Random Musical Memories

I grew up on music.

My parents had a huge collection of albums and 45’s – everything rock-n-roll from the 60’s and 70’s: The Beatles, The Doors, The Kinks, The Mamas and the Papas, The Guess Who, The Four Tops, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Bad Company. You name it, they had it. Even some disco, like KC and the Sunshine Band and Earth Wind and Fire. And a little bit of country too.

We spent a lot of time listening to music, enjoying the latest tunes on the radio or putting an album or a stack of 45’s on the turntable. We had a collection of 8-tracks too.

Funny… choosing which 45’s to play and in which order was kind of like making a mixed tape (which would become a favorite pastime a few years later). The 45’s needed to be set up on the plastic spindle adapter above the turntable (because 45’s had an opening in the middle the size of a half-dollar, whereas albums only had an opening the width of a pencil), and as each single-song record finished playing, the turntable arm would lift and move out to the side, the next record would drop down and then the arm would move back and lower the needle right onto the beginning of this new record. Pure genius.

These 45’s were my favorites as a young kid in the 70’s:
No Sugar – The Guess Who
Bad Leroy Brown – Jim Croce
December, 1963 (Oh What a Night) – The Four Seasons
Stay – Frankie Valli
Let Your Love Flow – The Bellamy Brothers
Dream Weaver – Gary Wright
Happy Together – The Turtles
I Can See Clearly Now – Johnny Nash

If you look closely at the photo of me with my cousins, you will notice that we are not gathered around that big console television to watch TV, but to listen to the 45's on the turntable on top.

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I remember dancing in the living room. I made up whole dance routines to Play That Funky Music (Wild Cherry) and Get Down Tonight (KC and the Sunshine Band).

Funny how the lyrics go right over your head when you’re young.

And I remember my father teaching me how to do “The Bump,” which was basically just swaying side to side and bumping hips with a partner to the beat. Of course his hip was up too high for mine, so sometimes his bump would hit me in the shoulder and send me to the floor, but that made us both laugh.

My big brother and I had an old record player on the floor in our little bedroom. It was in a big hard case like a suitcase. We used to load an album onto the turntable and close the lid and take turns dancing on top of it, performing for each other on our tiny little stage. And if we jumped around too much the record inside would skip.

Skipping was the worst. When our records got too scratchy we used to tape pennies to the top of the arm, right above the needle, to weigh it down and hopefully keep it from skipping. But sometimes I miss all the clicks and pops of those old records. There was some character in those old scratchy recordings.

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Some of my favorite times as a kid were when my father would strum songs on the guitar and sing to us, and if we knew the songs we would sing along. I had a favorite request – a song called “So Tired” by the Kinks. I liked the song and I liked the way my father sang it. But it wasn’t one of his favorite songs to play, because he had to slide his fingers across the strings and they’d get sore after a while. I always requested that one though, and he always played it for me. And My Maria too. And Take Me Home, Country Roads - I used to follow along in the songbook, singing the words to that one as Dad played.

Sometimes he would record us all singing. Once we were trying to record In The Still Of The Night – my dad singing and playing the guitar, and me singing the backup “Shoo-doop shoo be doo”. I was only about 6 years old, so my mother whispered the shoo-doop shoo be doo in my ear so I wouldn’t miss the words or the timing. But all those SH sounds really tickle when someone is whispering them in your ears, so I kept giggling. I don’t think we ever got through the song.

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When I was in 6th grade I got my first boombox for Christmas, which meant I could have music in my room. I’d had music in my room before – big console stereos that we found in the garbage and got working for a while, but the speakers on those didn’t sound so great.

The new Sanyo boombox, on the other hand, sounded awesome. And with a three-pack of blank tapes from Caldor I was taping the latest greatest songs from the radio, diligently waiting for the DJ to stop talking so I could hit Record, and then pressing Stop before the talk resumed. I would wait for hours for a specific song to be played. Maybe it was Billy Squier. Maybe it was Madonna. Maybe it was the Go Go’s, or Journey. Maybe it was Huey Lewis and the News.

