Tag Archives: camping

A River Adventure in Two Parts

30 Jun

CCF06242014_00000

April 1979

River Outfitter Guy
The Current River (or maybe Jacks Fork)
Somewhere south of Jeff City

Dude,

Awesome weekend!

Hey man, I don’t know if I stayed at your camp, but I’m pretty sure I stayed someplace. I was the dude wearing the Springsteen shirt, and I had a can of Busch in each hand. Party! Oh, and sorry about all the dents in the canoe. I’ll bet you can find that lost oar down near the AR border. Good thing oars float.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure I lost my high school senior class ring in that place with all the weeds and trees. You know the place I’m talking about. It was already dark, and the buds and I were trying to find firewood so we wouldn’t have to pay for any. So yeah, I’d like to get that ring back if you come across it. Cost me close to $50, and it’s the second one I’ve lost. Most important ring I’ll ever own, right? It’s got green glass in the center, and the outside of it is real gold. I can’t afford to buy another one because I’m saving up for a pair of Bass Weejuns. They’re $50 easy, but the preppy girls love them. So, anyway, if you find the ring, mail it back to me here at college, dude.

Your pal,

Ron Smith

________________________________________

June 30, 2014

Riverview Ranch
Meramec River
Bourbon, Missouri

Dear Camp Proprietor,

Thank you for providing such a wonderful venue for this past weekend’s float trip and camping adventure. After my old college friends and I visit our respective chiropractors and physical therapists, I am confident we will look back fondly on our time with you. Mentioning our various pains is not intended as an indictment of the fine accommodations you provided for our campsite. It’s simply that we are used to sleeping on thick memory foam mattresses rather than the hard ground. I presume your part of Missouri recently experienced a rock storm, which left sharp stones strewn everywhere?  I don’t recall the terra firma being so… firma  in my younger days.

In addition to thanking you for the wonderful time, however, I write to request a favor. Perhaps you will come across my custom-fitted mandibular advancement device, which prevents snoring, and return it to me at your earliest convenience. My dear spouse makes me sleep on the couch when I don’t have it.

I don’t remember the last time I saw the mandibular device, but I can provide some clues. I recall distinctly having it on my person when my chum Mark Z. requested I freshen up his cup of chamomile tea. I also can picture clearly setting down the device between Skip’s hemorrhoid cushion and Mark K.’s hernia truss when we all went to the aid of  Bob, whose back had seized up as he was putting a log on the fire. I am confident I still had the anti-snoring device later in the evening, because I threatened to hurl it at Mark K. when he spilled warm milk all over my linen/cotton blend Ralph Lauren slacks. (I believe the spillage was intentional, as Mark K. had earlier questioned the appropriateness of Ralph Lauren pants at a river campsite when “everyone knows Nautica is de rigueur on the Meramec.”).

After that, my memory becomes a little fuzzy. We really let our hair down Saturday night (those of us who have it), staying up nearly until nine-thirty. But when the young ruffians in the campsite next to ours were still making noise after ten o’clock, we felt we had to take action. I suspect those rascals had been imbibing something stronger than Mountain Dew. Had they no consideration for others? We strode over to their campfire and gave them a sturdy tongue-lashing, the likes of which they will not soon forget. After that exciting interlude, which required us to rescue Skip from the clutches of two scalawags who were holding him upside down over their fire, it took me a few minutes to calm down. With all the excitement, which included extinguishing the fire in Skip’s hair, I don’t recall if I still had the anti-snoring device.

Should you come across a mandibular device, it will surely be mine. The two Marks, Skip and Bob have confirmed that they made it home safely with theirs.

Warmest Regards,

Signature

 

 

 

 

20140628_143806

Advertisements

A major award: How I won a poodle with turquoise rump fluff

20 Sep

leglamp12I know how the father in A Christmas Story felt when he won the Leg Lamp. I, too, have won awards. My glory days are behind me, but I used to be pretty lucky at drawings. When I was a kid, the hardware store in my hometown had prize drawings at Christmas. (The store also sold toys; I got my first new bike there.) One Christmas, I won a ping pong set, which would have been a much bigger deal if my family had a ping pong table or any space to put one. We tried to use the dining room table, which did not go over well. Still, the paddles had many other inventive, if not abusive, uses. Ask Julie, my sister.

I was on a roll in those days. Around the same time I won the ping pong set, I also won a major award during a family trip.

My family took summer vacations in which all six of us would spend a week together on an excursion to the Rockies or some other great American destination. We considered a trip successful if it did not result in threats of infanticide. We traveled in a pickup with a camper on top. Six people in a camper little bigger than a tomato can. Oh, the fun we had. I still have bruises from fights my brother and I engaged in while riding in the loft above the truck cab. My parents warned us before we left home that they would turn around and go home at the first sign of fighting. And if we thought they were kidding, just try them. Yes, we would see who was laughing then. And we better wipe that smirk off our face, Mister, if we didn’t want it wiped for us.

