You don't say...

"Well that's quite a change, living in the middle of nowhere from Chicago." Yes, and some days worse than others... They stand there looking at me expectantly.

My road has become busy, class-four-road-in-Vermont busy, and I'd rather it not because the etiquette baffles me. There seems to be a number of different protocol that, frankly, I don't care to acknowledge. The most common being a wave, as if you know the particular party passing, but are in a rush and so can't stop and say hello. (My only concession to this is a nod of the head.) Another is a stop-and-chat, which, of course, is the least welcomed.

Today I was relaxing in an adirondack chair in the front lawn playing with the Little Miss and a box of rocks when a foreshortend armada of jeep and jacked-up truck came up the road and stopped in the clearing across from the house. Alright, that's vexing, but I'm not queen of the road yet, so I ignore the intrusion. The crew get out to stomp around a bit and then from the corner of my eye I see them tromping my way. Good gods what next. I really want to sit in peace on a Saturday afternoon without offering tea and cucumber sandwiches.

No, they want directions to a camp - Dustin's camp. No, I don't know a Dustin and there aren't any camps farther up the road. Okay simple enough. Such as, "Is State and Jackson that way?" or "How many more blocks to the Heuttenbar?". Off you both go, glad to be helpful and with some sense of direction. But no, it is not that simple in a skulker's market. The trompers proceed to ask questions about the conditions of the road. Talk about the weather. ("Fine day, indeed.") Ask me about my "camp".

No, I live here year round. Oh. And then they goggle at me.

Perhaps, that's the time I should offer the tea and sandwiches?