We were camped on Holly Beach, Louisiana in January, the January prior to the August of Katrina and eighteen months before Rita. We were packed and ready to depart on the following morning after a wonderful week of appreciation for the sun, the sand, the soughing of the wind and the roar of the surf. We would participate in the pitch-in dinner on the final evening, and say our farewells.
The young man in the sharply creased chinos and the snap-front crisp white western-cut shirt strode into the room on intricately detailed shiny black boots with his wife, and the manager of the campground. Rex and Jeannie were introduced to the group as the newest members of the camp community.
I had seen the couple arrive about an hour earlier and noted that the red Ram pickup towing the fifth-wheel RV had the white-on-black license plate with bronco: Wyoming.
After a filling, if eclectic, repast, I made it a point to speak with Rex. "I see you are from Wyoming. I was born and reared in Colorado. Makes us sort of neighbors, I guess."
"Interesting. I was born in Colorado, too. Where were you born?"
"Oh, a little town no one ever heard of."
"I was born in Hartman."
"Really? Hartman. I know it well. My grandmother lives there. We just visited her last summer."
Small world, indeed.