The weather was lovely--in the 60s--a warm day for February. I took a drive to the local store, and when I returned to the campground, I noticed activity up by the check-in office, so went to investigate. A 1968 Ford truck, looking every minute of its age, towing a 1992 30-foot travel trailer that had also seen much better days, was stuck in the muddy driveway. Despite the fact that we have a huge sign at the entrance that says, "Closed Until April," "Ma" and "Pa" thought we would let them stay anyway. Pa was in his 70s, no teeth (what is it about midwestern men who don't wear their false teeth?), hair uncombed, face unshaven, pants baggy, and Ma was 68 (she told me), a chain-smoker with a gravelly voice, mightily pissed off because "he", a jerk of her head when she said that, got stuck in the mud, although it turned out that coming to the campground was her idea. As I saw it, he had no business driving--period. The poor feller looked like he was on his last legs.
The ground there is always sopping wet and very soft during wintertime after the snow and ice melts, which is one of the reasons why we don't stay open all year long. It is also why we have a sign printed in very large letters that says CLOSED. As they drove in, my husband went out to explain why we couldn't accommodate them, then carefully directed them to follow the driveway all the way around the office building in order to get back out. He ordered them to keep moving at all costs, and not, under any circumstances, to stop. He was quite pleased with the succinct instructions he'd given. But . . . Pa made an executive decision that he couldn't make the turn (although 40 ft. RVs regularly did so with no difficulty), stopped to back up, and as a result the rig became well and truly stuck. The truck wheels were half buried in the mud as was the trailer hitch.
Hubbie went off to get the tractor to pull them out, and I hung around 'cos this was way too good to miss.
Ma collected stickers which were all over the back of the Ford: "Don't wear a bra--and pull the wrinkles off your face." "Wanna get laid? Then crawl up a chicken's ass and wait." "If you get any closer, I'll flick a booger on your windshield. "-- and my favorite, "Next time, waggle ALL your fingers at me." She smoked one cigarette after another, complaining about her husband the whole time. "We live in Missouri. I pronounce it misery. He's the laziest person I know. I TOLD him he had the hitch on too tight, but he couldn't be bothered to take the time to move it down a notch. Watch him now. He's gonna put on the 'I'm so tired' act, so your husband will do all the work." Well, you get the picture.
By now, I'm totally amused and trying not to laugh, especially when Pa got out of the truck (staggered is a better word to describe how he did it) and moved at a snail's pace. Then Ma wanted me to see her cats. "They're better'n mos' people." So we opened up the trailer and three of the fattest animals I've ever seen showed up at the door. Two of them were at least 30 lbs. if they were an ounce.
By now, hubbie is back with the tractor and a couple of shovels. Ma and I started digging out the wheels. The mud was the color of excrement and very heavy. Pa leaned against the Ford and watched us, then slow-poked his way over to the trailer hitch and watched some more as hubbie put some wood under it and tried to crank it up. Then all four of us stared as the wood disappeared into the ooze. Finally, after two more pieces of wood and a brick, the crank took hold and hubbie was able to remove the trailer hitch from the back of the truck.
In slow motion, Pa limped back to the driver's side, teetered a couple of times before he fell into the cab, and started up the engine. Hubbie, Ma and I got behind to push. We thought we'd done it first go, until Pa throttled up the engine so high that it backfired, the wheels spun too quickly, then settled much deeper into the muck. Naturally, the three of us were hit by a filthy shower and looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon or, more accurately, the Brown Latrine. Wiping mud from his face, an unsmiling hubbie got out his heavy chains and, knees in the mud, face almost touching it, attached them to the front of the truck and then to the back of the tractor. He squelched his way to the driver's seat, climbed up (slipping and sliding all the way) revved the tractor engine and, with a sucking sound, the Ford slurped free.
Repeat for trailer.
Ma and I took hold of the shovels again and tried to put the mud back into the gaping holes in the driveway while Pa doddered about and did nothing in particular. At the same time, hubbie hooked the trailer back onto the truck and, with a gracious gesture, ushered them to their vehicle. Pa was very red in the face, and I thought he was going to have a heart attack; however, Ma wasn't the least bit worried about the old coot, her parting words to me.
This covers a day in the life of an off-duty campground owner; however, I'd rather be in the campground than sharing the road with a '68 Ford truck towing a '92 travel trailer.
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