But I would wait up until midnight if I had to – you know how hard it is to have a song in your head and not be able to hear it. With the instant gratification of internet, kids don’t have that problem anymore (and actually, neither do I). But back then it took a lot of time and patience to make the ultimate mixed tape. There was always taping songs from your record collection, of course, but there’s nothing like having a new favorite song.

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My brother and I used to get a weekly allowance, usually $5 each. It’s funny to me, looking back – it seemed we didn’t have enough money to heat the house or even to go food shopping sometimes, but somehow my parents managed to give us money every week. Well, not every week. We didn’t get the allowance if our rooms weren’t clean. Hmm… now that I think about it, they probably didn’t have to give us much money after all.

But if I didn’t spend my allowance during bowling night, I would save it up for new records from Caldor. Caldor had new billboard charts every week, one for each genre of music. The top 20 were kept in a wooden shelving unit near the register with slots numbered 1 through 20. A song’s ranking on the billboard chart corresponded to the numbered slots. I spent a lot of money there.

********

I remember walking into my mother’s bedroom once when I was younger and fully into good ol’ rock-n-roll, and she was listening to some kind of disco song. “What the heck are you listening to, Mom? Rock Lives, Disco Dies.”

“Well I like all kinds of music. Disco is good to dance to.”

I wonder if she ever regretted keeping me open-minded on the music front? My father may have. My bedroom was right above the living room, and as I got into the dance music of the 80’s my father became convinced that I spent 5 years listening to the same song, over and over, morning noon and night. The incessant sound of it thumping above his head was like water torture as he tried to watch Three’s Company, Sanford and Son, The Dukes of Hazzard or The Love Boat. Occasionally, he would get the broom from the kitchen and knock on the ceiling with the handle. That was the signal for many things - pick up the phone, come down for dinner - but usually it meant “turn down the music”.

I’ve remained very musically open-minded and have even expanded well beyond the genres introduced to me by my parents. Mandy’s taste in music probably covers just as wide of a spectrum, as she can wake up to techno, chill mid-afternoon in her room to some alternative rock and fall asleep at night to new age or classical. We regularly introduce each other to new songs.

Music does something for me. Not that I don’t enjoy silent times alone with my thoughts – I certainly do – but music is passion and emotion and life. Sometimes it mirrors the way I’m feeling; sometimes it heightens my mood and pulls me out of some sadness or stress. It’s soothing at night before bed, it’s invigorating while I’m cooking or cleaning, and it’s company while I’m driving in the car or walking around the lake.

And so many songs spark memories for me. I think that’s what my next few posts will be about…

Joy, sorrow, tears, lamentation, laughter - to all these music gives voice, but in such a way that we are transported from the world of unrest to a world of peace, and see reality in a new way, as if we were sitting by a mountain lake and contemplating hills and woods and clouds in the tranquil and fathomless water. (Albert Schweitzer)

The Return Of LeedleDee?

I’ve never really had a nickname, or at least not one generally known by anyone outside my immediate family.

My father is one of the few that uses my middle name, calling me “Tamma-Jean!” or sometimes just Tamma.

My little brother (who was born when I was 14) and I call each other by only our middle names, he calling me Jean and me calling him Joseph. No real reason.

I also used to call him Big Bri Stud, because as a pre-schooler he was constantly eyeing up the pretty girls (of any age, usually blondes) and hitting on them. My high school boyfriend had taught him to say “Hey Babe, what’s happenin’?” at the tender age of 3, so he was always a hit with the ladies. But over the years Big Bri Stud has gotten shortened to Big B. Or sometimes I just call him B.

My big brother was 1-1/2 when I was born, and he loved me. To my mother's dismay, he would sneak into my crib and try to hold me and sing me songs. At least he wasn't smacking me. That came later during The Teasing Years.

And as a toddler he called me “LeedleDee”, because he thought that sounded like a song. That was my first nickname: LeedleDee.

