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Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Fake Campground Hosts:

You can't beat these Paulina Lake sunsets.

But, if you really want to relax and have no responsibility other than cooking chili over the campfire and washing a few dishes, please do not bring your own golf cart to the campground.  It sounds like a good idea, and it is kind of fun to have it around, except that a lot of people will mistake you for the camp hosts.  The men campers think that bringing your own golf cart is a really good idea though.  They go, "Hey, man, is this your ride?  Whoa!"  We may have started another trend.

Doesn't she look a little young to be a camp host?

The first night we were camping, Rob and April came up to visit  us.  April and I were driving around in the golf cart and the campground was full.  People avoided looking us in the eye.  The only person who even smiled at us was the little red headed 5 year old boy who just mastered riding his bike.  He was so proud of himself that he smiled and talked to everybody, even the crazy ladies on the golf cart.  April began letting the power go to her head, pointing at people as we drove by and saying, "Did you pay?"

Cary does look like he could be the Camp Host though, especially when his hat covers the cute Kewpie doll hairstyle.  People keep stopping him, giving him envelopes full of money to pay for their stay.  That is true.  Just because we have a golf cart.  We took it to the box where you pay for them.  Yesterday, the real camp hosts had a day off, so he gave a grandpa some firewood out of the back of our own truck.  That is the nice kind of man that he is.  Generous.

Still, we keep confusing everybody, so I made a sign and taped it to the window of the golf cart.  Now Cary doesn't get quite as much business, but he still gets some.  Last night, one old lady in a straw hat just wouldn't read the sign and listen to his words, so he gave in and said it was fine for her to save a spot for her boy, who was on his way, since she had already paid for it.

We will see what happens tonight.

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