I was expecting Mr. Claus to show up with my Visitor Center. He brought me the sign last year, so I was hoping.
Oh, not a building. Santa couldn't fly that in. That would be silly.
Just the building plans, the lumber, nails, seven brads for seven druthers, plus the cash for the contractor, earth mover, and a selection of canary blue plastic hard hats we could sport, arms akimbo.
I've always wanted a Visitor Center out back of the house. Somewhere to sell nine dollar Pepsis, mock scrapple, crummy t-shirts with my name on 'em. Maybe trade yarns about the weather and, boy, howdy, the price of smelt.
I need a place to hand over coveted brochures and point worn-down travelers to the Cracker Barrel and the "I got a call into the man" porta-potties, left of the bees.
Acres of free parking. Treasure Hunt every Saturday. Regional fruit in season. Grab a goodie from our communal scuppernong bucket. It's cool inside!