He called me LeedleDee often as we were growing up. He said it with a sneer during The Teasing Years. Those years ushered in new nicknames as well, such as Slammy and Meathead. I liked LeedleDee better. If memory serves, I simply called him Duane the Pain, or sometimes just Jerk or Idiot (said through tears, of course).

When my brother entered high school, he got a nickname of his own. My parents had named him after Duane Eddy, the guitarist my father loved so much. But he had never liked his name, because the show What’s Happening had come out in the 70’s with a main character named Dwayne, and that was perfect ammo for elementary school kids.

I’m not quite sure what my brother did in high school to earn the name “Doctor Love,” but I am quite sure there is more to the story than a simple fondness of the song by Kiss. To this very day, he is known as Doc. Most people don’t even know his real name and they get confused at his job when I call and ask for this “Duane” person.

In the days of my grandparents and even my parents, everyone had a nickname:
Lukey Lou (our crazy neighbor)
The Ground Mole (my uncle)
Beetle Bailey (another uncle)
Dob (my grandmother, and I have no idea why)
The Pheasant (my great-grandmother)
Tank (another guy from the neighborhood)
Mimi (my aunt)
Porky (my father’s friend)
Twinkie (Porky’s son)

One of my grandfathers was called Tiny, because he was so thin. My brother has a friend called Tiny as well, because he’s the size of a Mac Truck.

I’ve got a cousin named Buddha and a friend named Sully.

My father has two drinking mugs that he got when he was in the Navy. Both display the emblem of his submarine. But I remember asking him once when I was little, “Why does one say ‘Peachy’ on the back and the other one say ‘Tiger’?” He pointed to my mother: “Peachy!” And then he pointed to himself: “Tiger!” “No way!” They both nodded their heads. “Ooooooh…”

But for the benefit of us kids, my father gave himself a new nickname. “You know what you kids should call me?” he proclaimed one day. “Super-Fonzie-Austin.”

“What??”

“Super for Superman. Fonzie, because I’m cool like the Fonz. And Austin for Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man. Super-Fonzie-Austin - that’s my new name.”

So we would giggle as we called my father Super-Fonzie-Austin. Soon after, he decided to add Genius to the end of his name. And so besides being known as “The King” (another self-nomer) throughout his castle, he also became known as Super-Fonzie-Austin-Genius.

“What should mommy’s name be?” we asked.

“The Old Bag” he joked.

That one always made us attack him, and a full-blown wrestling match would ensue. I was the more aggressive one though. “Go get him, Tam!” my big brother would say, pushing me toward the infidel who had insulted our dear mother, yet maintaining a safe distance from the melee.

I would run across the living room toward him at full speed, fists flying, and try to land as many punches as I could before he finally wrestled me to the floor, turned me around, and locked my head between his knees so he could continue watching TV. He never even had to get up out of the recliner. I’d still be karate-chopping at his legs, but I’d eventually admit defeat.

That “Old Bag” thing got him in trouble once, though. My little brother had just started pre-school, and he wasn’t feeling well. They needed to call my mother.

“What’s your mommy’s name?” they asked him.

“Mommy.”

“What does your daddy call your mommy?”

“The Old Bag.”

They got quite a chuckle out of that one over at the pre-school. My mother didn’t know whether to be mortified or hysterical with laughter.

But I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a nickname, a real nickname that everyone knew. Friends have called me different things over the years like Tamma-Lama or Tammie-Tam or Tabitha. Boyfriends have had pet names for me of course, and my husband does as well. My daughter and I have a million different silly names for each other.

But I’ve never had a real nickname. Perhaps I’ll take a cue from my father and name myself. I just have to come up with something good…

Wild Horses

It was the middle of the night, probably 2 in the morning, and Mandy was on her way to the bath house to use the restroom.

Our campsite seemed to be equidistant from the two closest bath houses, so one day I counted my steps to each one: 96 steps to the one on the left of us, 96 steps to the one on the right. But for some reason Mandy preferred the one on the left.

