Tent camping is my preferred mode of roughing it. If I could live in a tent for three months out of the year I would be a proverbial happy camper. I am a lot more comfortable outside than in. I am not sure what that’s about but it has always been this way. Maybe in the open air I am restful. Who knows?
Pops would take David and me up North when we were little kids. I was more interested in reading my books and futzing around than fishing. David would tell me about the constellations at night when the sky seemed forlorn. I learned how to find the satellites, slowly making their way along the path.
The quiet and niceness of the moment and the universe fleeted as morning would stir. It was nice to be still. Now, the lights of the city compromise the night sky and I can get squirrely. A couple of weeks ago I looked up and felt that quiet happiness and it was nice.
I have a theory about camping. If you can set up a tent with your significant other without fighting, it is meant to be. If you can’t, it is going to be a long weekend and a quiet car ride home.
Our tent broke last summer and we have yet to replace it. I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything. Except that it’s broke.
I’ll get a new one next year.
Until then, here’s to camp fires, kabobs, beer, and dirty jokes.