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The lightening flashed. It looked eerie through the tent, and my heart pounded. Lying on my cot, I reached across to Walzie who seemed restless. Our kids were safe inside mom and dad’s camper, but we had chosen to brave this camping trip in our own cozy tent. It was cozy all right, only five feet square and barely big enough for two aluminum cots to fit side by side. I fit fine; I’m only five feet tall, but poor Mr. Six-footer had problems. As he flipped from side to side with his knees to his chest, he groaned something about rainy camping trips with tiny tents really sucked.
He vowed that after spending a year in the mud and muck of monsoon season in Vietnam, he would never spend another night camping in the rain. Well, heck, I’m no meteorologist; how was I to know that a rainstorm would hit Lewisburg, PA the night we decided to use that new tent.
So he rolled and tossed, I listened to the buzzing of mosquitoes that the rain had driven inside our little romantic abode. With each lightening flash, I zeroed in on ‘skeeters the size of Manhattan, smashing them against the side of the tent.
Walzie mumbled something about not touching the tent walls. Too late, it began to leak like a sieve. The steady plink, plink right on Walzie’s head brought him up like a bad weed.
“What the heck did you do?” he shouted at me. “Did you touch the tent?”
“Uh, sort of,” I tried to explain. “I was killing ‘skeeters. Maybe we should go sleep in mom and dad’s camper.”
“No way, little missey. This was your idea. We are staying right here. Maybe if you get your butt good and soaked, you’ll think before you decide that we need to go tenting. I told you we needed a camper of our own – but, noooo. We can’t afford one you said. Let’s buy a tent. It’ll be fun. Yeah, right. Now, roll over and go to sleep and don’t bug me! ”
So we weathered the storm inside that leaking tent. Next morning we were sopping wet and up to our knees in mud. Oh, yeah – that was fun.
So we didn’t do anymore camping, at least until a few years later. We finally bought a brand new Ford pickup and I talked Walzie into buying a camper to haul in the bed. Now, this will be so cool.
We followed mom and dad back to Lewisburg where we camped along the Susquehanna. We did some fishing and the boys swam and the day was winding down into a nice cool summer evening. Dad built a campfire and mom readied the weenies. Walzie whittled points on some sticks, and we were nearly ready for the big weenie roast.
I thought it was getting a little too cool, so I went inside our camper to get a sweatshirt. It felt a little chilly inside, so I lit the gas heater and adjusted it just high enough to take the chill away.
As we sat around the campfire, toasting weenies and telling stories, my mom said, “Look how nice the fire reflects on the side of your camper. It makes it look like such a pretty orange color.”
Walzie glanced up and horror filled his eyes. “Refection, my @$$. Our camper’s on fire!”
He ripped the back door open and black smoke billowed like a thunderstorm cloud. Flames singed his eyelashes. Mom rushed into their camper and literally tore their fire extinguisher from the wall (brackets and paneling, too). She tossed it to Walzie and he sprayed it inside our camper. The fire was out.
The worst of the fire was contained to the area of the gas heater. It looked as though when I stepped from the camper earlier, it jostled the plastic paper towel rack and it fell against the heater that ignited the paper towels. The fire climbed up the wall and devoured the mattress in the cab over bunk. Walzie was a little miffed … okay, a lot miffed.
Mom and dad took the boys to sleep in their camper and offered us the tent they keep folded up in the closet just in case of emergencies. I thought this constituted an emergency, but Walzie refused. Guess he and tents don’t fare too well. He insisted that we sleep in the burned out camper.
We put down the table and arranged the soot-covered cushions into a bed. It smelled like the charred remains of the city dump and every place you touched, made you look as if you were bathed in charcoal. We scrunched ourselves into the tiny space that would have been the kid’s bed. Mrs. Five-foot was comfortable; Mr. Six-footer was knees to chest and frowning – again.
Next morning we emerged looking like coalminers. Walzie looked me in the eye and said sarcastically, “Isn’t camping fun?”
