I'm waiting for the laundry to dry...

...and pondering the opening paragraph of my government paper. Tonight, I'll leave you with a story that I wrote on Christmas day, 3 years ago. If I remember right, this was during my pre-Mono insomnia...

Pine Cones & Potties

We went camping often as kids, the Nelson and Davis family excursions. Each summer began with the great anticipation of a drive to the shores of Lake Texoma or Palestine. Early in the morning, our vans could be seen pulling from the driveway, the Nelsons towing their boat, our own van pulling their pop-up trailer. One particular trip, we drove, sans trailer, to Lake Texoma to test out a new site. I recall driving into the camp suddenly fully aware that the nearest bathroom was a toilet haphazardly placed next to some trailer pads, and it was – indeed - not near. I’m seven and appropriately immodest, but nonetheless insecure in my need for decent facilities.
We pup tent and begin to unload, but a long drive has made it difficult to maintain sanity without a visit to the restroom. Our safest bet, aforementioned, is not too pretty, so Lindsey and I set off, hoping that, if together, our venture to the woods will not be quite so uncomfortable. Lindsey seems to make good use of our jaunt into the trees and ducks with some ease behind a tall stump. I, however, am too distressed and resolve to wait until swimming time.
The two of us return to camp only half satisfied (venture a guess as to which half) to find that our mothers are in the midst of constructing a bathroom of sorts using two blankets and the nearby trees. As a child – you will recall that I am approximately seven years old – the arrangement seems perfectly decent. However, as I’ve grown, I’ve come to feel somewhat embarrassed that often post-relief I had to inform my parents of my duties in order that they might properly dispose of…well, my duties, so to speak. Ah, the bliss of youth.
So on we go…
We spend much of our trip clad in hot pink and purple bathing suits, I sometimes in old gymnastic uniforms recycled for sake of saving funds. The boys, of course, don their own suits of less feminine appeal. Sunscreen is applied religiously lest mothers deal with whining, blistered children during the following week. We fill our days with outings in the boat, squealing with glee as we are pulled on some inner tube. This trip is a time for exploring a new area of the lake. Often, at Texoma, we journey out to the watchtower which our fathers have informed us is haunted.
I remember one morning running into the water [forty five minutes] after breakfast to float around and splash in the mud. The ground is murky and fascinating in its mysteriousness. My feet find unidentifiable objects, and my mind conjures stories of lost civilizations whose roots are grounded in this very soil. Truly, I just want to find some lost trinkets or change. Once, my foot finds something sharp, and I jump back in surprise. I continue on, however, without worry, until my mother calls me in to reapply sunscreen for a trip out on the boat. As I step onto shore, I remember my foot’s wanderings to that pointy object and I glance down in curiosity. To my dismay, blood is boldly pouring from the ball of my foot, and I am suddenly thrown into a childlike state of panic. As the fright of that experience is solely (pun intended) tied to that moment, I am sure that I was properly taken care of and sent on my way. But the terror remains, and I never risked a walk in the lake again without my trusty water shoes.
As Texans often are, we are surprised by an intense rainstorm on the second night of our trip. I vaguely remember being carried from my sleeping bag to the Nelson’s van as our tent quickly becomes too water-soaked to maintain its proper shape. We spend the rest of the night huddled on the floor of the Chevy as our dads hurriedly pack up our equipment and ready us to be on our way. It is a short trip that ends with water damage and a lost coloring book. I am devastated. I had just purchased the watercolor Barbie book on the road trip up to the lake. The rain took my job and distributed its own water to the pages of my precious book. My heart breaks to this day. Our mothers, however, are not unhappy about leaving. I believe their discomfort was in some way connected to the appearance of our toilet.
The abrupt end to our trip is not disheartening. In the freedom and flexibility of my childhood, many more weekends are available for outings to the lake. Our parents promise another excursion is on the horizon. We trust that they will not disappoint. And the satisfaction that I know of my upbringing is sure evidence that they in fact did fulfill their promise. Summer after summer. Such a memory is but one in a million. A tiny blessing that grants a different color to my existence. Truly, who could forget that commode of sheets and trees?