LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Out |
by Fay Jacobs |
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
There are books about the other side, like Sidney Sheldon's trash novel The Other Side of Midnight, and there once was a D.C. bar in a bad neighborhood called The Other Side, where I spent my lesbian puppyhood dancing to disco, and of course, there's the great big other side where Allison Dubois on The Medium goes to talk to dead people. Then, there's the other side of Sussex County. In my 15 years around here I've done my share of exploring the boonies: dining on pork snout mush at the Apple-Scrapple Festival in Bridgeville, crossing over a teeny trickle of water on the Woodland Ferry and taking a harrowing ride through Gumboro on the way to Johnny Janosiks for a new sofa. But who knew that the Other Side of Sussex (OSS) was right at our very doorstep. A couple of weeks ago, a friend who has lived here a long time, and does not spend most of her time in the one square mile confines of downtown Rehoboth, decided Bonnie and I were missing out. She took us on an adventure. First stop, Route 24's Holly Lake campsite. We enjoyed an excellent old fashioned breakfast in a dining room replete with a taxidermied otter. I was again willing to sample a slab of scrapple but while the spirit was willing the pig flesh could not be mustered. Here's the clue that we were on the OSS: at breakfast at Retro Caf or Robin Hood there are business cards by the register from realtors, day spas and concierge services. At Holly Lake's register there are cards for gun cleaning and deer-cutting. So near and yet so far. From breakfast we ventured behind the barn to pens where hairy-chinned goats came up to greet us. "Look at that silly clump of hair under his chin," I exclaimed when a light bulb went off in my head and I suddenly understood the genesis of the gentlemen's goatee beard. Duh! I could have had a V-8. And what a pig! Now I'm not talking about myself, although I was wearing maple syrup on my sweatshirt's continental shelf from a totally excessive morning meal. But there was this filthy pig (no, not Rush Limbaugh), snorting and rolling in the mud, much to my combined horror and fascination. The pens also contained wild turkey, which I am unaccustomed to seeing except on a liquor label. They had under the chin turkey wattles just crying out for a good plastic surgeon. There were baby goats, critters that resembled reindeer (no bulbous red nose, though) and several mama goats in need of milking. I hadn't seen udders that big since Tom McGlone and Andy Meddick donned cow costumes behind the milk bar at the Chocolate Festival. Next on our tour was a stop to see some bison. The sign by the road said Bison Products, and there they were, home, home on the range, large lumbering bison products lounging in the field. This was not the thundering herd of the movies. More like a group posing for the back of a nickel. Continuing on, we passed Wilson's General Store, and darn it, the shop was closed on Sunday. Their sign says Ammunition, Notary Public, Groceries, Meat, Hardware, Subs and Coffee. You never know when you are going to need eggs and buckshot at the same time. Then we headed out Route 9 to Georgetown. Forget flying to Costa Rica or Venezuela, there's an entire Latino country in the OSS. Between the authentic-looking hole-in-the-wall restaurants (with great reviews from our guide, by the way) and a fabulous Mercado grocery store, I became completely immersed in another culture. It's been said that about a third of Georgetown's population is made up of Latino poultry plant workers and their families. Everyone was very much in evidence at the Mercado buying fresh jalapenos, papaya, chilies and tortillas. From Spanish language salsa music (playing overhead and on CDs for sale) and hanging piatas to a Mexican butcher counter and real pork rind, the place amazed me. And it's good for the soul to be another kind of minority, a visible one, for a change. We were the only Caucasians in sight. Refreshed by sodas with Spanish labels, we headed out a back country road to see a reported camel in residence. "One hump or two?" I asked as we cruised by the field, but alas, it was no humps because the pen was empty. Regrettably, we did spy a pile of steaming camel evidence. I guess every day, not just Wednesday, is hump day for that household. As the sun slowly set west of Rehoboth, we turned toward home. It was on this return trip that I saw the very embodiment of the Other Side of Sussex. There, along a fence by the road sat a very contented looking small multi-breed dog. Seated beside the dog, clearly his best pal, sat a fine-looking chicken. They both stared at this car load of gals staring back at them. The dog looked at the chicken, the chicken looked at the dog and I swear I heard the dog say "They must be from that other side of Sussex, with all the gay bars and day spas." "How do we get to the other side?" clucked the chicken. "Should we cross the road?"Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Fryinga Rehoboth Beach Memoir and Fried & TrueTales from Rehoboth Beach. Contact her at www.fayjacobs.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 19, No. 03 April 03, 2009 |