We awake to the buzz of a low-flying plane, and it’s not the kind that the Reverend Horton Heat sings about. The cornfield next to is getting a dose of pesticide, and as far as we can tell, so are we. As people who go to great lengths and expense to avoid eating pesticides or supporting growers that use it, this is maddeningly ironic. We can smell the stuff, like a cloud of poison gas. We’re surprised that no one else in the RV park seems to care – it makes us want to pick up and leave.