As I mentioned a few posts ago, the light from the full moon reflected so brilliantly off the white sand on Assateague Island that we never needed to carry flashlights. One could easily distinguish the narrow roadway, the other campsites, the bushes and the dunes no matter what time of night.

So Mandy was walking alone in the dark without a flashlight, heading for the glowing building 96 steps to the left of our campsite. The salty breeze made her blond hair billow as she walked.

She could hear the waves crashing on the other side of the dunes and the occasional sanderling flying overhead. We had never realized that these little sea birds hunt both day and night, racing toward the retreating waves to feast on tiny crustaceans and sea life left behind on the sand.

But otherwise, the night was still and very peaceful. All the campers were sleeping soundly, their bodies weary from another day in the sand, surf and sun, their campfires finally reduced to glowing red embers.

Mandy became aware of a gang heading toward her from up ahead on the roadway. They weren’t speaking, but the moonlight informed her that there were quite a few of them. Teenagers, she supposed.

She continued on in the direction of the bath house, the light from it silhouetting the silent parade as it approached and creating long shadows which now touched her feet.

Within moments she was completely surrounded. They looked her over. They nudged her, obviously curious to know who she was and why she was walking alone down the road that apparently belonged to them.

As Mandy’s eyes focused, she came to the delightful realization that she was completely encircled by a group of wild horses.

After a few more nudges and a snort or two, they were off. Their meeting was brief, but it was the sort of magical encounter that makes you smile and wonder if you’re dreaming.


****


One of my favorite memories from our first trip to Assateague five years ago was the time I woke up early to use the restroom and decided to steal a quick peak over the dunes. I’d wanted to see the beach completely uninhabited, but what I’d found was even better.

The weather had been quite hot and humid that week. And so before the campers had arisen from their tents to brew some instant coffee and shake the sand from the beach towels drying on their picnic table benches, the horses had decided to overtake the beach.

There was a herd of white horses with dark brown patches walking through the surf.

There was another mixed herd farther up the beach doing the same.

There were groups of two or three horses standing here and there, squinting in the hazy sunrise.

There was a mother standing guard as her foal rested on the sand.

And standing there with her eyes wide and her mouth agape was a fool who had gone up to the top of the dune in the early morning without her camera.

It’s hard to run in the sand. It’s even harder to run in the sand at 6am when you haven’t even sipped that cup of instant coffee yet. But there I was, running urgently yet sloppily with sandaled feet and no caffeine, back to my tent to retrieve my faithful companion of those days, my 35mm camera. I tried to rouse little Mandy, but she wouldn’t budge.

By the time I'd returned to the beach, some of the herds had moved much farther down the shoreline or back to the dunes. But I was able to capture the mother and her foal, as well as a few other groups of horses that had remained for a while longer.

This was the sort of scenario I had been hoping to duplicate on my next trip to Assateague. I was ever-vigilant, checking the view over the dunes at all times of day, and my camera was always on my shoulder.


*****

But it never happened that way on our recent trip. For some reason, the wild horses were scarce during the day.

I was able to track a few to the mosquito-infested marsh on the other side of the island and get some photos, but I didn’t see the herds like last time, and I didn’t see them on the beach.

They seemed to mainly come out at night like bands of hooligans dominating the campground. Campers carefully secured their food and hid their coolers, but the ruffians knew where to look.

In fact, a cooler with a tough latch is no match for a wild horse with his sights set on a midnight snack. We discovered this our very first night.

We awoke to the sound of whinnying, of pans crashing on our picnic table, and of incessant banging on the cooler. Even in my dazed state I knew they were focused on the cooler, the one with the latch that was on the ground next to my father’s truck. “They’re not getting into that thing,” I thought.

I thought wrong. They’d eaten all the tomatoes and all the carrots by the time my father’s girlfriend Jackie got up to investigate. Other, less desirable food was strewn around on the ground with holes ripped in the packaging by probing teeth. Henceforth, the coolers and all snacks were kept in the truck. We were much more prepared for their subsequent nighttime visits.

