Remember those old family vacations? Full of pitfall and travails, the kind where anything can go wrong and usually does. I think those are the best kind of vacations. Think Wally world without the supermodels.
When I was little, my parents always insisted on a week camping. This was despite the fact that my mother detested camping. Let me repeat for emphasis, detested camping. Mainly, because my father assumed that the family would go on leisurely walks to come back to camp, form a roaring fire, and have grilled wonders of meat. The reality tended to be far from that. My brother always got poison sumac. My sisters pretty much would not walk and I liked to wander. It was a mess. Upon returning, my mother would have smoked a pack of cigarettes and as of yet not made a fire. The food when we made it would be inedible and cold in unusual places. Yet despite that, it was exactly what my father wanted. Time aware from activities and games and anything to distract us from time together. Grown up now, I miss those days camping in the middle of nowhere, plotting with my brothers and sisters to scare my parents. I wish I could go back there again, and hopefully one day, I can take my son with me. After he stops being deathly afraid of spiders, bugs, cold, dark, well, the outdoors as a whole.
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