Campout People

Large rocks culled from the woods encircled the fire pit.  A neat stack of wood stood between two aspens.  My sister washed dinner dishes—enamel spatterware plates with matching mugs—in a tub of sudsy water.  Her husband tended the fire and listened to the Indians game playing on the portable radio.  A wheeled cooler held milk, eggs, cheese and sausage for their morning breakfast.  Thick sleeping bags were spread invitingly on the floor of a three-room tent, extra blankets at the ready.  My daughters and their cousins sat around the campfire, tiny fingers grasping sticks heavy with marshmallows.  I took the proffered chair—a log from an oak tree that had recently fallen—and accepted a mug of cold cider from my sister.

“Look at this,” Leslie said, showing Mom her grilled cheese maker.  “You just put the sandwich in there and toast it over the fire.” 

“You guys sure know how to camp,” Mom said admiringly.

“Yeah, I’m so glad you use the property,” Dad added. 

In the three years since my husband and I had built on my parents’ forty-acre farm, the idea of camping out in the woods had never crossed my mind.  Now, it suddenly did.

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