Camping

I find the idea of being a grandmother complex. Firstly, because I am I’m still mopping up the damage created by the choices I made as a mother. And secondly, I have spent hours in therapy focused on self-forgiveness because of those choices.

I also don’t have any idea what type of grandmother I want to be. Do I want to visit daily? Weekly? Live on the other side of the planet and visit yearly?

One evening in our flat in Florence I announced to Peter, “Peter, I need to go back to the States and try out the ‘grandmother’ role. During the year we lived in Europe, I kept defaulting to one of my familiar emotional states regarding being a grandmother– guilt. Guilt about living so far away. I needed to find out what being a grandmother means to me.”

He agreed.

We returned in mid-January. Peter was able to work virtually with a couple of planned trips to Berlin. During those trips, I would remain in the States and explore the grandmother role.

As I prepared for our departure from Florence an email landed in my mailbox.

‘Sam’s New Year’s Eve celebration was canceled due to bad weather. Rescheduled for the weekend of February 18th.’  We would be in the US and would be able to attend. Sam’s celebrations took place on his property in Big Sur California. A sprawling piece of land on the ocean side of Highway 1. The celebration lasted an entire weekend.   Guests would bring their own tent, RV, or just a sleeping bag to throw under the stars. We contributed towards food and volunteered to cook, serve, and clean at various mealtimes. In the evenings we gathered around a large firepit and sang along with whoever brought their guitar.

The setting is spectacular, but it is often very cold. Even during the summer when the days are warm, fog can roll in bringing a drop in temperature. I do not enjoy the cold, especially the evenings. Every year I contemplate if we are going to rent an RV, which is also cold once the heater is turned off, or brave a tent.

The last time we came to a celebration weekend at Sam’s we decided to borrow a huge tent from friends. My daughter, who had worked for Sam for four years, was also there in a smaller tent next door to us. When I’m there I always bundled up in the warmest coat I have, which is a swimming coat that my daughter’s boyfriend had given her when she was sixteen. She detested the fact that I wore it at these events because it had ‘I love you Sonja-Bo’ embroidered on the front.

On the first day, after we put the tents up we walked up a hill to where we gathered around the campfire. Although I am tone deaf, I loved singing along to campfire songs: I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane, Take Me Home Country Roads, and American Pie, to name but a few. Peter has a great singing voice and can play the guitar. He is completely baffled by my tone-deafness, especially the fact that I think there is nothing wrong with my singing. Because of that fact, he sits away from me on the other side of the campfire strumming his guitar and singing in his deep husky voice.

When the evening came to an end and the fire dwindled, we walked down the path, with our flashlights, to the tent. The line for the one bathroom was long and I only needed to pee, so I ran to a remote area. It’s the easiest method, but in the dark, I always fear that something is going to bite my bottom once I pull my knickers down. Back at the tent, I put my pajamas on and then put my clothes back over my pajamas. It is absurd, but I need to have this sense of getting ready for bed. I climbed into the sleeping bag. I always think of myself as healthy and in great condition, but there is an uncomfortable truth about my body aging, revealed when I climbed into a sleeping bag on the ground and when I climbed out the next morning. The uncomfortable truth is that my joints need oiling, like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz.

I pulled a wool hat over my head and put my gloves on, but my nose was frozen. Peter was next to me in his sleeping bag, he grunted about the discomfort and complained that he wished there was a hotel nearby. There was complete silence, until a forceful sound of water spraying the air filled the silence.

“Peter, I know you are not asleep. That’s impossible. What is that noise?” my comment was met with groans and a long shhhhhhhhhhh from my daughter in the tent next door.

“Rain,” he mumbled.

I crawled to the front of the tent and looked out.

“Only on us.”

“Shhhhhhh be quiet mom. This is not how you behave in a campsite,” complained my daughter. I can’t stand when my daughters get self-righteous and act like I’m a blithering idiot. In a loud whisper, I yelled back.

“I have been camping before. I took you camping when you were a kid. I know how to camp. But water is spraying over our tent.”

“Go to sleep mom,” The water was now coming down on us with full force.

“Peter stop pretending to sleep. It’s raining full force on just us.”

“Why are we here? Why are we sleeping outside in a tent? Shit. Okay. What’s going on?” Peter mumbled as he slowly climbed out of the sleeping bag, put his shoes on, took a flashlight and went outside.

I climbed back into my sleeping bag and in a loud whisper called out.

“What is it, Peter, you okay?”

No reply. Except shhhhhhhhhh. At this moment in time, I do not like my daughter.

The water continued to descend on the tent and suddenly Peter yelled, “Fuck, shit, shit,” he is obviously still there. He must stop swearing like a Brit in public I thought. Peter continued to swear and then my daughter screamed. I did not want to get out of my sleeping bag and decided to reply to her scream with:

“Shhhhhhhh.”

“Mom, water is spraying on my tent.”

“Shhhhhhhhh,” I commented.

“I know, I know,” screamed Peter. I climbed deeper into my sleeping bag. And then there was silence. No sounds of water, no daughter screaming, just silence. The silence lasted for at least five minutes until a hand slowly opened the tent. Peter walked in. He looked like a drowned rat. His hair was soaked, water dripped from his face and his clothes were completely soaked. He was not happy.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There is a sprinkler next to us, which is pointed at our tent. I went to try to turn it off and the top broke off.  At first, it shot at our dear daughter’s tent and then I bent it in what I thought was away from me, but the water shot onto my face, body, and all of me. I could not find the mains. So, I turned it to face the hillside. I’m done with camping,” he groaned.

I tried to stifle a laugh. Instead, I started to snort. It was not the right time to laugh, but I could not control myself.

“Let’s help you out of the clothes, here’s a towel,” I said in a caring tone as I continued to snort and stifle my laughter.

“It’s not funny,” he growled.

“It’s not, but it is,” I replied.  This was one of those contrasting cultural moments in our marriage. When my German husband was not amused. I, the Brit, thought it was hilarious.

As I contemplated the invitation, I burst into giggles again. Okay, I thought. No tent. Let’s see how far away a hotel is from Sam’s place. Camping days are over.