Sometimes we made it fifty miles into a trip before my brother Jeff and I started whaling on each other. Julie encouraged it because she knew we otherwise would turn our attention to her. My younger brother Robert got to ride up front with Mom and Dad. We still hate him for it. The parents never made good on their threat to turn back, but Dad, who never drank, slowed the truck to a crawl in front of a few liquor stores. He also parked in front of a gun store once and wept quietly, but we don’t bring that up at family reunions.

Dreamer

A artist’s rendering of a Dreamer with “happy” campers.

We had a Dreamer camper that we bought in Des Moines. It replaced another Dreamer camper we had that was even smaller. In true seventies style, the interior of the new one was all turquoise Formica and blond plywood. The year we got the new camper, we took it to Bowling Green, Kentucky for a Dreamer convention, which is just as exciting as it sounds—a bunch of people with Dreamer campers either coveting or turning up their noses at other Dreamer campers.

We stayed at the campground connected to Beech Bend, which was an amusement park of questionable repute. (I’m sure it’s much better now.) Besides talking about all things Dreamer, campers (the human kind) were entertained by so-so comedians and bad country music acts which made the one-hour trip north from Nashville. I was more of a Jackson 5 aficionado in those days, so the music was not to my tastes. The best part was at night when we went to the amusement park where I became a bit of a Skee Ball pro. That’s also where I saw my first drunk vomiter, and it was impressive.  A couple of guys walked along the midway and one of them hurled without breaking stride, like it was something he did every night. Perhaps it was.

Beech Bend, a classy place if ever there was one, also had a drag strip.  Every day, the convention organizers made announcements and put on little shows there. They also held drawings for special prizes like game tickets at the amusement park, a meal at Sizzlers and such. I wanted those amusement park tickets to feed my growing Skee Ball addiction. One day, out of hundreds of Dreamerites, my name was called. As I made my way down the aisle, I sensed the envy of everyone in the crowd. What had I won? Perhaps a free hamburger at McDonalds, a new GI Joe or a nifty set of Hot Wheels cars? If I wasn’t so lucky to get something for myself, it could be something my parents could use, such as a set of barbecue tongs and mitts. I descended amid the noisy applause of my fellow campers, and I could sense the heat of Jeff’s eyes drilling hate holes in my back. I always won things, he said, while he never did. He hadn’t gotten over my winning the ping pong set.

When I made it down to the bottom of the grandstands, the announcer presented my prize: a huge stuffed animal—a white and turquoise poodle. Dow chemists had yet to perfect fake fur that was soft to the touch. This faux canine had all the cuddliness of forty grit sandpaper. And it was ugly. Ugly and girly. No twelve-year-old boy, not even a Jackson 5 fan, should be seen in public with a fru fru stuffed poodle with turquoise ears and rump fluff. What if a photographer from the Bowling Green newspaper had been there to document the handoff?  Missouri boy accepts gift meant for a girl, the caption would say. I wanted to say “no thanks” and return to my seat. But this was, after all, something I had won. One did not turn down something that had been won fair and square, even a stuffed poodle. I accepted my prize and climbed the steps to my seat as the crowd again applauded. This time, however, their applause was meek, and perhaps a bit uncomfortable.

My parents looked embarrassed. Jeff smirked. I was too ashamed to be seen holding the white and turquoise monstrosity any longer, so I handed the dog to seven-year-old Julie. Oh, the delight in her eyes. Her older brother had finally given her a large, beautiful stuffed animal (made of questionable material that may or may not have been toxic to human touch). He really did care, she thought. This was proof of a benevolent God.

No. As soon as we returned to the camper, I took back the dog. “I just gave it to you to hold for awhile,” I said. Julie cried. Jeff smirked more. My parents had bigger issues to deal with than who should possess an ugly stuffed poodle. I didn’t care. I had won the thing, and I was going to keep it.

Yellowpoodle

It was MUCH worse than this.

And I did, for awhile, in the room I shared with my two brothers. Eventually, though, I came to my senses and gave it to Julie permanently. Perhaps my conscience overpowered my immaturity. Or maybe I realized how stupid the dog looked in my bedroom next to football items. If a stuffed poodle with turquoise ears and rump fluff sounds like something you’d like, I’m sure it’s still out there somewhere. Its material certainly was not biodegradable. I don’t think it would burn either. If it did, the fumes would kill you.

Signature

P.S. Buy some books, will ya? I got a kid in college.