HAPPY CAMPERS - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


     I got lost recently and wandered into an RV show.  I immediately saw why there has been such an increase in happy campers.  They’re living in forty feet of luxury-on-wheels, parked in a luxurious resort in a sun-drenched oasis.  They’re also enjoying all the amenities I’m dreaming about in the new game, “Fantasy Retirement”: pool, golf, shuffleboard, spas, and roaming those pesky flea markets.  

     Now there is something called “glamping.”  Glamping is a blend of glamour and camping, with a heavy emphasis on glamour.  When you’re glamping, you sleep in a luxurious tent with carpet, a fireplace, TV, and fine food.  Even the mosquitoes are high end.  They never land on you.  They just fly by and wave, like a mosquito pageant. 

     Okay, I’ll admit, the mosquitoes are the same mosquitoes that will suck you dry, and then throw your body over a cliff.  But the rest is true!  I’m not making it up.

     Before forty feet of luxury on wheels, and glamping, our campgrounds were littered with miserable wretches shivering in their sleeping bags, on a pile of sharp rocks and pine needles.  Of course, they probably wouldn’t have been so miserable if they’d taken the sharp rocks and pine needles out of their bags.  Still, it wasn’t easy finding a happy camper. 

     As a boy, I loved the lure of the great outdoors, especially if there were bedrooms to clean or homework to complete.  There were several of us who spent many nights camping in backyards and vacant lots close to home, in case we heard rustling in the night, and suspected high school seniors nearby, who were especially skilled at rustling up underclassmen and using them for fish bait. 

     Sprinting at cheetah-like speed, dodging in between parked cars, jumping six-foot fences, and standing for long periods of time, disguised as shrubbery, were crucial for survival. 

     Everyone who camped had to be fleet afoot.  If you didn’t make it to the house of refuge, you could be nabbed by an upperclassman and never seen again.  And you would never learn happy camping skills as fish bait. 

     Having survived numerous raids, I’ve learned several very important truths to becoming a happy camper.  First, you can’t let classified information, such as your camping plans, leak out during school.  This is a magnet for upperclassmen.  Next, you need to have a secure campsite.  This can be done by digging a moat around your camp, and stocking it with alligators.  If there are no alligators, you’ll have to find something else for your moat, preferably something that likes to dine on upperclassmen.   

     An absolute necessity for camping is a campfire.  There is no reason to camp if you’re not going to have a campfire.  And I mean a reasonable campfire; not backdraft 2.  This means you must know how to build a campfire.  A safe location is of the utmost importance.  A barn full of hay is not a safe location.  If you try this, you won’t be a happy camper.  And you may have to apply for asylum in a foreign country, such as San Diego.  

     It’s also important that you be in control of your fire.  This means you should build your fire next to a fire truck.  Being in control is critical to your well-being, along with the well-being of those around you, including all the animals in the forest. 

    Finally, after you have learned how to control a campfire, you must learn how to tame the smoke.  This may be more difficult than controlling the fire.  Personally, I’ve found it’s more difficult than riding a deranged Brahma bull.  Smoke attacks me like a hungry lioness.  It gets an adrenaline rush if it finds me sitting anywhere near a campfire.  I’m immediately welcomed with a full frontal assault.  This probably explains why I’ve never been able to roast a complete marshmallow.  As soon as I get my marshmallow perfectly positioned on the end of my stick, I’m assaulted.  If there is other smoke in the area, it will rush over and join in the assault.  It apparently senses when there is gagging and choking nearby.

     Refusing to admit defeat, I circle the campfire.  The smoke follows me, continuing its relentless assault. Choking and flailing my arms, I peer through the cloud with reddened, watery eyes, looking for the flame.  At the sight of the flame, I joust at it with my stick and marshmallow.  I keep jousting at the flame as I continue circling the campfire.  By the time my marshmallow is half roasted, I’ve fled to the car, seeking refuge.      

     It’s not easy becoming a happy camper.  

 

 

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A PLAN GONE ASTRAY - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)    

     After years on the hamster wheel, the time finally came for me to meet with my career guidance counselor.  Together we would plan my future; map out my field of study.  I knew I wasn’t going to choose any field with a bull in it. 

     Most of my classmates wanted to go into education, medicine, foreign languages, or some other menial endeavor.  I had a better plan. 

      “So, Mr. Maberry, what would you like to go into?” asked my counselor.

     “Retirement,” I answered.

     “Retirement?” he questioned, briefly stunned. 

     “That’s right,” I answered.  “I understand retirement.”

