You know the story: Arlo and friends clean up after a Thanksgiving feast at Alice’s church-turned-house and end up getting arrested for throwing their trash off a cliff, which plays a role years later in a pretty ironic situation when Arlo’s being drafted for the Vietnam War. He says to the draft sargeant, “You mean to tell me you want to know if I’m moral enough join the army […] after bein’ a litterbug?”
That song is top of my mind right now because I just did my annual family-tradition listening, with Finn and Paul joining in from Maryland and Tracy humming while he cooked our Thanksgiving meal. My friend Susan calls it our Elf Kitchen Thanksgiving, and you can see why. Tracy is the giant down on his knees basting a Cornish game hen in the tiny elf oven.
After our meal, Tracy’s outside doing what he can to avoid being put on Arlo’s Group W Bench.
See, we decided to skip our next camping spot at Padre Island National Seashore and go straight to Brownsville. [Insert grumbling about aches that would keep us from hiking and birding, plus bad weather anyway, plus we really need showers and a laundromat, plus we’ve been there.] But not until the day after Thanksgiving, so we could run out all the fuel from the generator before letting it sit for three months. Plus, who wants to travel on Thanksgiving Day, right? Tracy watches about three football games a year, and one of them is happening tonight.
Herein lies the rub. Staying another night puts us one over the three-night max, which is clearly stated on a huge sign where you drive onto the beach declaring a $500 fine. As in, they are serious.
Or, so they say, says Tracy. When we decided to stay, we were thinking, with how crowded this place is, there’s no way the beach patrol would be driving around on Thanksgiving Day paying attention to scofflaws like us. Of course, today the beach patrol is driving back and forth, back and forth, like they have nothing at all to do on Thanksgiving Day but pay attention to scofflaws like us.
We were also thinking, heck, how will they even notice we’re here?
This is how. There is no one—not a single soul—camping on the beach today. We stand out like a sore thumb.
So, after our Elf Kitchen meal (Susan asked me to take pictures for her amusement),
Tracy is outside packing up every bit of our crap so, if a patrol truck stops at our campsite, we can say we’re just about to drive away. Which we most certainly will do to avoid the most expensive, $500 night we’ve ever stayed at a boondocking spot.
Unless we turn out like Arlo. “Officer Obie, I don’t think we can hitch up with these handcuffs on.” ✌🏻
If, somehow, you’ve come this far in your life without listening to Arlo Guthrie sing and play his song Alice’s Restaurant, do so quick. Because, “If you want to end war and stuff, you’ve got to sing loud.”
Chuckling at elf kitchen. But hey, your bird was an elf as well… so it’s all good.
As for trying to avoid being spotted by the patrol? Yeah… Good luck with that. Your camouflage sucks.
🤣
Hey now, to set the record straight, we did not eat an elf on Thanksgiving. As another friend observed, we merely lured a child in and shoved it in the oven. Get your fairy tales straight. 😜
Thanks for clearing that up.
👍
And of course you’re aware that Alice Boock, the original Earth Mother, left us last week. All things must pass said George…
Yes indeed. “And so it goes.”
I only know of “Alice’s Restaurant” because two friends listen to it every Thanksgiving. It’s a mystery to me.
Hope you were able to avoid that $500 fine!
You get back to me once you’ve listened, will ya? And as for the rest of our stay on beach, there were rolling balloons on fire, a breakdown, an emergency golf cart rental, on and on. We’re still living that story, actually. Kind of like how long Alice’s Restaurant is.
Rolling balloons on fire??
That’s what they looked like when I saw one coming at the trailer that night. Turned out they were paper lanterns on fire blowing at us in the wind. It has been a very long 24 hrs.
As I’ve said…never a dull moment!