Better writers than I have tried to describe that truly torrential, bone drenching, incessant rain storm where the water comes down in sheets, shows no signs of abating, and has soaked you through the skin going back generations. Not seeing any of these writers at a campsite on top of Stone Mountain in North Georgia, my nine year-old son and I made the imminently sensible determination that we could eat sandwiches for dinner in that an hour and a half of trying to build a fire with wet wood seemed like more than enough. The fire would not start even when we “cheated” and used paper. Without a fire, we could throw the leftovers into the darkness where the woodland creatures, now lining up two by two, could eat them.
Fortunately, we had two good books and extra flashlight batteries so we felt good about our ability to get through the night even if we were unable to sleep much because of the thunder. Unfortunately, we had left the flaps of the tent open, so there was an inch and a half of water on the floor. It has been said that discretion is the better part of valor. I don’t know what the better part of common sense is, but I was pleased when Ellery suggested that many parts of the inside of the car were somewhat dry and that we could sleep there. This we proceeded to do, noting appreciatively how beautiful the woods must have been. Not that we could see them through the rain.
As can well be imagined, our trip was subject to a little scrutiny and a lot of ridicule when we got back to dry land:
“But what do you do on these trips?” One friend asked. “Even if I could understand why a middle aged man with a bad back would want to sleep on rocks and roots without electricity and have to walk a hundred yards though a deluge to get to a bathroom that hasn’t been updated since the Truman administration, what do you talk about?”
When I didn’t have a response, he continued with even more sarcasm: “No wait, I get it. You say, ‘Look, son. That’s a cow.’ And he says, ‘Thanks, Dad!”
Maybe because my ears were still filled with water, but I couldn’t come up with a response to justify why I had spent my vacation in a swamp on top of a mountain eating damp PBJs.
“Car camping?” He continued. “Isn’t that a lot like “‘Motel camping’?”
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This time I did have a rejoinder. “Certainly not,” I explained. “The sun came out the next day and my son and I took a walk.”
“Isn’t that called a ‘hike’?” he went on.
I saw no reason to mention that we hadn’t gotten a hundred yards from the tent before I slipped in some calf deep mud, twisted my ankle, and had to spend the rest of the day limping around the campsite using inappropriate language.
So, instead I said, “Besides, there are animals in the woods. You never know when you’ll see a red shouldered hawk or a fox. And there have been black bear sightings in the area close to where we were.”
“Dad, we didn’t see an animal bigger than a mosquito,” my son pointed out.
I pointed out that my son should go put away the camping gear.
Then I said goodbye to my friend and sat down with my son to start planning the next trip.
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A lot of times the reason to do things with your kids is so that you’ll have a good story to tell afterwards. Remember the time we went hiking at Gunpowder Falls and we had walked around all afternoon and couldn’t find the falls and we asked the ranger why the park was called Gunpowder Falls if there weren’t any falls and the ranger said, “We get asked that a lot.”
Which is not to say that going camping with your kids is the only way to bring up happy, healthy, content, self-actualized kids who pass the bar exam the first time and communicate with their parents in their old age. I see lots of families who go camping where the generations have poor relationships. I see lots of families who never set foot outdoors who get along beautifully. I would only suggest that the ground work for communication is unlikely to be productively laid out if the only conversations in the home revolve around arguments about doing homework.
The metaphors have to come from somewhere. And I have come to believe that the only real learning comes from metaphors. When your kids face the inevitable disappointments–a failed driver’s test, a disappointing exam result, a called third strike, a refused marriage proposal–isn’t it great to be able to put the experience in context? Aren’t you pleased when there is a prior experience on which to base the hope of going forward?
Wordsworth may have defined poetry as the “spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility” but couldn’t he have just as easily been talking about our relationships with our children?
“Remember that clear April morning when we left the campsite before dawn and walked to the top of the mountain where the sun burst through and lit up the valley and we could see for miles and we saw that hawk come out of the west and fly over the trees like it was showing off just for us?”
How many nights would you be willing to sleep in a wet car to have one memory like that one on which to look back?
Warmly,
~D
