You never knew how much trouble your parents went through to create memories until you do it yourself.  Recently in a moment of guilt over too many late nights at work and the nostalgia awakened by smelling the musty inside of a rental camper, I decided to book a twenty-footer for the weekend. 

I chose a camper because our last couple of tent outings triggered downpours in the midst of prolonged drought and this time decided that our sleeping bags wouldn’t swell up like six foot long sponges if it rained.  The forecast was perfect and the overall pl an was simplicity itself:  I’d get off work early on Friday and pick up the camper on the way home.  We’d pack a few things, tow the camper to the lake half an hour away and enjoy a three day weekend in the woods with the family.  What could possibly go wrong? 

I’ll spare the gentle reader an account of getting off work late, a huge water moccasin, the ignominious midnight retreat from thunderstorms, ticks, chopping down a few trees after getting the camper down a road too narrow to back out of, and our Great Dane nervously fogging up the windows of the truck with dog breath.  In short, it was everything you expect in a camping trip, and my son and his friend had a ball. 

Midnight Sunday after we finally finished doing laundry, cleaning ice chests, and unloading the camper, my wife a nd I collapsed into bed.  As I set the alarm to go off four hours later, my mind weighed the hours of work per hours of fun over the preceding weekend and I wondered what my parents were thinking. 

Several times a year, Mom would load up the Caprice Classic wagon so that we could all pile in as soon as Dad got home to head for the state park.  We usually arrived after dark and while Mom and Dad struggled with the tent (or pop-up later on), we kids chased fireflies and picked up kindling.  That hiss of the Coleman lantern and croaking bullfrogs punctuated by the clang of tent poles was music to an eight-year-old’s ears. 

Objectively, I’m not sure why we thought it was so much fun, but it was.  Camping was in a league of its own.  It meant skipping baths, flashlight hikes, Tang, and marshmallows.  It was exciting—especially when things went wrong.  One hot, summer weekend the mosquitoes were so thick we were the only ones left at the park.  We zipped our sleeping bags over our heads with just a tiny air hole for our lips, and by morning our faces were so swollen we looked like we’d overdosed on collagen.  My Dad, who worked around 70 hours a week certainly deserved a better night’s sleep.  

Looking back, though, I guess he wasn’t doing this for himself.  But my parents rarely did anything for themselves.  We were their hobbies, and they poured everything they had into giving us memorable childhoods and preparing us for life ahead.  Helping with homework, saving for college, traveling to away games, and especially sitting through music recitals was a sacrifice we kids took for granted.         

Family camping was short-lived.  Once I started junior high sports and my sisters discovered makeup and hairspray, weekends together were rare.  For a brief few years, though, it was the highlight of our summer. 

Before I know it, my son will ask for the keys to the truck and he won’t want to camp with his parents.  But for right now, he’d rather spend a night with us in a stinky camper than anywhere else on earth, and we’ll enjoy it while it lasts. 



Craig Ziemba is a military pilot who lives in Meridian.  To have him speak at your event, email craigziemba@aol.com.