What’s on my mind? Camping. In a dog tent. Which is about a million times bigger than a pup tent. Himself and I have made a pact. We have a six-night reservation at a campsite. Although it’s less than seven miles from our house, we’ve pinky-sworn that no way, no-siree, are we going home for any reason whatsoever.
Day 1, June 2:
10 am: “Take a warm jacket,” Himself says. “I’m perfectly fine,” I say. “You’ll freeze,” he says. “I won’t,” I say.
10:05 am: I apply my makeup as Himself packs the wine, the beer, the vodka, the food, the cooler, the ax, the rope, the tarps, the collapsible chairs, the propane, the bird book, the binoculars, the pots, the plastic plates, the plastic cups, the metal cups, the three-way cutlery, the block of ice, the garlic press, the knife, the vegetable peeler, the air mattress, the pump for the air mattress, the sleeping bags, the bug spray, the giant orange water cooler that holds about 10,000 gallons, the firewood, the propane stove, the fire starters, the towels, the tent, the tent pegs, and lots of other stuff. I’m hot (Yeah, baby ... Yeah!). I deliberately leave my warm jacket at home.
12 pm: We arrive at the campground. Himself starts setting up camp.
2 pm: Himself finishes setting up camp.
2:05 pm: “I’m freezing!” I say. “Put on your warm jacket,” says Himself. I Velcro my lips shut.
2:10 pm: Clouds roll in like bowling balls, heavy and black. Rain threatens. “I’m freezing!” I repeat.
2:45 pm: “I’m freezing!” We’ve been in camp 2-3/4 hours. We drive home to get my triple-insulated hoodie jacket, my thermal underwear, and the fixings for hot buttered rum. Our neighbor, Mr. Harris, asks: “Home so soon?”
3:00 pm: “Why do you need an ax, Himself? ” “The better to chop things with, my dear.”
4:00 pm: “I’m roasting!” Himself says nothing (What pearly white teeth you have, my dear).
6:00 pm: Who knew dish detergent and cooking oil look exactly the same in unlabeled jars?
9:30 pm: We sit around the campfire, trying to read The New Yorker with our flashlights. Himself says I’ll melt the sole of my shoe if I prop it against the firepit. I melt the sole of my shoe.
9:45 pm: The communal camp bathrooms are about 10,000 miles from our tent, so we use them before bed. We enter the tent, bounce around on the air mattress, zip the tent flap, wriggle into our PJs, and cocoon ourselves in our sleeping bags. Himself immediately falls asleep.
Two minutes later, I urgently need to pee again, so - with no idea how to find the communal bathrooms - un-cocoon, bounce around on the air mattress, unzip the tent flap, fall out of the tent (!), creep into the woods, relieve myself, do it again in reverse (including now falling into the tent), and start sawing logs.
Two minutes later, I urgently need to pee again, so - with no idea how to find the communal bathrooms - un-cocoon, bounce around on the air mattress, unzip the tent flap, fall out of the tent (!), creep into the woods, relieve myself, do it again in reverse (including now falling into the tent), and start sawing logs.
Day 2, June 3:
2:30 am: “Vake up! You must go on ze klo.” It’s my long-dead Austrian mother, urging me to get up and pee. My Belgian father stands beside her - same message, French accent. I repeat my vaudevillian routine.
5:30 am: Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
6:00 am: People really do know when they’re being stared at. Himself snaps awake, my face three inches from his. I tell him about the air-mattress-bouncing and the tent-falling-out-of and the tent-falling-into and my voice begins to quaver.
“Let’s start the day with a good breakfast!” he says.
7:00 am: Two Denver omelets, coming right up! We’ve started this particular day at the local diner.
8:00 am: We break camp. As we do, I see two kids and their parents struggling to carry bowls of water to their campsite. “Would you like to have a giant orange water cooler that holds about 10,000 gallons?” I didn't need to ask twice.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
