The Houseboat

As we crossed the bridge over the Cumberland River that, just to the left, became Lake Cumberland, I glanced over the guardrail toward the lake and the dock where Niz's houseboat was moored, perhaps with him, even now, sitting at an empty kitchenette table, nostalgically shuffling a pack of cards...

His houseboat's slot was toward the middle of the twenty or so on each side of the boardwalk, nestled (hidden) between the bigger, fancier houseboats that made the dock look good to passersby...

By the time we got back and dumped or bags on the floor of the houseboat, Niz had decided we'd be spending the night at the dock, using the electric hook-up, instead of relying on the generators. Judging by the smells of gasoline and mold, it was a safe bet he'd opened up the massive engine trapdoor at the back, had examined the generator, and figured daylight tinkering would get us further than twilight putzing around.

Three Dances