OUT ON VACATION: THE BEST AIR MATTRESS

 

We had four because we were four, traveling the country in a packed to the gills Yellow Ford Galaxy and later, a Shimmery Green Chevy Impala.  The best ever air mattresses were dual purposed, a necessity for camping.  By night, soft pillows of air tucked under flannel lined sleeping bags.  In the light of day and within sight of water, buoys across whatever beach, river, or lake called our name to a day of water-filled adventure.

The best air mattress, wide and long, with the reminiscent smell of a sturdy Goodyear tire, tried and true.  Every seam of the mattress was sealed to perfection, above and beyond the rest of any just plain water toy.

The green mattress had the feel of suede.  Surely, this rubberized canvas was sea worthy if a mast could be installed without puncturing the sturdy fabric.  Standing on the edge of the beach, looking out over the Gulf, one could imagine launching the float towards Cuba and arriving, if only to push up on the foreign soil for just a moment before discovery.

Landfall in Cuba brought to mind the struggle of the old man and the sea, and his daily tin can of hot coffee for breakfast before sunrise, another day searching, using the handmade ropes to capture the glory fish of his last days after a lifetime of just enough.

My imagination would be only a slight match for the old man's small wooden skiff.  The race of a silver blue fish out into the Gulf, caught in an unknown trap, a heavy load to shake off.  The old fisherman's gnarled hands gripping the endowed rope, the prize finally within his seasoned grasp.  The untamed, unchallenged will of the wild fighting with every cell this unknown outcome. 

The stillness of the sea, the unshadowed sun, the scavengers of the defeated.  The strength of anger to raise an oar and strike at nature's predators circling and circling.  The real one that couldn't get away.

The call to come in, dragging the air mattress behind me, leaving stripes in the sand as I turn towards evening camp chores.  When my parents were still drinking coffee around the fire, Sister and I would head to bed.  Finally tucked into my cozy sleeping bag on top of the taut mattress, the worst sound would be the barely discernible buzz of air escaping. Or the high pitched noise might be a blood thirsty mosquito dive bombing my ear.  At this point in the trip, a mosquito was the preferred option.  With rolling over came the realization that morning would find me on the surface of the topography of this campsite with only a tarp and a canvas floor as a cushion between me and the hard, rocky ground.  Nothing is flatter than a flat air mattress that has given up the ghost, slowly all night long.

When camping, we had exactly what we needed, carefully thought out for the two week trek to the echoing Colorado mountains or the Atlantic Ocean.  Year after year, my mother mapped out a trip months ahead of time, sending letters inquiring about the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde and the free maps offered by the different states we would travel through.  Or procuring tickets to visit The White House and The Capitol.  (We didn't camp while in Washington, D.C. but going and coming.)  Those mattresses were packed and unpacked many trips.

On the trails in Colorado

Campsite unloading.  Always a happy family time.  The folded mattresses would be put on the concrete table. We didn't have anything resembling an air pump but two pairs of lungs.  Oh the joy for the lucky children who got to blow up the mattresses.  But the campsite was not up and running until the "beds" had been made in the tent.

Blowing up the mattress would make me dizzy.  My cheeks would hurt.  I would blow and blow and see little result.  I would throw out a complaint which would not usually be noticed by parents placing stakes and smoothing the tarp.  I can still hear the sound of the heavy green canvas tent unfolding and becoming a shelter against the wilds of the wilderness like bears and cougars and skunks and hurricanes.

Immense effort continued in my physically exhausting attempt to get that float finished.  Sister would be working on her air mattress.  I don't know if it was the time expended in achieving the result or the burning lungs and exhaustion after the fact.  Toting water back to the campsite from the distant water spigot.  Shining a skinny flashlight down the camp road to get to the facilities in the middle of the night.  Waiting for the rain to stop while staring at the green canvas, not daring to touch the sides and start a horrible leak.   Blowing up the air mattress was the least favorite of the unfavorites.

But suddenly the welded rubber seams would straighten up and the flat columns of air would pop and I would quickly close off the brass nozzle.  The stress and struggle would result in something that would hold me up as I floated in the nearby lake, laying across it sideways, dangling my legs into the water which got cooler as I went farther out.  Or laying down on the mattress as I bobbed across salt water, soft waves on a quiet sea running underneath. 

