The Pocono Adventure (Part 5)

Drinking beer, smoking cigars, stealing signs and eating at an unending buffet - there was no more for us to do on a beautiful warm Sunday at Shawnee but pack and go.

After checking out the Rev led us in an impromptu and thankfully brief service at the river's edge.  I think he firmly believe that we all needed to be reminded of the YMCA mission after our modest detours from the straight and narrow these last couple of days.

We were driving toward home when we passed a large billboard that heralded the Winona Five Falls!

Rob said, "YES".  The Rev said "NO WAY"!  

He was then summarily outvoted and in a few minutes we were at the entrance of this natural attraction.  There was a sign in the window of the small ticket booth next to the parking lot - Attraction will open June 1.  Like most of the Poconos we were a few weeks early for the summer tourist season.

But we were the Collegiates and to the Rev's chagrin Rob said, "Let's go guys we have got to see this once in a lifetime thing before we go home."  And so we hopped the chain across the entrance and followed the well worn footpath to Falls #1.

Niagara is wasn't but after a five minute walk into the woods we could hear the sound of rushing water.  We came to a ledge that overlooked a cascade of about 20 feet to a swirling pool below that emptied into a stream that ran downhill to another smaller falls.

Rob then tossed out a "dare ya" challenge.  "Whose going to be first to jump into the falls," and he simultaneously stripped to his shorts.  And off the ledge he flew and splashed into the pool.  He shouted up to us - "Come on wimps, its warmer than the hotel pool." (A relative assertion) 

With that, the Collegiates stripped, tossed their clothes to the bank below and all jumped into rushing waters as the Rev watched in horror, thinking at any moment a park ranger would arrive and arrest us all - or worse.

Frankly, the swim was wonderful and surprisingly warm.  

We all stood under the beating stream, floated around in the small whirlpool below the "torrent" - climbed to the ledge over and over again and to jump with abandon as the pool was a smooth bowl about 10 feet deep.

From there we floated down the stream to the next four and diminishing pools carved by these ancients falls.   For hours we "played".  Even the Rev, in his very interesting, colorfully printed, baggy boxers joint the frolic at the third and smaller pool.

The Collegiates at the last of the five falls sun dried; gathered up our clothes and marched arm in arm back to the car signing our Club oath to the stately pines and oaks.

As we pulled away Rob said, "Hey guys what about Bushkill Falls it's twice as big?"  The Rev whispered "God help me please."  

I then said, "Too high guys," and we started toward Jersey.

And to this day, it is my firm belief that we are the only humans since the Lenni-Lenape tribe that have been under all of the Winona Five Falls in person, in one day, in the best time of our lives.

THE BIRDHOUSE LESSON

The "dog days" of August came with a booming storm; by noon it was 98 in the shade.  

And now what?

School was still 4 weeks away and I had done everything a kid could possibly do who was an only child.  

Too hot for a game of ball at the gravel field at the end of Third Street.  Too hot for some foul shot practice.  Too big to play under the sprinkler - that was kid's stuff.

It was hot.  

Nanny, who never complained about heat or cold,  just moved her ancient Sears and Roebucks fan a bit closer and said she was thinking about a "cooling" supper.  That meant egg salad on toast and ice tea at my house.

The crickets had even taken a break - South Millville was baking in silence.  

And now what?  

I ran through my short list of stuff I could do as I stared at my shelf of games.  There were few kids my age in walking distance and riding my bike this day was out.  I had a couple of cousins that were nearby but they enjoyed beating me up more than "playing" with me.  So...?

Because I had spent a lot of time alone I was used to playing board games by myself - Parcheesi, Ropes and Ladders, Go to the Head of the Class, and the never ending Monopoly - but playing against oneself had a big downside - you always knew who was going to win.  I pledged right then and there that I would not play another board game this summer - unless it rained one day.  

Now what?

How I had wished for summer to come - but now I yearned for school again - boredom is a horrible thing at 8.  And even for grown ups too I would learn later in life.

And then I had a brilliant idea.

I searched in the miasma of my rolltop desk for my Cub Scout handbook and found what would not only give me something to do, but it would also earn me my woodworking merit badge.  

I was going to build a birdhouse. 

A great thing about my grandfather, he always had some scraps of wood and glass jars filled with tacks, nails, hinges, brackets and hooks on his workbench in our big garage.  I had everything I would need.

The plans according to the book seemed easy.  It was a box on a base with a roof.  How hard could that be?  I would learn that it would be hard.

