……..the weekend following Labor Day.
The planned visit by Rock, Shelly, two precocious daughters, and Bo Obama, their skunky Portugese Water Dog, failed to materialize. Again. The usual excuse, no different than the old Hillary Rx, ‘health care reform’ issues, was ruefully accepted. Oh, well, Lynn can’t tolerate the overhead helicopters and her disgust is not limited to the noise pollution. She thinks a color scheme, preferably those muted pastel waves adorning a Prevost motorcoach, would be much more attractive than the drab olive green of the military. I find the ubiquitous presence of secret service agents, unsmiling, clean-shaven, dark suits, white shirts, to be irritating although Lynn seems to admire their cute butts.
Instead we were honored to spend the weekend entertaining genuine royalty. Imagine our elation. Yes, the first family of Airstream. This is not an exaggeration. Aside from the trio of Wally Byam, his niece, Helen Schwamborn, and grand nephew, PeeWee, in the early 1960s, no three people (Emma, Eleanor, and the man in the Maze) have a had a more positive, profound, and lasting influence on the aura of Airstream, its dominance in the RV realm, and the multitude of adoring disciples.
Not to demean the effort of the thousands, either in the management ranks, or the factory floor workers, or loyal caravan club members, or non-member owners, the Luhr trifecta in the past five years raised the bar to a height no one could have imagined; even if you are subject to wild dreams. A deft balance between glamorizing the lifestyle with an equal dose of useful critique and nuts-and-bolts reality.
They make excellent guests too, provided the following:
a) courtesy parking is a big +
b) decent wireless internet
c) cell phone service, two bar minimum
The balance was a pleasure; catching up, kicking back, gourmet dining, simple entertainment, and recognizing that the future is overrated, although a certainty to arrive anytime.
Seasoned 9 y/o traveler contemplating fresh hot carrot soup with a toast point crouton of baked chanterelles
Eleanor and Lynn are a potent combination in the kitchen as we feasted on a pork loin roast marinated in heavenly sauce, garnished with weeds, and an accompaniment of couscous/orzo and seven wild grains. Though I doubt any one of us actually counted them.
A fantasy dessert of blackberries, wild blueberries soaked in Grand Marnier, served over Sara Lee pound cake, lathered with whipped cream was welcomed (no one turned it down).
Saturday a small country fair was as it should be, a puree of nature; the aromatic blend of oven baked turkey, fresh popcorn, horse manure, and wind whipped cedar trees filled the air, little change from the nearly forgotten 19th century.
The five “G”s (three girls, a goose, and a guinea)
Alas, the future has arrived, a weekend of civility digested, and the Tour of America pulls out the driveway, headed west toward Minnesota and beyond. Long may the royal family odyssey persevere.
If only we, as a country, as Americans, could be as civil to one another…each day, every weekend.
