Camping

Camping

Camping. She hated camping--zipped into her bed, her blanket her sleeping bag. Bagged, that's what she was when they went camping in 

"the great outdoors"

"close to nature"

"in the green and rolling hills"

...where there was nothing flat to stretch out on, to lie down on, to sleep, perchance to dream. No. Not going to happen.

But there she was. They were camping again, one of them happy, industrious, setting up the tent, hooking up the camp stove, boiling water for . . . who knows, but you always needed hot water at the ready.

She could go for a walk, pretend to immerse herself in nature which is what she did while he constructed their "home away from home," drove in the stakes, strung the what-ever-you-call-it...tarp? canopy? What was the word?

So she left, walked, found a path, saw a doe dart across the path, inches, really INCHES from her face, heard the chickadees calling to each other, "Supper is ready, " one seemed to promise the other, found a streak of trout lilies along a tiny stream, and felt fingers of wind in her hair. 

Really?

Well, of course the wind doesn't have fingers, "but that's what it felt like," she said when she got back, "Celestial fingers lifting each strand of hair and declaring it..."

 

"Beautiful?"

She blushed. "Well, it was wonderful."

He smiled, with relief, and handed her a glass, a plastic glass of wine. "Dinner is ready," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it.