Howdy,

About camping, What if?—or, If only … 

Since I had a break in the action of this series, I won’t feel as badly about reworking and reintroducing (reusing) this introduction; but then I won’t keep pounding it to death for the last three posts in this series on romanticized camping, which really ends up being happy digs.

Camping is fascinating. And hilarious.

It’s hilarious that we romanticize it.

It also makes sense, because as I’ve said so many times now in this elastic string of episodes: camping is hope, high expectations and assumed promises each a roped-end holding up the hammock.

Camping holds an anticipation of relaxation. Adventure. Escape. Special hunger and satisfaction, fired up. Epic stories all around.

But you know what happens to real hammocks strung between two trees hung with real rope? The collapse with a snap and crash to the dirt, the ever-present dirt.

This happened to us this very weekend. I strung a hammock—with the very straps that I use to secure our beautiful red tandem kayak on the roof rack of Sarah’s silver Xterra (it’s a good look, I must say)—and it came crashing down. Surprisingly, it wasn’t my weight that did it. (Who has time to relax in a hammock when camping?) No, it was the kids, the children, the wild animals, running all over the place having a grand time. They really did! And part of their wild, active, healthy, and wholesome play (fairly hurt-free as well), included swinging hammock rides that resembled NASA rocket launches. (And a few crash landings as well. Let’s see, I know of at least three kids that terminated his or her sky swinging flights with flips and flops to smack landings on the face.)

We warned them: warned them to settle down the swinging; warned them of how to swing legs out first to stand up safely; warned them not to splat on their faces like the kid before them. Warns didn’t work. And soon my hammock didn’t either. The aggressive swinging and triads of joyfully screaming children being pushed violently by a couple of greedily gleeful others rubbed those strong straps to snapping frays. I wasn’t in eyeshot to witness the finally dumping to the dirt, but no bones were broken, and I got to untie the tattered remains of my “rope” that I thought would be stronger than just any old rope.

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Howdy,

Well, the end of last week didn’t go as I planned, as I hoped, for blog posts, that is. I didn’t get them done. That’s what it comes down to, unfortunately, or, to be honest, to be honest. (Would the end of that sentence have made more sense if I wrote, “to be honest, to tell the truth”? Maybe. But after wavering, I didn’t want to give up the chance for, “to be honest, to be honest.” Couldn’t totally tell you why, and sorry for confusion.)

But it got a little busy and a little out-of-internet-or-cell-reception-y.

Thursday the 13th, the first day of this current streak that I didn’t get posted, we put in the miles, yo-yoing up from the valley to the mountains to the valley and to the mountains again. We took the boys from Turlock to Mariposa for an afternoon of swim lessons and down to Fresno–because … my youngest brother, David, and his wife, Melanie, gave birth to their first child, a boy (I think the name is fully out by now but not totally sure, so we’ll go with it’s a … BOY!) And that was the quick post that I wanted to put on my blog on Thursday: “IT’S A BOY!!” But I didn’t want to get ahead of his parents, so no post Thursday after the hospital visit and drive back up to Mariposa for the (late) night. Congratulations, David and Melanie!

Then Friday and Saturday real camping got in the way of my hypothetical, fictional blog series on camping. “Got in the way” has a double meaning, as in no time or connectivity for publishing writing and pooping in the woods colors hypothetical camping real fast.

Actually it was a great camping trip with some family and friends, and we enjoyed it, especially watching the kids having a ton of fun playing extremely well and full-out with each other.

But my plan had been to write and post the camping series before we went camping. Now, I’ll continue that plan with committed, dry camping in mind.

But first, the county fair and the destruction derby. Go, Rock Church and The Crushers!

—Billy

Reading. Writing. Living.

Howdy,

About camping, What if?—or, If only … 

I’ve danced around it, so time to get into more of the meat of this week’s topic. Camping. And getting to it.

Camping is fascinating, right?

Camping is something …

Camping is hope, nestled in high expectations and assumed promises, like the unloaded and set-up camper stretched out and sagging happily in a swinging hammock.

Happy camper. That’s a happy camper.

Relaxation.

And when not relaxation, it is: adventure; escape; junk food that’s fun in the moment; campfire stories to tell and more to make the next morning; and epic to be.

I do apologize for the familiar introductions so far this week, but if you can bear with me, I really am having fun taking a stab at cutting and inserting and flipping words and keeping meanings and changing meanings and just seeing where this leads.

