Tumbleweed Logic
Page 2
A sudden outburst of hail sends campers running for cover. They shield their faces and run for their metal homes. The cacti and pinon trees provide little protection against the sting of the ice as it hits bare skin. The sound of hail beating the ground and ricocheting off the tops and sides of the metal campers and RVs echoes across the campground like a tribal call. Hailstorms in New Mexico arrive with little warning, discharge a swift beating then move on their way. When it’s over, then come the suction sounds of the metal doors opening as campers emerge and collectively check for damage. If there is none, well there’s always a story of near disaster or triumph over a water leak in the RVer’s past to share with another RVer--these are the stories that further the bond between them. In all, the campground life takes up where it left off before the icy slap from nature.
Lena remained in her camper, not concerned about possible damage done by the ice bullets. She would prefer to settle back next to the shoe box size jalousie window, crank it open and listen to the stories told outside her camper. The stories and the camaraderie among the campers--the same camaraderie that welcomed her like a long-awaited hug-- still impressed and brought Lena comfort, particularly in the way they shared everything from recipes to their lives without hesitation. Lena embraced the lifestyle of quick acquaintances (and many long kept friendships) among diverse individuals who might otherwise never connect. Campers from all parts of the country, all parts of the world, merged to make a small, safe and lively world on a few raw acres. Broken Arrow was an inclusive club one only had to drive under the provincial welcome sign to gain membership. The members in this club run full range in age, profession, experience and temperament with one common thread--they stay longer at Broken Arrow than initially intended. Lena was relieved to be out of Pennsylvania and hungry to get back to California and only intended to stay at Broken Arrow for two days herself.
Lena had stopped for gas in a small New Mexico town. While she filled the famished tank of the old Cadillac, a seemingly bored yet neighborly local struck up conversation with her. He was a walking talking chamber of commerce for the relatively unknown area. The gregarious and chatty man enlightened her on the local sights and the various places of interest with dubious historic significance. After assuming that she would want to stay in the area to see such sights, and after observing Pepper’s retracting lips and display of capable teeth, the man suggested that Lena checkout a well-established campground that accepted pets since there were no hotels in the area. He knew the campground owner well, “Lila is quite the character,” and guaranteed Lena that she would enjoy her stay.
She finished satiating the behemoth’s appetite for gas then thanked the friendly stranger for his generous information. Having decided to tour the Southwest on her way back to Monterey, she had put in many more miles getting back home than she did leaving it. Resting a day or two before taking on the last stretch suddenly sounded like an excellent idea and one she knew Pepper would appreciate. She would take the stranger’s advice and head for the campground.
Lena pulled off the highway at the designated marker, followed the road as the friendly stranger instructed and was impressed with his detail, minute detail, right down to the odd shaped rock at the side of the road before the left turn to the campground. The small town appeared from another era. The campground sign followed in order.