Hobo Hollow

Hobo Hollow is a campground in Holtwood, Pennsylvania that's open all year round. It lays in the valley between two fields in a small patch of woods. There are trailers that sit with the earth and folks that grew up there. It almost feels like a trailer park but it's not actually official.

It's a hot day in June, I'm driving in the country with my blue Chevy pick up truck on some back road. On the side of the road, I see a young man all red-faced, out of breath, pushing a bike up a hill as I'm going down it.

Thoughts that come to my mind - "He isn't much of a rider", " Should I turn around and ask if he'd like a lift?" I stopped talking to myself and I turned around and I pull up to him and asked him if he'd like a ride to where he was going. He didn't hesitant on answering me and threw his bike in the back of my truck bed and hopped in my passenger seat. I asked him where he was heading. He replied, "Hobo Hollow." So I made some lefts and some rights and we arrived.
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As we're driving into the campground, he's directing me to his Father's trailer and then asks me how he could repay me. I tell him not to worry about it. He responds, "I've got no money but I have Zanies if you want some." I tell him, 'I'm alright." I pull into his father's driveway where I find his father sitting there shirtless, on a white five-gallon bucket in a patch of dirt with a few blades of grass that I'd call a yard, getting his head shaved from his a young boy who holds the clippers in his right hand. They both crack into a huge smile at me, genuinely, with missing teeth.

Images I wish I had photographs of. Moments I keep in my mind. Things I can't forget.