Going to see the Constable

Last night, Oakley and I hunkered inside our tent as lightening and thunder rolled over our heads. We tried to read, but the lightening was too distracting. We tried to play Uno, but it couldn’t hold our attention. So, we just lay on our sleeping mats, side by side trying not to clutch each other, because when you are 17, that would be embarrassing. Okay, I did clutch him ice or twice…

When we woke this morning, a soupy fog greeted us. Everything was wet; the grass, our shoes, the tent. We quickly ate banana pancakes and slurped down some coffee with hot chocolate. It was too wet to even sit down. Oakley wrangled the sloppy tent into it’s stuff sack without complaint, I sponged our the dishes under a nearby hose and we were off. It was as if we had done this 100 times before.

There was no time to waste anyway, because we had a 62-mile day to do to get us to Emma’s Vintage Trailers and tenting. It was the closest camping area and sounded pretty cool to boot.

Vermonters may not want to admit it, but their state actually has quiet a bit in common with Western Virginia and Kentucky; the hills, the hollows, the farms, the little country stores, the kind people. Both Oakley and I were struck by this as we sweated and grunted along and the fog was replaced by thick heat, also reminiscent.

Midway through the day, I called Emma’s Vintage trailers to make a reservation.
“I am sorry, but we are closed this summer.” said a sweet sounding woman on the other end of the phone.

“Even just for a tent?” I begged, as there was nowhere else to go.

“Sorry ma’am, we just can’t and there is nothing else I know of that is open either. Wish I could help more.”

I turned to Oakley expecting to see upset on his face, but there was nothing. “We will find something.”, he said. And that was that. No stress, no worry, no plan.

On we biked chattering about this and that when a car pulled into a driveway ahead of us. A woman from Sweden hopped out. Mask to mask we shouted a conversation. She too had biked across the country with her husband and we swapped tales enthusiastically.

I asked her if she knew of anywhere to stay in the coming miles and she said no, but to ask in the bike store in the town of Rochester, 13 miles farther along.

By the time Oakley and I arrived at the bike store, we were beat and had been eyeing farm fields and river banks where we might crash for the night. We masked up and entered the store. Standing behind the counter was a man wearing black shorts and short-sleeved T-shirt, wrap around sunglasses, a black face mask and was covered with tattoos from head to foot.

We told him of our plight and he immediately sprung into action.
“You could stay in the city park next door. It would be good if that thing got used. Or down the road a bit under the bridge. Or maybe even behind the store.”

“That sounds great,” I said, knowing Oakley would be psyched to call it a day, “but are we allowed?”

With that he reached into his wallet and flashed me a metal badge. It was a ring with a gold star in the middle. “Sure, I am the town constable, I don’t see why not.”

And this is why Oakley didn’t become anxious when our plans were changed. He knew that something would work out. We have learned again and again how kindness will save us.

Yes, I am naive. Yes, I am privileged. Yes, I might not always be so lucky. But the kindness we have experienced so often, gives me hope that humans can be pretty okay.