They were entertaining to watch though, exhibiting playful, almost frisky behavior at night. They chased each other up and down to dunes and whinnied and stole food. It looked like fun.

*****

Our time at the campground was over too soon, and we packed up and headed for Ocean City for some boardwalk time and one night in a hotel.

Of course, there was still the problem of my car's battery light. The alternator was history, and it was just a matter of time before my battery was too. Luckily, it lasted all the way to our hotel on 26th Street and died there in the parking lot.

There was an auto parts store in town and my father is handy, so it didn’t take long to get my little car working again (once we had the right tools, that is). So after some food, some shopping for school clothes, and a good night’s sleep, we were on our way… home sweet home, here we come…

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Being someone who drives an older-model car and accustomed to checking the gauges, I noticed that the car was running hot about an hour into the 5 ½ hour trip. Hmm, that was strange, especially since I had my oil changed and all fluids checked before setting off on this journey.

I pulled over and bought some coolant, refilled the reservoir, and set off again.

Half an hour later the gauge was almost up in the red. As it turned out, there was a leak. I found some empty jugs around the next gas station and filled them up with water – no sense wasting money on coolant that will end up on the roadway like a trail of breadcrumbs to my house. If only I could make it all the way home…

Well, I couldn’t. I made it most of the way, within an hour’s drive. Triple A got me the rest of the way there, but the whole ordeal took about 12 hours total. A flatbed towtruck lowered my car into the driveway at about 5am.

I had the old car repaired, and it will wait in the garage for Mandy’s 16th birthday. It will be fine for around town.

And as for me, I’ve got something new – brand new, with that new car smell and everything. I haven’t had a new car in 10 years, so I'm pretty excited!



I may even have to plan another road trip...

More from the Farm

As promised, here are some more of the photos I took at my brother's farm a few weeks ago...

This one is probably my favorite - looking out from one of the barns onto the fields...

Here's a few from inside the big barn featured in the last post:

The room originally used for hay is empty...

The other rooms have stuff in them, because my brother is a pack-rat with too many projects on his list, most of the projects being cars...

This is inside the silo, looking up...

And this is on top of the barn...

Like any farm, there are stray cats that my brother and his girlfriend are now feeding and taking care of. This one has chosen my brother as the center of her world...

This one has chosen his girlfriend to follow around and meow at...

Surprisingly, Pete hasn't eaten either one of them yet.

Pete absolutely loves the farm, loves running through the fields and following the tractor all day.

My mother spent most of the day riding around the property on the tractor's one fender.

A cushion has been affixed for comfort...

I got up there for a ride too...

The bench featured in the last post is a very good resting spot...

It overlooks a tiny pond...

Group shots are always fun...

I may try to go back to the farm this weekend.

It's my new favorite place :)

Photos from the back yard

As many of you know, I've been going through a tough time lately. One thing that I find very therapeutic is taking photos.

The theme this week over at Round Robin Photo Challenges was suggested by me: Back Yard Photography. When I'm feeling uninspired and don't know what to do with myself, I always know that I can take my camera out into the yard and find something to photograph.

Usually it's the critters that catch my eye...


But this past weekend, I needed to get away from the house, get out of town,
get some fresh air and clear my head. So I didn't take any photos in my backyard.

Instead, I took them in my brother's back yard.


He bought a farm in central NY a few years ago, and shame on me for not getting up there for a visit before now. He used to rent it out, but this summer he's been using it as a weekend getaway. And hey, I needed to get away... Of course, I brought the camera and had a good ol' time...


Besides, he has cooler things in his yard...


Of course, I still had my eye on the little things, like this snail in the pond...


Overall, it was an awesome day and just what I needed. I can't wait to go back.

Next post I'll share some more from my farm photo safari...

Camping at Assateague

There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned road trip… just kicking back, seeing the sights, chatting, laughing, and eating. No deadlines, no responsibilities, no work. Just the excitement of the journey and the anticipation of reaching a destination.

