Misery: An Open Letter to Stephen King

     It finally happened.

And just as I was on the brink of losing my ever lovin’ mind…..or deciding to pack up a house full of junk, dogs, kids and unmatched socks and move north.  (Actually, I believe these two things are mutually exclusive.)

Thankfully, my brain delivered a cease and desist order to the rest of my cranky and irritated self when I stepped out onto the porch this morning and didn’t break out into an all over body sweat.

My hair didn’t suddenly turn damp even though I had just blown it dry.  Beads of salty perspiration did not form down my back, nose, or thighs the minute I locked the door behind me.  I didn’t have to inhale a burst of hot, humid air right after inhaling my Cream of Wheat.

I glanced at the ladybug thermometer by the front door.  Twice.  I couldn’t believe my own eyes.  Sure enough, the little red line miraculously and quite frankly, just in the nick of time, finally dipped down past 90.  I cried out in joy.  I was going to make it.

I had seen a sign early in the week but dismissed it as a hallucination due to dehydration seeing as it was noon and I was sweeping the driveway and had lost two gallons of water weight when I saw them.  See, I had read somewhere that when you spot butterflies flapping around, it means fall is here.  But at the time I was too busy muttering like a crazy person, mopping the sweat off my brow, and telling two yellow monarchs to get a room, when I saw them shamelessly flirting and fluttering on the hood of my car.

Obviously they can’t stand the South Georgia heat either and are happy to be foot loose and fancy free.  Just like us sub-tropical living humans who have long ago given up on getting to wear the latest fall fashions of skinny jeans tucked into riding boots under chunky cable sweaters and have settled for just being able to step our flip flopped feet outside and not pour buckets after a long and sweltering summer.

A lot of people come down here to escape the harsh winters and the very real diagnosis called Seasonal Disorder.  Evidently not having a view from your window because snow is covering it up does crazy things to people. 

My friend Jennifer, from Jasper, Alabama spent one winter in upstate New York and high tailed it back down here to the island as soon as the ground thawed and she could pack her car without losing her fingers.  Her bulldog, Bogart, however, is now in psychotherapy and on a strict diet of Prozac and exercise.  I am happy to report he’s been here a year and a half is finally getting better.

One of my favorite authors, Robert Goolrick, was actually inspired by stories he found published around the early 1900’s in a small Wisconsin town paper and wrote A Reliable Wife based on his findings.  Apparently, during vicious months-long, white-out, lake effect snow storms, a whole lot of people tended to act abnormally.  You know, like severing their own limbs and taking out their entire family with an axe over an argument about what’s for dinner. You can’t tell me crazy doesn’t make for some really good fiction.   

Just imagine the scary genius of Stephen King and would it exist if he lived in a sunny bungalow in L.A. instead of the blistering windy winters of Bangkok, Maine.  Which reminds me, I was excited to find out Stephen King is writing a sequel to The Shining, out next year.  Cannot wait, let me tell you. 

But after reading that this novel, like 90% of all his other ones, would once again be set in a snowy New England town, I felt like he should know it doesn’t have to be winter and it doesn’t have to be up North for someone to lock themselves in their house for months, stop shaving, and start having conversations with imaginary people or, at the very least, the weather reporters on the TV.  It happens at here at my house every summer. 

Here’s my letter:

Dear Mr. King,

First off, let me tell you I am a HUGE fan.  But not the stalker kind you are used too, I’m sure, so please don’t stop reading and send the cops to the return address.  It’s just thanks to you I am deathly afraid of clowns, identical little twin girls, walk-in freezers, and anyone who closely resembles Kathy Bates or shares her last name.  This is most certainly not a bad thing since I enjoyed every sleepless night and terror induced dream.

I also enjoy the detailed descriptions of your snowy New England: the howls of the relentless wind against the glass-paned windows of a creaky old Victorian, the snow banked steepness that surrounds a dark and dangerous remote mountain road, the candle-lit silence in strange rooms rendered dark by downed power lines and frozen limbs off trees.  I feel closed in just by simply reading what’s written between your pages, suffocated by the frosty isolation you pull us into like a secret trap door that opens in the vast whiteness that protects your world, then shuts, leaving us secluded and alone teetering on the brink of a quiet sort of madness.

