What's that Noise?

Stephen and I took the youth group kids camping last night. This was our third attempt to do so, as rain and other impediments continuously stood in our way. But last night was the night, and we were going to do it whether rain, sleet, or hail (although non were expected). We were excited to have about 14 kids show up, surprising to me, as the trip had been thrown together over so late notice due to the weather's inconsistency.

We loaded up and began the twenty minute drive out to Port Byron to the Johnson's home, a lovely acreage with a pool, a huge hill for a slip 'n' slide, and lots of woodsy area in which to play Jailbreak and Capture the Flag until the wee hours of the morning (which we did).

We had set up the tents (not an altogether pleasant thing to do in the 92* with about 100% humidity), eaten our hot dogs and brats, swam in the pool, and slid down the slip 'n' slide. I watched from a safe distance with a camera. It had been an eventful and hot evening, and the sun had just disappeared behind the hills.

I was engaged in a lovely conversation with Sarah and was musing about how well I could see her despite the lack of stars or moon due to a heavy cloud cover that had just blown in. We noticed that the boys were trying to start a fire and decided we should join them in case anything important was going on. Upon reaching our destination, we ascertained that the lighting of said fire was not going well at all. The boys had been attempting to light the fire for about a quarter of an hour with no success amidst the comments of "My Dad could have lit that fire in two minutes" and "I think the wood is wet."

The boys were adding piles of dried grass and leaves to the fire when I suddenly heard something. It sounded at first like a dull roar, and then, as I turned my ear toward the cornfield nearby, it sounded something like someone turning a shower on over a tarp.

"What's the noise?" I asked, my brow furrowing.

The boys casually looked up and shrugged. "Nothing, I don't hear anything" they concluded after a split second and went back to their fire tending.

But, being a country girl, my heart was now in my throat as I recognized the sound of rain pouring onto cornstalks in the distance. And then I felt it. A drop landed on my nose. And then another on my cheek.

"Guys, that's some serious rain, and it's coming this way fast!" I cried, jumping up. There are few things worse than being stuck in sopping wet clothes and a damp tent for the night.

Everyone began jumping up and running to their tents, abandoning the fire to smolder under the torrent. I ran to the food table and began clearing the trash off as quickly as possible and securing anything that might blow away in case the winds came up. I then hurried to the tent to wait out the storm.

As it happened, the rain only lasted about ten minutes, then departed as quickly as it came. We emerged from our tents gratefully and returned to the fire, which was now, by some freak of nature, billowing in full flames despite the last of the rain still dripping from the clouds.

It was a bit of excitement, and even more exciting that it came and went and didn't bother us again for the whole night. This was especially nice for the boys, who stayed up the ENTIRETY of the night by the fireside, talking like girls, and then progressed to the swimming pool at about 4 am. We were all up by 6:30 (as our tents were about 95* inside), packed up in an exhausted stupor, and drove home. After which I believe we all showered and went straight to bed. For a long time.

Porkies

Yeah, it's been awhile. We're in the Quad Cities for the summer, and I keep thinking "next week things will slow down and I'll be able to catch up on things--like blogging!" But alas...next week never comes.

I haven't been lax in blogging because there is nothing to blog about, that's for sure. Maybe someday I'll catch you up on our trip to Texas, the Kid's graduation, and the running number of spiders and centipedes we kill daily in our little basement cubbyhole (yeah, at least they're not cockroaches, Sister).

But enough of that. That is not the reason for finally sitting down at a computer and typing this out. Allow me to explain.

I accompanied Stephen to work today (as I do rather often when it's wet and cold outside. I have a thing against air conditioning, and the home we're staying in this summer keeps their air conditioning at about 65*. I am outside as much as possible). Lunchtime came around and I suggested happily that we might grab a burger at Checkers, my favorite burger joint in the Quad Cities.

"Or" thought Stephen, rather excitedly "we could go to Porkies!"

I blinked. "Porkies? Uh, what exactly is that?" I'm not sure the images that popped into your head upon reading that, but what popped into mine was not exactly appetizing.

"It's the burger joint that we used to go to all the time when we were kids."

"Oh, and uhh, is it called "porkies" because they serve pork there, or because you get fat if you eat there?" I questioned innocently, not wanting to admit that the very name "Porkies" made my stomach turn.

"Both, I suppose. Wanna go?"

I'm always up for trying new burger joints (ever searching for anything as good as B-Bops), and Stephen seemed to really want to go, so I obliged him. What could it hurt?

On the drive over I continued pondering who in their right mind would name their restaurant Porkies. The very name incites not only nausea, but images of fat pigs and fat old men. And pork...which I'm not fan of. But this was an adventure, right?

We drove through the town of Silvis and pulled into a run-down, orange and brown colored fast food place. The lettering on the sign and windows were those multi-colored sticky stencil letters unevenly placed across the windows announcing the 1/4 pound pork burger was 2 for 1 and 1/2 pound of fries was only $2.75.

We parked and walked in. Upon opening the doors I was instantly bombarded with the mixed smell of grease and cigarette smoke. My stomach turned harder. I'm very sensitive to smells (makes up for Mom's loss of such things:) A couple of large women wearing bright orange "Porkies" shirts stood behind the counter and let us know the the fish sandwich was 25 cents off today. We opted for the cheeseburger and fries, paid too much money, and sat down.

I looked around. We were the only people under 60 in the whole place, save two kids in the corner. And most of them were well over 200 pounds. The walls were covered with pictures pigs in many shapes, sizes, and poses.

By the time our food arrived, my appetite had dwindled exceedingly, but I reached for my burger anyways. I unwrapped it from it's blue and white checkered paper and looked at it. Inside a huge bun was laid a very thin, very greasy slab of hamburger meat covered in cheese. I closed my eyes and took a bite. I swallowed slowly.

Stephen looked at me. "You don't like it, do you?"

I thought it better not to comment, but he was persistent in desiring my opinion. I finally squeaked out, "It kinda tastes like McDonald's." (Greg, I apologize a million times for my constant begging for you to take the youth group to McDonald's on road trips. I can't even look at that place now without feeling sick!)

Stephen sighed and began apologizing profusely for bringing me to Porkies instead of Checkers. I forgave him quickly but asked if we could please leave soon. I was not feeling well at all. We cleared off our table and hurried out to the car again. I still feel like I have a bowling ball in my stomach.

And it really all started because I found out the place was called Porkies. Amazing how a title and an atmosphere can affect one's appetite so strongly. But it can. And I might suggest that the owner of Porkies consider a new name for his restaurant...at the very least.