But without the stress and the struggle I would only have a flat piece of suede-like rubber.

When life gets hard, look for a buffer.  Don't lay down on rocks covered only by a plastic sheet and canvas.  Pour the stress, anxiety and pain into something that can lift you just inches above the uneven surface.  Without the tension of the trapped air, the mattress can't inflate.  

You can be standing on your little Ship of Life and a rogue wave knocks you into the water.  Lady Overboard!  For a minute I flounder before I remember I can swim.  The best air mattress is thrown my way and I grab it and hang on tight, kicking out of the deep water.  Finally on top, I lay back resting on the pillow, as my tears of panic dry under the glory of the sun. 



Originally posted 4-3-14

RETURNING: AN ODD COUPLE AND THOMAS WOLFE

Gurgle, gurgle, bump,bump.  Drippy, drippy, drip, drip.  This is the sound of my magic elixir machine brewing the pot of liquid jolt necessary to begin my day.  Maybe not necessary.  I can jump out of bed and function in an emergency situation but not by choice.  In that case, I grab a cold Red can from the fridge and perform the same task but with a cold start.

I remember drinking my first samples of coffee when I was very, very young at my great-grandmother's house.  Maybe I was 4 or 5, with just as many tablespoons of sugar and milk and a couple of dollops of hot coffee.  She had the cutest little wooden spoon holder of a Dutch boy and girl.  That is a place I would love to go back and visit.  What a great way to get hooked on caffeine.

When I was growing up, caffeinated beverages were a treat, not a daily part of my life.  Even though my grandparents owned a hotel and had a cold drink box in the corner of the lobby, I had to ask permission before I could reach my hand into the freezing water and retrieve a bottle.  When I was six, we took our first big camping trip to Colorado.  I had my first fountain drink of Coca-Cola (nectar of the gods).  Being in the mountains, this new type of drink became a "mountain" drink in my vocabulary.  

My serious coffee drinking began in seventh grade using freeze-dried nuggets.  It is a wonder that I kept drinking the stuff.  I do keep a small jar in the pantry for cooking purposes or to grab for the allusive camping out experience, just like the plastic box in the garage containing all items required to equip a camping kitchen big enough for a small regiment.  Always, the just in-case, never must throw out or give away an item that may be necessary if a camping excursion were to commence on a moment's notice.  This is required to keep an old Boy Scout in good standing.  And the sleeping bags of uncertain condition after twenty years of little use.  I have become a real bed person.  Tie that to the top of the car.

Speaking of travelling like the Joads.  Once on vacation in Washington, D.C. I remember all of us climbing out of our brand-new minivan, which was packed to the gills.  Burt had just managed to park the car, which is no small feat in that city were the majority of the vehicles are small and convenient.  When travelling there, one will notice the rarity of the SUV's, trucks and vans that we Southern folks are partial to. Our niece was also travelling with us.  Princess and her cousin had been fighting over who was sitting where, almost for the entire trip.

A couple of  "sophisticated" young Washingtonians walked by and laughed, remarking about our license plate and the President.  It was a very tacky thing to do, especially to a tourist but more is the pity.  Afterall, I doubt they had ever been to the President's birthday party or stopped to offer him a ride on a cold January morning when he was jogging.  Bless their heart.

We had more camping equipment than luggage.  On the return trip home we were driving through the Carolina's and we already had a camping spot picked out.

                                                   An earlier trip to Carolina


Burt had only heard tales about this magical nook, the world's most beautiful camping spot, nestled in the mountains.  Away from the dirt-packed campsite, a green lawn of  moss led down to a cold, mountain stream which shimmered when a slice of sun filtered through the trees, reflecting off the smooth chips of Mica glistening   Nearby, a small swimming lake held waters too cold to swim in, even in August.  A bath house offered showers so frigid that young children were not required to bathe, especially after the experience of a screaming mother.

My family made the trek twice to camp in this very same spot.  For many years, we exchanged Christmas cards with a neighbor camper, a woman who pitched a tent in that same beautiful glade, and resided there as long as the NPS would allow.  Despite our best preparation, the rain would keep us away from the hallowed campsite on this trip.  Hopefully, Burt will someday get the chance to set up camp there.

