Mammoth Cave, Part One

Author's note: Those who know me know I am inclined to say "erf." It is my word. I made it up. It is a nonsensical erin word. Erf means erf.

Erf!

I like erf. Erf is like a furry little pet. It is impossible not to like erf. Erf is good. I encourage everyone to imbue their lives with a little bit of erf.

Now then, onto the meat of this post.

I am walking through Mammoth Cave. I am in awe. The rooms of the cave have 60-foot ceilings. And impossible rock walls. I am walking through spaces where prehistoric men dwelled, where slaves labored, where men died and tuberculosis patients languished in stone huts. I am beside myself with sheer amazement.

"I'm moving in," I say to no one. "I'm going to live in Mammoth Cave. I'll wear animal skins. I'll chew on bear fat."

"You can be a living exhibit," says the woman in front of me.

"Brilliant!" I say. "Pastoralia!"

"Pastoralia?" she says.

"Nevermind," I say.

"I'll create pictographs," I say. "My husband can drag me by my hair."

"You can change your name to Wilma," says the woman. "And your husband will be Fred."

"Yes!" I say.

"No!" retorts my nine-year-old daughter, dead serious. "When the people come by, yell 'Erf!'" Her eyes shift left, then right. She lowers her voice. "They'll think you're attacking."