The first time I went camping, my dad had acquired a huge tent meant to sleep a legion, and we were dragged off to spend Memorial Day weekend living in it.
I complained, whined, and muttered, and I took a stack of books a foot high.
Now, understand–I grew up on a farm. I’d slept in the backyard in a sleeping bag. I’d slept in the barn in a sleeping bag. I’d slept on horses’ backs (sans sleeping bag) and in trees (also without the sleeping bag. That’s just asking for trouble.) Any time I wanted to eat fire-cooked food, I’d pester my dad into a weinie-roast. (I was twelve. Stop laughing.) So I really didn’t see the point in this camping thing.
It was as miserable as I’d feared. It rained the whole weekend, one of those long, slow, soaking Pennsylvania rains. We were all–my dad, my brothers, my dad’s girlfriend, her kids–stuck in that huge flipping tent that really wasn’t big enough to hold us all day and night for three days.
I don’t think the Mall of America would be big enough to hold us all for three days.
By the second day, my older brother was tossing a tarp in the inflatable boat he’d bought with his own money, and going out into the middle of the Allegheny. He’d lay out there, under his tarp and reading contentedly (I assumed, from my vantage in the cursed tent) all day. He even took snacks.
Did you know mosquitoes do just fine in the rain? I did not know that before that weekend. I didn’t know that tents leaked if you brushed the wall, either. (At least, that one did.) I’d never realized how much mud got tracked in by every foot, and how much a pile of wet muddy shoes by the door–I mean, flap–could stink.
The more we complained, the more determined the adults were. What’s a little rain? Get out there and enjoy the great outdoors! (Never mind that we were closer to the road than we were at home, and also who camps next to train tracks?)
I only got through about half my stack of books. I got the biggest book taken away for hitting my dad’s girlfriend’s son with it. (He was ten and fair game, all right? Not like I hit the seven-year-old.) They kept dragging me out in the rain to do things, like wash the dinner dishes. (Hello, it’s raining! Just set them out, and Mother Nature washes for you!)
I hated that weekend so much, but it’s funny now. I can laugh about it now. I can even, when my friend says “Hey, I got this tent. Let’s take your kid and my two grandkids and drive most of the way across the state to camp for a couple days!” not run screaming.
Heck, I even said it sounded awesome. We’re going sometime in July, probably. How bad could it be? It’s Arizona, so it’s not like it’s going to rain, right?
I call myself an optimist, but sometimes I think I just don’t have a firm grip on reality. Guess it’s a good thing I’m a writer. I mean, at least I’ll come home with a good story.