Honestly, I was lousy at math and measuring took math (like in a comic book a light bulb went on over my head).  I would "fake it". 

This would be something I would do well into my adult life.  

Why measure when I could just do it "by eye" as Pop would say (he only went to school to the 4th grade.  He didn't like to measure as much as I did.)

I guessed at the length of the floor plank and sawed off a hunk, next came the 4 sides of my little house.  This was coming along really well.  

But the roof was next.  This wasn't going to be easy.    I cut and tried a bunch of things but just could not get the "slope" right.  My discarded pieces started to pile up.  Then I had my second "brillant idea" of the day.  A record breaker for me.  I realized that the roof didn't have to be in the shape of an "A"; birds don't care about the architecture style; they just want to lay eggs out of the rain.  

I solved this math problem with a slanted flat roof - the rain would just roll off.

Nanny visited the garage with a big glass of ice water.  I was a drenched carpenter hard at work.  Nanny always knew what I needed - uncanny.

Now I came to the final piece of this Cub Scout puzzle - the round hole for the bird to access their new habitat. The handbook related that the size of this hole dictated what kind of bird would use the house.  There was a chart.  Sparrows = 1 and 3/8th;  Finch = 2 and 1/2 inches and so forth.  There was a (* ) which advised that the Cub Scout should observe birds found in his natural environment or seek help from the Cub Master on the next nature hike to make the decision what species would be best suited to abide in this house. 

 Yikes, we would not have another hike for months.  I could not wait that long.  Matter of fact, I reasoned, that's when the birds fly south and my handiwork would sit idle until Spring.

 I picked the first bird on the list - the Robin.  

I loved the blue color of their eggs, even though I did think of them as fairly mean birds  But how big of a hole for a Robin?  The chart called for: 1 and 1/8th of an inch diameter.  Gads this is summertime - not school time.  I had made a vow not to think at all for the whole summer and now on the hottest day of the year I was being required to do just that.  

Finally, after pondering this problem much like Pythagoras must have worked to prove his equation - I gave up.  Picked a drill bit at random from the rack and cranked a hole through the front of my aviarian edifice.

I nailed, glued, sanded and swore some - until my labor was finished.  I had created a very crooked birdhouse - but all by myself.  

I painted it white and added something not called for in the plan - with some black enamel I printed "ROBIN'S ROOST" on the slanted roof.

Later that night Pop helped me mount my work on the top of one of the poles that held Nanny's clothes lines.  He said, "you did a good job" - and smiled his proud of me smile.

That birdhouse weathered many hot days, snows and storms as it sat on its perch  For decades it waited for a guest,  until a hurricane blew it down one Fall.  But never did a bird of any kind ever reside there.

Until this day I wished I had paid more attention to measuring that entry way. 

Many hot summers would come and go but on that day I found that measuring would always be the start of most things I would try to accomplish -  and a task that was best to do well.

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 4 OF 5

We returned from our exploration of the hills and valleys of the Burgs just in time for the Staff Softball Challenge.  

On the way back Rob declared that since he was president he was also the de facto captain of our “team” and would set our lineup.  None of us had brought our gloves and Dan had forgotten his sneakers and noted he would have to play in his school shoes.

The undefeated Shawnee Staff turned out to be Nick Charles, the one size fits all social staff, the two waiters, a bus boy and one guy who was dressed in overalls who had been painting the ancient porch furniture white for another summer season.

They were wearing faded yellow and green Shawnee Tee-shirts which Mr. Charles announced could be purchased at a discount ---- - today only - using a bull horn which seemed unnecessary as we were the only "sports fans" in earshot for this great event. 

We almost had a full team not counting the Rev who said he would play, but only if necessary.  We all chimed, “You’ve gotta – our team needs you.”  Which was a bit of an exaggeration, but we all felt a bit guilty for leaving him out of our “fun” so far.

The home team staff took the field filling a minimum of key positions.  Only Mr. Charles actually looked like he wanted to play and he took to the mound with his bullhorn. 

He announced to the “non-audience”  that "batting for the Collegiates, was team captain Rob".  And so the game began.  

Rob hit the first pitch for a easy double as there was no second baseman and only one outfielder.  The Rev was next.  He tried several bats from the worn bat bag.  Strode to the plate exuding the confidence of Babe Ruth on a good day.  

First he tried the right side of the plate; then the left side.  I thought wow, the Rev is a switch hitter. 

