I wanted Dick to myself. But he was a charmer, a storyteller, and there was always someone else around. So when he suggested we go camping, just the two of us, I was thrilled, even though it was October in Ohio
There weren’t many people at the campground, and none where he and I decided to park our gear. We grilled hamburgers in the barbecue pit, heated beans, and were enjoying some Peach Schnapps straight from the bottle when it started to sprinkle.
“Not a problem,” Dick grinned. “We’ll get the tent up and be dry as toast.” Let me digress here for a moment. For all his seductive storytelling abilities, Dick was a sucker for clichés. If he found a woman attractive, she was “cute as a button.” But I didn’t know then that “dry as toast” meant “at least we’ll be out of the rain.”
It was beginning to get dark, so we hurried about our tasks and had the tent up and our sleeping bags zipped together over a spongy pad when the storm hit, one of those Midwestern thunderstorms, “a thing of ragged violence,” I’ve since read.
I was delighted, the same cozy feeling I remembered as a child listening to the rain on the tin roof of my grandmother’s porch. The temperature had dropped abruptly so we’d kept on our clothes, but my warmth of contentment and his satisfaction at having provided a safe den from the rain outside had us laughing and talking into the night.
Until I noticed a squishy sound beneath me. I turned a bit, slipped a hand out from the sleeping bag, pressed down on the mat beneath us, and felt water oozing up through my fingers.
“Uh, Dick, I think maybe the tent is leaking.” It was midnight now, getting colder by the minute. But it was still pouring rain, no moon, pitch-black outside, so we couldn’t take the tent down and leave. Ever the resourceful hunter, Dick pulled a poncho from his gear bag, which we smoothed out between the mat and our sleeping bags. The poncho was round and about five feet in diameter, so we had a small circle in the middle where we could keep relatively dry.
It was the best time I’ve ever had in a tent.
There weren’t many people at the campground, and none where he and I decided to park our gear. We grilled hamburgers in the barbecue pit, heated beans, and were enjoying some Peach Schnapps straight from the bottle when it started to sprinkle.
“Not a problem,” Dick grinned. “We’ll get the tent up and be dry as toast.” Let me digress here for a moment. For all his seductive storytelling abilities, Dick was a sucker for clichés. If he found a woman attractive, she was “cute as a button.” But I didn’t know then that “dry as toast” meant “at least we’ll be out of the rain.”
It was beginning to get dark, so we hurried about our tasks and had the tent up and our sleeping bags zipped together over a spongy pad when the storm hit, one of those Midwestern thunderstorms, “a thing of ragged violence,” I’ve since read.
I was delighted, the same cozy feeling I remembered as a child listening to the rain on the tin roof of my grandmother’s porch. The temperature had dropped abruptly so we’d kept on our clothes, but my warmth of contentment and his satisfaction at having provided a safe den from the rain outside had us laughing and talking into the night.
Until I noticed a squishy sound beneath me. I turned a bit, slipped a hand out from the sleeping bag, pressed down on the mat beneath us, and felt water oozing up through my fingers.
“Uh, Dick, I think maybe the tent is leaking.” It was midnight now, getting colder by the minute. But it was still pouring rain, no moon, pitch-black outside, so we couldn’t take the tent down and leave. Ever the resourceful hunter, Dick pulled a poncho from his gear bag, which we smoothed out between the mat and our sleeping bags. The poncho was round and about five feet in diameter, so we had a small circle in the middle where we could keep relatively dry.
It was the best time I’ve ever had in a tent.
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