When one is driving home from Maine, a diversion through the Carolinas is a must.  And a blessing in disguise.  My mother, father and I had not traveled this scenic route in decades.  The road wound along the very edge of a rushing mountain river full of boulders that looked like a gully God had rolled His marbles down just to see where they would land.  A metal guard rail clung to the most precarious edges as the curves prevented any high speed.

We saw the sign for the swimming lake first.  It still looked cold.  The bathhouse was still standing.  We got back into the car and drove to the campsite.  The Thursday afternoon was fairly quiet and not yet impacted by the certain influx of campers that would soon seek a beautiful October weekend.

I pulled into the parking spot beside the campsite.  Decades of growth had encompassed the site and with all things when looking back, the place seemed smaller.  A favorite of my father, native son Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again."  And it is better not always knowing, the last.

But with memory, I walk the laurel-lined pathways of the campground of happy times.  With my sister, my parents and my cousin.   I see tiny garnets shaking together in the bottom of a cup.  The smell of carrots, corn, onions and potatoes cooking with hamburger for our camping goulash.  The feel of the slips of mica peeled away in delicate layers, a fairy's mirror.  The gurgle of a moss-banked stream and water too cold for feet.  But the perfect temperature for submerged cans of sweet refreshment.  Tucked into a warm sleeping bag, the sounds of the night in low voice.  Just in sight, on the other side of the table, my parents sitting in folding chairs with their feet propped on the outside rocks of a campfire, each cupping a small, plastic cup with steam rising, and the smell of coffee on the camp stove, as they each pause and take a sip between the words of their life's conversation as it drifts high into the trees, forever caught in the canopy of this magical glade.



signed,

a woman who will return


Originally published  September 14, 2013




I am not the Queen of Pumpkin in October. But recently a pumpkin flavored coffee at Fresh Market hopped into my basket in all of its shiny orange seasonal festoonery. Decaf Pumpkin Spice. I am a purist for milk in my coffee. Skim milk. Basic. Simple and not syrupy. But while at the grocer yesterday, my eye fell on a piece of possible luxury. Acutally decandent luxury if you knew how much it cost. But it was my beloved Starbucks. Drinking this would be cheaper than drive thru every few days. I took the leap and purchased the Starbucks Creamer Cinnamon Dolce Latte. The two put together are the essence of a fall evening. I will be spending many a night on my deck, with my feet up, sipping this concoction as the nights grow still. Before too long, I will be wrapped in my afghan basking in the cold after our long, hot summer, warming my hands around my nice, hot cup of coffee.

VACATION RECESS: A Good Air Mattress Will Get You Through

We had four because we were four, traveling the country in a packed to the gills Yellow Ford Galaxy and later, a Shimmery Green Chevy Impala.  The best ever air mattresses were dual purposed, a necessity for camping.  By night, soft pillows of air tucked under flannel lined sleeping bags.  In the light of day and within sight of water, buoys across whatever beach, river, or lake called our name to a day of water-filled adventure.

The best air mattress, wide and long, with the reminiscent smell of a sturdy Goodyear tire, tried and true.  Every seam of the mattress was sealed to perfection, above and beyond the rest of any just plain water toy.

The green mattress had the feel of suede.  Surely, this rubberized canvas was sea worthy if a mast could be installed without puncturing the sturdy fabric.  Standing on the edge of the beach, looking out over the Gulf, one could imagine launching the float towards Cuba and arriving, if only to push up on the foreign soil for just a moment before discovery.

Landfall in Cuba brought to mind the struggle of the old man and the sea, and his daily tin can of hot coffee for breakfast before sunrise, another day searching, using the handmade ropes to capture the glory fish of his last days after a lifetime of just enough.

My imagination would be only a slight match for the old man's small wooden skiff.  The race of a silver blue fish out into the Gulf, caught in an unknown trap, a heavy load to shake off.  The old fisherman's gnarled hands gripping the endowed rope, the prize finally within his seasoned grasp.  The untamed, unchallenged will of the wild fighting with every cell this unknown outcome. 

