Camping, Anyone?
By Lela Davidson
It was the hottest day of the year. Naturally, we decided to camp. But first, for added amusement, we spent the entire ninety-plus degree day on the lake with friends. All day we soaked in the sun and its glare off the water. Grown-ups quenched thirst with beer while kids gorged on Cheetos and orange soda. We all got sunburned. As the hour got later and hotter, friends questioned our choice to sleep in a tent. But we truly believed it would be fun.
Around six, when everyone else docked their boats and headed for the air-conditioned Nirvana of their suburban homes, we trailered up and parked ourselves at the campsite. A friend waved goodbye, saying “I’ll be thinking of you tonight, when I flip my pillow over to the cool side.”
But we knew. We KNEW how to have fun. Not like those wimpy homebodies. We had hot dogs and ‘tater salad and all the makings for perfect s’mores. First, we built a fire. My husband thinks of everything. Never mind it was ninety-five degrees without a breeze. How else would we cook the hot dogs? While the fire blazed, the kids complained. Even the lake—by now one huge bathtub—offered no comfort. I gave my children ice from the cooler, which they rubbed on their reddened skin. The dog hung his head.
“It’ll be fine once the sun goes down,” my husband reassured.
But he was wrong. Somehow the temperature increased after sundown. Even melted chocolate and marshmallow could not lift our spirits. In the darkness, we sat—around the place where the obligatory campfire had been. When it got too hot to expend the energy necessary to make up stories, we went to bed. And by bed, I mean the ground, cushioned by a generous layer of nylon tent floor. Our spacious four-man (yeah, right) tent offered the added benefit of trapping the now liquid air.
The children and I whined and feverishly fanned ourselves with paper plates. Finally, we pleaded with my husband to go home. He wouldn’t hear of it.
“It wouldn’t be so hot if you quit complaining, you pansies.”
Apparently, our protests affect the air temperature. But you know what they say: pick your battles. So I sucked it up and persuaded the kids to do the same. We suffered in silence until I felt I might actually suffocate. I sat up and pressed my face next to the tent “window,” hoping to get some oxygen through the nylon mesh.
“What are you doing?” my husband asked.
“Oh, nothing, Babe. Just breathing.”
That’s all it took—fear of spousal asphyxiation—to convince my husband it was time to go. The kids leaped into action. In the dark we packed the boat in record time. Our quickness was fueled by the joyful anticipation of sweet, cool A/C. I swear the dog smiled.
Five minutes out of the campsite the air temperature dropped ten degrees. But that was nothing compared to the icy cotton at home, on the flipside of my pillow.
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Lela Davidson is a freelance writer and the author of Blacklisted from the PTA, a collection of irreverent essays about motherhood and the modern family.