Then I noticed that his grip was wrong.  Batting left handed he had the right hand above his left hand on the bat – even a little leaguer knew not to do this!  I realized then and there that the Rev was never a ball player.

Nick Charles delivered a high arching sloball and the Rev dove to the ground – even though the ball was five feet away from hitting him.

Frank looked at me and mouthed “Good grief he doesn’t know how to hit a softball.”  

(As the game wore on and on and on we would also learn that he didn’t know how to throw, catch or run either.  He was totally uncoordinated. )

Apparently preaching was it for him.  He probably would never have made it in any other endeavor that required dexterity.  I would discover that this was almost always the case for most pastors I would meet)

After the longest four innings ever played and a half dozen soggy dirty water hot dogs washed down with warm orange soda it started to rain.  

The score:  Collegiates 22 – Shawnee 2.  

Nick called the game after one distant rumble of thunder and Shawnee's undefeated record stood intact because he reported that we had not played enough innings for it to be an “official” game.

He announced to no one in particular - "Thanks guys, you were good sports",  and then reminded us that the great Bingo tournament - with great prizes - would begin in 15 minutes.

It started to pour and we ran to a white gazebo in the rose-less rose garden next to the lodge.  The Rev ran (and tripped several times) back to the safety of the hotel. We knew he didn't want to face us after his performance on the field.

Now was the perfect time for Rob to broach the idea we had all been waiting for – but didn’t have the courage to discuss.  “Well, I suppose I have to do it” – he muttered.  “Yep,” we replied together sheepishly.  Paul warned, “It's now or never Mr. President and you are the anointed one, elected to do that stuff.”  

Rob pondered the challenge and then ran off into the storm to catch up with the Rev as a big thunderbolt flashed above us.

It seemed to take far too long for such a simple task but just as we were to give up an omen rainbow arched over the hotel roof and Rob returned with a sly smile on his mug. 

“It wasn’t easy – BUT he is going to do it – but only if we all sign a paper and swear never ever, ever to tell anyone – EVER!  Do you guys agee?

YESSSSSS - we shouted in unison.

And so the crowning moment of our entire Y club life was about to happen.  Rob had cajoled a Methodist minister, our mentor and adviser into buying his under-aged charges some beer!

We piled into the Rev’s car, he at the wheel.  We could see him literally twitching with nerves.  A mile down the road was a small gas and grocery store combo – Big Sam’s Gas n Go, with a sign in the window that blinked “Package Goods”.

I, being the biggest (and oldest looking), was unanimously selected to go into the store and select the illicit brew as we didn’t trust the Rev to actually know how to do this – we were right.

Sweat was beading on his forehead as we entered the vacationer's emporium - crammed with "everything" a mountaineer vacationer might need – from matches to fishing lures.

I spied the large cooler on the back wall.  It had been affirmed, after much debate on the way, that the Rev would only buy us one large bottle of beer, just beer and no “hard stuff” as he called it.  

I surveyed the various brands in the case and played a beer TV commercial in my head, “Schmidt's of Philadelphia…Schmidt's will ring the bell for ya…”  Schmidt's it was.  I selected a big brown quart of sin and handed it to the Rev who carried it with both hands like it was a ticking bomb.

Big Sam, we assumed, greeted us.  “That will be all gents?”

“Ye..e…e…s sir,” stammered the Rev.  

He was sweating profusely and I knew he was thinking that certain damnation awaited him for this transgression.  He paid the man who must of thought he was watching a guy having an acute bout of the D.T.’s.  We turned to make our getaway, our prize clutched in a brown bag.  And then Sam uttered these now legendary words. 

 “Hey pal, got a church key?”

The Rev froze in his tracks.  He turned white.  Then crimson. 
He whimpered, “He knows…he knows…how does he know…how does he know I…I was...a preacher…Oh my heavens...!  

His knees buckled as I grabbed him and yelled over my shoulder, “Yes sir we sure do.”  

I hurried him out the screen door and placed him in the back seat as he seemed to be speaking in tongues.  An unintelligible babble. He was apparently in deep shock.  Rob crunched the gears and pulled away and asked – “What the hell? 

I replied, “Exactly,  the Rev just had a vision of it!”

(Hours later I would explained to him that the guy couldn't know he was a man of the cloth - that a Church key was slang for a bottle or can opener used by common gusslers.)  ”  

The Rev recovered by dinner and after saying a very long grace he cautioned us to take it easy tonight and reminded us all again about our solemn pledge of secrecy that would hopefully keep him in the work of the Lord.  

