Driftwood

The following is a first hand account of September 22nd in this, the 2007th year of our Lord:


I was born.

Just kidding... but seriously. I woke up at the times of 7:00am, 7:15am, 7:30am, and 7:45am. Bloody snooze button. Sometimes I wish really hard that it had never been invented, but it would be easier to unbuild one of the subdivisions down my street. It's such a bogus idea when you think about it: get segmented, and thus poor quality, sleep for as long as you can until having to get up for the morning shower. That's why I usually just set my alarm for the latest possible time I can get away with and still be on time for my scheduled appointment. And that never works either.

By 8:30am, I was entering Dellinger Park in Cartersville to meet my dad for the yearly fishing tournament that the park hosts. The woods surrounding the pond were full of just as many trucks as trees. And the pond was a sight to behold. The banks were entirely covered with every local color group my fair town has to offer. Coolers, lawn chairs, trucker hats, overalls, rural grammar, and a million lines crossing.

I knew just where to find my dad: right next to the walking bridge. That's usually where all the big cats are caught. However, Dad hadn't caught anything all morning. This didn't surprise me, because we've both lost our touch over the years. It's been ages since we went on our last fishing trip, and that is something that needs to change. After casting from the crowded bank a few times, I realized that potentially more people would be hooked than fish. Nothing was biting.

One feisty, elderly woman managed to beat the odds... My dad was so impressed by this lady's feat that he took me over to meet her and her catch. After some jovial banter, a large cooler was opened to reveal the biggest catfish I'd ever seen come out of Dellinger's pond. That thing had a mouth on it large enough to swallow a bowling ball. I must say, it made me want to be a better fisherwoman.

Dad got a call from work and had to leave to deliver some auto parts, so I headed to the Vita Trail (which encircles the park) for my weekly long run. This week, it was 6. Last week it was 5 and next week it'll be 7. You do the math. The run started like it always does; I try to figure out how to make it go by in the most mentally pleasurable manner. And this is no small thing, for anything over 5 miles is a test of will power and mental focus.

What I didn't expect to find was the entire Kennesaw State distance team on the trail doing quarter repeats in fine form. I must say, I felt a slight twinge of competitiveness. This, however, subsided when I saw what kind of shape they were in compared to myself. My running (as of now) is to house cat as their running is to tiger in the jungle prowling for wild boar. But I know my day will return... It's tough starting over without a support group.

It was pretty comical when I plodded near one of the KSU coaches on my third loop. I finally decided to say something to him, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was just to let him know I understood that life.

"You guys Kennesaw?"- the words came like cottage cheese through a sieve.

"Yeah," said the stranger coach from KSU.

"Excellent," said I.

"Don't go passing them," he said. And I still debate the manner of this statement. Did he mean it as a compliment or did he really just want me to stay out of their way?

And so I took the verbally unobtrusive route: "Don't worry. I've been retired for 2 years."

Six miles done with, I drove to my gym to meet Mom for a yoga class. And I'm not too proud to admit it; I love it. Never in my life would I have believed anyone who told me yoga was worthwhile, and here I am... doing it almost daily and enjoying the benefits of an increased range of motion.

Yoga class ended, and then I went home to prepare for the third leg of the unspoken triathlon that was unfolding in front of my very eyes. John showed up and we had a quick lunch before heading to Sand Rock for some climbing. But we were not to be distracted... right. We made it a half mile down the road before pulling into a yard sale. Ha! Talk about the cheesiest wares you'll ever see: vests in some sort of tapestry material, countless High School the Musical posters, very old VHS tapes, and prefabricated paintings (complete with mirrored frames).

John left with a VCR he bought for $6 and a couple of movies: The Professional and Cyborg. And I made off with a child's book and a special, if not "uncategorizeable", trinket for Emily Chamberlain. And so we boarded the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude again in an effort to reach potential "future friends" at Sand Rock.

Yeah... we ended up stopping at Purple Mountain Hardware to buy my dad's b-day gift: a pair of slapping new Carhartts! And then I introduced John to Schroeder's (probably to his disdain, if it's any reflection upon the fact that he ate only 20% of his sandwich). What a good sport. Finally we were on the road for real. By 4pm we made it to Sand Rock, and there was the usual weekend throng of climbers. Trey Dix and his cronies (aka - the people with whom we were to climb) were no place to be found. John and I scoured the labyrinth of boulders and walls until we realized it was hopeless.

Frustration was simmering over, when I made the tough decision to just enjoy being there... even if that meant no climbing. So, we grappled our way up to a beautiful view of the valley below. The clouds were in rare form: huge thunderheads, cirrus, and everything in between. Storms were roving in our sight like grazing cattle, and that made the trip worthwhile. Watching the rain fall is even better than watching a campfire, and I never get tired of seeing a visual representation of God's grace. Our eyes had free rein over miles of Alabama.

After sitting for a long spell, through a few sunny sprinklings... we descended our perch. The time came to head home to Georgia. This was the plan. Did we stick to it?

No. We passed by a sign for yet another yard sale. I could have sworn it said "Driftwood for sell". After an intense game of "rock, paper, scissors" that decided our course of action in this matter, we turned around to pursue the aforementioned yard sale. We expected to find driftwood (in Alabama???), but after 30 minutes of driving out of our way... we found Driftwood Campground. I had earlier jokingly told John that the only way this venture could get more interesting would be if the place turned out to be an RV community. And that is exactly what it turned out to be.

We pulled up to find a dozen tables full of all the dilapidated curiosities one could ever want and never need. By the end of 30 minutes, I had purchased 2 very ancient frying pans and 2 audio cassettes for the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude. As for John, he bought 5 RC Cola collector cans. You can probably guess that we are pretty cool to have bought such items. In actuality, I really didn't need anything, but the retailers proved entertaining company. I couldn't not buy something from those people.

These folks live in and maintain the RV campground year round. And their stories and conversations were peppered with enough choice phrases to make Santa Claus blush redder than his suit. However, they were honest people with honest intentions. In fact, John (aka - Michael Smith) and I (aka - Sarah Smith) were invited to a wedding on October 20th at the campground. Too bad I'll be in Colorado, because I would make the drive to Alabama for that!

They offered us their cold beer, let me try the best ribs ever cooked, and tried to make a deal with me. They wanted to trade an old, golden minivan for the Prelude. And they even went as far as to offer John and me a night in a mini camper if we'd help load the unsold merchandise. To this I had no response but red cheeks: John and I are not a couple like they assumed, nor was I "going to test out the shocks on the camper" with John.

It was probably after 8pm when we finally broke the spell of their unique company. However, I have been unable to shake one of the conversations started. The craziest man of them all, who was "slightly tipsy", asked if either of us were church-goers. I managed to squeak out a weak "yes". To this he laughed heartily and replied, "Neither of you are. You wouldn't be hanging out with us if you were. You're lying." To this everyone laughed, but on the inside I couldn't help but remember that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.

Many are in his place: excluded. And for what? He (along with the others) laughed with us, made us feel welcome, gave us free beer, offered us food, invited us back, and was very honest. Aren't those things to be valued in any Christian? It pains me to know that they felt that way about the church, but they spoke (albeit jokingly) about the all too common truth: Christians tend to judge those we deem living on "the fringes". That has got to change.