Welcome to Day 2 of Laurakah! My thanks to all of you who called to give me good wishes (cheapskates - that is NOT a gift). And my heartfelt thanks to all of you who truly get me and bought me gifts. I will feature your gifts in this blog as part of my gratitude. I bought myself a gift as well - behold my new luggage tag!
Let's talk about the significance of this luggage tag - it could not suit me any better - camping sucks! And people don't use luggage when they camp - even more perfect. I know some of you enjoy it (God Bless Ya) but as much as my dad tried, I hate camping.
To understand my distaste for camping, you must understand what my dad and step-mother made me endure - but don't pick up the phone to call Child Protective Services, for alas, I have forgiven them.
Picture this: I'm eight (ish) years old and my dad and step-mother spring on me "Hey, we're going camping". Now, if you're anyone else, you're excited, right? I was filled with dread. So we loaded up the car with mummy bags (really - who named those things?), pup tents and jugs of water. The jugs of water should have been a clue, but I bravely packed my jeans and sweatshirts into a duffel bag and got in the car.
Ok, folks - I grew up in Nevada - and what grows in Nevada? Nothing. Why does nothing grow in Nevada? There is NO WATER. IT IS A DESERT. So the fam gets to the "campsite" - aka flat area surrounded by dirt - and set up the pup tent. Then what do we do on this big adventure? NOTHING. IT IS A DESERT. But no, my dad was having a blast and we ended up sitting around a campfire doing NOTHING. What's more fun than doing NOTHING and getting dirty and not being able to shower I ask you...
On another family camping trip we went to Death Valley. Death Valley - what grows in Death Valley? NOTHING. IT IS A DESERT. My parents proceed to set up the famous pup tent in a dry creek bed (safe, right? After all - IT IS A DESERT). Except that there was a flash flood and my brother and I ended up soaking wet sitting in the back seat of our car while our campsite washed away. Nice.
That should have been it, except that it wasn't. I agreed, at the age of thirteen, to drive in a puke green VW Bus to Colorado with my family. At 13, your parents are the biggest dorks ever, but I thought at least previous pup tent camping was over because we had the bus...yeah right.
Although we stayed in RV parks, I don't think my dad could ever get used to the fact that at 13 I was more concerned with my looks than spending time with my family. I would get up every morning, go to the showers and put on makeup and do my hair. Normal girl stuff, right? I think my dad thought he could keep me as his little girl by outsmarting me and getting up earlier so I wouldn't have time for makeup and hair. Poor guy, he tried...
It was during this trip that I found the greatest discovery yet of my 13 years - the butane curling iron. All I had to do was go and take a shower, blow dry my hair, then hop in the bus to go down the road. The first day I set up my mirror and fired up the curling iron in the bus my dad knew he had been had.
So, I ask you, what is it about shoving clothes in a duffel bag, sitting around in dirt and doing NOTHING appeals to campers? Why would I leave my warm home, my shower and my comfy bed to camp? The good news about being an adult - I no longer have to. I love not camping. Happy Birthday to me.
2 comments:
This story really touched me, mostly because I had never camped until I met your brother.
During the first 2 months of what I thought was going to be a fling, he was renting camping equipment from the Parks and Rec department at Texas A&M to razzle dazzle me with his skillful camping ways.
Like you, I love not camping.
Your dad, brother, grandfather and generations of Nevada men and campfire-loving ancestors have had a primal craving for nothingness and vast landscapes since they stood upright.
I am a city-girl with pyrophobia and a list of other phobias that mostly involve the creatures of the outdoors. Lost in any big city won't phase me, but lost in the wintery, high-mountain Nevada desert - yea, that is the stuff of my worst nightmare.
Camping to your brother is still pitching a tent and laying on the hard ground.
Meanwhile Jerry and Barb now have the traveling penthouse, which is quite different from our recent camping trip with Dad, Barb, Scott, me and Bennett and Audrey Pearl, who were 3 and 1.5 at the time, all cozied up in the pop-up trailer. It does grow in memory.
I won't go in to details about living in a tent in Greece for 3 months, but I have warmed up to camping - in the warm months in foreign countries is different than camping at your local KOA.
Next time the Smiths camp, maybe you and I can 'camp' at the closest resort and have a spa day. Could be a good birthday present!
Dearest One, Loved the message about the camping. How could we ever forget? At least you and your brother got to sleep in a warm car at Death Valley. But alas, now we go glamping, aka Glamour Camping. NO, there is no room service, at least not yet. In June it looks like we get the B. Renee, The A. Pearl and the N. Marie to go glamping with as they come to McMinnville for something on June 1. The Tour Director, a bald headed version of Miss Julie then wants to spend a few days glamping our way back to California. Wanna Come With? Even Uncle Jeffrey is talking like he wants to be in on the act as well. We do have a reservation for you and the R-man and the C-girl, err, young woman at Red Lion. You can pretend you are roughing it. Love you, Dad
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