Friday Flashback: Camping Trip

My parents brought home the coolest thing for us when I was about 10 years old:  They brought home a pull-out, pop-up camper.  The two double-sized beds would pull of out the sides and the middle would become a recessed area where we could store our knapsacks and our ice chests and our water jug.  It was the life, I tell ya.  Almost every weekend, we'd hook up the camper to the back of my daddy's  truck and head 15-miles west of our home to camp at that state park:  Home of 42-million tarantulas.

This was much nicer and bigger than our actual camper. 

One particular weekend, we loaded up the camper and headed west.  It was my lucky weekend because I got to take along my best friend, Bobbi.  I loved having Bobbi around.  I would come up with silly antics, and Bobbi would actually do them.  On this particular camping trip, I thought it'd be all kinds of fun to jump from one bed in the camper to the other bed.

I didn't do it, mind you.  My parents would have killed me.  I did, however, tell Bobbi it'd be pretty darn funny, and it was on.

My sister, who obviously thought we were hot boogers on a silver platter because she was always trying to hang out with us, followed us into the camper as my parents were still outside the campsite putting out fires and securing our food from the meat-eating tarantulas that freely roamed the park.

"I wonder," I started, "What would happen if we jumped from one bed to another," I said to Bobbi knowing full-well that that's all it took for Bobbi to begin jumping.  I then began giggling.  My sister began full-on laughing.  My mom entered the camper.  She was not laughing.  My daddy poked his head into the camper and said, "What the hell?"

"Stop jumping," my momma said.

"No!" I countered, "Keep jumping!"  And Bobbi did.  Then I joined in, and we jumped and laughed and giggled.  Then my sister tried, but she'd always fall short.  So we'd laugh and giggle at her.

"STOP JUMPING!" my momma yelled, and we did.  Not because she told us to, but because we were tired.

"Rowland?" My momma hollered out into the darkness for my daddy.  "Rowland?  Where are you?"  He didn't answer.  My mom left the tent.  I think now that she probably left because she didn't want him to have gone home without her.  Lucky for us (or unlucky for us as jumpers), she returned and told us that we were done for the night.  She didn't want to hear any more from us.  I could tell she was upset.

My mind raced to the worst:  She'd found my daddy and he'd been secured in tarantula web.  

"Where's Daddy?" I asked with all the solemnity that a 10-year-old could muster.

"He's sleeping in the truck," she said.  "He doesn't want to sleep in here with you all.  You make him nervous."

There's no way a 6'2" man can be comfortable in this!

This sent us into fits of giggles again and this time, my momma joined in.  My dad was 6 foot 2 inches tall and the "truck" was a Chevy Luv.  There was no way he was going to be getting any rest that night.

Shortly after breakfast on Saturday morning, we packed up and went home.  I didn't see my daddy again until he emerged from his bedroom for church on Sunday.