mr. davidson

mr davidson

It’s early. The birds have only just started to stretch their wings when the dark air outside my bedroom rips open like an angry lion about to devour it’s prey. I awake with a start, my heart momentarily deciding if it has the will to continue giving life to my rigid, wide-eyed body. A startled noise escapes my mouth and I strain my ears to correctly categorize the sound that has just ricocheted off my bedroom walls. Then, as recognition slowly seeps into my mind, I sigh and turn over in bed with a groan. Mr. Harley Davidson must have an early morning breakfast date and, multitasker that he is, has decided to simultaneously impress the entire campground with the rich, angry sound of his motor. If we were not impressed now, the night before gave ample opportunity as Mr. Davidson sat around with his leather laden buddies swapping stories and a few choice words, loudly, late into the night. It was at this time that I discovered not only that my pillow can effectively buffer late night noises if folded over my head in a taco-like manner, but also that my husband has the uncanny ability to use motorcycle party noise as a sleep aid.

If the thought of living full-time in a campground conjures up images of adventurous outings, engaging conversations or just plan fun, let me pull back the curtain just enough for you to see me smile and wink. I’m learning that while it can be all of those things, it also carries with it occasional weekends of deliberate decibel abuse which in turn provide¬†new excuses opportunities to use my Amazon Prime account. And I wouldn’t trade it, Mr. Davidson and his impressive engine is welcome here anytime, just let me first go grab my new earplugs.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.