Lake Camanche
Lake Camanche takes its name from the Gold Rush era town of Camanche. Originally the place was named Limerick, and in my opinion it should have been left that way. At least it would have been spelled correctly. (In case you were wondering, the correct spelling is Comanche. It was named after Camanche, IA, which is also misspelled. Sigh.)
A terrible fire in 1873 destroyed the Chinatown portion of Camanche, and now the old site is entirely underwater due to the construction of a dam. Don't worry, Tina and I both live uphill from the dam. And of course, I won't be here that much longer anyway.
So this week I took time out from my busy schedule ~ still cleaning the garage ~ to go to the lake with the whole crew. Mom, Grandpa, me, all my kids, Tina, and all her kids. When the intrepid Devon arrived, he carried a mysterious bag. It was even mysterious to me, his own mother, since he acquired it 15 miles away while I was slaving in the garage.
It turned out to be a bag of rocks.
Earlier in the day, Devon had been flat busted throwing driveway gravel at Mom's dog, Hannah. Dad came up with a brilliant deterrent: give him a bag of rocks to carry for the rest of the day, since he loved rocks sooooooo
much. That was before anyone learned about the swimming trip, not that it would have mattered.
It was late afternoon by the time I saw him, and the wiry young fella had grown heartily sick of rocks by that time. "Come on, Devon," I wheedled, "are you SURE there isn't some animal, somewhere...anywhere...that you would like to throw rocks at? Come on, just one. I want to see you. Please?" He wasn't tempted, not even a little bit.
As he plunged into the shallow water, only a small ripple marked the location of his head. Obviously that wasn't going to work so well. He had to come back right by the shore, and stay where he could keep his head above water while sitting on the bottom. Every few minutes he would stop and dump the water out of his soggy encumbrance.
As if that wasn't bad enough, we walked around afterwards and pick
ed up recycling. By the time he had his bag full of beer cans and Coke bottles, he looked as if he'd stepped right out of the pages of Pilgrim's Progress. And smelled as if he'd stepped right out of the Budweiser factory.
I was in no position to talk. Devon had asked some of the nice people along the way, if they had any recycling they were going to throw away. One helpful group donated most of what you see him carrying, plus a beer case full of cans and bottles. Guess who got to carry the beer case. Guess who had little beer dribbles running down their leg. (And in case you don't know, I never ever ever EVER drink any form of alcohol.) "This," I told Tina, "is the moment when we'll meet someone from church. Carrying our beer case and reeking of booze." The kids were in high spirits ~ I was just in spirits.
While we were gone, Mom had been talking to the nice father and son who let Grandpa share their picnic table so he wouldn't have to walk so far.
"Are all those your grandchildren?" he asked Mom.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed proudly. Or at least exclaimed.
"Wow, there sure are a lot of them." Mom nodded in agreement. "That one little boy," he went on, "the one carrying the bag...he was sure funny. He came walking right on past, kind of leaning off to one side," (here Mom almost spit out her teeth,) "and eating a piece of candy. Do you know what he told me? 'Sure is a great day for some puuuuuuuure sugar!'"
Thinking about our little human hummingbird, Mom lost the rest of her teeth and maybe tonsils, too. Oh wait, she had already lost those. Between the guffaws and wheezes, "Let me tell you about his bag......"
Usually I don't have Uncle Arthur endings. You know, "...and little Johnny learned his lesson and never disobeyed Mommy again." Usually I have the same story repeat over and over and over. This time, however, even after a week, Devon has not shown even the slightest inclination to throw rocks at animals. Or anything else, for that matter. I am beginning to hope that he has, at last, learned his lesson.
If not, I have a backpack. And some boulders. Swimming, anyone?
Until the next adventure,
Noni Beth
A terrible fire in 1873 destroyed the Chinatown portion of Camanche, and now the old site is entirely underwater due to the construction of a dam. Don't worry, Tina and I both live uphill from the dam. And of course, I won't be here that much longer anyway.
So this week I took time out from my busy schedule ~ still cleaning the garage ~ to go to the lake with the whole crew. Mom, Grandpa, me, all my kids, Tina, and all her kids. When the intrepid Devon arrived, he carried a mysterious bag. It was even mysterious to me, his own mother, since he acquired it 15 miles away while I was slaving in the garage.
It turned out to be a bag of rocks.
Earlier in the day, Devon had been flat busted throwing driveway gravel at Mom's dog, Hannah. Dad came up with a brilliant deterrent: give him a bag of rocks to carry for the rest of the day, since he loved rocks sooooooo
much. That was before anyone learned about the swimming trip, not that it would have mattered.It was late afternoon by the time I saw him, and the wiry young fella had grown heartily sick of rocks by that time. "Come on, Devon," I wheedled, "are you SURE there isn't some animal, somewhere...anywhere...that you would like to throw rocks at? Come on, just one. I want to see you. Please?" He wasn't tempted, not even a little bit.
As he plunged into the shallow water, only a small ripple marked the location of his head. Obviously that wasn't going to work so well. He had to come back right by the shore, and stay where he could keep his head above water while sitting on the bottom. Every few minutes he would stop and dump the water out of his soggy encumbrance.
As if that wasn't bad enough, we walked around afterwards and pick
ed up recycling. By the time he had his bag full of beer cans and Coke bottles, he looked as if he'd stepped right out of the pages of Pilgrim's Progress. And smelled as if he'd stepped right out of the Budweiser factory.I was in no position to talk. Devon had asked some of the nice people along the way, if they had any recycling they were going to throw away. One helpful group donated most of what you see him carrying, plus a beer case full of cans and bottles. Guess who got to carry the beer case. Guess who had little beer dribbles running down their leg. (And in case you don't know, I never ever ever EVER drink any form of alcohol.) "This," I told Tina, "is the moment when we'll meet someone from church. Carrying our beer case and reeking of booze." The kids were in high spirits ~ I was just in spirits.
While we were gone, Mom had been talking to the nice father and son who let Grandpa share their picnic table so he wouldn't have to walk so far.
"Are all those your grandchildren?" he asked Mom.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed proudly. Or at least exclaimed.
"Wow, there sure are a lot of them." Mom nodded in agreement. "That one little boy," he went on, "the one carrying the bag...he was sure funny. He came walking right on past, kind of leaning off to one side," (here Mom almost spit out her teeth,) "and eating a piece of candy. Do you know what he told me? 'Sure is a great day for some puuuuuuuure sugar!'"
Thinking about our little human hummingbird, Mom lost the rest of her teeth and maybe tonsils, too. Oh wait, she had already lost those. Between the guffaws and wheezes, "Let me tell you about his bag......"
Usually I don't have Uncle Arthur endings. You know, "...and little Johnny learned his lesson and never disobeyed Mommy again." Usually I have the same story repeat over and over and over. This time, however, even after a week, Devon has not shown even the slightest inclination to throw rocks at animals. Or anything else, for that matter. I am beginning to hope that he has, at last, learned his lesson.
If not, I have a backpack. And some boulders. Swimming, anyone?
Until the next adventure,
Noni Beth
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