But, see Stephen, even though it’s been 35 years since Jack’s been a very bad boy and went on to become that great, big alcoholic care taker in the sky, or at least for eternity at the Overlook Hotel, doesn’t mean you can’t take his tricycle riding, scarred for life, psychic son, Danny out of your freezing New Hampshire and place him down here for a summer.  There really it’s much of difference.  Trust me.  They’re both a different kind of hell.

See, Steve, down here people are driven to their own kind of slow boiling insanity that sneaks up on them around May like a swarm of sand gnats starved since early spring. It starts as a simmer, this unyielding heat, a tease, a tickle that gets you going outside in the morning, but then causes you around noon to make a hasty retreat back inside where you then never leave.  Down here in coastal South Georgia, the extreme heat, much like your freezing winters in Maine, brings out the crazy, if you know what I mean. 

I have seen normal, sweet-loving children’s heads spin with their teeth bared and finger nails clawed in.  I have watched conscientious mothers take their bed, doors locked; pints of ice cream the only things they let in.  I have witnessed yards over-grown, beer bottles strewn, and grown men sitting in baby pools to avoid the wife, the crushing heat, and the terrors they helped spawn without caring who sees. 

   There’s the creak of the ceiling fan that taunts you overnight while you try and sleep on top of the sheet.  There are the bugs, the lizards, and the marsh crabs that let themselves in without knocking first to escape the scalding sun, scaring you half to death.  There’s the lifeless, flat, hot air that rushes through the holes in your screens and under your doors, leaving a $600 dollar electricity bill that makes you want to let out a blood curdling scream.  

See, scary stuff really does happen down here in the South, Steve, when the heat’s 110 degrees.

Just a thought.

Anyway, thanks for your time and good luck on the new book.  If you need any help, you know where to find me.  Actually, I will finally be outside now that my driveway isn’t giving off steam and the heels of my feet won’t burned off walking to out get the mail…(not looking for your responding correspondence, of course.  Remember, I’m not that crazy.)   

Talk to you soon,

Laura 

 

I’ll let y’all know if I hear back from him.  I’m not holding my breath, but at least the blustery gasp of ocean air has cooled a bit and I can safely say I have survived another hot and humid summer.  Looks like fall on the island has saved my sanity once again.  Bring it on.

It's a Green Thing

 

           Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “Envy is ignorance.”  And of course, he’s right. 

          We all envy, or tend to covet, that which we are unaware and don’t know a whole heck of a lot about.

            For me, I’ll admit, it can be a daily occurrence.

I smile outwardly at the guy who hops out of his car in the Harris Teeter parking lot, his hands gripping the torn piece of notebook paper like it was a winning lottery ticket on a windy day.  I nod my head as he looks up in intense concentration from trying to memorize his wife’s grocery list, grabs his cart and heads inside.

I think how lucky his wife must be.  How my own husband hasn’t set foot inside a grocery store in the ten years we lived here except on the 17^th of October, 2010 for a gallon of fat free milk and a loaf of Wonder Bread.  I remember the exact day three years later because of the texts, photos and subsequent Facebook posting from friends and family documenting his epic maiden voyage.  I also remember because we ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a week on rye bread downed with a hearty glass of buttermilk.

I sigh in frustration as my husband…again…leaves his plate exactly three inches from the two contraptions that were built to clean them.  You know, the dishwasher and the kitchen sink.  Not to mention, his half glass of milk is left sweating on the island, his balled up napkin is on the floor and he’s now having fun swimming with the girls while I mop, bleach, bake, sterilize, sanitize and sweep. 

I feel envious; I do, of all those women out there whose significant others lend a helping hand with the day-to- day doldrums.  I know they are out there.  I’ve seen them with me own eyes.  The ones who help clean up after birthday parties, plan cookouts and dish out food they’ve cooked all day with a smile on their faces.

I feel jealous and bad too, most days, about just being a mom.  Surely, there are women out there that can get their kids to school on time, handle deadlines and PTA meetings and remember to bring two dozen water bottles and three bags of pretzels for snack at school.  I know these moms have never been yelled at by their own kids, never told they had “ruined their lives,” or heard a request for adoption with a family of traveling trapeze artists because at least, “their life turn out to be somewhat interesting and a whole lot more fun.”  Yes, I want to be one of these women who can do it all and never feel like a failure.

But then I think:

The man at the grocery store’s wife is terribly sick.  He has no idea how to help her get better or if she ever will get better.  All he knows is this is what he can do right now.  In this moment. He can make her something she probably won’t be able to keep down but it’s the only thing he can think to do.  To show her how much he cares about her, to nourish her, to hang on.