     Being around Gramps, I felt I knew everything there was to know about retirement.  I could converse with anyone over coffee.  I had learned key words, such as Hawaii, Caribbean, tee time, and Certificate of Deposit.  I had even won “Best of Show” at the county fair for my pill box display.  I couldn’t drive like Gramps, but I could pick up those skills at a stunt-driving school. 

     I liked what I saw in retirement.  I knew it was something I could do.  My wandering mind even supported the idea.

     Then my counselor said something that shook the pillars of my big new world.  “You’ll have to work before going into retirement,” he said. 

     “I don’t remember Gramps working,” I answered.

     “Most people work before retirement,” he continued. 

      I re-considered the field with a bull in it.

     “Do you have another plan?” asked my counselor.  “Is there another area you would enjoy?”

     “Well, maybe Assisted Living.   Mom says I’ve been in it for the past seventeen years, and I’ve excelled beyond her wildest expectations.”   

     “Have you considered working?” 

     “Only as a last option,” I answered. 

     Needing money for room and board, I finally decided on the last option.  Work!  Then I discovered that work is the primary cause of aging. 

     Why didn’t they prepare me for this in the fourth grade?

     I hope I live long enough to enjoy my plan.  I hope it’s not a plan gone astray.

 

 

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A PLAN GONE ASTRAY - Segment 5 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


      My next stop in this grand experiment of school was woodshop.  My counselor came up with an ingenious plan that would have me working with my hands.  The last time I had worked with my hands was as a toddler, when I had taken a hammer and attempted to sculpt a marble sink into my likeness.  My parents weren’t impressed.  They said I wouldn’t be allowed around a hammer until sometime after adulthood.  That could be a problem in woodshop.    

     On the first day of class, my teacher, Mr. Greathouse, asked each of us what project we would like to complete for the quarter.  “Do you have an old sink,” I asked. 

     “We’re not sculpting in this class,” I was quickly informed.”

     After observing my woodshop skills, he accused my counselor of endangering the class.  Then he began looking for an old sink. 

     For a shop teacher, he was extremely nervous around power tools.  He said that was because they were in my hands. 

     Every time I thought I was making improvement, he would make some comment, like…”Mr. Maberry, please don’t use that grinder for sharpening screwdrivers.”  And “Why is that mouse in the vice grip?”  This may be why he spent so much time in his office. 

     Out of concern for the safety of other students, and the school building, in general, he decided to limit me to sandpaper.  It didn’t require a plug-in.  He suggested I purchase an unfinished desk and hone my sanding skills.    By the end of the quarter, I had mastered sanding.  I had sanded off enough dust to make a small end table. 

     “I should have saved all my dust,” I told him one day.    

     “Why?” he asked.

     “I could mix it with a little water and sculpt a nice set of bookends for the sanders’ dust-sculpting competition.”

     He just shook his head and walked away slowly, mumbling something about retirement.

     My teachers were finally realizing their plans for my future had gone astray.  They were failing miserably.  Had they left me in a cherry tree, I would have blossomed by now.  I could have told them that years earlier but, like most parents, you’ve got to let them try their experiments. 

    

     I figured I had learned everything I needed to know in life from Gramps.  I had frequented coffee shops, golf courses, ballgames, and walk-in clinics.  After spending years under Gramps’ tutelage, I had mapped out my future.  I knew where I was going.  I knew what I wanted to do in my big new world.  But no one had thought to ask me.  

 

 

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A PLAN GONE ASTRAY - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     With little time to prepare, I was on my way to higher learning.  Junior high!  Mom thought I needed some culture.  Without my approval, she enrolled me in the band.  Then a new trumpet magically appeared in my hands.  I could sense another experiment in the making.   

      I had conquered Dick and Jane and my multiplication tables.  Now I was expected to conquer music?

     I soon learned that first chair in the trumpet section was the lead trumpet.  This meant you were better than everyone else.  They don’t tell you that, but it’s true.  After first chair, was second chair, third chair, and on down to last chair.  Last chair means your Mom signed you up for the wrong class.  Not wanting to be last, I pulled my shiny, new trumpet out of its case and began practicing for first chair; second chair at worst.  “I may have signed you up for the wrong class,” said Mom.

     The time finally came for chair assignments.

     “Let me hear what you can play,” said my instructor.

     After listening, he recommended the electric chair, but said he would be open to lethal injection.  I’m not sure if he ever forgave my mother for her misled ambition.

     Despite his recommendation, I remained in the band.  Needing a place to live, as well as food and clothing, I didn’t want to upset Mom and get thrown out of assisted living. 

