‘Tis the season for family reunions and camping. My mother’s family, the Newmans, gather in Natchez where the family home is located and still occupied by a fourth-generation Newman. And so it was last weekend Sam and I packed up the camper for a leisurely drive down the Natchez Trace to its southern terminus and namesake.
Along our winding way we spotted turkeys in the greening foliage and enjoyed the serene drive until we arrived at our destination, the Natchez State Park. Our $18 a night campsite overlooked Natchez Lake where the state record largemouth bass was caught in 1992, weighing in at 18.15 pounds.
Sam enjoyed looking at the lake. “The lake appears muddy, but there’s been no rain,” he said.
About that time, from around the bend four youngsters thrashed through the water. They looked like little Huckleberry Finns and were enjoying the time of their lives.
Most of the campers appeared to be retirees and dog owners. Walking dogs and greeting other dogs was a favorite pastime.
Some campers had children who enjoyed splashing in the lake, riding bicycles and sitting around campfires. As the night darkened one family fastened glow lights to their children. It was an ingenious idea to keep track of the children and great fun for the kids.
Throughout the day campers could be seen trudging to and from the bathhouse in rubber flip-flops and heads wrapped in towels, turban-style. No one makes any effort to look stylish, for we are “camping.”
While outside, Sam hollered a greeting to our neighbors. Later he said, “I spoke to the neighbors, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I think they are foreign.”
I peeked through the curtain to see our neighbor’s camper. It was the tiniest of campers with a sleek ultramodern look. While the man worked on bicycle tires, the woman arranged the picnic table in an elegant table setting, complete with tablecloth and wine glasses.
Interacting with the neighbors again, I noticed the woman smiled but said nothing. I asked the man where they were from.
“Montreal,” he said in somewhat halting English, “We are on a five-week trip through the states.”
“Does your wife speak English?”
“No,” he shook his head, “she does not.”
I moved near her and attempted to woo her with my broken French. She reciprocated with broken English and hand gestures. And so it was we made friends with France and Jean-Claude, who then showed us the amenities of their small camper.
The camper was only a bed, air conditioner and flat screen television, with small LED lights for reading. The back of the camper lifted, like the trunk on a Volkswagen, to reveal an outdoor kitchen.
Each side of the camper had its own door so one could crawl into bed without crawling over another. Before the evening was over we exchanged email addresses.
The following morning I peeked at the tiny camper where, just below each door, laid a single pair of rubber flip-flops.
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