Wackos

Interesting that a gentleman driving a green Prius, looking every bit like a normal human being with a calm heart, older than I am (if that’s possible–he is a member of the Great Generation, actually), should feel free to roll down his window and call me a Wacko.  An Environmental Wacko, no less.  “One of those Environmental Wackos who works on the creek.”  Was I minding my own business?  Yes.  Was I working on the creek at that moment?  No.  I wasn’t even fully awake.  I was doing as I’d been asked to do–to help direct hikers toward the parking area for a docent-led exploration of a spring wildflower preserve.

You can park up ahead, I said.  There’s still room.  But parking and hiking were not on his mind–heckling and spewing invective were.

I’m awake now.  He’s inspired me to use him as a character in a story or play.  I won’t post his license plate number–I will save that for the Sheriff should this gentleman return to harass me or my colleagues again.

Oh, yes.  Some name-calling is considered okay; it’s a sort of cultural institution.

Keep moving, buddy.  We Wackos want to get back to work.

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