While my husband ignores his plate by the sink and plays in the pool with his daughters, there is a single mom down the street.  She’s worked all day, already cried silently in her car before pick-up, wondering how she is going to do this all by herself.  She washes dishes as her kids play without her in the backyard, already stressing on unanswered work e-mails, backed up laundry and mounting bills.  She knows it’s almost time to call them in for bed, another day gone- just like that.

And as I go to bed, feeling defeated, feeling like a failure as a mom, there is a women not too far from me who turns in for the night wishing her child was still with her.  Even if it were just to tell her she was “ruining his life” because at least she could hold him and hug him-breathe in the smell of him- and tell him she didn’t carry about any of that- never did.  She only loved him with all and every molecule of her being.

Yes, envy is ignorance just as the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

But as Walt Whitman believed, “a leaf of grass is no less than the journey- work of the stars.” 

It takes just one, single blade of grass- not an acre, forest, slab or crate- to see the magic which is humanity.

We shouldn’t keep count of how much or how little we have. 

            We should only reflect and be grateful for each others’ blessings

DARE TO BE DIFFERENT

Have you ever witnessed something random and seemingly benign, something inconsequential to your daily life that ends up staying wedged in your head forever and till the end of time?

And even though it doesn’t have a single thing in the world to do with you, you still can’t shake it, move it or erase it from your brain.  For me, I was home on break from UGA some 20 years ago and went to one of those chain bookstores in Augusta; I can’t remember which one.  But I do remember seeing a teenager standing at the sales counter, red faced and stuttering while two cashiers, around my age, looked at him and laughed, mocking him while holding out a phone.  It finally hit me; the car I walked by on my way in, with the busted driver side window, was his and he didn’t know what to do or who to call to handle the vandalism or theft.  He just stood there motionless, embarrassed.  Before I could even finish processing what was going on, he just ran out, got in his car and took off, the pouring rain stinging his face through the broken glass.

I felt this undeniable, hyper pang of empathy, pain, understanding and embarrassment all wrapped up into a big ball of a stomach ache.  I felt it.  For him. Still. Now.

But then sometimes when I think of this nameless stranger, I picture what he might be doing today and I smile.  I am sure he’s probably a brilliant surgeon or a foreign journalist covering war torn regions.  Maybe even an air traffic controller or a song writer making a good living behind the scenes….where it counts just as much as those who make their way in a “people-person’s” profession.

I guess I just don’t understand why being “social” is such an important character trait- like kindness and a sense of humor.  Because let’s face it, a lot of people aren’t kind and a whole heck of a lot of people don’t have a healthy sense of humor, so why is it considered so bloody important to possess a certain high level of social aptitude….an ability to be “on” when put with a large group of people.

Maybe I can’t shake the image of the kid because I identify with him so much.  I was and still am an introvert.  You never grow out of it like you do shoes and temper tantrums.  You learn to cope, to handle crowds, the awkward glares and the eye rolls.  I was and still am a little different.

I am okay with it now.  I guess that’s the blessing of getting older.  You care less about outside stuff and more about the insides. 

But what do you tell your kids when it happens to them?  This call to integrate socially by teachers and counselors, peers, grandparents and random friends?

To me when I hear my child needs to work on her “socialization” (more sleep-over’s, more play dates, more group interaction) all I hear is let’s work on getting her to “fit in.”

Why does she need to fit in or be like everyone else when she perfectly wonderful the way she is?  And if people don’t understand her, is that really a reason for her to change…to become a generic version of normal? 

Mrs. Payne, my child’s fourth grade teacher said it best.  “She’s going to be a great adult.”  And it’s true.  She doesn’t necessarily fit in with her peers because she’s an old soul in a ten year old body.  Why would I tell her to act her age when growing up is about growing forward not backwards? 

One of my friends said something to me not too long ago.  I think she was being funny, not unkind, but she said someone asked if we were Amish and do I ever cut my daughter’s hair?

I didn’t take offense, or explain that she’s been growing it out for Locks of Love until it gets all the way down her back so she can donate not one but two locks of hair.  That’s her truth and no one else’s.  I don’t want to raise her feeling like she has to explain or qualify her differences. What’s the point in that?   

It’s one thing to teach your kids to have a tough skin. I’m sure there is validity in that….it will save them some hurt and pain down the road. But that takes a lot of energy that can be used more wisely. I guess I would prefer my kid’s skin to be pliable and soft and kind and to stretch and feel deeply about others.   Their skin shouldn’t be impenetrable.  No one’s should.

