Another Day at Coles Point …and Kent Shockneck, Is That You?

Good Sunday morning, Chroniclers! Top of the week to ya!

Saturday was relatively uneventful, aside from the attempt on my life by the HB. But we’ll get back to that.

The Camp Out has been our spot to take it all in. Our day will usually start slowly then end with a crescendo, so to speak. To me, all of our stops before this were: park the RV, run, run, run, get a little sleep, drive, drive, drive …rinse, repeat.

Here at the Camp Out the day starts much slower, well because quite frankly, these folks think it’s 1999, that they’re Prince (or the artist formerly known as such), and they’re gonna party like it is. The off switch doesn't get hit until like two in the morning. And, let’s face it people: we’re not in our twenties anymore, showing up to work in the same thing we wore out the night before, with that club stamp from the night before on the back of our hands.

As hard as it is for some of us to admit it, we have reached an age where the batteries just don’t recharge as quickly as they used to. We’re gonna need until ten or so the next morning and maybe some joint rubbing, some Ben Gay, a stiff cup o’ Joe and also maybe a little hair of the dog, right? Who’s with me? Show of hands?

So anyway the day started with a frantic text from Big Sis. She, Mini Me and Big Bro have a crisis. Their generator stopped and they needed power to get their coffee maker going. Everybody jumps up and heads over to the back of their RV. We have the Science Officer on his back looking up at the genny, sticking his hand out, asking for tools like he’s a surgeon working on a brain. There’s your hero running back & forth grabbing the tool he asked for. The Professor was checking Google on his brand new phone, researching the symptoms as explained to him by the doctor. And then there is McCroc. McCroc had fallen down the rabbit hole toward his favorite shoe palace, he saw a pair of red, black & gray camo Crocs that he just had to purchase.

After about an hour of busted knuckles with some moral support and help from a few of the other Camp Out MacGyvers, it was decided that Big Bro’s genny was beyond the expertise of this meeting of the minds. We decided that we’ll have to make a stop at a certified genny repair spot for satisfaction. No worries, a Camp Out neighbor offered to let them plug into his power for the next few days until we can get ‘er done!

Excitement over, It was time to move to our usual spot, under the EZ-Up in front of Dr Francois’ coach. I stepped in, looking for a spot to put my cup, because my BFF was two-fisting it. He had a cup o’ mud and his morning smoothie, and he was monopolizing the cup holder in his chair and the one in mine, totally unapologetically. When I glanced in his direction, he just scoffed at me, and proceeded at this point to kick up his rubber-clad feet into the seat of another chair. I had no idea what burr got under his saddle, but I just let him be. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of raining on my parade.

Soon enough, we were joined at our usual gathering spot by the Professor and Dr. Francois, for what has been our customary start of the day for the week, enjoying the morning sunshine and pleasant conversation fixing the world’s problems one after another.

Noon came and it was time for a leisurely boat ride through the Chesapeake Bay. Surprisingly, not where the attempt on your hero’s life took place. I’ll get to that. Captain Bryan took us out and showed us the shorelines of Virginia and Maryland.

This is where the Dateline Special comes in. Remember back in the beginning of this Chronicle, where I hinted toward the attempt on the life of your hero? Well here it is.

Back before we left SoCal, the HB insisted that I get a pedicure. Yes, folks, she’s playing the long game. When she has an evil plan, she goes all out. Back to me, so the HB takes me to this place to get our feet done. This is where she gets her co-conspirator, an unidentified Vietnamese lady with a sharp instrument to jab me in the big toe. Ouch. It hurt at the time and I told the HB so.

I have also been complaining to the HB that my toe has been sore for the better part of four weeks. During that time, she has frequently referred to your hero in conversation as “Buttercup” and hinted to me that I should “suck it up.” At other times she has suggested that I should “rub some dirt on it.”

Well the other night, she finally relented and feigning sympathy, she offered to take a look at it. Upon first glance, she was like, “OHMIGOSH! That looks infected. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Really?” I thought. I'd only been mentioning it for a month.

Well, Nurse Rachet remembered and pulled out every down-home, old school, backwoods remedy that her grandmother taught her. She soaked my toe in salt water, and she wrapped it some sort of really smelly yuck that she’d harvested from a nearby swamp. Then she poured salt directly on it, put a piece of blue painter’s tape around it, put my sock back on and told me to sleep like that.

First of all, how in the world was I supposed to sleep with that smell? Secondly, and most important, my tiny little hangnail was no longer sore. My foot now felt as though a seven-pound barbell had fallen off the counter and directly onto my toe!! No, really. Ouch.

Fast forward to two days later, I guess I’ll have to admit that the HBs granny knew a little something-something about hillbilly medicine. The toe looks and feels much better, and the soreness has diminished. Bottom line, and what most of you are happy to hear, I survived another attempt by the HB to garner financial gain by eliminating your hero.

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

One band, one sound.

#coffeehousechronicles