Ah, fresh air, the sounds of nature's myriad creatures, the vast array of nighttime stars, the perfumed air, stillness, the sleep of angels--all are reasons that the urban heart is beckoned to forsake convenience, connection, and comfort for the ruggedness of pitching a tent against the wind and rain, digging a trench around it to channel any rain water harmlessly away, inflating those cumbersome sleeping mattresses, getting out the propane tank and stove, finding firewood for toasting marshmallows, and making a practice-run to the bathrooms and showers in hopes of avoiding discombobulation in the dark of night.
To a boy of 12, it seems not to matter whether the tent is pitched on the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison or the back yard. Tenting means adventuring into an environment that, even though it may be as familiar as one's own porch or yard, invites the imagination to blossom, the inhibitions to fall away, and perceptions of possible danger to usurp the bounds of reason.
A couple of cases in point--
It was the occasion of a visit from my dad's youngest brother and his family. They lived in far southeastern Kansas, a largely rural area not far from the border with Missouri. My aunt and uncle brought their young son and daughter with them, as expected. The son, Dana, was about 8 or 9. I was around 11 or 12. I was preparing to spend the night sleeping in our tent in the backyard. Dana wanted to join me. My dog, Skippy, a toy fox terrier mix, would be with us, too.
We had two Army surplus cots and blankets and all seemed settled in for the night. Dawn came and I stood up fully rested and ready to face the day. My feet felt something on the floor of the tent that was cold and wet. Even against the pale green of the tent floor, I could tell it was piss. I'm sure that some exclamation came out of my mouth, which roused a sleeping Dana. I asked him if he knew anything about the noxious liquid. He blamed Skippy. Well, I knew Skippy sufficiently to know that he would never do something so uncouth. I accused Dana and he confessed that he had had to pee in the middle of the night and was afraid to step outside of the tent. The esteem in which my eyes had held him was significantly diminished from that night on.
To my utter amazement, Dana later became a member of the military police. That fact, coupled with my learning in early adulthood of a young man--the son-in-law of my landlord--who was a member of the police reserve in Dearborn, MI, and, while on duty on a Friday night and riding shotgun in a cruiser on its way to break up a bar fight, also found it necessary to evacuate his bladder at an inopportune moment, has led me to believe that some men--probably a small minority--seek to reassure themselves that they are, indeed, men by signing up for jobs almost certain to test that hypothesis.
My other story also involves a planned overnight backyard camping adventure, only this time with Eddy and Donnie, the brothers very close in age to me who lived next door, on the other side of a drainage ditch (what we used to call a "slough"). I was about 13 and Eddy was a year older than I and Donny a year younger. This time, we were going to sleep on the cots but without the tent.
When the appointed hour for the brothers to come over came and nobody showed up, well, if it had happened today, I would have simply called one of them on his cell phone. As it was, I waited what I thought was a sufficient time and then decided to teach them a lesson. I crossed the slough, which had no water in it, and crept up to the window of the boys' bedroom, which was separated from the slough
by a bit of lawn and a hedge. The boys were in their bunk bed, apparently asleep. Using my fingernails, I scratched the screen covering the open window, much as I'm sure I had seen in some horror movie.
I couldn't have been more delighted at the result. Donny, in the lower bunk, sprang out of the bed as if dismounting from a trampoline and ran screaming into the living room, which was lighted. Realizing my danger of being exposed, I rushed behind the hedge and crouched down, so as to be able to see if anybody emerged from the house.
I had barely gotten into position when the father emerged from the house with a flashlight and headed directly toward where I was hiding. Too afraid to move a muscle, I soon found the beam of light pointing at my head like the finger of doom and Mr. Nunn calmly explaining to me that, if I ever did something like that again, he would be happy to inform my parents. I sheepishly stood up and apologized for my misbehavior and ran the short distance home. I spent the rest of the night sleeping alone in the yard after a brief period of introspection after which I'm certain I decided that I had just had an adventure which neither Donny nor I would ever forget.
There are many more camping stories that I could tell, those with my parents in various parks in Colorado and elsewhere, but none give me the pleasure in relating as those I have shared today.
© 17 March 2014
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