How can you move proverbial mountains and change the world if you don’t have a whopping amount of faith and empathy towards your fellow mankind?

My girls have a friend named Dane who is 10 years old and moved down here a few years ago from Chicago. Dane is super sweet and super cute with long brown hair he sometimes dyes and cool, funky clothes (that, if only were my size, I would so be borrowing.)  He likes to paint his nails and dress up as Steven Tyler and considers Lady Gaga and Adam Lambert as his musical heroes.  See, he loves to perform and I am telling you right now, he has the voice of an angel.  You’ll be hearing about him one day.  Of that, I am certain.

What is interesting about Dane is that a lot of adults don’t get him but all of the kids, once they get to know him, adore him.  They do.  It’s not in spite of all of his differences, but directly and specifically because of them.  They deep-down love him because of his freedom to express who is truly is. It’s a wonderful thing to see. 

Maybe it’s because young kids haven’t yet bought in to what “the norm” is supposed to be? Maybe it’s because our kids wish to grow up in a world where they are celebrated for being their own unique and one-of-a-kind selves not a carbon copy of certain ideals defined by the majority of a generation that grew up before them in different times and circumstances?  Who are we to teach them what is typical when, if we are straight-up honest, don’t really want to be “typical” ourselves?

Why do we says things like “think outside of the box”, “break the mold”, “embrace change” and then roll our eyes or mock someone who doesn’t think or act like us?  Why do we say you should never judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes but start talking bad about them as soon as they’ve walked out a door only four feet away? 

I am not saying we should all dare to be different.  I just think we should choose not to judge or dismiss those who dare to be different than everyone else.

Steve Jobs once said "Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes…the ones who see things differently—they’re not fond of rules…You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things…they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to change the world, are the ones who do.”

And I have no doubt my misfit, awkward bookstore boy is one of them.

     

  

Clarity: The View Through My Window

Most of us, if we’re honest, spend a good amount of our precious time searching for a certain level of clearness, or transparency, in the way we hope to one day see the world.  Life, relationships, our tight-roped walked dreams and holding-our-breath hopes rarely emerge crystallized in our heads after a few downward facing dogs or a twelve hour sleep.

   Let’s face it.  More times than not, we only get a glimpse of the “now”, through a murky, muddled mess.  A smoggy, polluted haze of the wish I could of’s and all of the should’ve been's.

   It’s not like the simple easy first few steps of childhood, the wide-eyed innocence of infancy; a small stride, a crooked grin.  For me, my clarity came in the early movements of my youth; a twirl, an extended arm, a warm palm, my own ballet shoes dancing a top my father’s slippered feet. 

   It’s easy to forget sometimes how wonderful it is to be loved like that. No strings, or what ifs, or what could have been.

   My bay window in my study where I write looks out across the porch. I love it; this shell tabby material thing that belongs to just me.  Maybe because it protrudes from the house on its own, with nothing under it, weightless but sound in structure and intent.  Or maybe it’s because I can see my kitchen and breakfast room table on the other side through another bay window... this one, though, firmly planted on a concrete slab and surrounded by shiny teak.

   But see, it doesn’t matter.  Rain, sun, fog, tears; I can always voyeur into part of my life from the past that belongs in my daughters present now.

   I watch my husband make my daughters laugh…hard….their heads thrown back while their bellies shake.  I see them deep in concentration over a math equation, a bad day, or maybe just trying to decide what snack to eat.

   I smile as I see his hand extend, and they dance without music, chest on cheek… and I can’t help but think…..

  How wonderful it is to be loved like that.

  Happy Father’s Day.

Trophy Wife

Lucas Glover- 2009 US Open Champ

“What’s the meaning of this?”  I asked my husband as I balanced his cell in one hand, stirred the burnt spaghetti sauce with the other, and tried to keep the cat off the counter with my foot.  Speaking of cats, that’s exactly what my husband looked like, a very sneaky cat that had just swallowed a very big canary.

“What?  Are you snooping through my phone?” He snatched it out of my hand, at least freeing it up so I could scrub my hands with a healthy dose of Dawn and a bucket of hot water.  I felt dirty.

You asked me to look up a number,” I replied.  “Trust me, that picture of you is the last thing I want seared in my memory!”

“So what’s for dinner?”  He leaned in over the sink to give me a kiss, trying to change the subject---like that was ever going to happen.