The stillness of the sea, the unshadowed sun, the scavengers of the defeated.  The strength of anger to raise an oar and strike at nature's predators circling and circling.  The real one that couldn't get away.

The call to come in, dragging the air mattress behind me, leaving stripes in the sand as I turn towards evening camp chores.  When my parents were still drinking coffee around the fire, Sister and I would head to bed.  Finally tucked into my cozy sleeping bag on top of the taut mattress, the worst sound would be the barely discernible buzz of air escaping. Or the high pitched noise might be a blood thirsty mosquito dive bombing my ear.  At this point in the trip, a mosquito was the preferred option.  With rolling over came the realization that morning would find me on the surface of the topography of this campsite with only a tarp and a canvas floor as a cushion between me and the hard, rocky ground.  Nothing is flatter than a flat air mattress that has given up the ghost, slowly all night long.

When camping, we had exactly what we needed, carefully thought out for the two week trek to the echoing Colorado mountains or the Atlantic Ocean.  Year after year, my mother mapped out a trip months ahead of time, sending letters inquiring about the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde and the free maps offered by the different states we would travel through.  Or procuring tickets to visit The White House and The Capitol.  (We didn't camp while in Washington, D.C. but going and coming.)  Those mattresses were packed and unpacked many trips.

On the trails in Colorado

Campsite unloading.  Always a happy family time.  The folded mattresses would be put on the concrete table. We didn't have anything resembling an air pump but two pairs of lungs.  Oh the joy for the lucky children who got to blow up the mattresses.  But the campsite was not up and running until the "beds" had been made in the tent.

Blowing up the mattress would make me dizzy.  My cheeks would hurt.  I would blow and blow and see little result.  I would throw out a complaint which would not usually be noticed by parents placing stakes and smoothing the tarp.  I can still hear the sound of the heavy green canvas tent unfolding and becoming a shelter against the wilds of the wilderness like bears and cougars and skunks and hurricanes.

Immense effort continued in my physically exhausting attempt to get that float finished.  Sister would be working on her air mattress.  I don't know if it was the time expended in achieving the result or the burning lungs and exhaustion after the fact.  Toting water back to the campsite from the distant water spigot.  Shining a skinny flashlight down the camp road to get to the facilities in the middle of the night.  Waiting for the rain to stop while staring at the green canvas, not daring to touch the sides and start a horrible leak.   Blowing up the air mattress was the least favorite of the unfavorites.

But suddenly the welded rubber seams would straighten up and the flat columns of air would pop and I would quickly close off the brass nozzle.  The stress and struggle would result in something that would hold me up as I floated in the nearby lake, laying across it sideways, dangling my legs into the water which got cooler as I went farther out.  Or laying down on the mattress as I bobbed across salt water, soft waves on a quiet sea running underneath. 

But without the stress and the struggle I would only have a flat piece of suede-like rubber.

When life gets hard, look for a buffer.  Don't lay down on rocks covered only by a plastic sheet and canvas.  Pour the stress, anxiety and pain into something that can lift you just inches above the uneven surface.  Without the tension of the trapped air, the mattress can't inflate.  

You can be standing on your little Ship of Life and a rogue wave knocks you into the water.  Lady Overboard!  For a minute I flounder before I remember I can swim.  The best air mattress is thrown my way and I grab it and hang on tight, kicking out of the deep water.  Finally on top, I lay back resting on the pillow, as my tears of panic dry under the glory of the sun. 



Originally posted 4-3-14

THE BEST AIR MATTRESS

We had four because we were four, traveling the country in a packed to the gills Yellow Ford Galaxy and later, a Shimmery Green Chevy Impala.  The best ever air mattresses were dual purposed, a necessity for camping.  By night, soft pillows of air tucked under flannel lined sleeping bags.  In the light of day and within sight of water, buoys across whatever beach, river, or lake called our name to a day of water-filled adventure.

The best air mattress, wide and long, with the reminiscent smell of a sturdy Goodyear tire, tried and true.  Every seam of the mattress was sealed to perfection, above and beyond the rest of any just plain water toy.

