BACK TO BEDROCK: 'A Camping We Will Go' ... or will we?

With the beautiful weather we have had lately, people are beginning to spend time outside and looking forward to summer.

I saw an ad the other day for a camper trailer and, according to the ad, if you owned one of these trailers, you could vacation in luxury and style, without a care in the world. The ad contained scenes of people thoroughly enjoying themselves, eating dinner around a campfire or swimming in a lake, all with happy smiles on their faces looking relaxed and rested. I don’t know what planet they were on, but I have been camping on this one and know better.

My very first memory comes from way back when I was around 8 or 9 years old. My parents didn’t camp. They were farmers and life was rough enough as it was. But my older brother, his wife and kids were going camping and had invited me along. There were several families going and I was excited. We didn’t have tents but were going to sleep under the stars in sleeping bags or on portable cots.

From the point of view of a child, I had a great time. Even when it started to rain in the middle of the night and we had to sleep in the cars, I still thought it was an adventure. I remember waking up nice and rested in the back seat with my poor sister-in-law, who was shoved over in the corner, upright, with my feet on her shoulder and a crick in her neck. I don’t think she was enjoying the adventure all that much. The trip must have cured them of camping fever, because I don’t remember going with them again.

But, for some reason, when I was grown and had children, we thought camping was fun and went often. I always came home exhausted.

This would be the wives’ routine: Get up off an air mattress and cook breakfast over the fire or on a Coleman stove - bacon or sausage, eggs and fried potatoes were the normal fare - then chase the kids around trying to get them to eat, clean up the mess, dress the kids and tell them not to go in the water yet, go down to the lake to get water, clean the skillets, tell the kids not to go in the water yet, straighten up the tent, tell the kids to get out of the water, take the lunch meat out of the ice chest and fix lunch, go down and drag the kids out of the water … well, you get my drift. Then, it was cook supper, take the kids down to the water, make them get in and wash off, do the dishes, tell the kids to get out of the water, and clean up the campsite. The husbands were usually off fishing, or watching the kids - not!

Then it was time to have some fun, kick back by the campfire, roast some marshmallows and relax. Sure! I’d help the kids put the marshmallows on their sticks, put ice on the child’s hand when he tries to take his marshmallow off by himself, wipe dripping marshmallow off clean pajamas and chins and out of hair. By the time I got the marshmallow out of my hair and the kids cleaned and bandaged, the fire has gone out and it’s time to go to bed.

So, I sink back in relief on the air mattress and wake up two hours later on hard ground because the mattress has a leak - Husband’s mattress is not leaking. I blow the mattress back up and try again. One hour later I repeat, and repeat again all night long.

The husbands are going early to fish, so I get up and start all over. I think maybe this evening will be nice, but the weather man warns of storms - of course. We sit under a canopied picnic table watching trees bend double, tents collapse and towels, bathing suits, coffee cans, foodstuffs and various camping paraphernalia blow into the lake.

Luckily, we don’t lose any of the children because I have shoved them all underneath the concrete picnic table, from where we hear the following: “I have to go to the bathroom!” “Quit pushing me!” “Your elbow isin my eye!” and, “Is our truck gonna blow away?”

Hey, are we having fun yet?

And then there was the time we went camping in the White Mountains of Arizona. I don’t know why they call them White Mountains because the soil is volcanic. We were there during one of the worst droughts in history and the dirt was like fine, black baby powder. We had one of those campers that went into the bed of a pickup, so it was better than a tent but we had no bathroom facilities. By this time the kids numbered four. At bedtime the baby, 2 or thereabout, would be so covered with fine volcanic ash, all you could see was his eyes. We had a barrel of water outside the camper in which we would douse him and then hand him into the camper to avoid any more dust gathering. He wasn’t overly fond of this procedure.

It was rumored there were bears in these mountains and the outhouses were a little distance away, so, in the middle of the night when, inevitably, one of the children had to go, we would arm ourselves with bear spray and off we would march, arm in arm,saying, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

Good times? I finally realized that those laughing, happy, camping people on the TV ad had no children with them.

Hmmmm… Well, these children that gave me so much trouble are now grown and guess what? They like to camp! And they have children they take camping with them! It makes my blood run cold just thinking about it!

In all fairness, I have been camping a few times after the kids were grown and gone, and it is a bit easier. There is still food to cook, dishes to do and the camper to keep clean; but, in between, there is actually time to sit by the water and read or fish or just sit and watch the campfire. And believe me, that is 10 minutes well spent!

My husband came home the other day and said he was thinking about getting another camper. I haven’t decided yet if I am going to smother him in his sleep or poison his food.

Happy camping, y’all!

Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at tamela.weeks@ gmail.com.

Opinion, Pages 4 on 05/29/2013