Getting Away

My definition of vacation is a trip somewhere warm
and sunny where you stay in a place nicer than you
usually live in and someone else does the cooking and
cleaning and caters to your every whim. For college
students this means going home, but since I live in
Maine, home is seldom warm or sunny. I have never
been on this kind of vacation, although I have been
on many trips.

A trip is similar to a vacation in that you travel
somewhere, but that's where the similarity ends. Usually
it is cold and rainy when you get there (regardless of
where "there" is), you have to handle your own food
(the word "food" is used in the loosest sense), and
the accommodations make you realize how important it
is to have a roof. Most people would not take trips
if they knew in advance that's what they were. Trips
are usually planned as vacations, although some
people actually intend to take trips. Mostly they
are campers, recognizable from their general
sogginess and dour expressions, except for the
leader (whose idea it was to go camping), who is
grinning maniacally.

Someday one of my vacations will turn out right,
especially now that I have wised up and crossed
off any destinations whose brochures even mention
"nature," "clean mountain air," or "exotic
wildlife," because they are all located in the
woods. Never go anywhere frequented by camper
types, as they are always trying to convince
the management that they should take the roof
off their buildings. Also, bedraggled wives
and children of campers will keep stowing away
in your car and asking for asylum, which is,
of course, where all campers belong.

This brings me to my point: I am not much of
a camper myself, and so I am turning the
remainder of this essay over to my friend, and
occasional guest columnist, Fred. Fred is
currently taking a well-deserved rest at
Happy Dale, but he finds writing to be more
relaxing than working on his tunnel. Take
it away, Fred!

The people here at Happy Dale are insufferably
polite, but they have a lousy tailor. He keeps
making these shirts with only one sleeve, and
of course the staff gives them all to us to
wear. You would not believe how difficult it
is to write in one of these, to say nothing
of how slow it makes the digging process. But
you can't tell them that. They go and fill in
your hole so you will stop digging, instead of
addressing the real problem and giving me a
decent shirt.

I'm almost through to the outside now, and I
can hear the little birds twittering their
defiance to crows. They are our allies in the
ongoing fight against those black demons who
seek our destruction. I have some plans to aid
in the struggle when I get out, although I
wonder how small a target a Stinger missile
can lock onto. We'll see.

As you can tell, I am well rested now, so I
have no reason to remain here at Happy Dale.
Besides, I have recently gotten a brochure
for a vacation spot that sounds terrific.
"Come and commune with nature and enjoy our
clean mountain air," it says. "Miles of hiking
trails through countryside full of exotic
wildlife." Sounds great, doesn't it? Of
course I'll have to see if I can convince
the manager to take the roof off over my
room. They usually respond well when I
repeatedly sharpen my knife, Mack, in public.
I love the outdoor experience.

I have high hopes for this place because
half of the guys here at Happy Dale went
there right before the padded wagon came
for them. They all smile a lot when they
talk about their vacations, although some
of them suspect their families didn't have
such a good time. But the wives who are
here all say it was great. So, fellow
campers, I'm looking forward to seeing
you soon!