The other night at dinner, my niece and I were discussing the plot of a book which involved a small town museum, and I was reminded of the one my mother and I visited on our Alaskan cruise.
Pulling into port on that fine July morning, we reviewed our options. We could stay aboard ship and relax in the spa, then maybe pop into the casino for an enjoyable hour or so, we could visit the town and spend time exploring the cozy little shops and restaurants, or we could hike up the road to petroglyph beach to view actual prehistoric rock carvings.
Since it was a lovely thirty-five degrees and raining, we, of course, elected to go with option number three.
Shrugging our fleece-lined coats on over every other item of clothing we owned, we set out for the far side of town and the beach.
As we slogged up the mud-drenched road, we encountered a couple of fellow shipmates, and thought to double-check our direction. "Petroglyph beach?" we enquired, peering through the downpour, and pointing up the hill.
Exchanging what they surely thought to be a surreptitious glance, they nodded, "Yes, just keep going up the hill. Oh, and stop at the museum," and hurried past us.
Huh. That didn't seem too encouraging. Had we detected a bit of a smirk?
Gamely, we continued schlepping up the increasingly steep and winding trail, eventually passing a few more poor, drenched souls.
"Petroglyph beach?" we gasped out, feebly raising trembling fingers to point upwards.
"Oh, yes," they responded cheerily (too cheerily), "you're almost there. Be sure and visit the museum on the way too." And they rolled past us back toward civilization.
Okay, they really looked like they were smirking.
But, on we trudged, ever upward (where exactly was this beach, the North Pole?), and, not soon enough, we saw a sign (and by sign, I mean piece of wood nailed to a tree with the word "museum" carved into it) indicating we had arrived at the recommended destination.
Approaching the museum (and by museum, I mean extra-large detached garage buried in the wilderness) we paid our $1 entrance fee and went in.
We were greeted by a chorus line of fifty Barbie dolls in crocheted dresses representing the fifty states. Okay...moving on. There was a dented typewriter from the 1920's, a rusted outboard motor from the 50's and a giant pine cone from the woods.
But wait, there was more. Magazines from the 70's, someones beat-up old shoes and an entire box of assorted buttons and wooden spools that had once held thread.
Yes, those were definitely smirks we had seen.
After picking our way past the displays of moose antlers, rocking chairs without seats and the remains of what used to be aluminum lawn furniture, we decided we had seen enough of the collection (and by collection, I mean stuff they hadn't been able to sell at the community yard sale), and resumed our sojourn to petryoglyph beach.
Upon reaching our final destination and gazing down at the three rocks with fish and circles carved into them (did they say prehistoric or pre-school?) we became nostalgic for the museum's treasures.
Slipping and sliding our way back downhill to the dry comforts of our staterooms, we couldn't resist doing as those before us had done though.
Passing the poor fools straggling up the mountainside, we smiled smug little smiles, nodded encouragingly toward the mountain's peak and suggested they stop by for a visit to the "must-see" town attraction---the museum.
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