     It wasn’t long before I became an accomplished musician.  Learning the scale was a notable accomplishment.  Within a month, I had learned “do re mi.”  I surprised myself.  If I continued at this pace, I might have my own “do re mi” band.    

     But reality has a harsh way of exacting cruel vengeance.  I found myself in sixth chair.  It was particularly disheartening, considering there were only five chairs. 

     With little effort, I was able to convince everyone within ear range that music wasn’t in my future.  They were hoping that my music wasn’t in their future, either.  Now I needed to convince my mother.  It wasn't easy.  I lingered in the band until near death. 

     Finally, one spring I was given the opportunity to showcase my lack of musical skills.  Every year, our lead trumpet would play “Taps” for the Memorial Day ceremonies at our local cemetery.  One year he wasn’t available so they skipped everyone who was competent and asked me.  I had never played “Taps.”  My accomplished piece to date was the scale, but I felt it wouldn’t take me more than two weeks to learn “Taps”, so I agreed.  Memorial Day finally arrived.  After positioning myself in the bushes where I wouldn’t be seen, I began to play.  “Is that the scale?” I heard someone ask.  I caught myself and began playing “Taps.” 

     As soon as I had finished playing, I heard a shot.  I couldn't believe my instructor had hired a hit man.   Just as I was about to fall to the ground and crawl to safety, I realized it was a twenty-one gun salute, honoring those who had served their country.   I felt much better.

     I decided to skip band my senior year.  I was still recovering from Memorial Day.   My instructor did a marvelous job of concealing his disappointment. 

     I was hoping that Mom would agree with me.  Music wasn’t the plan for my future.  It was a nice idea, but it was a plan gone astray.

 

 

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A PLAN GONE ASTRAY - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     Had I taught school first, I may have found the whole learning process much easier.  Without that advantage, I was left unprepared for what I would face in the classroom.   

     Stumbling into the third grade, I was welcomed by Miss Quailbreath.  “Hello, Mr. Maberry!  I hope you’re ready for a good year.” 

     I didn’t know you could have a good year sitting behind a desk, staring at math problems, and other scary work.  As I was about to sit down, I spotted the paddle on her desk.  It had to be the same paddle she used last school year, when she was perfecting her swing.  I was sure it was still warm.  She was probably letting it cool.  Escaping it was my goal.  If I succeeded, it would be a banner year.         

     She immediately laid out her plans for our class.  I would have preferred the paddle.  She informed us that we would be reading the works of Dick and Jane.  She divided us into reading groups.  The Bluebirds were the best readers.  I wasn’t in that group.  Then came the Robins; another miss.  Next, were the Cardinals.  Surely I would be in this group; missed again.  I sensed a downward trend. 

     Then it happened! I landed with a thud in the Dying Quail group.  I flapped my wings, trying to get some lift-off.  But it was useless.  I could forget about soaring with Eagles.  I couldn’t even get off the ground.     

    Hoping to avoid becoming road kill, and survive the third grade, I developed a very close relationship with Dick and Jane.  I saw Dick run until I was out of breath.  I saw Jane skip.  Oh, oh!  Jane fell.  Sorry Jane.  I saw Spot, their dog.  I saw Spot run.  I saw Spot chase the mailman.  Spot and I had the same problem.  We were not good at following our script. 

     Halfway through elementary school, I had added Dick and Jane to my list of accomplishments; the other being my nap time award in kindergarten.     

     Many years later I found myself in the sixth grade.  I always enjoyed finding myself because we had so much in common. 

     It was in the sixth grade that I was introduced to the multiplication tables. I may have met them before, but I had little recollection of the meeting.  Mr. Sandal, my teacher said I would have to get to know them better if I wanted to move on to higher learning. 

    I would have preferred knowing them as a passing acquaintance,.  Instead, I would soon be involved in an intimate relationship with these tables.  And I didn’t enjoy intimate relationships with math.    

     Mr. Sandal arranged for our meeting with the multiplication tables after school.  It sounded like poor scheduling to me, but Mr. Sandal said he didn’t mind staying late into the night and coming in every day during the summer, including weekends and holidays, and missing that vacation he and his wife had been planning for years.     

     By the end of the following summer, I had gotten to know the multiplication tables extremely well.  For all their hard work with me, I awarded them with an all-expenses paid float trip down the irrigation ditch.  

 

     With Mr. Sandal’s approval, along with a sigh of relief, I was granted a pardon from sixth grade. 

 

    Summer vacation was short-lived that year.  I put in a request for an extension, but it was denied. 

 

 

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