The emptier campground is fertile ground.  I could wander in places that a few weeks ago were full up with motor homes and vehicles and tables and tents and grills and tarps — and people.  It’s only about a quarter full now; half of it is closed, to reopen briefly for the holidays and then again in March.  At 8:30 this morning, I didn’t even catch a whiff of bacon cooking.  It was quiet and serene, and this twisted, gnarly skeleton gave me pause.

There were skeletons in our closets and someone found a master key.  I suspect, with great sorrow, that it will take years to vanquish them.