It’s nearing time for our fourth annual trip to family camp. I am suspended in that nebulous Mom zone of anticipation and dread. Overall, I love the camp we’re attending—it’s (ostensibly) peaceful and safe, and it provides worship services, Bible classes, and fellowship opportunities that nurture our Christian faith in ways that I appreciate. Then again, I know it will require a tremendous amount of planning and preparation on my part to get us there with everything we’ll need for a week at the lake. (Will shares the load munificently in many areas of our life, but some things—like packing—are best left to me.)Once we actually arrive at camp, I can let down my semi-paranoid Mom guard somewhat, but not entirely. The little ones are still little enough to require constant supervision, and the place, while peaceful, still bears threats to their safety (large body of water nearby, motorized cars entering and leaving the premises, kids at the sandbox hogging the big shovels, etc.) That unfulfilled desire for total relaxation is a letdown. Because isn’t vacation supposed to be relaxing? So (taking a deep, refusing-to-feel-sorry-for-myself-when-my-life-is-so-amazingly-blessed breath), I offer these fantastical notions for what might make camp more fun for me:
House to the Lake
I know this might sound sick, but every year around this time I have thought that it would be wonderful if I could simply transport my own house to camp for the week and just “do my stuff”—laundering, cooking, cleaning, organizing, reading, writing, thinking, praying—right there at the lake! Ben and Pearl could dig in the sandbox and swing on the swings while Will and I took turns keeping an eye on them. Vi could ride her bike around the campground as she pleased, stopping at random cabins along the way, helping herself to other people’s snacks and/or joining in Uno games, water balloon wars and campfires. (Oh, wait—she already does that. . . ) The “House to the Lake” fantasy might represent a latent longing for domesticity, but that is evidently not my sole calling (nor my soul calling). A leisurely lake life does seem heavenly in my imagining. Perhaps that’s where my eventual mansion is nestled, even now.
Christmas in August
OK, so, obviously since I can’t afford to purchase a lake house, I certainly can’t afford to transport my American Four Square 25 miles northwest of its 82-year-old foundation. . .for the week, and then back! So this other notion crept into my noggin: What if it could be Christmas in August at camp? We could put up a tree—all twinkly, with lights; deck the halls with red-green-red-green-red-green paper chains; bake cut-out cookies and ice them with anise-flavored buttercream frosting; and wait for Santa to bring presents on Christmas morning. And, in my fantasy, he really would! The gifts would not need to be shopped for, paid for, wrapped up, tagged and bowed—they would simply appear, endearingly presented and delightfully well-suited for each member of the family—even me. And I would not be disappointed or overspent at all—I could simply relax and enjoy the occasion, not worried about a thing.
(Confession: I spent an inordinate amount of time surfing the Web for an Anne Lamott quotation to end this entry. I think it’s from her first memoir, Traveling Mercies, but I can’t be sure because every time I buy myself a copy of that book I end up giving it away to someone else I think should read it! I choose carefully; it’s not for everyone. Anyhow, Lamott writes about having to do something she slightly resented, and she wrote—I know this is at least close, even though I couldn’t find a ‘direct hit’ via Google: “It was inconvenient and time-consuming, like real life.” Ten points for Gryffindor to the A-Town reader who finds me that quote!)
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