“Sorry, but you’re not going to be getting any for ten days, or at least whatever the incubation period is for the Swine flu, or H.flu or whatever nasty disease that thing might be carrying.”  I turned off the faucet and took a few steps back.

“But, baby, it’s the US Open trophy!  What was I supposed to do to it?”

“Certainly not kiss the thing!”  At this point, I’m scrambling through the drawers looking for my Echinacea pills.  “Do you even know where it’s been?”

“I wasn’t the only one who did it!” he whined.

 “That’s exactly my point!”

Now, I mean no offense to Lucas Glover, who won the trophy fair and square and was nice enough to bring it over to my husband’s golf club for a few weeks.  He seems like a really great guy and I’m real proud of him, but even he wouldn’t have kissed that thing until they cleaned it, inscribed his name on it, cleaned it again before delivering it to the eighteenth green with white gloved hands.  Since then, who the heck knows how many lips have touched it.

If it isn’t obvious by now, I’m a germaphobe. 

There I said it.  It’s not something I am proud of, but I’m certainly not ashamed of either.  Case in point, there was this exchange with the waiter when I dined with my kid’s at Applebee’s after a Wal-Mart run not too long ago.

“Someone smells great,” the waiter exclaimed after I order an Oriental chicken salad, a basket of chicken fingers and an order of French Onion soup without onions, or cheese, or bread for my eight year old, who’s like Sally from the movie When Harry Met Sally.  So basically, I ordered a six dollar bowl of broth.

“Thanks,” I told him, handing him back the menus. “It’s my hand sanitizer.  Purell has a new one that just came out in Cucumber Melon.”  I swear he rolled his eyes.

But ya’ll tell me, who wouldn’t grease themselves and their loved ones with a few dozen coats of heavy anti-bacterial gel after leaving, along with 20,000 other people that day, THE great American superstore.  I always say the only way I’m going back in is with a tank of oxygen and a bio-hazard suit, but it’s pointless. 

Some day in the future, in a weak moment, I’ll need a garden hose and a box of strawberry cake mix.

But it’s not just that I’m a germaphobe, I’m a Mom.  And unless you’ve ever ran back and forth between bedrooms and the laundry room, washing sheets and towels continuously while two kids are upstairs throwing up at the same time, you shouldn’t judge.  Especially since these kids are little Petri dishes full of thousands of virus and illnesses I can neither spell or treat with 2 tablespoons of Children’s Tylenol.  I know last year alone, we had fifths disease, an ear infection, 2 strep’s, 5 staphs, and a few “mystery” ailments that I’m sure could stump the CDC. 

Take my friend and stylist Kelli, who owns Bayson Salon, has two small children and comes into contact with tons of people every day because she’s so good at her job.  When one of her boy’s came down with Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, she spent the week reassuring her clients the disease sounds worse than it really is and she wasn’t contagious.  Finally, one client got to the point, held up her hand and put it all in perspective: “Honey, that’s the last of my worries. Have you seen my roots?”

Even I have to agree.  Life goes on.  Hair goes gray that must be covered up, laundry hampers and milk must sometimes be bought at the same time, and children must actually venture outside the house.

 I know we can’t all live in a bubble, but my husband still has four days left before I know we’re out of the woods. 

While we wait, at least he can look at the nice picture of the intimate moment that Lucas Glover was so nice to let him have with the US Open trophy.

Paper Crumbs

 

       I miss notes.

   Not the pastel multi-colored Post-It ones that are scattered all over your desk to remind you of all the things you’d just as soon forget.  Or the notes left on the front door by your Pest Control, Cable, Heating & Air, “Fill in the Blank” guy telling you you’ve missed your appointment….again.  Oh, and I can’t forget about the ones from your kids.  You know, the notes scribbled in neon crayon on your precious computer paper that say things like “you’ve ruined my life” or “if I had my own ATM card and knew how to drive I’d be so out of here.”

  No.  Those are the kind of notes I can live without.

  I’m talking about the notes from my own childhood.  The ones scrawled in blue ball point pen on torn out pieces of notebook paper that were then passed, pitched, or planed with the highest of hopes you wouldn’t get caught.

  Those were the “daze.”

  Evidently, in High School I really liked to write notes.  As I was reading over a few of them again the other night from my old Holly Hobby keep sake box, someone named FODOBC once jotted down “I feel like you live to write notes.”

  FODOBC, you were right.  And my secret hoard of stacks and stacks of them from the 90’s is undeniable proof.

