It's like no time has passed at all

Miss D. and I are on the ground at Blogorado at last. We rolled into town mid-afternoon yesterday, dumped our clothes at our hotel room, then headed out to Secret Blogsquirrel HQ on a local farm. It took us (and several other Blogoradans) a while to find it, as we had to navigate along farm roads without benefit of signposts or GPS directions;  but we got there in the end, to be met by three barking dogs, nine (I counted them) feral cats hiding under various implements in the barn, and a very warm welcome.

Isn't it amazing how, when good friends meet after a year or two apart, it seems like no time has passed at all?  Hugs, kisses, handshakes and greetings were exchanged, huge smiles appeared on faces, compliments and insults were exchanged, "show-and-tell" sessions broke out all over as people dragged out their latest firearm acquisitions and proudly handed them around, and little huddles formed all over the place as groups plotted this or that activity for the next few days.  Supper was an immense pot roast, the first fruits of the steer some of this year's gathering have clubbed together to purchase.  We all ate too much.  (What's a man to do when someone threatens him with a large hunk of meat?  Dispose of the threat, of course!)

There was a fair amount of amusement (mixed with groans and 'ouches') about how many of us are limping, or using canes, or otherwise less than fully mobile this year.  It's not age so much as injury or illness that's to blame.  Someone even suggested taking a picture of all of us under the title 'The Mark of Cane', to loud groans and threats of retaliation.  No, it wasn't me.  (If you don't get the Biblical reference, see here.)

We're all going to rendezvous at a local eatery for breakfast later this morning.  That's become a hallmark of Blogorado:  heavily armed individuals and couples taking over a large section of the restaurant with uproarious conversation, laughter, and over-consumption of good food.  I think the first year or two, the poor waitresses didn't know what to make of us, particularly the sheer quantity of high-powered weaponry openly displayed (entirely legal in this part of the world):  but with experience came tolerance, understanding, and boggled eyes at some of the food combinations ordered.  (Allow me to assure you, from this African boy's perspective, the words 'hot sauce' and 'oatmeal' should never, repeat, never be permitted in the same sentence!)

More later.

Peter