In a house with two daughters and a wife, my Dad was always outnumbered. We trusted his fatherly wisdom and his kind heart usually gave way to putting our needs and opinions before his own. I have a feeling that must have been the case on a decision of where to pitch the tent during a summer camping adventure.
When I was young, the four of us would go to a regional campground to enjoy a weekend in the great outdoors. It was later, in my adult life, that I realized how much prep work goes into the joys of tenting. My parents always managed to make it look easy and fun.
Once the prep work was over, the trunk of Dad’s metallic blue 1965 Mustang would be crammed full. My sister and I had to hold the extra necessities on our laps in the back seat. This included Booster, our basset hound, whose toenails dug into my legs every time he needed to stick his nose out the window for a whiff of the upcoming wilderness. Before we were out of the driveway, my sister was checking out the snacks that she graciously volunteered to hold. There was always a big dent in the snickerdoodle supply by the time we reached the campground. I may have helped.
Once there, the three of us girls set out to discover the most picturesque location to pitch our tent, on a gentle slope, in a little clearing of trees, so as not to obstruct our view of the lake below. It was the perfect spot or so it seemed until an unexpected late afternoon storm front blew in.
If you know anything about Midwest storms, you know they can pop up and unleash their fury, setting off a string of events as wild as the forest fires mentioned on the Smokey the Bear signage dotting the campground. And, it did.
The first warning sign came in the sound of pings as raindrops hit our metal Coleman camp stove. Hotdogs are always more fun to cook while holding an umbrella and they taste better while wearing a moldy plastic rain poncho. Determined not to let a little rain dampen our spirits, we grabbed the chips and our wet dog and played games inside the tent. For some reason, the board game Sorry seemed an appropriate choice. It was a good way to spend several hours while we dried off. The only problem was the rain didn’t stop.
Dad told us not to touch the sides of the tent (Scotchgard didn’t exist). As my sister and I unrolled our new matching Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? sleeping bags, I couldn’t help but test the premise and allowed mine to touch the tent wall.
Between the wind howling and the claps of thunder, sleeping was not an option. The rain intensified and I realized just how much soda I had consumed while playing games. It was at this point that Mom noticed the tent floor seemed “squishy.” Without saying a word, Dad jumped up, grabbed the flashlight, unzipped the tent flap and went outside to inspect the tent. In his desire to keep his girls comfortable, he had placed a waterproof tarp on the ground before pitching the tent. The tent was smaller than the tarp, so he folded the tarp back onto itself, inadvertently forming a pocket that trapped water. The tarp turned into a GIANT water-bed on a sloping hill in an avalanche of water.
This illustration pays homage to that night. When the tarp pocket filled up with enough water to burst, it pulled the tent stakes out of the ground and my memory has us floating downhill towards the lake!
As the lightning was striking, our camping adventure ended that night the same way it started, with a 1965 blue metallic Mustang full of camping gear, all four of us in our appointed seats, holding all the necessities on our laps, one wet dog and a bag of three snickerdoodles and Dad saying, “You girls can have them, I’m good.”
Love you Daddy,
Happy Father’s Day.
Smiles,
Wendy