  There is nothing particular juicy contained within their tattered pages, I can promise you that.  They were all about the mundane day to day existence of a teenager:

  “I screwed up the Vocab. Test.  I’m so stupid.  Tomorrow I am going to Applebee’s.”

  “Your brother sounds weird on the phone.  What do you want for Christmas?  I want everything in the world.”

  “I guess I’ll tell you what is bothering me.  It’s going to be straight to the point.  I like you a lot and you don’t like me.”

  “I watched some after school special called “Sometimes I Don’t Like My Mother.”  It’s pretty good.”

  Kind of sums it all up, doesn’t?  The insecurities of youth; the weirdness of family and how you feel about yourself; not yet understanding your parents had to actually parent in the most difficult of times and not be your friend; and the naivety of not knowing that one day….all of those things you wanted so desperately…. you will never really need.

  I read something the other day.  I’m not sure who wrote it but it made me pause and think.  It went something like this: “Don’t not go where the path may lead.  Go instead where there is no path and lead a trail.”

  Yes, it’s a grand thought.   The world needs more trailblazers; more individuals and free thinkers.  But if each one of us is different, a one-of-a-kind and our own life unique, then we are all trailblazers by birth making our own personal and particular path through life.  The questions is then- how do you mark your trail, carve your initials into the root of it, and leave something behind to show you were there in the trenches slowly making your way towards the light?

  Paper crumbs.

  Every journal, note, scrap, torn piece of paper tells a story of where we have been and where we would like to go.

  And least that’s what I like to think.  But I am old…fashioned, that is.

  I feel sorry for our children.  They live in a new world of 130 character Tweets, abbreviated slanged texts, and a paperless trail of thoughts and emotions sent out in the big, black void of cyber-space; a scary place where you never know who will end up seeing your most sacred wishes.

  Not-to-mention, their vernacular looks like battle code for a nuclear submarine.

  NAGI- Not a good idea.

  J4F= Just for fun.

  JSYK- Just so you know.

  IKR- I know, right?

  FTF- Face to Face.

  4EAE- Forever and Ever.

  The Pew Internet & American Life Project recently reported that texting is ranked as the number one mode of communication with the 12- 17 set, with a median average of 60 texts a day. 

  Why is there a constant need to be in touch with someone, everyone these days when you really don’t even have anything to say?

  “What R U doin”

  “Nothin U”

  What happened to appropriate distances of space and time, to looking forward to the moment when you could actually formulate a whole sentence and an entire thought- let alone, spell out the words “you” and “are” and put pen to paper?

  I know, I know.   It’s fast and it’s easy. 

  I just hope they realize 4EAE might stand for forever and ever, but it doesn’t represent it.

  Forever and ever symbolizes your word, your honesty, and your character that you’ll spread like seeds as you blaze your way through your individual path of life.

  I just hope our children learn to leave the right kind of crumbs so everyone will know who they sincerely are.  Not just some quick and easy abbreviated version of their true selves.

  Write on, my future trail blazers.  Write on.

C is for Camping

It’s also for clueless, confused and downright crazy.  And for this Southern girl, one has to incorporate all of the above in order to put one foot inside a giant, netted, bustling insect hive (which some people call a tent) and the other foot in a sorry sack of zippered up flimsy fabric meant for you to lay down on and slumber (you know, some call it a sleeping bag.) 

Now, I have been on many a camping trip, but I will fess up and tell you I don’t remember much about any of them.  It’s called denial. To this very day, my brother and I are unable to even talk about or process what took place inside a pop-up tent we spent with our parents for two weeks in Yellowstone one summer when we were in elementary school back in Texas.

Not having TV, hot water, and sharing twelve feet of space and a collapsible potty with three other humans, a few frogs, a family of squirrels, and a hungry bear who was fascinated with our revolving dinner table-slash-bed, does that to some people.

My husband loves to camp.  And it’s one of the things I love about him.  He keeps me guessing. 

As in why would a grown man, squish himself between a formation inside the earth called “Pancake Rock”, repel down the inside of a 30 foot deep cave, then set up camp next to a slab of rock covered in guano?

Now, that’s bat poop for all of you indoorsy types.

Beats me. 

But y’all, now that I have children, I am starting to get scared.  Not that my hair will turn grey, my back will permanently ache and I will no longer remember my name by the time I can have the bathroom to myself.  No.  I am tougher than a two dollar steak when it comes to most things, but sometimes I do get a little shaky at the possibility of hearing three dreaded words announced at the supper table: Family.  Camping. And Trip.

