I grew up with a dad who went through a Native American phase in the 70’s. Like hardcore, build-a-ginormous-teepee-in-our-backyard-and-take-us-canoeing-17-miles-down-the-Saco-river-every-summer phase. I give my mother a lot of credit for putting up with this period of time. Looking at her from adult eyes in retrospect, this is a testament to how much she loves my father. There is nothing about this phase that speaks to my mother’s personality in any way.
Those canoeing trips where paired with hardcore camping. There were no camp grounds for the Luconi family. We would paddle halfway down the river - rather, my parents would, because my dad was convinced my brother and I weren’t responsible enough as young kids to do it yet. (So not only was it seriously boring to sit in a canoe for two days straight, but I still have major baggage from being told I wasn’t capable of yet being “paddle worthy." They are wonderful people so I am treading carefully - but the fact that I have raised the fact that I have lingering issues from not being able to paddle a f’ing canoe should be an indication I have parental challenges stemming from childhood. But seriously, don’t the majority of us?!)
Anyway, we’d pull up at a sandbar, and set up camp. No amenities. No nothing. My mom would attempt to make a gourmet meal over a campfire; why I have no idea. No hamburgers and hotdogs for us like a normal family. She made something called “Student Ragu." I can’t remember what was in it, but by the name, it had to be a bunch of cheap ingredients put together in a pot, and I’ve got to imagine my brother and I were not happy.
Zoom ahead 30 years. We decided we wanted our kids to experience the joys of camping too. Aside from the my “lack of paddle syndrome," I love being outside, and had many great experiences post those 70’s family weekends going white water rafting and camping with friends. So I imagined my kids would probably think it was a blast, too.
We decided to start off easy with them. We found a campground in NH, where they had toilets. We figured it would be easy to ease them in to outdoor life if they didn’t have to pee in the woods their first time out. The place we found wasn’t far, had great reviews, and looked great. We made a reservation, packed up our gear, and took off for the night.
We arrived to find out that the “event" at the campground that night was a visit from Santa. Santa in July. You could purchase gifts from the gift store at the camp check in area and Santa would deliver them to your children. This isn’t exactly the camping I pictured, but I quickly bought my kids some crap from the store - which equated to bug spray and marshmallows because there wasn’t much to choose from - and went to set up camp.
Clearly we didn’t do our research thoroughly. We were the only tent in the entire campground. The place was littered with RVs. And name plates nailed to trees. And satellite dishes. And tiny flower gardens and strings of lights for decorations. These people lived here. This was their summer residence.
As we emptied the car and lit our fire to make lunch, we watched golf carts whizz by. People greeting each other, dropping in on their neighbors like people do. Except their neighbors lived in movable homes in this so-called campground.
We took off, took a hike, and tried to give the kids some semblance of a “camping experience." When we returned at dusk, it was time for the Santa experience. The entire campground gathered for this event. For a woman who prides herself on being open-minded, that night I was not. Parents were drunk, and their kids were running loose all over the place. I hate the label “white trash," but if it was ever to be used, this was the time. And then in rolled Santa. Have you seen the movie Bad Santa with Billy Bob Thornton? I think he was modeled after this guy. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer while hauling kids onto his lap. My kids avoided him, grabbed their lousy gifts I had purchased with an outstretched hand and ran back to us. Mama didn’t raise no dummies.
We headed back to camp with my kids asking why Santa was out in July, and why he was camping, to which we had no good explanations. We drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the Harley guys arriving late, and teenagers wandering from camp site flirting and looking to hook up.
We’ve been camping since then, and it got infinitely better. But the dramatic difference between my dad’s version of camping and that first experience with my kids and “bad Santa" never ceases to crack me up. No matter what the experience though, laying out under the night sky, snuggled in a puffy sleeping bag, and spending time with people you enjoy is always a good time and delivers some memorable experiences.
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