Some of the moms had to, reluctantly in most cases, take on the duties of morning bed checks.  One mom with some kids in the military and some not, led the way on "tone".  Approaching one tent she told the observing moms, ssshhh.  Then she pitched a coughing fit.  No audible movement in the tent.  She unzipped the door and called, "Good moring" like a salesperson greeting a walk-in potential customer.

  A muffled groan indicated alive.  To which she asked, "When you went out last night," another groan, "Did you get the poison scrump or anything I need to know about before a cup of coffee?" A grunt and a "noooo" sufficed.  But she didn't re-zip the tent.  "That was good technique," another mom said as they made way to locked food bins.  "Budgeted," she explained as she unhooked the tiny key from her belt.  "Smart!" An older mom affirmed.

  We fell into a rhythm, camping, that year.  The budget was already spent well before Science presentations and even an uptick in the tourism figures.  Had been a hurricane and swine flu, and both our nature spots and our economy were stuck in slow mend.

  In cities and woods, situations prompted more of an unfolding of a national war-ready map with only certain actions real-time overseas.  A journalist who'd been in the Middle East and a graduate student spoke of "the fog of war" and because there were professionals sort of suspended regarding time in the field others were able to clarify the ways of different professions  and uphold secrets of tradition.

  There was a bit of a tension between older and younger people as the world economy shifted gears and the money seemed to be more of a lottery ball to be chased than produced by so many people qualified to do the work.  There was up and coming too.  In fact, that was how that guy's Dad won those girls in a bet.  Well, that was what we found out down at the fishing hole.  

  The sun was roasting the charcoaled logs leftover from a post PowWow cool down and get ready to re-tackle the big old world out there.  One girl roused the dog ignoring the flies aswarm its face and we went flippin' leaves and pulling weedgrass clumps to get some worms.  The ones with legs were kinda more gross.  The sunlight dappled the creek so as if it wasn't making noises it woulda just blended in with the way below the ridge.

  "I got some," she didn't quite slam the bait bowl down on the picnic table but it stirred the oldening guy from a cat nap.  His arms were crossed over his barrel chest like he was a bored bouncer at a lameass bar we'd driven by.  He pulled an eyeglass case out of his dirtying short sleeve dress shirt.  And put it, without opening it, next to the bowl of worms and dirt.  "Trade ya," he cleared his throat and said.  She turned on barefoot heel and crossed her arms.  "I don't need a pair of old reading glasses all smooched up in nicotine." He drew his head back slightly and pondered that response.  Then he said, "You'n don't even know if that's what's in there." 

  "You ain't from West Virginia, so lose the fake accent." Well, now the man really needed to ponder this.  And she snatched up the bowl of worms and the dog followed her and I followed the dog into a thick bramble of thorn and vine.  Dammit, she muttered.  Then looked at me and plunked down on a wide rock.  See, I had the fishing pole.

  That I'd "attacked" the marshy part of a pond where supposedly was the really big fish North Carolina side, hidin' from some Volunteers, meant that I had a pole with about half a spool of line, no hooks, that looked more like alfalfa than anything you could even dunk in a fishing hole.  The dog all stiff-legged tramped out a spot in the ground cover and stones.  "Yeah, go back to sleep you ole coot." She was steaming mad.  She was so mad, I didn't sit down next to her on the wide rock.

  Four fucking days.  The shorn guy in a ripped up, wrinkly cotton flannel shirt barely had a voice left but he didn't cry out the down in the weeds here man.  He was angry so he'd lock himself in a broken down car, then get out, stalk over to a guy in a plain white car out of gas, and yell four fucking days, and, motherfuckers just dropped off palettes WRONG.  

  "Had to move the ladies."  Somebody's out-of-work Daddy with graying temples but a shock of still black hair on top answered the question, "Where the hell you beeen?" The woman lowered her eyes back to squishing out a biscuit ball with a plastic paint can lid.  "That was your chore?" A teenage boy asked the man.  The man caught his sons eyes and both made way to picnic table.

  Our mom joined Moms on the Move for coffee.  "Is this the right time?" She asked.  The mom who'd been relaying good advice and some funny mussed that one up stories on caffeine got a quizzical look on her face.  "Sherry?" Mom nodded as she sipped the coffee another mom handed her.  "Did you just come out of that tent?" She pointed at the sample wake-up tent.  Mom looked to make sure and said, "Yes." She took another sip of coffee.  And gave that perfect world smile.  Then she said somehow keeping a straight face, "I promise I didn't scrump anything." The other mom drew in a breath and let out a little oooooo.