Camping?

In 1970 Mona and I traveled in style.  We had the latest 'camel' brand canvas umbrella tent and dining fly.  The folding chairs and table were of the finest aluminum. The Coleman ice chest was insulated with state of the art fiberglass. And it all fit neatly in the trunk of our Plymouth Valiant V8.

But there were several who declared in our hearing that such extravagance was decidedly NOT camping. A dining fly? We might as well have stayed at home and taken our meals on the porch.

In 2014 this, our new home come Spring (it's in the shop now, remember?), is one I would never dare call camping myself. While hardly the largest 'land yacht' on the highway, it's not the smallest, either.  But then, this is not a weekend, or even a weeks-long habitat, but our permanent home (once the garages are done with her).

Interestingly, Mona and I do catch ourselves calling it our 'camper' from time to time. I mean, you can stay in a campground with it. And there is a 'dining fly' that extends over the lawn, or patio, when you wish it to. But a camper?  Hardly.  All the images of roughing it under the trees, waking to dew coating the roof of your tent, or walking to the public washroom at 2 am disappear with any motor home, or most towed trailers. We both look forward to looking out at new vistas each morning after driving to a new parking spot, but not true camping.

In the 1950's my dad took my brother Jim and I to a spot along Sherman's Creek in Perry County, PA, that he once frequented with his boy scout tent in the 1920's.  We had to bounce through two rough farm field roads in our 1954 Ford Fairlane to get to it and not only was there no cell reception, Netflix decidedly did not come in on the tent wall screen. But then mosquito's didn't get in, either.

We fished, cooked what we caught on an open fire, and swam in the cool flowing stream for a full weekend without seeing, or hearing, another soul. This was camping. And when the evening meal was consumed, and the the dishes washed with gravel, not soap, at the water's edge, you could lie back and look up at the stars and along with our dad say, "this is the life of Riley." Another time, a distant place. But then neither I, Jim, nor dad were in our sixties. Retirement camping doesn't have to include sleeping on the ground, does it?

I hope not. Otherwise our Tempurpedic mattress will create just too much guilt.