camping

I slouched back into the seat, feet propped on the dashboard (don't tell my dad), book in hand. I felt dirty, but relaxed.

We'd been camping.

The water bottle in the cup holder started rattling. My husband turned down the radio.

"Do you hear that?"

Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The car kept time in a syncopated rhythm to our drive home. Still driving, on the highway, though half pulled over onto the shoulder, my husband opened his door and looked at the back tire.

"I think it's flat," he said. He closed the door and parked on a stretch of highway between Evant, TX (population 371) and the greater metropolitan area of Hamilton (population 2,922).

Or, we stopped between two cemeteries.

On our left, the Pilgrim's Rest, for weary souls such as ours:

On our right, a rest for other wearied travelers:

Chris got out of the car, inspected the offending tire, and returned to confirm his initial diagnosis.

"It's flat," he said.

Naturally, we first made sandwiches. 

Side note: If you ever need to have a ripped tire, do so when mostly stocked with leftovers from the camping trip. (I always buy too much.)

After a repast of ham and turkey on organic multi-grain bread (with omega-3s and unbleached flour), topped with cheddar cheese and Dijon mustard, and finished off with orange creme and cherry vanilla sodas (also organic), my husband got out to change the tire.

"Funny thing," I said. "I never learned how to change a spare." I'm sure my dad tried to teach me and I decided to play with my imaginary friends instead.

"Good time to learn."

I grabbed our Nikon. "Je suis artiste," I said.

Events like these need documenting. Now, if we were both heaving and hefting, who would take the pictures?

I snapped photos as he unloaded the camping gear from the trunk.

"You're a big help," he told me.

Big, strong, sexy man taming tire-gone-wild.

Chris soon had the spare on, and we were ready to head toward Hamilton to search out a tire store brave enough to be open on Memorial Day.

(We found one--a John Deere sales and repair/used tire sales/vehicle sales shop. I think there may have been a candy shop on the side. We drove in accompanied by Reba's "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" on their radio.)

Mr. Motorcycle waves goodbye to us.

The End

A word about Patty and Charl: when they immigrated here from South Africa and had to pare down to the essentials in packing, they made room for their good hiking boots. When they splurge, it's for a pair of Keens.

The Hiking Shoes

Chris and I started camping with Patty and Charl before we got married, before they had their second child. On our first trip, I packed a pair of old running shoes. I had acquired these shoes on some crazy sale, and they had run their last track. They had been delegated to the camping pile. And so, when the time for our hike came, I donned the crazy-sale running shoes.

"Those are some shoes," Charl said.

A word about the shoes: They are mostly silver, glistening silver, with a swatch of plum down the hull and tongue.

"We won't lose you," Chris said.

On our second trip, Patty called to talk food arrangements.

A word about our food arrangements: We like to think of ourselves as gourmet campers. We pack salmon and steak, wine, and air mattresses.

At the end of our conversation, she said, "Make sure you bring those shoes!"

So pack the shoes I did.

Every trip since then, those shoes, less silvery and less glistening, get packed along with my hiking clothes, sunscreen, and water bottle.

The Tent

Last year, a tear near the zipper of our tent rendered it unusable. Sure, if I were the hearty sewing type, I could buy a new zipper, thrust a heavy-duty needle through the canvas, and fix the tent.

I am not the hearty sewing type.

Also, my husband seized the opportunity for a new tent. He shopped online; he shopped REI; he shopped Academy. When it comes to new toys, my husband is thorough. At last, he found what he wanted at (what he told me was) a good price.

One particular weekend closely following the procurement of said new tent, Patty and Charl rung us up.

"Time to go camping," they said.

I would be out of town the weekend they had in mind, so Chris went without me. (The nerve of him!) And he set up the new tent.

"Looks like you've got the Taj Mahal there, brother," Charl said. (Charl calls his male friends "brother" often. He's like Desmond in that way. Thirty-second break to mourn the end of LOST.)

Today I spend my afternoon cleaning our camping accoutrements, shopping for our gourmet foods and wines, and packing the silver purple shoes and the Taj Mahal. 

The sunlight sparkles on the water, speckles the path, and dances with the trees. I sit on a log bench and meditate on the memory verse for my Bible study:

1. It's best to spoil yourself when camping: steak and salmon for dinners and the like. It helps if you pack a Master Chef with you for just such an occasion. This is why I take my husband with me.


2. Coffee tastes better percolated outside.


3. Full moons are just as bright as the dawn.


4. Also bring with you a pyro. They make the best campfires (um, my husband again).