So we got camping out of our systems back in the mid-seventies. Although, just last week, I saw the fright creep back into Walzie’s eyes when I asked him if he wanted to go to the RV show in Harrisburg.
Shucks, camping has changed since the seventies – hasn’t it?
He vowed that after spending a year in the mud and muck of monsoon season in Vietnam, he would never spend another night camping in the rain. Well, heck, I’m no meteorologist; how was I to know that a rainstorm would hit Lewisburg, PA the night we decided to use that new tent.
So he rolled and tossed, I listened to the buzzing of mosquitoes that the rain had driven inside our little romantic abode. With each lightening flash, I zeroed in on ‘skeeters the size of Manhattan, smashing them against the side of the tent.
Walzie mumbled something about not touching the tent walls. Too late, it began to leak like a sieve. The steady plink, plink right on Walzie’s head brought him up like a bad weed.
“What the heck did you do?” he shouted at me. “Did you touch the tent?”
“Uh, sort of,” I tried to explain. “I was killing ‘skeeters. Maybe we should go sleep in mom and dad’s camper.”
“No way, little missey. This was your idea. We are staying right here. Maybe if you get your butt good and soaked, you’ll think before you decide that we need to go tenting. I told you we needed a camper of our own – but, noooo. We can’t afford one you said. Let’s buy a tent. It’ll be fun. Yeah, right. Now, roll over and go to sleep and don’t bug me! ”
So we weathered the storm inside that leaking tent. Next morning we were sopping wet and up to our knees in mud. Oh, yeah – that was fun.
So we didn’t do anymore camping, at least until a few years later. We finally bought a brand new Ford pickup and I talked Walzie into buying a camper to haul in the bed. Now, this will be so cool.
We followed mom and dad back to Lewisburg where we camped along the Susquehanna. We did some fishing and the boys swam and the day was winding down into a nice cool summer evening. Dad built a campfire and mom readied the weenies. Walzie whittled points on some sticks, and we were nearly ready for the big weenie roast.
I thought it was getting a little too cool, so I went inside our camper to get a sweatshirt. It felt a little chilly inside, so I lit the gas heater and adjusted it just high enough to take the chill away.
As we sat around the campfire, toasting weenies and telling stories, my mom said, “Look how nice the fire reflects on the side of your camper. It makes it look like such a pretty orange color.”
Walzie glanced up and horror filled his eyes. “Refection, my @$$. Our camper’s on fire!”
He ripped the back door open and black smoke billowed like a thunderstorm cloud. Flames singed his eyelashes. Mom rushed into their camper and literally tore their fire extinguisher from the wall (brackets and paneling, too). She tossed it to Walzie and he sprayed it inside our camper. The fire was out.
The worst of the fire was contained to the area of the gas heater. It looked as though when I stepped from the camper earlier, it jostled the plastic paper towel rack and it fell against the heater that ignited the paper towels. The fire climbed up the wall and devoured the mattress in the cab over bunk. Walzie was a little miffed … okay, a lot miffed.
Mom and dad took the boys to sleep in their camper and offered us the tent they keep folded up in the closet just in case of emergencies. I thought this constituted an emergency, but Walzie refused. Guess he and tents don’t fare too well. He insisted that we sleep in the burned out camper.
We put down the table and arranged the soot-covered cushions into a bed. It smelled like the charred remains of the city dump and every place you touched, made you look as if you were bathed in charcoal. We scrunched ourselves into the tiny space that would have been the kid’s bed. Mrs. Five-foot was comfortable; Mr. Six-footer was knees to chest and frowning – again.
Next morning we emerged looking like coalminers. Walzie looked me in the eye and said sarcastically, “Isn’t camping fun?”
So we got camping out of our systems back in the mid-seventies. Although, just last week, I saw the fright creep back into Walzie’s eyes when I asked him if he wanted to go to the RV show in Harrisburg.
Shucks, camping has changed since the seventies – hasn’t it?
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