Trip Report | White Sunglasses: Russell Springs, KY
There's something sad about the laughter of children in an off-season RV park. It echoes forlornly, thin as the sunlight on this chilly October morning. The pool is drained, the rec center closed for COVID, and wet leaves patch the ground. Two kids are taking turns riding a pink bike down the empty concrete road in front of the office.
I’m walking Nola through Russell Springs KOA, a park reviewed on Google as “not bad for what it is.” We drove down from my cousin’s in Paris, Kentucky, attracted by the website description. “It's water, water everywhere when you stay at this campground right next to Lake Cumberland!” But the campsite map notes, “No access to lake from KOA.” However, the showers are clean and there's 24-hour laundry. Not bad for what it is.
On my way back, the kids are playing at a site that looks almost permanent—huge pile of firewood, metal awning slightly leaning to one side, and a Trump sign. A woman steps down from the rig door and I’m careful not to stare. Last night, when we walked past their campfire, a man was saying, “I mean, when I see someone wearing ‘em, I want to rip them off their head and crush them into pieces.” Someone else at the campfire laughed, and this guy went on, “I’m serious, man. I can’t stand ‘em. They’re so dumb. Why would you wear white sunglasses?”
The Trump sign is posted in the place where a front yard would be if their RV was a house and the picnic table for that site was the driveway. Why does someone at a transient campsite feel the need to state their political affiliation? For that matter, why do people in more traditional homes do it? To let your neighbors know where you stand, I guess. Those signs tell both sides who the crazies are.
The woman is making breakfast. “Bring me salt,” she says to one of the kids, who gets off the bike and goes inside. She looks normal enough. But I can’t imagine any sane person seeing what Trump has said and done and concluding, “Yes, four more years please.” Much less, a scenario where they’d see any value in advertising their politics to a bunch of strangers they’ll never see again.
“Get outside,” says a voice from the RV, and the kid comes back out with the salt. The man sounds grouchy, like he just woke up. The woman takes the salt and keeps cooking. They look like a CliffsNotes ad for the American dream, hitting all the plot points—man orders people around, woman cooks obediently, kids do what they’re told. There’s even a small flag stuck in a planter near the door.
So this guy loves America, yet thinks it makes sense to vote for someone who cares nothing about equality, justice, or even the very land beneath our feet? I suddenly and for no clear reason wish I owned a pair of white sunglasses.
Next stop: Cumberland Falls, KY.