Not
A Perfect Fit
by
Jane A. Schmidt
Genre:
Heartwarming Humorous Short Stories
Not
a Perfect Fit is a collection of stories that are laugh-out-loud
funny one minute and thought-provoking the next. Stories range from
Schmidt’s experience living off-grid as the only English woman in
an Amish neighborhood to family trips that are remarkably similar to
National Lampoon’s Vacation. Through it all, she manages to rise
above the many challenges she faces—inspiring and entertaining her
audience along the way. Filled with animal antics, gratitude,
mishaps, and madcap adventures, Not a Perfect Fit’s tell-all,
single-girl-gone-country, down-home stories give readers permission
to laugh and cry—and, most important, to carry on.
Backyard Camping with Dad
I’m a believer that you don’t have to travel
far to get away. I may have picked up this attitude from my dad. He was big on
taking me camping . . . in the backyard. And although we loaded up the green
station wagon and went on family adventures every summer, it’s the trips to the
backyard that I recall the most fondly.
I
remember the musty smell of my dad’s old green army tent. The tent was rolled
up tight and neat in a dark green army bag. When we unrolled it, a skinny bag
stored in the middle would fall out with a thud.
Looking
back, I see that there was always an order to how things got done when my dad
was doing them. Hindsight tells me this was his military training.
Before
we set up the tent, my dad would mow the grass. Next, he would lay down a piece
of tarp that was cut perfectly to fit under the tent. Then he’d ceremoniously
roll the tent out onto the tarp. Everything lined up neatly, just the way my
dad tried to get me to make my bed.
The
skinny bag held all the heavy wooden poles that needed to be fitted together.
Two of them went inside the tent and were responsible for holding the tent up.
Once those were in place, I had to help pull out each corner of the tent so my
dad could anchor it to a huge metal stake that he pounded into the ground. It
took forever to set those stakes and get the tent to stand at attention. I
seemed to always trip, fall, or crash into, onto, or over one of those
primitive stakes or tent lines when I had to get out of the tent for anything.
The
poles inside the tent were challenging to maneuver around. My dad would use the
one near our heads to hang a flashlight from. Once the tent was up, we’d fill a
cooler with pop for me, Pabst Blue Ribbon for my dad, and pretzel rods for the
two of us. I’d put my pajamas on and crawl head first into the tent on my
belly, trying not to knock out the poles and wiggling my shoes off as I went.
Shoes were always left outside the tent.
Once we
were both settled, we’d play endless games of Crazy Eights by flashlight. I’d
always fall asleep before saying good night, which meant that our nightly
ritual—a prayer followed by “Good night, alligator; after a while, crocodile”—
never made it out of the house and into the tent.
I
remember the thickness of the flannel-lined sleeping bags, and how they got wet
when it rained (because the rain never failed to leak into the canvas tent). I
also remember making a mad dash for the house when my dad gave up trying to dam
up the pools of water that would collect underneath our tired bodies.
Many
nights were beautiful, however, and we’d lie with our heads pointed toward the
door flap so we could stare out into a star-filled sky. I remember to this day
where the
Big Dipper would appear on a cloudless night:
right over my pet rabbit Thumper’s cage.
Sometimes when I’m driving home from work, I
find myself looking into backyards and searching for tents or for children
playing. This ritual with my dad was priceless, as was playing outside with the
neighborhood children. When I got older and had sleepovers, my friends and I
often chose to sleep outside, and my dad would still help me set up the tent.
As an adult I continue to prefer sleeping in a tent with my head on the ground.
It’s
just about tent season, and I’m planning my first backpacking trip of the year.
I’m hoping for less mud on the trails this May and more star-filled nights.
When I crawl into my tent, I’ll be sure to be thinking of my dad and thanking
him for instilling in me an appreciation of the wonders of sleeping outdoors.
I’ll also be thankful that my tent doesn’t leak—or have wooden poles inside!
JANE
A. SCHMIDT is a columnist and the owner of two businesses, Fitness
Choices and Turtle Adventures. When not teaching her fitness classes
or encouraging women to get outside, she spends her time backpacking
in places like the Grand Canyon, Superior Hiking Trail, and Isle
Royale National Park; biking across Wisconsin; hiking and kayaking in
the Kickapoo Valley Reserve; or just hanging out with her animal
family in rural Viola, Wisconsin.
0 comments:
Post a Comment