I have come to terms with the reality that my youngest hates camping, because she also hates sun, bugs, campfire smoke – nature in general. But if I contemplate it too long, the idea that what we do all summer is really “camping” makes me laugh.
Like my hair dresser said, “Being in an RV isn’t camping.” I agree. Camping is what I used to do as a kid. My sister and I, and a couple friends backpacked into the mountains behind our house, with only our wits and a brick one of our friends called a cell phone. That was doubly laughable because it didn’t work worth a beans, and we got lost anyway. The saving grace was that all roads led to somewhere and we walked out alive.
Camping is what we used to do with our math teacher who took his pre-calc and math analysis classes to the ocean every year. We hiked in several miles through the rain forest to the beach, set up tents, cooked over a campfire, and battled the elements. Rain or shine. We didn’t have an RV to squirrel away in and watch movies during a rain storm.
We started our family camping in tents when my youngest was four, my oldest six. They were thrilled by the experience, their commentary hilarious.
“If the car breaks down we can live here forever!”
“I love s’mores, except for the graham crackers and marshmallows.”
Upon observing me chopping kindling for a campfire, “Mom, shouldn’t you let dad do that?”
Little did my daughters know, I had been making fires for years before I even met their dad, because we only had wood heat when I was growing up. In fact, I’d call what we did on a daily basis in my youth closer to camping than what we do in our RV. Sure, we had running water and electricity, but in addition to hauling wood, we killed chickens, milked goats and raised a garden. The closest my kids ever get to living off the land are the tomatoes I grow along with my flowers every year only because I get a free plant at McLendon’s open house.
My kids know nothing about roughing it. I admit it’s my fault, because about 10 years into our marriage, I decided I couldn’t handle sleeping in a tent. If it’s inconvenient to get to a bathroom, I’ll have to use it ten times in the middle of the night. Not to mention it’s not good for me to get overheated. I blame it on the MS or age or a combination.
My youngest barely remembers sleeping with us in a tent. Her formative camping years have been in the relative comfort of an RV. She hasn’t gotten overly soaked by unexpected rain nor depended on a campfire for food. Her only discomfort was sleeping in a bed that wasn’t hers and having to rein in all the stuff she and her sister bring with them. We’ve even upgraded the size of our RVs over the years to match the kids’ growth and my husband’s and my ability (or inability) to crawl over one another to get out of bed.)
I read an article the other day that said the kind of camping we do is called “glamping” – glamorous camping. My daughter is not convinced. I recognize that she’s had her troubles with the elements. If she gets bitten by a mosquito, whatever limb is involved swells up like a balloon animal. I only squeezed two days of a four-day trip out of her this whole summer.
Ultimately, I understand my youngest’s resistance to nature; nature doesn’t like her either.
Gretchen Leigh is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Covington. You can read more of her writing and her blog on her website livingwithgleigh.com or on Facebook at “Living with Gleigh by Gretchen Leigh,” or twitter @livewithgleigh. Her column is available every week at maplevalleyreporter.com under the Life section.
