Anyway, Jeff became acquainted with this particular group of
This mountain man show had tables full of handicrafts, knives, skulls, and other oddities. Let me paint a picture:
This ain't no teddy bear!
I was fascinated by this old guy's headdress which he told me was his grandfather's from long ago. I suggested a picture and he said "If I had a pretty lady like you, I'd hold her and squeeze her real tight" and then he did! Dirty old man.
Because everyone needs to shoot GOLF BALLS.
A comfortable abode. Not.
There was a lot of emphasis on "period dress" and a lot of people there dressed like they lived a long, long time ago. I guess it was like comic-con for mountain men.
But what really got me was that Jeff struck up a conversation with a man who told him there was a special event for "the ladies" - a whole week of primitive camping in the woods, where "the ladies" wore pre-1860's attire (required) and learned things like candle and soap making (and, the only cool thing I saw on the list, archery). Jeff thought I would LOVE doing it and he even picked up a brochure for Hayley, our oldest daughter, and suggested we do it together as a mother-daughter bonding time. Hayley, the child who spends 99.9% of her day "plugged in" to her cell phone and computer. Who doesn't like to be cold. Or dirty. Or to do hard labor. Or use a primitive toilet.
Now, I'm not saying it was my cup of tea, either. The idea of spending a sweltering summer day in layers of wool or muslin or whatever the hell they used to make clothes back in the day sounds like pure torture to me. I mean, I watched "Little House on the Prairie" as religiously as any other young girl my age, but that doesn't mean I WANT to use a pit toilet. Or cook over an open campfire, while smoke gets in my eyes. Or sleep on the GROUND. Wtf? I have a camper, for cryin' out loud. I retired my ground sleeping camping days long ago, and even then I used an air mattress. I suppose I'd be required to make a "ticking" out of hay and some scratchy fabric to sleep on. And snuggle under an itchy wool blanket. No freakin' way. I just bought a blanket at Costco that is softer than anything I've ever touched and I love every fake fiber of it's being.
I took the brochures on the
sexist camp from hell ladies only camp and kept them on my desk for the requisite ten days or so before depositing them in the recycle bin. Because the thing is, I like electricity. And plumbing. And Starbucks.
But Jeff pursued the mountain man idea further when he went to the range today to shoot his muzzle loader. He came home with a bit of fabric tied to his shirt button. I inquired as to what the fabric was and was treated to a long story about how he had the wrong ball thingys and how they didn't like his smokeless powder; they were black powder guys (grunt) and how he had to wrap his ball thingys in this fabric, but FIRST he had to put it in his mouth and chew it and wet it and THEN he had to wrap his ball thingys in it so they would fire out the gun, and so on.
And I was thinking, by the time you do all that crap, the bear, or moose, or wolf, or whatever delicacy you were trying to shoot for your dinner has already trampled you and is now ripping your guts out with it's shiny white dagger teeth.
Plus, he came home smelling like sulphur, to which Hayley said "You smell like poop and nature."
Did I mention how much I enjoy indoor plumbing?