting potted plants out there and then driving your golf cart around and around the little pond that is the center of this community.
But there's also a pool hall/laundromat/restaurant, and a shower and toilet hut. The bath house is unspeakably mildewy and soapless, but it does have running water. The restaurant is very good, we had breakfast there. It looks like the rec hall of a summer camp and stirred up good memories.
Our neighbor came out to chat with us, an older woman with only a few teeth left and comfortably barefoot. She's a talker and a born mother, with warm dark eyes and a wrinkled face like an old apple. She told us about the baby ducklings on the pond, her husband's night shift, her younger son at Ft. Campbell, her mixed breed wolf dogs.
She lent us duct tape for the holes in our tent. I should pause here to talk about the tent. In Colorado the tent was fine, because there is no insect life in Colorado worth talking about. In Kentucky, the insect life is liable at any moment to simply up and carry off the humans should it take a hankering to.
We also choose to bring along the queen sized air mattress instead of the single, which made for more room for us, of course, but now our tiny tent looks either like a bulging, aging alien air craft, or as if it were going to give birth to a baby tent at any minute. It is simply bursting at the seams with inflated air mattress.
What with that, and the prominent duct tape and the general faded appearance, our mud covered ATV, our ratty camp chairs and the decades old ice chest that serves as table, foot rest, and counter top, we fit right the heck in here.
We were a little nervous our first night here, so we unwound the cable and zipped it into the tent with us. That way, if someone tried to roll the ATV away, we would be alerted. We also brought a hand gun (seriously) which stayed in the tent with us. Keith's boots also came inside. So, last night, I slept with himself, his boots, his gun and an ATV cable. It does not get anymore hill billy than that, folks. (Unless we'd kept the whiskey in there. We should have, it would have made for a better story. But, sadly, not thinking of atmosphere, we simply locked it in the truck. But it was close by, if that counts.)
Right now there are storm clouds piling up and we have retreated to the pavilion. Our bulging tent is safe under the tin roof, along with everything else. Himself is off on the trails, most of which are seriously mud bogged. We got badly stuck once and almost stuck countless times. The one time we had to use the winch to pull us out off the thick, oozing clay. When we returned, my arms, legs and face were peppered with little bits of mud, it had flown up from the tires like popcorn from a kettle.
We are having ourselves a Grand Old Time. Tonight, there is a poker game up at the rec hall and a person can bring their own drinks, so long as the beer is in a huggie and the whiskey is in a plastic cup. This, my friends, this my husband's Mecca.
As for myself, I have plenty of freshly scented southern air, good books and the Internet. Speaking of the air, they don't lie in novels when they talk about southern air being perfumed. It is. It smells sometimes like strawberries and sometimes like rich, warm earth, pollen and flowers. Sometimes it smells like honey. It's thick with moisture and the pollen; it's like something you could drink, or slather on your skin.
We have to return tomorrow, but Keith is thinking about staying another night. We'll see how tonight goes. Our neighbor told us that people pour in on the weekends, get drunk, get loud and go out into the woods to tear the trails up. I'm not so sure if I'm up for all that or not. Maybe the thunderstorms will hold them off. It's starting to get dark and cool.
