to.
I was loading my groceries into the car when I heard sirens. Mind you, sirens aren’t something we often hear around here. In Toledo, no one batted an eye at the sound. Police, fire, ambulance. Emergency vehicles were an everyday occurrence. But here it’s different. More personal. Here people know one another by face if not by name. No one wants a catastrophe to befall a neighbor.
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the sheriff’s cruiser whiz by. This was followed by, not one, but two more. Lights flashed, sirens wailed. Something was up. Something was definitely up.
I did what any other red-blooded citizen would do. I jumped in my car and followed in hot pursuit.
At first I had a hard time keeping up. Couple times I worried I’d lose sight of them altogether. Couldn’t let that happen. I put the pedal to the metal and floored it. I had no idea the Buick could even go that fast. It certainly never had with Jim behind the wheel. I deliberately avoided glancing at the speedometer. It would probably scare me. In this situation, the adage “Ignorance is bliss” suited me just dandy. I only hoped that drivers who pulled to the side of the highway at the sight of flashing lights would assume I was part of the procession and stay clear.
Brake lights flashed ahead of me. I whipped the wheel and made a hard left. The Buick shuddered. Tires squealed. I burned rubber and was proud of it. Another first.
The posse had left the highway and headed down a road that led to the state park. Signs flew past. Brown signs with arrows. RANGER’S STATION. PICNIC SITE. BOAT RAMP. CAMPGROUND.
I rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes. I narrowly avoided plowing into a sheriff’s vehicle parked half in, half out of the road. I hopped out of my car and looked around to get my bearings.
A dozen or so RVs and motor homes, some the size of a Greyhound bus, were parked in a section that afforded campers hookups for water and electricity. Where were the tents? I wondered. What happened to sleeping bags on the ground? Did campers still cook on Coleman stoves? Did people still gather around campfires and toast marsh-mallows? These pithy questions would have to wait. Right now I had a mystery to solve.
A small group of people clustered near a humongous motor home. The sort you hate to get behind on the interstate. The kind that sports a custom-made license plate holder proclaiming for all the world to see that June and Ward are TWO FOR THE ROAD. A jean-clad woman in her forties, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, had watched me come to a screeching halt behind the sheriff’s cars. She cupped her hand around her mouth and bellowed, “Follow the trail.”
I did just that, pleased beyond measure that I’d been mistaken for official law enforcement. The trail was clearly marked and easy to follow. It meandered through woods thick with pine and hardwood. My sneakers made little sound on the pathway paved with fallen leaves, pine needles, and a few scattered acorns.
One hundred yards or so down the trail, I heard male voices just off to my right. I veered off the beaten path and headed in that direction. I hadn’t gone far when I stopped. I spotted half a dozen men forming a loose semicircle near a giant oak. I instantly recognized Sheriff Wiggins. I assumed—shrewdly on my part—that the other two uniformed men were his deputies. Judging from the jeans and T-shirts, I guessed the remaining men were either campers or fishermen or both. A dog lolled nearby. I slipped behind a tree—one within hearing range—and waited. Having come this far, I didn’t want to be shooed away before finding out something of interest.
Everyone seemed to be pointing and talking all at once. All, that is, except Sheriff Wiggins. The sheriff simply stood there, arms folded across his massive chest, and gave each of the campers/fishermen the once-over with eyes sharp as drill bits.
It was then I caught my first whiff. That same
I was loading my groceries into the car when I heard sirens. Mind you, sirens aren’t something we often hear around here. In Toledo, no one batted an eye at the sound. Police, fire, ambulance. Emergency vehicles were an everyday occurrence. But here it’s different. More personal. Here people know one another by face if not by name. No one wants a catastrophe to befall a neighbor.
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the sheriff’s cruiser whiz by. This was followed by, not one, but two more. Lights flashed, sirens wailed. Something was up. Something was definitely up.
I did what any other red-blooded citizen would do. I jumped in my car and followed in hot pursuit.
At first I had a hard time keeping up. Couple times I worried I’d lose sight of them altogether. Couldn’t let that happen. I put the pedal to the metal and floored it. I had no idea the Buick could even go that fast. It certainly never had with Jim behind the wheel. I deliberately avoided glancing at the speedometer. It would probably scare me. In this situation, the adage “Ignorance is bliss” suited me just dandy. I only hoped that drivers who pulled to the side of the highway at the sight of flashing lights would assume I was part of the procession and stay clear.
Brake lights flashed ahead of me. I whipped the wheel and made a hard left. The Buick shuddered. Tires squealed. I burned rubber and was proud of it. Another first.
The posse had left the highway and headed down a road that led to the state park. Signs flew past. Brown signs with arrows. RANGER’S STATION. PICNIC SITE. BOAT RAMP. CAMPGROUND.
I rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes. I narrowly avoided plowing into a sheriff’s vehicle parked half in, half out of the road. I hopped out of my car and looked around to get my bearings.
A dozen or so RVs and motor homes, some the size of a Greyhound bus, were parked in a section that afforded campers hookups for water and electricity. Where were the tents? I wondered. What happened to sleeping bags on the ground? Did campers still cook on Coleman stoves? Did people still gather around campfires and toast marsh-mallows? These pithy questions would have to wait. Right now I had a mystery to solve.
A small group of people clustered near a humongous motor home. The sort you hate to get behind on the interstate. The kind that sports a custom-made license plate holder proclaiming for all the world to see that June and Ward are TWO FOR THE ROAD. A jean-clad woman in her forties, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, had watched me come to a screeching halt behind the sheriff’s cars. She cupped her hand around her mouth and bellowed, “Follow the trail.”
I did just that, pleased beyond measure that I’d been mistaken for official law enforcement. The trail was clearly marked and easy to follow. It meandered through woods thick with pine and hardwood. My sneakers made little sound on the pathway paved with fallen leaves, pine needles, and a few scattered acorns.
One hundred yards or so down the trail, I heard male voices just off to my right. I veered off the beaten path and headed in that direction. I hadn’t gone far when I stopped. I spotted half a dozen men forming a loose semicircle near a giant oak. I instantly recognized Sheriff Wiggins. I assumed—shrewdly on my part—that the other two uniformed men were his deputies. Judging from the jeans and T-shirts, I guessed the remaining men were either campers or fishermen or both. A dog lolled nearby. I slipped behind a tree—one within hearing range—and waited. Having come this far, I didn’t want to be shooed away before finding out something of interest.
Everyone seemed to be pointing and talking all at once. All, that is, except Sheriff Wiggins. The sheriff simply stood there, arms folded across his massive chest, and gave each of the campers/fishermen the once-over with eyes sharp as drill bits.
It was then I caught my first whiff. That same
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