We rushed through dinner and skipped dessert -  our foamy adult beverage was awaiting us.

A quart of beer.  32 ounces  – that came to 4 sips per Collegiate. We were not going get into a lot of trouble for sure. 

After dark we stole away from peering eyes and sauntered to the boat dock.  The darkest place to indulge in our daring deed for Young Christian clubbers.

Rob got the honors of using his new Pocono souvenir "church key" purchased in the hotel gift store and ceremoniously intoned the Collegiate oath (which cannot be printed here as it remains a secret chant and frankly not of suitable language for many readers) - he downed the first swig.

Actually he gulped and sputtered.
  
We each took our turn and then passed the bottle on.  David didn’t drink, saying he had beer all the time at home and would forego his portion for the good of the order.  (We believed in reality his lips had never really tasted beer and he feared trying it.)

I took my turn, but it wasn’t the first for me.  My grandfather had “sneaked” me a shot glass of the bitter stuff on many a Friday night as we watched the fights on TV and ate saltines and sharp cheese together.  As always it burned my mouth.

Soon the bottle was empty and we all sat on the dock, bare feet in the warm stream – sated and enjoying a slight buzz that in reality was more psychological than physical from the meager amount we were allotted.

Rob however was actually slurring his word as he repeated over and over again, “Hey buddy, got a church key.”  And like an infection spreads, our smiles turned into giggles, giggles turned into laughs, laughs into uncontrollable waves of hysterical whoops that echoed off the hills around us. 

We were to a man – drunk.  

Drunk with the idea of growing up.  Becoming adults.  And the reality that we would soon be facing many sips of sin as we made our separate ways to various colleges all over the map.

The chatter died down as each of us thought over the evil we had wrought that day for our advisor. 

All was still until the silence was broken by Rob retching his Schmidt’s into the great pristine Delaware – he would never become a “good drinker” as they say.

We followed him as he staggered off to dreamland.  

For us all that night long ago this would go down in history as the best of times for the Collegiates - the best ever.  

Our Pocono Adventure was ending – But the beginning of a greater journey for us all had just begun.

Pocono Adventure - Part 3 of 5

At about one in the morning there came a knock at my door which evaporated a great dream about the girl that sat next to me in Spanish 2 Class.  It was Rob – “Come out in the hall, this is going to be great,” he ordered.

Bub and I dragged ourselves out of room 414 – Bub in his boxers and of course me, in my searsucker PJ ensemble with the matching summer robe.  

All of the gang lined up in front of their doors (except the Rev and Rudy, who I assumed were not invited to this mysterious enclave)

Rob went to Rudy’s door as he whispered to us “Watch This”!  

He pounded on the door and yelled “Rudy wake up you’ve got to see this”!  Nothing.  Rob repeated it louder.  "Hurry up...Rudy, Hurry!" The door burst open and Rudy lounged forward and fell flat on his face.  Rob had just pulled the oldest practical joke in the high school book of  pranks – he had tied Rudy’s sneaker laces together as he slept in a chair in their room.  

Rudy looked up stunned and  had a rug burn on his forehead.  He rolled over swearing, and leaving his Keds tied together, crawled back into his room to a chorus of guffaws.  Frank summed it up with, “You woke us up for that?  Rob you are pathetic…Pathetic!"

I hurried back to my bed in hopes that I could continue to dream about Debbie - porfavor.  

The night quickly turned to a bright Saturday morning.

Breakfast at Shawnee was touted as “served in the grand family style buffet?"  The always starving Colligates trooped to the dining room just as it opened.  We were up early; it seemed all of us had a good night's sleep except Gus, the thinker, who reported that it was far too quiet up here to sleep.

We ate alone as a single waiter hovered around replenishing the many items on the long white buffet table. 

Bub and I tried Eggs Benedict for the first time.  I had often seen this sophisticated dish enjoyed in movies and wondered what it was like - this was not on my mom’s never changing breakfast menu. 

It turned out to be just eggs with a mustardy sauce  -  “Interesting huh?” was my only comment to my dining partner.

We had hours until the softball game to fool around and according to Rob - the pool was freezing.  So we opted to “explore”.

We borrowed Rev's car and drove up and down the surrounding semi-mountainous roads – as natives of flat Jersey we rarely had the chance to go “airborne” so Rob gunned the old Pontiac at the top of every hill to our screams of feigned fear.  We were the only car on the road.