Fresh-baked muffins from Hannaford, and coffee coolata and chai tea from Dunkin Donuts for breakfast.

McDonald’s fish sandwiches and French fries for lunch.

Skittles to snack on in between.

Wrappers and crumbs all over the car.

But there’s nothing like new technology to make the trip more enjoyable… Mapquest tells me how long I’ll be on each highway so I know when to start looking for the next junction. EZ Pass works from Maine to Virginia so I don’t have to mess with quarters or even slow down for tolls. And satellite radio saves me from the insanity of long stretches of thoroughfare through which no radio signal can be detected.

Still, it’s the company that makes a road trip enjoyable, and long talks with Mandy are a truly pleasurable treat. Especially now that she’s a teenager, and her time expenditure with family has decreased as time with friends increases (as it should). But it’s nice that she can still enjoy a weekend away with me and appreciate the place that I have circled on the map…

****

We have been there before. It was about 5 years ago that we first camped on Assateague Island.
The first three days of that earlier trip were spent running around Washington D.C. visiting all the usual attractions. Traffic leaving the city had delayed our departure quite a bit, and we had been lucky to arrive at the front gate of the state park just before closing time. The tent had to be erected by the beams of the car headlights. We could hear the ocean but not see it as I drove the extra long tent stakes into the sand. Sleeping bags had been unrolled, and two weary campers had quickly passed out in the fresh salty nighttime air of the undeveloped island.

The next morning we had been so excited to finally view our surroundings. Unzipping a tent flap, we had our first glimpse of the wild horses grazing right outside our window. It was the first of many encounters with the wild (yet semi-tame) inhabitants of that sandy tract of land off the coast of Maryland.

Between the amazing photo opportunities with the wild horses and the curious deer, the uncrowded beach and awesome boogie boarding, I’d always hoped to return.

So when my father and I began discussing where we would meet up for our summer excursion together, I mentioned Assateague. Although it isn’t anywhere near either one of us, he and his girlfriend living in Ohio and Mandy and me in New York, they were up for the trip.

****

Sometimes, no matter how much you plan, things can go wrong while you’re on vacation.

You envision relaxation, quality time, summer sun and summer fun, and you get them. But every now and then you also get some tests thrown in for good measure, just to see how badly you want that summer fun…

Like when I started to erect the tent, and I realized that there was a pole missing. You know, the one whose sections won’t come apart anymore, so it doesn’t fit into the tent bag? It was still at home, of course, leaning indignantly against the corner of the garage, arms folded, eyebrows raised – yes, I admit it, completely forgotten.

So I got into the car and drove up the road to the camp supply store to buy a new pole, and while I was driving the battery light came on. The battery light, of course, should not come on while I’m driving. (Dad would need to replace the alternator before I made the trip home).

And when I brought the replacement pole back to camp, I quickly discovered that there was just no way it would work in conjunction with the other poles.

In the meantime, the ocean wind was transforming the tent into a wild, unruly parachute. And as I tackled the disobedient mess to prevent it from escaping down the beach, I snapped one of the smaller fiberglass poles and finally admitted defeat.

So I bought a new tent from Wal-Mart, because I refused to entertain the thought of sleeping in the same tent with my father and his girlfriend. Besides the fact that both Mandy and I value our privacy and personal space, I just couldn’t imaging sleeping shoulder to shoulder with the man who snores a song only a warthog could appreciate.

We put up the tent by the light of the moon.

Yes, this was how my first night of vacation began.
Tent? Broken.
Car? Broken.
Oh and by the way, Mandy? Major cramps, so she was broken too. But at least we had Tylenol with Codeine.

And hey, the new tent was cool, and we were camping on the beach and the weather was glorious.

So we took long walks on the sand, tiptoeing past the scurrying “ghost crabs” and occasionally reaching down to collect some small treasure offered up by the waves.

We built sand castles and took naps.

We rode our bikes to the camp store for scoops of soft ice cream.

