Camping Tanka
on our favorite
campsite at our favorite
campground, reading books,
snuggling dogs, watching movies
sipping coffee, holding hands
We’re traveling more in my retirement, but the way my husband sees it, the only way we’ll stay home as much as he likes is if he keeps working, so he’s not taking the Social Security option just yet. He knows I’d pare down what’s in the house and sell most everything and take to the open road in the Wayfarer if it were up to me. I’d take us two plates, two mugs, two spoons, two forks, and two knives. I’d pack three pairs of jeans and six t-shirts, plus two pairs of sweatpants and a thin sweatshirt for pajamas. My camo Birkenstocks, one pair of sneakers, and my trusty Ugg slippers would be in my shoe cabinet. That’s pretty much how my two prescription medications and my favorite toothbrush and I would live for six months out of the year – until all the trees have grown tall enough to give us back our woodsy cocoon we once called home before they were harvested to go off and realize their ultimate destiny as telephone poles, the poor things.
In my best estimation, we’d travel by day, stopping for groceries on our way to wherever we’d camp for two or three nights. We’d take morning hikes and go exploring with the dogs, I’d press flowers between the pages of books and sketch them for watercolor paintings and bookmarks, and then we’d build campfires to sip coffee by, read books for hours, watch movies, and listen to music. I’d have to play Mahjong with bots on the computer unless I came across a group of three players needing a fourth; otherwise, we’d play Phase 10 so I could stay perpetually confused about what to discard.
We’d stop at every festival along the way so we could check out all the jams, preserves, and pickled things they’d be selling, and we’d buy some for our morning toast, along with a dozen free-range fresh eggs. And we’d throw in some homemade soap, too, probably made with the goat milk of someone’s backyard herd. It would smell like crisp mountain air with a hint of breezy wildflowers. Then we’d opt for a caramel apple instead of a funnel cake and sit in a bentwood rocker and watch the cloggers and banjos for a while before Wayfaring along on our merry way, humming some bluegrass tunes .
For today, though, we’ll watch Secondhand Lions and Arthur the King with dogs in our laps snuggled under fleecy throws, and I’ll be reading The Year of What If by Phaedra Patrick since that’s what popped up for me on Libby. Yes, for today, we’ll only have a little pat of Kerrygold tub butter on our cinnamon raisin bagels – – none of these festival preserves that must wait for another time……
Common Threads 