THIS OLD FARMHOUSE - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


     Parking the car, I got out and scanned our new home.  The old Cape Cod style farmhouse was a local landmark.  It was considered a collector by those who collect old farmhouses.

    Once a bustling dairy farm, it now sat empty, surrounded by tall grass and wild blackberry bushes winding their way through the trees in an old orchard, next to the house.     

     Some said the house was haunted, but it was really just a farmhouse that needed a little TLC.  Okay, a lot of TLC.  Like most men, I loved the idea of trying my skills as Mr. Fix It.  Like most women, my wife loved things already fixed.  In between was tension.

     “This old farmhouse will give me the perfect opportunity to work with my hands,” I told her.

    “If you want to work with your hands, you should consider sign language,” she said.  “I’m certain there would be less tension.”         

     While Connie and the kids sat nervously in the car, I continued eyeing the old farmhouse, thinking of the opportunities it would provide for family bonding.  Apart from attack roosters, burning barns, and charging bulls, I had fond memories of life on Gramps’ ranch.  

     “I want you kids to enjoy the same rich experiences of life on the farm that I had growing up,” I told them.

     “Are those the same rich experiences that almost maimed you for life?” our son asked.

     “Look, the scars are hardly noticeable.  Besides, you’ll love this old farmhouse.  I think we even have enough room for a bull and a rooster.”

     “…and a barn full of hay?” our son asked.   

     “What would we do with a barn full of hay?”         

     “Build a campfire,” answered our son. 

     “Trust me; you never want to build a campfire in a barn full of hay.”    

     Our daughter interrupted.  “Dad, I think Justin and I would rather endure the experiences of our friends.” 

     “Great! Then we all agree!  This is going to be our new home.” 

      I’ve continued to leave the lines of communication open, in case they want to talk someday.

 

    
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WHO'S NOT OF CAMPING? - Final Segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     After several more years had elapsed for sufficient memory loss, I suggested our next family adventure.  “On our next ten day vacation, let’s divide our time between camping and hotels.”

     “Divide it right down the middle,” Connie answered, “Nine nights, hotel; one night, camping; unless that’s too much camping.”

     We let the kids choose our destination since we thought it might be our last family trip together; although we thought that after every vacation.

     They chose the Canadian Rockies. 

     As we made our way toward the mountains, no one mentioned the “B” word, but we were heading into prime bear territory.

     The second day out we noticed an ominous-looking sign along the highway; “BEAR WARNING—DANGEROUS--if you see a bear, remain in your car at all times.”  Next to the sign, they had a picture of a bear for those who might have trouble identifying one.  Fortunately, I already had a picture of a bear in my billfold.

     Not long after passing the sign, we noticed a long line of cars pulled off on the side of the road, a sure sign of bears nearby.  As my wife was reminding us about the “bear warning” sign, I pulled off the road, behind the last car.  Then the kids and I did what everyone else had done; we grabbed our cameras, threw open the doors, and sprinted, to get in position for the best bear picture of the year; one we could send to National Geographic.

     At the same time, we heard Connie yelling, “Get back here and shut all the doors, in case the bear circles back!”

     After getting some terrific pictures of the backs of other people taking pictures, we continued down the road.

     That evening we camped in the mountains.  We arrived after dark, when all the other campers were asleep as I was just too tired to entertain.  While I tried to quell my own family’s laughter, I worked to erect the tent.  By now, I was able to do it in an hour and a half.

     While I was putting up the tent, our daughter noticed there were locks on all the garbage cans.  She became concerned.  “I know PEOPLE aren’t getting into the garbage,” she said.

     I was also concerned, because I’m extremely sensitive to marauding bears, especially those marauding at my campsite; a little hokey-pokey, maybe; but marauding, no.

     As soon as we bedded down, I began wishing for my own garbage can with a locked lid over my head.  Lying nestled in my sleeping bag, I felt like a Philly cheesesteak.  I was just hoping bears didn’t like cheesesteaks. 

     “Aren’t we supposed to hang food in a tree, away from bears?” Connie asked.

     “There wasn’t enough rope for all of us,” I answered.  “Besides, I can’t sleep hanging in a tree.”

     I remembered the admonition to remain in my car if I saw a bear.  “What happens if I see a bear while curled up in my sleeping bag?"  I wondered.  Would he let me go sit in the car to watch the hokey-pokey?  I knew if there was any marauding, I wanted to watch it in my rear view mirror.  

     The next day I was exhausted.  I had to drive with one eye because the other eye had stayed open all night, watching for bears. I was thankful none of the animals I had seen that night matched the picture in my billfold.

      About mid-day, we stopped at a nice hotel.  I had to rest the eye I had been using to drive.  As I was falling into a deep slumber, I finally realized we would never make it into the “Who’s Who of Camping, but I was certain we qualified for the “Who’s Not of Camping.” 


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WHO'S NOT OF CAMPING? - Segment 5 (Scroll down for previous segments)


      After returning to our campsite, I thought I would light our lantern and relax with a good book.   

      I had borrowed the lantern from my uncle.  He had explained in detail how to light it.  Then he said, “It’s really very simple; a six year old could do it.”  So I skipped the details, and struck a match to light the wick.  It wouldn’t light.  I tried another match; nothing; another; nothing.  I looked for a six year old, but there were none around.  I pushed, twisted, and prodded anything that could be pushed, twisted, and prodded.

     With the futile strike of every match, I started talking to the lantern.  The lantern remained silent.  I struck another match… nothing.  I turned up the volume.  My son thought this was possibly better than my tree talk routine.  Then I looked up and saw other campers, along with several marmots, starting to move in for a look. I could sense I was, once again, becoming the entertainment.  Connie and the kids had taken shelter in the van.  They were peering out the windows, hoping the people wouldn’t think we were related.

     After a book of matches, I finally succeeded in lighting the lantern.  It was lighting overkill.  The entire lantern was engulfed in flames.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Most of my fires exhibit a complete lack of control---possibly the reason my wife doesn’t trust them.  Fearing the fire would jump a nearby creek and torch several thousand acres, thereby landing me as the feature story on the national news, I sprang into action.  I sprang onto the table and “danced with flames.”   

     With quick action, I managed to stomp out the fire before it burned the picnic table to the ground and spread through the campground, looking for the nearby creek.  Once again, I had given everyone an entertaining evening with my camp routines.

     As the ovation died down, I gave a few guttural sounds and resigned myself to a night without reading by the lantern.

     We eventually worked our way home, and waited for a call from the President, inviting us to the White House.

     We had now done tent camping and van camping.  Surely, we were getting closer to being enshrined in Who’s Who of Camping.

 

      After several more years had elapsed for sufficient memory loss, I suggested our next family adventure.  “On our next ten day vacation, let’s divide our time between camping and hotels.”

    

     “Divide it right down the middle,” Connie answered, “Nine nights, hotel; one night, camping; unless that’s too much camping.”

 

 

To be continued...check back soon