Typical Thursday, Weeble Style
It was a typical Thursday morning around the Weeble household.
Well, typical for us anyway.
The Weeblemobile had been packed up Wednesday night, which meant all we had left to do was eat breakfast, toss in the last few odds and ends, round up the dogs, and head out for my final week of bowling.
That sounds simple enough, but anytime dogs, luggage, food, and an RV are involved, “simple” is really just a hopeful suggestion.
I started bowling pretty well. In fact, I bowled my usual great game to open things up. Then, for reasons known only to the bowling gods, I followed that up by stinking up the place for the next two games.
Not that it mattered.
Even if I had bowled better, we still would have had our butts handed to us by the team we were bowling. Sometimes you get beat because you had a bad day. Sometimes you get beat because the other team is just better. And sometimes you get beat by an 89-year-old man named Neil, whose bowling ball barely appears to be moving.
Neil does not throw the ball hard. Not even close. His ball rolls down the lane so slowly it looks like it is politely asking permission.
“Excuse me, pins. I hate to bother you, but I’ll be coming through now.”
Then the ball reaches the pins, taps them gently, and somehow they just start falling over in slow motion. If he leaves anything standing, no problem. Neil simply rolls the next ball down there and picks up the spare like he has been doing it since Truman was president.
The man is a spare machine.
All I can say is this: if I can still bowl like Neil when I’m 89, I will consider that a major victory.
Since it was the final week of bowling, everyone waited around afterward for the prize money. My partner Deb and I finished in fourth place in both halves, which was good enough for us to each get a little over $200.
At least, that is what I was told.
The money had barely made it into my hand before Mrs. Weeble made an interception that would have made Ed Reed, of Ravens fame, proud. She snatched it up and put it right in her purse before I could even get a decent look at it.
No play money for Keith.
Oh well. Happy wife, happy life.
After bowling, we stopped and grabbed some lunch on the way home. While we ate, we let the dogs out for a bit so they could stretch their legs and handle whatever important dog business needed handling. Once lunch was finished and everyone was accounted for, we gathered up the pups, climbed into the Weeblemobile, and officially headed out for Loft Mountain in Shenandoah National Park.
We had already made one very important travel decision.
There was no way in the world we were going anywhere near Washington, D.C. traffic.
I plotted a route that took us through Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, and down I-81. It was about 35 miles longer, but almost an hour faster.
That is my kind of math.
Besides, I would rather drive extra miles through pretty country than sit in traffic watching my blood pressure climb higher than the Blue Ridge Mountains.
As we started up the mountain, it felt like déjà vu. Once again, we were climbing through the clouds. There is something strange and wonderful about driving an RV up a mountain while the clouds roll around you. It makes the whole thing feel a little mysterious, like we were heading into some secret campground only visible to people with reservations and questionable planning skills.
By the time we reached the top, the clouds had cleared and the mountain was looking mighty fine.
We found our campsite, got the dogs out, and let them do what dogs do after a road trip. Then it was time to set up camp.
The first order of business was dinner, which meant the first real order of business was starting a fire.
The dogs got fed. We ate our dinner. Then it was time for the evening entertainment: sitting around the campfire and watching the dogs try to tie themselves, us, the picnic table, and every chair within reach into one giant leash knot.
Pennie was the clear champion.
Buster and Sophie gave it a decent effort, but Pennie brought focus, dedication, and what appeared to be a full tactical plan. If there had been a trophy for “Most Creative Use of a Picnic Table Leg,” she would have won it.
As the sun went down, the temperature started to drop. Eventually, the pups and Mrs. Weeble retired to the Weeblemobile, leaving me outside with the fire, an adult beverage, and a little quiet contemplation.
There is something about a campfire that slows everything down. The day had started with bowling, prize money, dog logistics, lunch, mountain roads, clouds, and campsite setup. But by that point, all of it had settled into the background.
It was just me, the fire, and the mountain air.
Sometimes that is all a man needs.
So what was the plan for tomorrow?