Weather Jinx
- Oscar the Pooch
- 2 days ago
- 8 min read
Updated: 14 hours ago
It was dark outside when the Wagon pulled over.
“Are we here?” I searched the window for signs of adventure, but only the ghost of a handsome dog stared through me from inside the glass.
“No, this is just the Park boundary.” Mom stepped into the night, leaving the door open for me to follow.
“Hooray! I knew you could find it. Are we going to sneak to the walking rocks by the cover of night?”
“No. I was trying to avoid it, but the most direct route to Utah from here is through Park land. I was hoping to get to the far side tonight, but the damned Park is bigger than Rhode Island and I’m too tired to drive that far.” She walked toward a screen glowing in the darkness. Even here in the middle of the wilder-ness Mom could find a screen. “We probably need a permit to stay overnight.”
Like in the City, people and wagons need permits and passes to excuse them for taking up Park space. Parks can sneak up on you like this one did, so part of Mom’s wilder-ness preparedness plan was always to keep her National Parks pass up-to-date, even though we weren’t allowed out of the Wagon in most of them.
The screen sat majestically within a post the size of a totem pole, as if a parking meter could rule the entire world if it were big enough. Mom poked at it, whining half in her thought bubble and half out loud about, “. . . have one already… where do I… oh come on… that’s not fair… how much?”
The machine chirped, its belly whirred, and it laid a top-secret message. Mom pulled it out of the secret compartment below the screen and waved it defiantly. “Stupid thing didn’t even ask for my annual pass. Cost me 30 bucks for a mucking slip of paper.”
“Don’t they know who you are?” I said in the offended voice that Mom expected.
She placed the paper ceremonially on the front windowsill and tapped it a couple of times to prove it was there on purpose. “Think of it as double-paying in protest.”
“That’ll show ’em.”
“At least a parking pass is cheaper than a campground.” Campgrounds came with all kinds of nastiness, like noises, long walks to the potty, and rules about leashes. We came to the wilder-ness to get away from all that. “If anyone asks why we’re not in a campground, we can just tell them that we weren’t planning to spend the night. Which I suppose is true, when you think about it.”
“Who’s asking?” I squinted nervously into the darkness.
“The rangers. Or just busybodies.”
“Say no more,” I said sagely.