So far though, I have been doing a pretty good job of heading it off at the pass or before the insect repellent and collapsible fishing rods to catch our only dinner make it into hiking packs, if you know what I mean?

It’s all about another “C” word that most people really rely on for their own sanity.  It’s called comfort.  And if you provide it, they will come….or stay home…….depending on how you think of it.

So, fellow non- camping moms, heed my advice.  It only takes ten minutes to set up a tent in the den with some funky quilts and a dozen squishy, soft pillows, put a few triple A’s in the mini flashlights, download a few Gothic Southern ghost stories and broil a few s’mores in the oven. Oh…..and break-up a few dozen glow sticks to coat the inside of a couple of Mason jars to look like fireflies at night.

While it takes 6 hours to drive, 4 miles to hike, 3,000 calories and 2 boxes of granola bars to make it to a camp ground inside the middle nowhere that upon arrival you’ll have to hang your food from a tree and pray it doesn’t rain. 

Instead, here are a few tricks for providing the ultimate, elevated camping experience in your very own abode.   Just think of all of the bug bites, blisters, and doctor bills you’ll avoid by staying home in comfort and in style.

 

Tomato Bacon Bisque with “Camp Crackers” and  Oven Broiled S’mores

This is my foodie representation of grilled cheese and tomato soup that I like to serve “camped out” in the den with my family on a summer week-end movie night (think Stand by Me, Caddy Shack, the Great Outdoors, National Lampoons Vacation, On Golden Pond).  It has taken me over a year to perfect my bisque but it was worth every slip of the serrated knife and burn of the boiled over cream.  I do have to confess I borrowed the camp cracker recipe from one of my favorite New England restaurants The Common Man’s Camp.  Click here to make these yummy gorgonzola cheese slices of heaven below, and like they do up there in Meredith, New Hampshire, slice the pita bread into tiny pizza triangles and place on a long wooden cutting board sprinkled with green scallions and then serve family style-genius.

For the Tomato Bacon Bisque, you’ll need the following but, by the way, I ALWAYS double the recipe. It’s that good:

4 cups of peeled and diced fresh tomatoes; salted to taste (or the canned kind depending on the season)

2 cups chicken broth (or if you have time, it’s always better to make your own-  sauté some butter, onions, carrot and celery, add an already cooked, rotisserie chicken and 2 cups of canned chicken broth(how is that for irony) over boiling water for 30 minutes and then strain chicken and veggies to make your own stock.)  Unless, you have absolutely nothing else in the world to do- I suggest canned chicken broth.

¼ cup of real butter (depending on the state of your arteries)

1 clove minced garlic

8-10 pieces Peppered Bacon (alright, you’re all in now…might as well go for it)

1 small, finely chopped onion

2 cups whipping/heavy cream or half & half (tried them all and they all work-your preference)

 

Cook bacon in oven on 400 for 10-12 minutes until crisp.

Meanwhile, sauté butter, onion, and garlic in soup pot over medium high heat until tender.

Add diced tomatoes, chicken broth and cooked bacon to soup pot.

Simmer for one hour.

Next warm cream in separate pan, careful not to overheat. Now, you have to pretty much stir constantly, and like over the home-made chicken stock and pot of tomatoes-you have will absolutely nothing better to do than enjoy a good book (one of my favorites The Forgotten Garden or The Lake of Dead Languages) and a hefty glass of Pinot.

Add cream to the tomato mixture then transfer to blender or food processor; blend well.

Serve immediately with camp crackers.

Oven Baked S'Mores are just as easy.

Oh...and here is My Kind of Camping Pinterest board for all sorts of inspiration.

The only thing left for y’all to do is read my story, A Diary of a Sleepover, on my website.  Especially, if you’re letting your kids invite a few friends over for the campout fun.  It’s your need-to-know Sleepover Survival Guide.  Have a great night and don’t let the bedbugs bite!  Much love and high hopes for all sorts of pseudo outdoor fun, Laura.

 

Previously published on thesouthernc where I am a contributing writer.

Summer Scavengers

It's official.

It’s finally summer.

And this means a whole new laundry list of special things to look forward to:

Special camps that cost as much as college; special spills, stains, and abandoned honey-do 

lists that wave like forgotten flags from the fridge;  special bugs, weeds and webs that 

grow like wildfire from your now wilted flower beds.  

