CAMP RUNAMUCK
In the interests of Being A Good Daddy and Spending Quality Time With The Only Child, da Flatline recently did something that, twenty years ago, he swore he'd never do again:
I went on a camping trip with my daughter.
My loathing of the Great Outdoors is a combination of horrendous experiences with Boy Scouts said two-decades previous, coupled with a predilection towards hay fever and psychosomatic full-body itching if I even suspect an insect is nearby. I've often joked that I should have been born 300 years in the future, living in a geodesic dome and breathing heavily-filtered air. When Peggy Marble (the housewife-cum-hysteric played by Mink Stole in John Waters' DESPERATE LIVING) shrieks about the trees "LOOK AT THEM, STEALING OUR OXYGEN! THEY SHOULD ALL BE PAVED OVER!!!", my first reaction is a heartfelt "I'm with you, babe."
(Coupled with the fact that the Rumpus ROM and Can-Can CyberPavilion would go without updates for another week; I know you RR readers are a tolerant bunch -- both of you! -- but some of the CyberPavilion regulars go into withdrawal if a new dancer doesn't show up every Friday...)
But, go I did, as parental chaperone/bemused onlooker. Luckily, the overall experience wasn't that traumatic. For starters, the campsite (a YMCA facility in northwest New Jersey) had many, if not all, of the amenities of home: large cabins with heat, electricity, and indoor plumbing, and a sizable dining hall that served better-than-average food. (None of this sleeping on the ground and cooking on a campfire nonsense, thank Ghod!) The cabins were segregated by gender (boys with male adults, girls likewise), so there was an initial mad scramble as Kid Flatline and I swapped suitcase contents ("OK, here's your flashlight and snacks; I need my hair gel and we'll have to work out some way to share the toothpaste..."). For those of you outside of the Metro NY area, this May has been a trifle, um, chillier than usual -- and the campsite even more so. ("They had snow here two weeks ago!" declared one of the teachers. "Great," I gritted through clenched and chattering teeth, and put on just about every piece of clothing I had in an attempt to thaw out.)
Since this was a school trip, the emphasis was on education. Good thing, too: between class-filled mornings and afternoons, evening recreation, and meals, the kids didn't have a lot of downtime to fool around. The very first class saw the kids dissecting an "owl pellet," which contains the indigestible fur/feathers/etc. from an owl's meal of mice, birds, and such. The idea was to piece together the skeletons of the owl's last meal. (At one point, I sidled up to the instructor and cracked, "Were I not the fine, upstanding parent that I am, I'd say that owl pellet looks like a big chuck of Nepalese hash!" She stifled a knowing chuckle and retorted, "You know, I've never heard it described quite that way before.") Other learning activities included nature hikes, compass-reading exercises (not my strong suit even when I wuz a Scout!), and lessons in teamwork and problem-solving.
The S.O.'s biggest fear was that Kid Flatline and I would be at each other's throats, as we often are at home. Luckily, we both behaved ourselves. KF, in particular, was in a "do your dad proud" mood those few days: eating well at mealtime, participating in the activities -- even showing up the boys once or twice, most notably on the "rock climb" simulation. This was a wall in the activity lodge fitted with strategically-placed finger/toe holds which the kids, safety-helmeted and -tethered, had to climb. KF went last in her group; after watching several of the boy hot-doggers lose their footing -- and one of the girls freeze halfway up -- she stepped up, locked into the safety gear, then scampered up the wall so quickly and sure-footedly I had to check to make sure webs weren't shooting out of her wrists a la Spiderman. (Proud papa? Naah...)
The single worst aspect of the whole trip were the half-dozen fifth-grade boys I and another father had to ride shotgun over in our cabin. Herding cats would have been a breeze compared with this. Bedtime curfews were a joke; after a while, I would just crawl into my sleeping bag and pray for them to finally tucker themselves out. Which they did -- around three A.M. (With a wakeup time around four hours after that, the trip became an experiment in serious sleep deprivation...) And if I hear another pre-pubescent boy utter that AUSTIN POWERS line ("Sex?" "Yes, please!"), I just may go completely postal.
But, clearly I survived -- nay, enjoyed myself. (Ask me about the "Birds of Prey" session, where the guy brought out a live American bald eagle; that's an impressive sight!) And yes, I might just do it again someday. Meanwhile, I'm glad to be back in the land of cable TV and Nine Inch Nails remix CD's and...hey, I got my high-speed Internet connection back!
Oh, Auntie Em, there really is no place like home!
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