I’m not sure if I know how to write upbeat, encouraging accounts of camping that capture that wild anticipation and open sky expectation for such trips, but that’s what I said I’m going for, so while see what I can do. Like I said, that kind of sounds like fictional camping—blurs of my experiences and the writing craft to create the happy, fulfilling wilderness experience that we plan to have camping and eating beans from a can. Can’t beat it.

Finally, let’s get to the anticipation of camping, in all its idyllic glory and allure. Write a world where every camper is a happy camper.

We’re going camping. You’re going camping. That’s even better, right? You get to go. It’s not just me and my family leaving you behind in this 100-degree heat while we escape for the beautiful green mountains of evergreens (when not on fire or a dying brownish-orange from bark beetle attacking after our years of drought in the Sierra Nevadas) and a picturesque high country valley with an ice-melt stream flowing through. Can you hear the water rushing? There, it’s rushing. A small waterfall. That’s cool! I love that kind of thing. (As Titus would say right now—this is his current, three-year-old, phrase—“I love that.” Or, “I love this.” Or, “I love these.” Or, just a rapid repeat of anything of those versions or a few or all of them jumbled together. Titus loves things. You should go shopping at Costco with him right now, like I did today: “Oh, Daddy, I LOVE those! Can we get ‘em. I love that.” Oh, Daddy! Oh, Daddy … Oh, Daddy! Oh, Titus … You know what? Sarah loves when Ti says he loves something. We all do. It’s lovely, and hilarious. I love that. Right, Ti? Atta, boy.) A small waterfall: you can hear it rushing over there. Here, it’s trickling, and you can hear the creek bubbling. The babbling brook.

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Howdy,

About camping, What if?—or, If only … 

This is the week’s topic. Camping’s got a week in it, right?

And I want to take a run at it for that long because camping is fascinating.

Because, camping, if you think about it … Camping is hope, since the outdoor activity seems to hinge drastically on the high expectations and assumed promises.

Camping holds an anticipation of relaxation.

Of adventure.

Of escape.

Of cheat foods, roasted over the fire.

Whatever camping is, it is anticipation—and it’s going to be epic.

So, as you’ll begin to see with an intro like which may get familiar as we go (or even just employing a copy of it), this week I’m thinking I’ll write some blur of camping accounts. Kind of like fictional camping. Blurs of my experiences and the romance with the adventuring into the wilderness that we place on camping and the activities and adventures that we hope take place while we’re there and the ones that do happen, whether we’d like them to our not.

I imagine the struggles, the negative takes, will come from either a place of attempting to be humorous or just telling the truth. It’s not all pretty out there, but we put a glorious face on it. Which is difficult to accomplish when actually camping. Have you seen that sleeping-bag bed-head?

Because my goal and purpose from the beginning, when I had this idea yesterday, was to come from a place of positive perspective on the event of wandering into a place where you’d then have to pitch a tent (or sleep outside with the hungry bears—though, truthfully, with combined consumption, I’m sure mosquitoes eat more of campers than do bears, and maybe all over predatory wildlife put together). This is the anticipation of camping—and how that sometimes plays out. We sweat hard for our escape and relaxation. Searching and seeking for a camp chair of fulfillment. Yesterday I said, idyllic. Isn’t it, that getting out into the wilderness?

Oh, happy camper.

Here we go again …

Oh, wait, since I’ve made an art of writing this introduction to our week of camping accounts, I think we’ll have to get to tomorrow to take on the mosquitoes.

Sleep tight on that lower-back rock, my friend. You’ll need your rest and strength, because tomorrow: we’re going camping!

—Billy

Reading. Writing. Living.

Word Count: 137,717 / On Pace: 147,400 / Year’s Goal: 200,000

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Howdy,

About camping, What if?—or, If only …

I was thinking, I might be able to get a whole week out of this. Maybe.

Camping. I mean, the material is there. More than enough for a week’s worth of blog posts.

Because, camping, if you think about it … Camping, as I imagine everyone knows (I mean, who’s never been camping? How underprivileged or overprivileged would one have to be to have never been camping? If a person’s homeless, he or she would definitely know about a certain, difficult, sort of camping. And the other who’s only ever stayed in some sort of Aspen cabin when he’s gotten close enough to the outdoors and “roughing it” to have to have alternate shelter—think cozy and crackling in the background, which sounds nice doesn’t it? I mean, if it were winter and we wanted a fire roasting in the place and not now when we’re starting at weeks of 100 degree plus weather), okay, as I imagine some people know: camping seems to hinge drastically on the high expectations for escape and relaxation assumed to be promised in getting away and out into the “wilderness*.”

