From Ocean Springs I got to Dauphin Island, AL. It was frigidly cold, and the 3 layers of socks on my hands made stopping difficult, so I slowly ran into the closed gate of the ferry ramp and fell down. I camped for the night in the RV campground (rustic!), with the offer of staying warm in the "community house" if it got too cold. This turned out to be a large concrete bunker with a perforated and nonfunctioning wood stove, plastic cherubim, and a vast array of uncomfortable and non-insulating Christmas chintz. You see, the most important thing here, obviously, was to find something to sleep on, since in my excellent and far-sighted packing I brought tent, sleeping bag, and nary else. Which is fine in normal southern climes, but this was like wandering through a drawling, drooling St. Paul.

The end result was something like sitting in dark display room of merry concrete gremlins, discussing which episode of Dr. Who to watch in the back room, while Uncle Gus practices his bowling approach in the hall.

So: could I stuff the child-angels under my sleeping bag? No

Could I burrow into the yards and yards of plastic wreaths, filling the gaps with colored lights?

Maybe, but how itchy.

So, after a hearty dinner of canned green beans (and salt!) I ransacked the room, and found a midden heap of plastic tablecloths. I grabbed 8 of them, and rodent-like, tucked them away with me across the lumpy lawn and into my tent.

The next morning I was accosted by maternal and cackling hens who wanted to know why I was stuffing voluminous amounts of tablecloth under the sink.

This name on the gravestone is just quite good, and deserves immortality, thus I comply.