After hiking up Parton Peaks, defiling a Crimson Tide hat on the trail, and climbing up rocks and through bushes, we encountered a group of folks relaxing at Myrtle Point on Mount LeConte. Greg, Keith, and his son, Matt, arrived first. When I emerged from the bushes several minutes later, everyone turned and looked. After a brief pause, the young lady of the tourist group smiled and said, “So, are you three generations of hikers?”
It took exactly two seconds for the weight of that statement to sink in. I hung my head in dejection as Keith and Greg exploded into laughter. The fact that this woman thought I might be Keith’s (or Greg’s) father and Matt’s grandfather was, of course, depressing. The fact that she made this comment in front of them was nearly fatal. I get enough verbal abuse from them on a good day, even on the Sabbath! This “three generations” comment would provide them with enough material to last well into my retirement years. If I knew how to enroll in a witness protection program, I’d do it, just to get a breather.
I considered telling everyone at Myrtle that her “three generations” comment was a lot like the time I asked a woman when her baby was due… only to discover that she wasn’t pregnant. A well-meaning comment gone bad. But then I had a brilliant idea: don’t tell them the story. Just walk up to the lady and ask when her baby was due. I thought everyone would get the joke. So I said it… and everyone got it… except her.
She hesitated. I saw the hesitation. I started to explain that I was just kidding, but of course it all got lost amidst the laughter and chatter from Greg and Keith. (Once they get started, they are as loud and annoying as a tree full of starlings.) I came across as a mean, old man with a sharp tongue, which of course can’t possibly be true but would give Keith and Greg even more ammunition for future tauntings.
Eventually, Keith – extracting every bit of humor and humiliation as possible from this scene – spoke confidentially to the woman, but in a voice loud enough for all to hear: “I want to apologize for the old guy. You had no way of knowing that he’ll snap over the slightest offense. His filters don’t work like they should. It happens all the time. Of course, we’re used to it, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior….”
Naturally, the lady didn’t know that Keith was just wringing the last bit of blood from my wounded psyche, so she apologized: “No, no. It was my fault. I drew first blood!”
I wanted to explain to her that I had been kidding, that Keith was kidding, that I knew she wasn’t pregnant, that we are all nice, normal people. But why bother? The damage was done. With a little luck we’d all never see each other again. So, just like Vietnam, I declared victory, cut my losses, and evacuated the premises.
I guess the moral of the story is… well, I don’t know if there is a moral. Maybe it’s “Don’t go hiking.” But if you do go hiking, don’t end your trip where you’ll encounter tourists you don’t know. But if you do encounter any, don’t talk to them. But if you do talk to them, don’t try to be funny. But if you do try to be funny, well… you’ve been warned, and whatever happens is your own stinkin’ fault.
As we were leaving our tourist friends at Myrtle Point, Keith was wishing them well and happened to ask where they were from. Their answer: Birmingham. As in, Birmingham, Alabama. As in, the Alabama Crimson Tide.
We were nearly back to the car before we realized that the defiled Crimson Tide hat by the side of the trail probably belonged to one of them. I wondered aloud if anyone would think less of me if I admitted that deep down in the dark corners of my conscience, I hoped the hat belonged to the young lady.
Keith and Greg’s response was blunt and immediate: “Well, Grampy…” (yes, they’ve started calling me Grampy) “…there’s nothing you could possibly do to make us think less of you.”
I don’t think they meant it as a compliment.
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