The Blue Tent

My family has two tents. The blue tent and the orange tent. They are both 30+ years old. The orange tent is a big 'ole canvas tent. I grew up knowing that if it rained, you never touched the tent or through that one finger spot, the entire tent would become flooded. These are the tents my father went camping in as a child.

My grandmother hated camping. I'm not too clear on what the actual objection was. I have a feeling that it has something to do with the civilization level. She tried hard and if the stories are true, then the camping expeditions were something else. Rumour has it she managed to bake apple pie on a camp stove. As each child moved out of the house, they were lent the camping cooking equipment until everything was unpacked.

I am the one left holding some of the camping cooking gear. I have the cutlery. It is mixed in with my normal cutlery. No one can tell the difference. That's because it's better than most people's normal cutlery. It's Oneida.

One of my previous roommates lost some of it. I was aghast. "You don't understand, " I wailed. "I"m the first, the first, person to lose some of it. I can't give back an incomplete set. " After countless camping trips and at least three moves, I was the first one to lose spoons and forks. I haven't given it back. I'll give it back when I've completed the set again.

So when some of my friend suggested we go camping, I was apprehensive. I assumed they threw their sleeping bags down on the ground and toughed it out. In the camping spectrum, I wasn't even on the chart for the level of hardcoreness. Then I found out that they had an inflatable mattress, which they inflated via the car. Suddenly I was game, this was no more hardcore than I could deal with.

I rang up my Dad and asked to borrow the blue tent. This was Dad's boyhood tent. He had always felt that my brother and I should have done more backyard camping as children and that we never fully used the tent as we should have. He seemed surprised that I, one of his children, of my own free will wanted to use it. "Talk to your Mum."

The forecast was uncertain but rain was certain. One of my friends was unsure of the waterproofness of my tent. "Are you sure it's waterproof?" she asked full of concern. "I'll ring and ask, " I said, "but no one's ever complained in 30 years so I'm assuming it's good. If there was a problem, I would have heard about it long before now."

So I had a quick conversation with my father.

"Is it water proof Dad?"

"Well, after eight hours of torrential rain it leaks."

I reported back that it was fine.

Later I was talking to my brother who passed on the news that Dad had brought up my camping trip. This was not good news. Things only come up when he's not happy. I held my breath. My brother started telling the story it seemed as though my Dad was worried about all the things Dads get worried about. Mum anticipated the problem and tried to calmed him down, "Don't worry, she'll be responsible."

Dad looked at her in amazement, "huh?" and a pained expression came across his face. They waited for the outbreak, which wasn't long in coming.

"And Kim's friend, oh what's her name . . . "

pause and then a huge intake of air, and then full of indignation, he let it out:

"asked if MY TENT LEAKED!!"

I enjoyed telling him that the same friend had taken a picture of my tent with my camp cot. She said that she had to have a picture as she would never see that type of tent again - it was the type of thing you only saw in musuems.

"Pah." He replied.

"Oh, and it doesn't leak Dad, but things do get a bit damp."

Before it rained.