(How wet was it? It was so wet that my 13 yo teenager forgot about the cool factor and wore a neon-yellow, too-small plastic poncho in a vain attempt to keep part of his body dry. In fact, he even thanked me for bringing it along for him to wear. My head nearly exploded from the astronomical unlikelihood of these two events, but, luckily, was contained by the hood of my own neon-yellow, too-small plastic poncho.)
Some other words that come to mind: MUD. And RAIN. And even CHILLED TO THE BONE. If you were there, especially on Sunday, you know whereof I speak. Here is an illustrative photo, in case words aren't painting a clear enough picture for you:
That's Terzo under a poncho that was a wee bit big on him. He looked like a little blue gnome walking around, but at least he was mostly dry.
When it wasn't raining, the weekend also included lots of fire, much to my boys' delight. (They were particularly enamored of the power of fire starter fluid, which brought Olivia's recent post to mind.) They spent lots of time supervising and poking the logs with sticks and throwing in napkins and cardboard.
With fire, comes S'Mores:
And More S'Mores:
And Some More S'Mores:
When I managed to tear them away from the campground, I had little time or dry enough socks to browse all the fibery goodness at the festival. That's OK, I tend to be like a deer caught in headlights at these events. My brain goes on sensory overload and mimics Homer Simpson with drool coming out of the side of his mouth. ("Yarn and fiber..." *insert Homer's drooling noise here*) Instead of loading up on more stash booty, much to my LSH's relief, I worked the ACR booth, wasted what little money I made in the booth on limeades, kettle corn and lamburgers, and was recognized for being the blog stalker that I am (keep paging down her entry, I am there in all my star-struck glory!)
My LSPs (Long Suffering Parents) were forced to cook on a campfire, take boys on uncharted wilderness trails, sleep in a cabin with rock-hard beds, and rescue the ACR booth with a well-placed tarp on Sunday. Unfortunately the rain had waterlogged my brain by this point. I completely forgot that I had a camera to document our attempts to throw a rope over the tent so we could situate the much-needed tarp over the top. We nearly wet our pants laughing but no one would have realized -- we were already soaked. To illustrate, see Terzo's pants, in spite of the poncho:
Tomorrow: I'll reveal what followed me home. Hint: Her name is Abigail. And no, Mrs. C., it is not a sheep.
* I tried to figure out how to spell that noise, but couldn't come up with anything and realized I had never seen it in print. I googled it for a quick and easy answer. Turns out, it has been the source of much debate and many suggestions, which is pretty amazing all by itself.