The flora and fauna were a nice light spring green but the vistas were marred with a ton of signs that advertised camps, souvenir shops, canoe trips, waffles houses and Rotary Club meetings.  

Slamming on the brakes Rob announced – “The Colligates are going to ‘liberate’ some of these very hysterical signages.”

The first to be procured was for Camp Kananga containing a crude cartoon of a stereotypical Indian Chief in feathered  headdress - Rob pried it off its stakes.  "This is a hoot and it's going in my room first."  

Next was a series of signs the small red and black metal signs - "Other creams...can let you down...quicker than...a strapless gown!...Burma Shave!"  These poetic ditties dotted the landscape. They were tossed in the trunk - but then we saw the grand prize.  

“69 NEXT RIGHT”.  

This seemed to our festered minds to be an age old question - and it was a sign hunters must have.  

Rob bounced off the macadam onto an overlook of the lush valley below.  We took turns on the metal DOT sign with a pair of pliers found in a toolbox in the trunk.  And just as Rob was about to remove the last bolt, Danny our posted lookout, yelled – “Good grief - he comes the cops.”  Below us on a winding road were saw the unmistakable shape of a police cruiser coming our way.

Rob grabbed the big prize and tossed it in the trunk.  Rudy tossed the tool box in the trunk and slammed it closed.  We rushed to in the car for our getaway and then all of us in unison blurted out: 

“HOLY SH#$...WERE'S THE CAR KEYS WERE ON THE TOOLBOX...Rudy tell us THE KEYS NOW ARE IN THE DAMN TRUNK?"

At that moment, the police car pulled up alongside of us.

“Gentleman, I see you are visitors from New Jersey, are you having any trouble?” 

“Oh no sir", squeaked Rob – "just admiring the view...taking pictures,” Bub put his Instamatic up to his eye and pretending to take a few shots, even though there was no film in his camera.  The trooper looked skeptical.

“Well enjoy and drive carefully,” he warned as he slowly pulled away eyeing us in his mirror.

“Phew!” said Rob, "I was scared he see those stakes had no signs on em."

“Now what?” we all said together.  (But we knew this was the retribution for our prank on Rudy last night.)

Rudy looked sheepishly at our glaring faces and whined, “I’m going in, that’s what!”

After he ordered us out of the back seat he removed it and there was a small opening in the frame into the trunk.  Rudy was determined to retrieve the keys by going into the trunk – I certainly would have never made it that’s for sure.  

Much like a contortionist, he inserted one arm into the darkness, then his head followed, next a shoulder – and then we heard  “Guys”, I’m stuck…Stuck…STUCK...(He was in a state of high panic – we had to do something fast before he totally lost it?)

Rob started looking for a branch to pry him out as Frank, the quiet one, went to work right away and began to "knead" Rudy’s belly through the opening, a painful inch at a time.  I joined him on Rudy's other flank.  After a dozen pokes - Rudy was sucked inside the trunk with a swoosh joining our bounty of signs and the spare tire.

A feeble cry came from the darkness, “It's really dark in here…I don’t like this…I NEED to get out.”  But we all knew unless he found the keys he would never be able to get out the way he came in.  

Minutes seemed like hours.  Rudy’s whimpers grew louder as he felt for the keys.  Rob said very president-ally he was going to walk down the mountain and find a locksmith.  Gus paced around the car analyzing all the probabilities of alternatives.  Frank just smiled and sat on a fallen tree trunk as Bub pitched rocks into the ferns.

And then a yelp came from Rudy's prison - and a shaking hand appeared from the hole waving the keys.

To a round of applause, pale and drenched, Rudy was lifted out of the trunk and paraded around the car on Bub's shoulders.  Our/his ordeal was over – his escape would immediately become legend.  A tale would grow and be handed down for generations as one our greatest high school moments as the treasured Route 69 sign was passed around our membership for proud display (to our parent's chagrin) until we graduated.   I was the last recipient and it hung in my garage for many  years - for all to see and wonder Why was it hanging there?

Little did anyone know, nor did I ever tell, that this sign was much more than the only evidence of a petty misdemeanor -  it was the last artifact generated in my youth and a lasting a memorial to the Collegiates' Great Pocono Sign Caper.  

