Every so often, someone will ask where I come up with ideas to write about week after week. In short, it’s a piece of cake.
Take a recent incident, for instance. Our eldest and wise-cracking son sent me a text, asking us to join him and his friend at the lake. I was thrilled that he wanted to include us in his Saturday-evening activities.
“Whose house are you at?” I asked as I mulled over the prospect.
“Oh, we’re not at a house. No, sir. We are sitting by a campfire.”
I would go to the ends of the earth to accommodate our sons. I would scale tall mountains, take on worthy adversaries and have even been known to endure the back seat for the sake of familial bliss.
However, I drew a line at the thought of sitting by a campfire on a 33-degree night.
“I think we’ll pass,” I said as I shivered at the thought. “But hey, you kids have fun.”
What I did not realize was that not only was my eldest son and his good ol’ buddy enjoying their night at the lake, but they had made themselves an investment of sorts.
The way they saw it, they would be the envy of their friends, the talk of the town and your veritable go-to guys — for they had gone out and purchased themselves none other than a hillbilly camper.
Come on, I will say it with you, “Oh no, they didn’t!”
Yeah, they did.
When I walked out and saw it adorning our driveway the next morning, I approached it with raw fear. Some desperate soul had taken a pickup camper and had the forethought to stick it on a flatbed trailer.
For fun, this character had cut a hole in the side and stuck an air conditioner through the exterior. It had a TV antenna that looked like a large metal bird had landed. And, for a touch of decorative flair, he had taken the time to put a large decal of a six-point buck on the side.
I say he, for a woman would have known better.
“Ain’t it great?” his friend asked with a big grin. “It has all of the bells and whistles.”
“Yeah!” chimed in Vernon. “And some of them even work!”
As a woman who raised four sons and saw them create makeshift tents with everything from a blanket over the coffee table to a wood pallet in the lilac bushes, I thought I had seen it all.
Although I truly would have loved to have been happy for their $200 purchase, I just wasn’t feeling it.
In fact, as I walked into the dungy and oversized aluminum can, I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed, “Please God, never let my path of life lead me to a place where this is my home.”
“Dare I ask where you plan to park it?” I asked.
That was a question for all the ages, for a beast such as this could not sit just anywhere. Although, it could serve a purpose if you were in a situation where you wanted your property value and that of your neighbors to plummet. “We have land,” Vernon replied. “We thought we could just park it here on the old homestead.”
“I just don’t think so,” said my beloved spouse who, up until that moment, had been quiet as he surely tried to take it all in.
Good ol’ Dad had spoken, and the word was final. As I saw that hunk of junk being pulled out of the driveway on its homemade lead sled, my heart jumped for joy.
In fact, I was thrilled right up until I went for a nice stroll the next week and saw that thing, in all its hillbilly glory, peek around the corner at the bottom of the draw.
“Vernon!” I exclaimed into my cellphone only moments after the discovery.
“Oh yeah!” he said as if he just now remembered that hideous thing was parked in our beautiful little stand of nature. “Turns out no one would let us park on their property either.”
“And you think this spot is OK?”
“Look at the bright side,” Vernon said in his usual wise-cracking tone. “It will give you something to write about.”
Well, at least I don’t have to make stuff up.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].