The green mattress had the feel of suede.  Surely, this rubberized canvas was sea worthy if a mast could be installed without puncturing the sturdy fabric.  Standing on the edge of the beach, looking out over the Gulf, one could imagine launching the float towards Cuba and arriving, if only to push up on the foreign soil for just a moment before discovery.

Landfall in Cuba brought to mind the struggle of the old man and the sea, and his daily tin can of hot coffee for breakfast before sunrise, another day searching, using the handmade ropes to capture the glory fish of his last days after a lifetime of just enough.

My imagination would be only a slight match for the old man's small wooden skiff.  The race of a silver blue fish out into the Gulf, caught in an unknown trap, a heavy load to shake off.  The old fisherman's gnarled hands gripping the endowed rope, the prize finally within his seasoned grasp.  The untamed, unchallenged will of the wild fighting with every cell this unknown outcome. 

The stillness of the sea, the unshadowed sun, the scavengers of the defeated.  The strength of anger to raise an oar and strike at nature's predators circling and circling.  The real one that couldn't get away.

The call to come in, dragging the air mattress behind me, leaving stripes in the sand as I turn towards evening camp chores.  When my parents were still drinking coffee around the fire, Sister and I would head to bed.  Finally tucked into my cozy sleeping bag on top of the taut mattress, the worst sound would be the barely discernible buzz of air escaping. Or the high pitched noise might be a blood thirsty mosquito dive bombing my ear.  At this point in the trip, a mosquito was the preferred option.  With rolling over came the realization that morning would find me on the surface of the topography of this campsite with only a tarp and a canvas floor as a cushion between me and the hard, rocky ground.  Nothing is flatter than a flat air mattress that has given up the ghost, slowly all night long.

When camping, we had exactly what we needed, carefully thought out for the two week trek to the echoing Colorado mountains or the Atlantic Ocean.  Year after year, my mother mapped out a trip months ahead of time, sending letters inquiring about the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde and the free maps offered by the different states we would travel through.  Or procuring tickets to visit The White House and The Capitol.  (We didn't camp while in Washington, D.C. but going and coming.)  Those mattresses were packed and unpacked many trips.

On the trails in Colorado

Campsite unloading.  Always a happy family time.  The folded mattresses would be put on the concrete table. We didn't have anything resembling an air pump but two pairs of lungs.  Oh the joy for the lucky children who got to blow up the mattresses.  But the campsite was not up and running until the "beds" had been made in the tent.

Blowing up the mattress would make me dizzy.  My cheeks would hurt.  I would blow and blow and see little result.  I would throw out a complaint which would not usually be noticed by parents placing stakes and smoothing the tarp.  I can still hear the sound of the heavy green canvas tent unfolding and becoming a shelter against the wilds of the wilderness like bears and cougars and skunks and hurricanes.

Immense effort continued in my physically exhausting attempt to get that float finished.  Sister would be working on her air mattress.  I don't know if it was the time expended in achieving the result or the burning lungs and exhaustion after the fact.  Toting water back to the campsite from the distant water spigot.  Shining a skinny flashlight down the camp road to get to the facilities in the middle of the night.  Waiting for the rain to stop while staring at the green canvas, not daring to touch the sides and start a horrible leak.   Blowing up the air mattress was the least favorite of the unfavorites.

But suddenly the welded rubber seams would straighten up and the flat columns of air would pop and I would quickly close off the brass nozzle.  The stress and struggle would result in something that would hold me up as I floated in the nearby lake, laying across it sideways, dangling my legs into the water which got cooler as I went farther out.  Or laying down on the mattress as I bobbed across salt water, soft waves on a quiet sea running underneath. 

But without the stress and the struggle I would only have a flat piece of suede-like rubber.

When life gets hard, look for a buffer.  Don't lay down on rocks covered only by a plastic sheet and canvas.  Pour the stress, anxiety and pain into something that can lift you just inches above the uneven surface.  Without the tension of the trapped air, the mattress can't inflate.  

You can be standing on your little Ship of Life and a rogue wave knocks you into the water.  Lady Overboard!  For a minute I flounder before I remember I can swim.  The best air mattress is thrown my way and I grab it and hang on tight, kicking out of the deep water.  Finally on top, I lay back resting on the pillow, as my tears of panic dry under the glory of the sun.