TO BE CONTINUED

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THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART TWO

We checked in to the ancient Swanee on the Delaware Inn.  Wow an inn – this was a swanky place.  Bub and I shared a room as did all of the other mighty Collegiate’s – except for Rev Snigwigger who merited a single room, no one really wanted to be monitored by him as a roommate.  He was a very serious Methodist.

I noticed right away that everything was white – white wicker chairs, white woodwork, white walls, lamps, bedspreads – everything.  It was like Siberia on the Delaware.  Plus, for a swanky place our rooms weren’t air conditioned!  And the elevator was out of order too.  But being young the four flights didn't bother us as we rambled up to our attic rooms (we had gotten a great room rate - now we knew why?)

We settled in after the long hot ride.  I unpacked my wardrobe and filled the white chest of drawers as Bub tossed his bag on the floor.

We all were not too tired to case the place en masse’.  

First we checked out the massive dining room, now long over its dinner service.  The card room.  The reading room filled with overstuffed chairs and worn magazines dating back to the 1930's. Then we heard the drumming beat of a bass and we followed the sound to the Delaware Room Night Club. Wow, a real night club.  Nothing like the shot n a beer bars in Millville that we all were patiently waiting to come of age to patronize.  

Small cabaret tables circled the polished dance floor with a mirror ball hanging above it.  At the bar a lonely tender waited for us in a white jacket resting on his elbows, hands propping up his chin.  I wondered if he had learned to sleep with his eyes open? The music was coming from a DJ on the small stage with two speakers.   

There were only too couples in the place, gazing at each other through the blue romantic haze – neither seemed to notice us.  I immediately pegged them as honeymooning newlyweds.  

As the ten year old song ended the DJ picked up the mike and blasted us with feedback. 

“Sorry bout that folks…Hi, my name is Nick Charles and I am your Shawnee Inn Social Director (we would soon learn that ” Mr. Charles" was also everything else at the inn – from organizing softball games to mahjong tournaments; acting as dining room maitre de hotel to hawker of discounted attraction tickets; and most important – the headliner for the Saturday night Shawnee Stars floor show. 

He continue with a litany of “super” events that he had planned for a weekend of festive fun.   

“Hey folks be sure to meet us at the front desk at 7:AM for our Pocono Mountains nature walk where we will see wildflowers and wild life – deer, birds, you know – but ha ha please don’t eat the daisies – ha ha.  And at 10 it's Horse Racing in the Delaware Room.  Big money prizes folks.  At noon our Buffet Lunch by the pool and at 1 pm the Swanee Staff All-Star Undefeated Softball Team will take on our newly arrived guests, the Collegiates of Millville NJ.  

Good grief Rob had signed us up already  – “Hey welcome guys and if you don’t have your gloves we got ‘em – plus we will have a ton of hot dogs and ice cold sodas for ya, compliments of the Inn.”  

By this time the two honeymoon couples had disappear.  I assumed that they had their own activity planned.

Rick or was it Nick continued, “And remember folks – Saturday night is the big big big show, starring me, ha ha, with the Swanee Trio and a special appearance of Philadelphia TV's own Larry Ferrari on the Hammond Organ”  

Years later I would learn that Larry and his mother visited the Inn every weekend all summer where he exchanged some tunes for two rooms.  In the winter he and mom did the same at the old Senator Hotel in Atlantic City. Larry was frugal but show business was his life, I suppose.

"Good grief" - I thought – what an itinerary and we would learn it would be just for us because we never saw or anyone else again the entire weekend.  It was still the off season we would learn.

The only evidence that there were other guests, the room service trays outside a few doors.

After we chugged our complimentary  “Cokes on the Rocks” we walked to a small dock on the river where the complimentary rowboat was moored.  

The new moon glistened off the water that separated us from Jersey.  The stillness only broken by an occasional cricket chirp and the rustling of the pines.  

Frank passed around a Phillies Cigarillo that he bought at the gift shop.  They came with plastic holders.  We all took turns clinching and puffing and doing our best to be sophisticated “Men of the World” on holiday – after a few puffs and all trying not to cough, we decided it was time for bed.  We agreed we should get some rest as tomorrow looked like it might be a very full day.

I drifted off to sleep in my white room under my white summer blanket - it was a bit chilly.  (My mom was right again, it does get chilly in the mountains)  I was so glad I had remembered by PJ's.  

The sound of Bub's jockey short snores faded as did my last conscious thought...this was going to be a great trip, I think? 

 (TO BE CONTINUE)

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 [COI1]e