Delillo is the Illinois State Fairgrounds camp host, originally from Melrose Park. “Italian?” he asked, when I gave him my name.

“Yep.”

“Not many of us left,” he said. “Slicker Sam’s is gone, Come Back Inn…”

“I loved Come Back Inn!” I cried. “They had a great corned beef on garlic bread.”

He told us to pick any site, which was tough because there were literally hundreds of good ones. Dave zigzagged from grassy site to hilly site to gravel site near the showers to gravel site away from the showers.” This one looks level. Oh but I want a tree! What about that one on the hill?”

“They all look great, Dave.”

He settled on #74 but pulled in sideways because it was more level. “Do you think Delillo will mind?”

“It’s a Tuesday in September and there are three hundred other spots, how could he mind?” But I walked Nola to the office to ask while Dave did the hookups.

Delillo was grilling sausages out in front of his office. He glanced briefly toward the rig. “Twenty bucks.”

“You take plastic?”

“Plastic is twenty-one bucks.”

While I waited for him to write it up, I watched an older man in Harry Carey glasses watch a ball game on an outdoor TV. The aroma of garlicky meat and golden setting sun and green lawns created an atmosphere of Tuscan countryside except with baseball. “She smells the sausages,” the old man said without taking his eyes off the game.

“Yeah, she’d probably like to eat a few of those.” His profile similar to Delillo’s but more patrician, like northern Italy versus southern. “Are you from Melrose Park, too?”

“Me?” He turned and flashed a toothsome smile. “Lived here all my life. All 98 years.”

“No way,” I cried sincerely, then took ten years off what I’d guessed. “I would have said 70.”

“I used to repair watches,” he said. His wife died a few years ago. “So I started coming here,” he added, as if hanging outside the camp office at the Illinois State Fairgrounds was the only option for a nonagenarian widower.

Delillo came back with my receipt and I asked about walkable places. “The American Legion has dinners for twenty bucks, open to the public. Jasper and me go all the time,” he gestured to the other man, “or you’re not too far from Lincoln’s tomb if you don’t mind a walk. It closes at five but the cemetery’s open til seven.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

Back at the rig, Dave and I decided Lincoln’s tomb would make a good dog walk. When we passed the camp office, Jasper was gone and Delillo had finished his sausages. “How do we get out?”

“Main exit,” Delillo pointed in a general southwesterly direction. “You want a ride to the gate?”

We looked at Nola. “She can come,” Delillo said. So we all climbed in and sped to the front entrance, quarter of a mile away. I tried to take group selfies and Nola tried to jump out.

When we got to the entrance a car was ahead of us, about to pull out. “You going to the Legion?” called Jasper from the driver’s window.

“Lincoln’s tomb.” We peeled ourselves off of the golfcart.

“That’s far away,” Jasper said. “Want a ride?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Jasper will get you there,” said Delillo. “He’s 99 but he can handle it.”

“He told me he was 98!”

“He’s always adding a year to me,” protested Jasper.

“Few months away,” Delillo shot back.

“Come on,” Jasper said. “The dog can come.” So we all got into the burgundy Impala with burgundy velour interior, and Jasper drove us to the cemetery.

Jasper pulled past a gate that said the cemetery closes and the gates are locked at 5:30. It was 5:36. “I’ll wait for you,” said Jasper. “I don’t mind.”

“We don’t want you to get locked in,” Dave said. “We could squeeze out through a gap in the fence, but they could lock your car in here.”

“They won’t do that,” Jasper said, unfazed.

“I don’t want you driving after dark,” I said. “Go home, we’ll be fine.”

“You sure? It’s a long way.”

“We like walks,” I said firmly. “But can I take your picture?”

After Jasper drove off, we walked up to the tomb, feeling both awed and also nervous that we were about to get in trouble. A security car pulled up, confirming our fears, but the guy only said, “We’re gonna go lock the other gates, then we’ll come back and lock these, so you’ve got about ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later, we touched Lincoln’s nose for luck and left. We walked home through the neighborhoods of Springfield and wondered if we could live there. Then we grilled our last camp meal — salmon burgers, roasted tomatoes and greens, charred flatbread — and planned tomorrow: Lincoln’s home and then driving back, emptying and cleaning the rig, and returning it.

Nola is conked out at the foot of the bed. Dave is reading some handyman magazine on his Kindle. He claims we should try to buy an RV and live in it part of the year. I’m good with that. Night sounds outside, crickets and a few distant cows. I’m looking forward to being home, but I’m going to miss Jasper and Delillo.

Gas: 16.1 gallons. Miles: 206..5 MPG: 12.8. Next stop: home.