I married into a family of “campers,” but I am most decidedly NOT a camper.
At twelve years of age, during the ONE camping trip I took with my family, I learned what camping entails.
Camping equals dirt, heat, humidity, rocks, bugs, snakes, and spiders … roughing it.
Quite simply, I don’t “rough” it.
And, there’s that whole “getting close with nature” part that everyone loves;
I don’t do that either.
But, as I said at the start, I married into a family of campers — people who love being hot, dirty, and “one” with nature.
It seems my children have inherited this outdoorsy gene. The Little Lady, friend of slugs and fish, wants to go camping in the worst way. Mr. Boy? Well, that tyke thinks being dirty is next to godliness . . . so camping would be right up his alley too.
At some point, I’ll probably have to swallow my prissy pride and camp with my family.
But, when that day comes, I’m hoping . . . wishing . . . praying I can convince them to go camping on Mama’s terms.
Forget hot, sweaty Texas in the summertime. Hubby, let’s camp in Great Britain.
(you know . . . the land of cool, green temperatures and high tea?)
We’ll drive in style (on the left hand side of the road, of course) — cool, calm and collected. Free of spiders and bears.
We’ll visit the places I’ve read about in my Agatha Christie mysteries and step out on the moors of Wuthering Heights.
And we’ll never get dirty.
Now that’s MY kind of camping.