I know for me, at least, those first few magical days of summer glow like the beginnings 

of a copper-colored tan only to quickly burn, peel and then fade in the brutal heat of slap 

fights, "I'm bored" s and "I told you so" s.  

Tattling spreads like kudzu.  Words filled with teen angst sting like wasps, and soiled 

laundry unfolds like a never-ending smelly mess of your own undoing.

So, sure.  It's summer and as Billy says, "the living is easy." Only that's just for kids,

critters, cacti and those who find comic relief in shooting half-filled cans of soda off the 

couch with a nerd pellet gun and a sling shot (husbands. I am talking to you.)

For the rest of us, that being moms, it's a wholly hell of a hard time.  

Yes, you get to sleep in while your children wreck your house and clean out the pantry, 

but then you have to try and brush the dreadlocks out of their hair, force them to wear 

what a few weeks ago they knew to be shoes, and shove them into a pair of new shorts

with the tags still attached that they've just outgrown.  All of that, just to drive four miles 

to the Winn Dixie.

Fast-forward an hour later when you've checked out, and for the love of all things 

healthy, not know how they snuck into the cart three boxes of Stars Wars gummies, 

two sleeves of Double Stuff Oreos and a case of Mountain Dew that will disappear 

within 30 minutes, along with your weekly secret stash of mini Snickers.

Not only do these little scavengers raid the fridge, cabinets, and pantries because 

they are that bored, but they pillage junk drawers, craft closets, crates, winter coat pockets 

and jewelry cases.  Basically, they will tear into anything that has a lid, lock, or closing 

mechanism on it.

Me, I'm ready to send them back where they came from -school- after just one whole 

week off.  This is because I'm sick and tired of stepping on tiny sharp Lego pieces that 

cut like knives, prickly pipe cleaners glued-along with plastic wiggly eyes- to the 

hardwoods, and the spiky heels of my entire shoe collection that's been confiscated for 

a neighborhood stage showing of Wicked.

And I haven’t even brought up the dozen damp, moldy socks and t-shirts you find under 

their bed that require smelling salts, 2 aspirin and an emergency call to your physician.

Then one day, it hit me, right out of the blue.  Kind of like a haphazardly kicked soccer 

ball aimed carelessly to my head. You see, I was writing out a Scavenger List to get my 

dependents out of my hair for a few.  Usually, I write down every day, garden variety 

objects for them to find.  You know, a leaf as big as their head....a frog, a snail, a puppy 

dog tail (attached of course)....sticks to spell out their name, dreams and aspirations in 

paragraph form, and if possible, indented.

But I suddenly stopped, scratched out my list and started thinking about myself for a 

change.  

So here is my new Summer Scavenger List for 2013.  You are more than welcome to 

print it, then hand it out with an extra large garbage bag, a garden hoe and a laundry

 hamper; the bigger the better. First one done gets bragging rights, dibs on the next 

movie pick and your own secret stash of mini Snickers (I know, that one hurts, but 

trust me it'll be well worth it.)

Here Goes:

1.) 20 weeds from the front yard and 30 from the back.  Healthy grass does not count 

and will incur an automatic ten minute time-out.

2.) 3 objects from the fridge and 5 from the pantry that have an expired after 2012.  

Extra point for anything found from the 1990's.

3.) 4 pairs of socks, matching and tethered together for eternity or at least one more 

wash along with one folded towel off the floor Febreezed, dried and folded.

4.) An empty toilet tissue roll, point is only awarded if replaced by a new one.

5.) One extremely shrill performance from the Sound of Music sung off key and 

standing directly in front of Dad.  Point awarded only if it is so annoying he finally 

stops watching TV or blowing up aliens on your Play Station to change out all the 

burned out light bulbs and takes out the trash.

I don't know how much peace and serenity this will grant you this summer, but at 

least you'll get a few things done around the house without lifting a finger or breaking 

off a nail. And even if a mother’s work is never done, there’s certainly no solid reason 

to really suffer.

As the late, great Erma Bombeck once said about domestic duties- and though this is a 

guess, her children- " if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire or block the 

refrigerator door, let it be.  No one else cares.  Why should you?" 

And if a scavenger hunt for your little scavengers seems like too much trouble, no 

worries.  

Let it all sit, simmer, stew and/ or mildew because if you can't beat them, we'll....

you can surely join them.

See you in the trenches.

It's finally summer.