I loaded up on bugspray and ventured into the marsh on the other side of the island to photograph the horses grazing on the tall grass.

The nights were incredible. There was a thick blanket of stars overhead every evening; not a cloud in the sky. And since the full moon reflected so brightly off all the white sand, we never needed to carry flashlights.

We roasted hot dogs over the fire my father proudly built every night, and later we toasted marshmallows for dessert.

Nighttime walks on the beach were an entirely different experience, something magically eerie. The moon illuminated just enough to show the way, but the night still cloaked enough of our surroundings to make it feel mysterious and exhilarating. And with the view slightly veiled, our other senses came alive, soaking up the sound of the waves and of the birds hunting for crabs in the silvery darkness, the smell of the salty ocean mist, the feel of the cool sand massaging our feet as we walked.

We could see the lights from Ocean City twinkling in the distance, a reminder of just how far we were from the crowds of the boardwalk...

(Next post: more about the horses)

Camping

Throughout my childhood, going on a family vacation meant one thing: Camping.

My parents never had a whole lot of money, so there were no flights to tropical locales, no tours through bustling city streets, no visits to distant lands.

We owned a tent. We would pack up the car with sleeping bags and pillows, peanut butter and jelly, bug spray, flashlights, fishing poles, jiffy pop, a propane lantern and the camp stove, a Frisbee and a deck of cards. And, of course, the dogs. And we would set off for a campground in the Catskills to reconnect with earth, water, air and fire.

Camping trips took place every Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend. Often we’d go together with my Uncle Mike and Aunt Ronnie and their 6 children, which meant my brother and I would have cousins to play with. They had a pop up camper, which we thought was the epitome of luxury. When they upgraded to a bigger camper, my parents bought their little pop up, and thus we moved up in the world.

It seemed to always rain on those holiday weekends, so there would be 2 kids and 2 dogs and 6 cousins slopping around in the mud for 4 days and bringing it all into the tent and the camper. Everyone and everything would be dirty and wet and cold.

And we loved it.

We’d bring bikes to ride around the campground, and there were enough of us to furnish the feeling of being our own little gang. We’d play tag, or maybe play catch with a softball and our well-worn dusty mitts. My cousin Jenny and I would get lost for a while to explore a mountain creek or a rocky bluff, and occasionally the campground’s game room with our pockets full of quarters.

Of course there would be the usual teasing and fights and sibling rivalries among the kids, but at night we’d converge to toast marshmallows on long thin sticks over the campfire, eyes and smiles illuminated by the flickering orange flames.

It was exciting to be outside after dark, surrounded by the sounds of crickets and frogs, by campfire smoke, by the twinkling fireflies and a sky full of stars.

We would giggle and tell stories and make up new lyrics to the “Diarrhea song” as our bouncing flashlight beams headed up the dirt roads and paths, moving erratically toward the mosquito-filled bathhouses. After one last pee, a quick brush across our teeth and a splash of water over our faces, we were off to snuggle deep down in our sleeping bags and doze off to sleep.

Those were the vacations of my childhood.

********

I never had a whole lot of money while I was raising my daughter. I brought Mandy on her first camping trip when she was two years old.

We’d practiced in the middle of the living room under tents made from sheets and couch cushions, so she was elated to finally be camping “for real”. She sang to herself as she collected buckets full of pinecones and acorns from around the campsite. Doing things outside – eating, sleeping, even peeing – made them that much more fun. For my little nature-girl-in-training, camping was the perfect vacation. And we took many perfect vacations.

And even when we had the resources to take flights to tropical locales, tour through bustling city streets and visit distant lands, we still took camping trips too. There’s just something about camping, the reconnecting with earth, water, air and fire, that can’t be duplicated in a hotel room.

And so over Labor Day weekend, Mandy and I packed the car with sleeping bags and pillows, peanut butter and jelly, bug spray, flashlights, fishing poles, jiffy pop, a propane lantern and the camp stove, a Frisbee and a deck of cards.

And we went on vacation.

(to be continued...)