White Trash Weekend

We took a break from unpacking and drove up the road to a local state park, featuring a little creek with a waterfall called Falls Branch. It was an easy hike down to the creek. There were kids and families frolicking on the rocks near the waterfall. Tons of white trash families with their pit bulls on chains, rottweillers, scary giant bear-killer looking dogs. Big, out-of-shape people smoking right next to their children. Tattoos. Wifebeater tanks. You know. Not to be totally stereotypical, but places involving hiking and nature don't usually attract the hillbilly crowd. I mean, there was no Nascar, no off-road vehicles, no beer allowed. If I had known, I would have worn my jean shorts.

After letting Becca play in the water fully clothed, I took her out of her wet, muddy clothes and shoes and put on a clean diaper. Her legs were totally muddy. Her feet were bare. And we took her into the grocery store like that. No kidding. She was just sitting in that cart, happy as a clam, saying "Hi! Hi!" to everyone who walked by and I was like, "Shhhh! They are going to wonder why your mother doesn't clothe you! Haven't you ever heard of 'no shirt, no shoes, no service?'" I guess after you go swimming in Falls Branch, you too turn white trash!

Then John grilled his famous jalapeno burgers on our new grill that I pulled out of our neighbor's trash pile while Becca played with matches. The End.