Well, it’s another exciting season here at the Cottontail Resort, Rhode Island’s most popular naturist getaway.  I should probably give you a little background on the resort, and what led to our recent Bigfoot sightings.

The Cottontail Resort was founded in the late sixties by my father Astor and my mother Peaceful Willow.  Theirs was a fairytale romance.  My mother had just dropped out of the prestigious Carrie Nation Vocational College,  feeling that curriculum and structure did not suit her goal of becoming a poet.  She dreamed of being another Emily Dickinson, except having a lot more great sex.

My father Astor was from a prestigious old money Boston family.  From birth he had been groomed for greatness in high society, and his family was sure that the name. Astor L. Plane would stand among the giants of industry.

Though they could not have been any more different my parents fell in love the first time they met.

Both were attending the historic Woodstock music festival.  My father had never experienced the counter culture lifestyle and was curious, yet fearful of this strange new world.  My mother, who had renamed herself Peaceful Willow having attended many festivals was right at home, and was even given a full backstage pass.

She is truly one of the unsung heroines of Woodstock.  Many rock historians feel she actually saved the event from disaster when one of the headlining bands “The Who” became angry with the promoters and decided not to take the stage.  My mother arranged a private meeting with the band, and she must have been pretty persuasive, because one hour later The Who changed their mind and hit the stage.  Several other bands suddenly decided they wouldn’t go on stage either, unless they had their own private conference.

Mom must have had to do a lot of smooth talking, because years later she confided that her jaw was sore for days afterwards.  To this day I treasure a personal letter written by the great Janis Joplin commending my mother on being a cunning linguist.

While my mother was appeasing various artists, my father made the mistake of taking the “brown acid” that was being passed around.  Within an hour he was taken to the aid station in the depths of a very bad acid trip.

Coincidently my mother was at the aid station securing some antibiotics (for a friend), when my father caught her eye.  Taking pity she held his hand and comforted him through the bad drug experience, and despite dad’s hallucinating she was a giant blood-spitting serpent, they fell in love.  On the last day of the festival my father proposed, and my mother accepted.

Dad’s family wouldn’t hear of their blue-blooded sun marrying what they termed a “hippie vagrant” and did everything in their power to force the couple apart, to no avail.  Since my parents didn’t fit into the Boston old money mold the family donated a beautiful tract of land with lakes and forests they had repossessed from an orphanage and earmarked for strip mining.  The Bostonians must have finally accepted that the two would be together, and along with the deed to the land they sent a lovely card with the engraved sentiment “and stay there!”

My parents built a peaceful sanctuary from the materialistic world where people could relax as nature created them – unclothed and unashamed.  Within months the Cottontail Resort had become the east coast’s most popular nudist recreation site, and in its prime people clamored to find a space in the legendary Friday night Hot Tub parties.

Of course there was resistance from the local community, who had been looking forward to having an open pit mining operation in their area.  But my mom won over the local government officials one by one, or occasionally in groups.  Using a combination of peaceful interaction and hidden surveillance cameras my parents rose to become pillars of the local community.

But even in paradise tragedy can strike, as it did that one fateful day when my father was accidently decapitated during the all-state nude volleyball tournament.  Since then I have tirelessly campaigned against over the net spiking; the madness must end.

He was buried beneath the Hot Tub where he had spent his happiest hours, and we like to think that he is still there watching, especially on Friday nights.

My mother never remarried.  She chose to pass the Cottontail onto me and try to forget that tragic day by traveling the world with the rhythm section of “Frigid Pink.”

Now I have dedicated myself to living by the principals they taught me, and creating a haven where people can come and forget the cares of the modern world – $35.00 per person gate fee, RV septic hookups $12.00 per day.  Credit Card, Debit Card and PAYPAL accepted.

Sadly, a recent outbreak of Bigfoot sightings has turned our once bustling resort into a ghost town.  The panic stricken guests fled in terror, barely stopping to put their clothes back on.

But all is not lost, and I have a feeling that a young lady named Prudence, who will be arriving today may be able to solve the mystery and bring people back to this bucolic retreat.