Spring Buds

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I think I always post a photo like this somewhere on my social media every year. I can’t help it. I’m always so frakkin’ ready to see winter go. I can’t imagine how much anticipation is up north.

I tried to wait until we had some actual sun, but since that won’t happen for three more days, I got impatient and posted. 

This Campsite Is So Luxurious… Said No One Ever

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Topic came from here.

I have never slept outdoors in a tent. It’s okay; please don’t feel sorry for me. I plan on keeping this accomplishment for the rest of my life — barring any apocalyptic scenarios of zombies, worldwide power loss, or asteroid collision with Earth.

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Zombies have taken over the world? Okay, give me a tent. Otherwise, I’m sleeping inside.

Camping outdoors in a tent will never appear on my bucket list because I don’t do sleeping on the ground. In fact, I don’t even do sleeping on the floor. As a kid, when I spent the night at a friend’s house, I was a pro at finagling the couch or some sort of sleeping apparatus that didn’t leave me directly on the floor.

What? Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

Oh, but it’s magical to sleep under the stars and listen to the sounds of nature? You know what else you end up sleeping under? Rain. Those sounds of nature? Bears, coyotes, mountain lions. I’ll stay in my bedroom, open my blinds, and raise a window, thankyouverymuch.

The most rustic camping experiences I have had happened in high school when I joined the marching band. At the beginning of August — or perhaps the end of July, whichever best qualifies as The Armpit of Summer — we had a week-long camp at a God-forsaken place in the Deliverance corner of Oconee County, South Carolina. My mom once told me that when we pulled up on that Sunday afternoon, she almost turned the car around and took me back home.

The cabins (and I use that in a sense looser than Miley Cyrus at the VMAs) consisted of a plywood exterior with the interior frame exposed on the inside — only that technique was not for aesthetic reasons — and I don’t think the builders knew what a level was.  The “windows” were openings along the ceiling covered with chicken wire and wooden shutters that lowered from the inside. Campers who slept in the top bunk were responsible for closing the shutters before bed.

A single light bulb with a pull chain dangled from the ceiling in the middle of the room. We could almost see through the wooden slats that served as our floor, and sweeping all day long did no good against the wisps of dry Carolina red clay that skittered across the floor. And speaking of skittering, the different species of creepy crawlies that made their way around the cabins all day and all night would have given an entomologist a boner.

Laura Ingalls Wilder probably had more amenities in her prairie home than we had at that camp, mmkay?

For my first year attending band camp — right before my junior year — the girls’ cabins had no attached bathrooms. We had to go up a hill, so we were motivated to work on expanding our bladders in order to avoid taking a potty trip in the middle of the night. Luckily, for my second (and last) year of camp, the two girls’ cabins were joined by the bathrooms, so no overnight pee treks with a flashlight.

The bad news was that I was the last girl to arrive, so I got the solitary bed in the middle of the room — the bed that sat in the center of all those mountain air drafts that filtered in and swirled around my shivering ass. The sheet and flimsy blanket I had packed were of no use, and I woke up on the last day of camp with a lousy sore throat.

Obviously, I survived both instances, but I don’t think travelers should come away from a trip longing for their own beds. I want to leave a destination wistful, not wanting it to end; instead, I left this place wanting to give it the middle finger salute as I rode back down the gravel driveway entrance.

I don’t mean to sound like a spoiled prima donna. I promise I don’t pitch a hissy fit if there are green M&Ms but no chilled bottle of Cristal in my hotel room. I believe my requirements are not that extravagant — four walls, a door that locks, air-conditioning/heat, indoor plumbing, real windows, a bed that sits off the floor, and pest-free surroundings.

So unless your accommodations include the above, don’t expect me to stay with you. I’ll reserve my room at the Hampton Inn — free breakfast, you know.

Weekend Weather

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Lake Hartwell at full pond. Take a good look, kids. Who knows when we’ll see this again!

The weekend got off to a rocky start with me being trapped in my car for ten minutes in the Publix parking lot while Mother Nature whipped up another deluge of rain. But we woke up to mid-60s on Saturday morning with a cool breeze, perfect weather for hanging out on my aunt and uncle’s back porch with the majority of my extended family all afternoon long.

I’ll forgive you THIS TIME, Mother Nature.