…quizzical enjoyment

Vacation preparation is part of the torture. If I'm going to visit the very edge of desolation I must have every modern convenience. When you think about gathering all the gear don't your brain cells feel the burn?

Finally, after a decade of feeling the pack-up dread, the only organizer bone in my body—the one deep inside my pinkie—made another rare appearance and dared me to walk on the wild side in the husbands type-A toe shoes. "I will join him in his meticulous planning!" I toddled.

And so I compiled a CCC, comprehensive computerized camping list.[1] From that list, I packed a permanent grub box so we could dash off—spur of the moment, whenever the feral urge struck.

To me,
I’m sitting here peacefully contemplating my dirty hands and four fingernails broken off below the quick. I’m watching the children race around near an open fire with sharp sticks, axes and knives and I don’t care. I’m neither medicated nor blind (although my depth perception is a little off due to a misdirected spurt of kerosene).

I’m filthy, and I reek of fire, but all of this reminds me that camping is another experience that fits the vacation criteria. Do I hear the echo of the theme from the movie, Deliverance?

However, the fact that we live in tornado country, is reason enough to require that the box serve a dual purpose as our family emergency preparedness survival box. I’ve dipped into it to save me during many emergencies throughout the year—seeking a can opener or flashlight during a power outage, or scavenging MREs (military for Meals Ready to Eat, a.k.a. Mystical Recycled Earwax), for an unexpected dinner party.

So now when we go camping, the family can spend the trip gazing longingly into the depleted box and speaking of it with fond memories.

Reality Bite: There is no greater anguish than a faultless recollection of past perfection.[2]

[1] Say that three times fast.

[2] Me, again, brilliant me. Unless I’ve forgotten that I heard it already somewhere else first …