Childhood Peculiarities

My family was rather poor growing up. Not destitute, not like some of my friends who awoke to fry up (bulk) flour mixed with water and call it pancakes, or spread too much Buttarr ™ on a slice of bread and fold it over and call it a sandwich, just poor enough to encourage a certain amount of creativity when it came to things that some other families apparently took for granted. I did not fully appreciate some of the trials and humor of my own childhood until I met my wife in college many years later.

An example? Sure. My father bought my first car for me and drove it home. Spoiled rich kid you say? Nay, let me explain! As you have probably gathered, the car did actually start, run, and drive, but it was only a car in the academic sense (made of metal, had round things underneath it, etc). In fact, in every literal sense it had spent the past many years of its life as a house instead of a car, as a pack of raccoons had taken up to living inside it. When this happened exactly, I am not sure, but as it was a 1962 Oldsmobile it could have been for nearly the last 30 years at the time. It smelled like about 30 years. A brand new three pack of air fresheners had done nothing but make it smell as if you were sitting in a raccoon den in the middle of the forest instead of in the car. This was enormously helpful, and in retrospect probably explains why I had to wait just a tad longer to get any booty. The floor boards on one side were first rotted, and then rusted through, and you could actually see the street pass under you from small holes on the passenger side. The original color may have been a sickly green, but the exterior rust masked it nicely. My father had found this gem at a local yard sale, parked under a tree, apparently unmoved for quite some time. There was a cardboard sign on it that said ‘Runs Great! $50’ He talked them down to $35. Nevertheless, I was thankful and greatly impressed at 14 to already be the proud sort-of owner of a sort-of vehicle (my father figured it would take me at least a year or two to fix it up anyway). I was the new road king. My friends, okay, friend, would be so impressed, so jealous! Over the next few months we sanded, painted (Big Bird yellow!), changed spark plugs, oil, and other guy stuff. I would post a picture of the good ol' Blonde Bombshell for you to see, but my mother one day declared that it was too much of an eye-sore to remain in the neighborhood, and it was sold. Grrr.

Probably the most stark example of taking these little childhood peculiarities for granted though, was revealed when discussing the possibility of screwing outside, err.. I mean.. camping, with my then future-wife. Go “camping”, with me, in a tent? Okay, fine. Now, my prior childhood experiences with camping go something like this: We all pile into the car and drive for hours until the paved road ends, and then we continue on a gravel road, logging trail, or maybe just making our own way across a flattish piece of ground until it appears unwise to drive any further. Then we get the tent, a hammer, a shovel, and a backpack out of the trunk, and proceed on foot until we’re almost lost. We use the hammer to drive the tent stakes into the ground wherever we end up, hopefully it’s not too rocky. We find a fallen log and use the shovel to dig a hole behind it. That’s the potty. Hopefully there is a lake or river or something nearby to provide food, water, and entertainment (though there is a pack of UNO cards and some freeze dried noodles just in case). There are fishing poles for fishing, and a gun or two for rattlesnakes, cougars, or whatever. We then strike out on a hike, for no particular reason, and end up crowded around a little fire boiling some water from the river (which as it turns out is not entirely sufficient, but luckily my father has brought some military grade iodine tablets with us) to cook the stupid freeze dried noodles, and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to enjoy some stupid view while choking down ‘Iodine Noodles ala Hammy-Dad’. It’s on trips like this that I learn valuable life lessons like, ‘You can eat it, no matter what it is, Son, if you just put salt on it and then plug your nose while you chew.’ Editorial note: this does not work for the Man Sauce. After a couple days of this (sooner if someone gets bit, breaks a thumb, or goes blind in one eye – yes, it happened), we will pack up, bury the hole, and head back to civilization our lives much enriched from the experience.

My wife’s version of camping: If there is no valet service at the state park, then you must find your own parking place. Some of the washrooms can be a little dirty, so bring along your own sanitizer if you venture into one. A rather bland jar of spaghetti sauce can be dressed up nicely if you first sauté some onions and garlic before adding your sauce to the saucepan. Adding a dash of basil and a ¼ cup of whatever varietal of red wine you brought along can make this an extra special treat for the family. The ‘Walk of Wonder’ tour starts promptly at 8pm, and warm hand towels and refreshments will be provided after. . .

We compromised by buying some of those professional marshmallow roasting sticks, instead of whittling down tree branches, and as a reward she introduced me to something called a ‘smore’. Thus began an inexorable decent into a lifestyle of decadence and plenty.