On the River
I thought I had fallen out of love with camping. Bugs, weather, and discomfort having done me in. But when I stepped out of my tent this past Saturday morning, I realized we were still a couple. The air was cool, birds were singing, and my daughter and her two kids were asleep in their tent beside mine. Just down a bit sat a popup camper with my goddaughter, her husband and their three children. On the previous evening we’d spent quality time frolicking in the Nueces before setting up camp and getting ready for bed.
I think it was the kids that did it. They were running barefoot over rocks and grass, splashing, shouting, shooting water guns, and just generally having a gay old time. They were fascinated with everything that creeped or crawled, studying them in great detail, picking them up when they could or dared. A feather on the ground was a treasure. A truck was a mountain to be climbed. There was nothing like a little grass on the dinner table to complement the evening meal. And a corn and flour tortilla was a meal unto itself regardless of what a parent had wrapped in it.
I loved their innocence. They were refreshingly close to nature. A hundred feet of river was as big as the universe. A bed was a bed was a bed and if they got wet, they knew they could dry off, somehow or somewhere. Comfort wasn’t really a thing, until they got tired and needed a good cuddle, and that’s what we were there for, to keep the monsters at bay and give them a good hug. In the end, maybe that’s really what life is all about, living, and having someone who can give you a good hug when you’re tired, hurt or scared, and really need it.