Some people just look for trouble.
The five of us have been roaming Lake Superior discovering our own version of North Shore delights. Cast of characters: me, the Mystery Woman, and the linchpins of her clan -- her daughter, Ruth, her granddaughter, Allison, and the matriarch, Virginia. If you count Bella the dog, and you'd better, that's six.
The dog was denied access at the Split Rock Light House and it was too hot to leave her in the van. So the Mystery Woman took it upon herself to babysit the dog and, while she waited, lay out a spread on a picnic table at the park's edge.
Right away, the sliced ham presented a problem. It was in a vacuum pack and simply would not open. Undeterred, she stabbed the plastic with the car keys. No going.
Just at that moment, fate thundered in on sixteen motorcycles. These were not doctors and lawyers out for a weekend ride. These were bad asses. Sixteen of 'em.
I watched in horror as the Mystery Woman sauntered into the pack. "Hi, guys," she smiled. "Anybody got a knife?"
In a flash, the sky was filled with sixteen blades glinting in the summer sun. Even the women were packing. They were happy to oblige. A little too happy, I thought.
Once she was safely returned to our perimeter, the Mystery Woman blithely finished making lunch while I checked my defibrillator. "Honey," I said. "That was a damned dangerous thing for you to do. I can't protect you against that gang."
"Of course you can't, silly. Everybody knows bloggers don't carry knives."