Check that, in all the rambling parenthetical thoughts? The high of being excited about camping seems to be in the anticipation of it being relaxing.

Or adventurous.

Or an escape.

Or epic.

Or offering a spread of tasty food—or as much junk food as you can bring as a break from trying to eat better.

Whatever camping is, it is anticipation.

The reality?

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Howdy,

It has rolled back around to Sunday, and (incredibly) it’s already been awhile since of done a Sunday Scripture series post.

Again, I’ve gone to my ESV Bible app on my iPhone (ESV: English Standard Version—a tremendous translation and I’d highly recommend it) to pick a passage from my “FAVORITES”—favorited verses in the program.

Last time we kicked off the discussion with Exodus 19:5. Next on the list is Exodus 20:3, but that is either too obvious or too difficult: “‘You shall have no other gods before Me.’” I’ve leave that for another time.

The next one may be an error in having been marked as a favorite. What do you think? “The LORD spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Make two silver trumpets. Of hammered work you shall make them, and you shall use them for summoning the congregation for breaking camp’” (Numbers 10:1). I was thinking that unless you play the trumpet or hate camping there is no chance this is anyone’s favorite verse—until I thought about how amazing the part we overlook is: The LORD spoke to Moses. The Lord SPOKE to Mo. Holy smokes. That’s crazy. When you think about it, that’s crazy. You don’t have to make this verse your favorite verse (that’s a personal choice anyway, I realize) because many passages in Scripture have the introductory phrase, The Lord spoke to … 

I notice those sometimes, and they blow me away.

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Howdy,

Well, it’s been a week.

And I haven’t been writing. Not a bit.

Or tittle.

Not even a little.

But, on the bright side, I still have both legs.

To speak of, and accounted for.

Why is that even a question, you may ask?

Well, it’s a short story that I’ll try to make longer. (I’m not exactly kicking butt in word count because of it. Though I did pretty much get my rear end kicked and laid out in the last week. No, the story’s not THAT exciting. So, not exciting, but long. Got your interest now?)

Last Saturday night I went into the emergency room after a day of being down with a swollen and painful (immobilizing) knee, which started locking me up Friday night at bedtime. In some freak scratching of a mosquito bite or something (I don’t quite know what for sure) the skin over my knee got infected. Friday night and most of Saturday we thought it was more like bursitis, as I had been doing some work on my knees with applied pressure (my great weight) and we figured that made my right knee swell and accounted for the pain. When the physician’s assistant in the ER said, “It’s probably just he skin, on the surface, but we’ll watch for septic joint, since it’s on the knee, and that’s limb-threatening,” he had my attention.

Like, WHAT?

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Howdy,

Riah Surf Hawes, in his thirteenth month, was feeling it today.

I took the boys for a swim, and he seemed to decide it was a good day to walk and swim, all at once. In the pool with me, Riah was having a great time, comfortable in the water and opening his mouth and putting his face in without too much coughing on it. Really, he did well.

Then in the hot tub he had the steps and seat all around the edge to explore and keep himself up, under my close watch of course. But my being close just meant that he’d try to launch himself at me.

Like, smile, step, and face full of water: not unlike his swimming older brothers.

Riah also likes to get tossed up into the air in the pool. It’s one … two … THREE … and heavy toward the sky. I suppose then that the title of this post could have been “Walk, swim, fly, why not?” But I catch him, so he’s not really flying.

Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Today was only about learning to walk and swim at the same time.

—Billy

Reading. Writing. Living.

Howdy,

So yesterday early morning I stated that I’d be volunteering in a fireworks booth in Turlock.

Yesterday early afternoon I meant to go in with an edit on that post that would have said something like, “strike that, change in schedule, so now I’m planning to sell fireworks tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

But I forgot until yesterday late night so figured it wasn’t worth bothering about at that time in the day gone by.

Now, that “tomorrow” was today.

And “today” didn’t quite go as expected either.

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Howdy,

Later today, noon to 3:30, I’m schedule to be battling the heat taking my turn selling fireworks in The Rock Church booth.

I should say booths. Plural. Because we have one right off of Highway 99 on Fulkerth in Turlock, and a second one right around the corner from that one, in the FoodMaxx parking lot, close to IHOP. I’m signed up for the FoodMaxx parking lot booth.

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