CALLING ROD SERLING

Thursday, June 11 We left Norman on Monday, working our way south again by staying off the interstates and keeping to the rural roads. The only excitement was the Big Squeeze on the Indian Nation Toll Road. The toll booths are along the highway, and there seemed to be three of them at each pay station, one for the electronic pass folks, and the other two . . . well, it certainly wasn’t signed early enough for us to catch their drift. When we first entered, we were at an unmanned single station that simply said 2 axles were this much, and 3 or more axles were more $. Simple enough, but when we came up to the next pay station, the one with three lanes, it said “cars” in lane B and all trucks in lane C. Well, we’re two axles, so we headed for lane B (and promptly got blocked out of any other lane). Couldn’t back up. Ooops. They really meant cars only. The enforcement method was to narrow down the lane with freeway guardrails that squoze in. Yikes. We’re 8’6” wide at the body, and almost 9’3” at the mirrors. The mirrors we could pull in, and did. But the cement curbs also angled in. I crept through, and started hearing the tires on the rear dualies start to rub. We groaned our way through, with the booth guy just shaking his head in wonderment at the idiot Californians. We had one inch clearance on the sides. Ah, but that’s not why we’re calling Rod.

Our stop for the night was the Pat Mayse Lake State Park, just outside Chicola, Texas, virtually on the state line. Strange place, with hardly anyone around, but very nicely situated on this large lake. There were several trailers, but no one in sight. As we were setting up to level, the rangerette drove up and greeted us and said something cryptic about Wally, and that we shouldn’t be afraid as he was harmless and would go back up the tree. She waved and moved on. We hadn’t heard her very well as our engine was still on and we were back by the exhaust. We set up, checked out the pit toilets – no thank you – and settled in for a very quiet night. Some lights did come on at the host hovel, so there was some life. In the morning I stepped out of the rig to check the temperature and YIPE! A grey furball came charging at me with chirping and waiving tail. It jumped at my legs and I started the Macarena, yelling and kicking. It was Wally, the rabid squirrel. That cleared up the mysterious ranger comment, but Wally wasn’t giving up. It kept charging my feet, while I kicked air. I switched to pebbles and rocks, but Wally kept giving me the eye and darting towards me. It didn’t stop until I launched a whole handful of rocks, then disappeared under the coach. I thought it was setting up an ambush for when I got back in the rig, but I didn’t see him again. But, that’s not Serling material, either.

Tuesday, June 9. We checked for Wally, quickly put the leveling ramps away, unhooked and stowed the electric cord, and scampered into the rig. Perhaps we’ll fry the critter on our exhaust if he made a nest for the night. We made our way back to the “main” road, and essentially followed SR19 south to our eventual stop at Grapeland. Loni, of course, got Paul Simon’s “Graceland” running through her head and, maliciously, I am convinced, had to mention it to me so that now I had the same. We were saved from melody madness by one of those “only on a back rural road” moments: a homemade peach ice cream stand. In a corner of a farmer’s field, he had set up his awning and gear and was turning out fresh churned ice cream with his own farm’s peaches right there on the spot. He had this ancient belt-driven churn that he filled with ice and rock salt. Oh, yes, this was GOOD STUFF! We chatted for a while as we slurped away, and he allowed as how he had no desire whatsoever to see California and that there was no way anyone would get him out of Van Zandt County, Texas. OK, bub, keep turning out this ice cream and maybe I’ll move to Van Zandt County.

OK, cue the Twilight Zone music.

Grapeland is a dot in the middle of nowhere. The RV park we were headed for is down a couple of country lanes out of that dot. We’re talking rural, folks. Salmon Lake Park was the destination, billed as “antique buildings create a country town atmosphere.” Well. You enter a gate on a partially paved road and are greeted by derelict buildings strewn about, old vehicles abandoned here and there, not a soul in sight. The “office” is in the owner’s house. I entered and was greeted by two crones ironing laundry and a fiftyish woman straight out of Deliverance standing there chewing. I can hear that banjo and guitar now. They took my money, and vaguely said to just pick whatever site we wanted (there supposedly are 400 of them). No directions, no map, just vaguely over that way. We crept along in the rig, passing more decrepit shacks and then through a strange little western collection that looked like a set for a 1930’s movie, only totally run down. I got the feeling this was a thriving attraction about 40 years ago, but now . . . Anyway, there were scattered trailers over the acreages and hookup posts just set in rows in the open fields here and there, stretching all over the place. We didn’t see a single person, and none of the trailers had cars or trucks with them, and they all had quite long grass growing under them, while everything else was mowed. We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto. We had our choice of hundreds of spots, but the electric outlets looked dodgy at the first few we tried. Finally found one that didn’t look arced, under a tree, so settled in. I took a walk around while Loni cooled off. Silence. No people. Anywhere. I should have felt alone, but kept looking over my shoulder. This place was creepy. We’re at least 3/4 mile from the “office,” and not a soul around as far as we could see. I took some pics of more buildings along an abandoned narrow gauge track, returned to the rig and decided to make sure the doors were all locked.

You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into the . . . Twilight Zone. Do dee do do, do dee do do.

Well, we weren’t axe murdered in the night, and the place was decidedly less creepy the next day, but it still has to be the strangest place we’ve ever stayed. On to Houston and the Johnson Space Center.