Many people think I don’t know the first thing about camping. This is rather irritating, as it strips away my carefully-cultivated reputation as a master-woodsman. With more than 20 years of Mark Trail comics under my belt, you’d think people would be more respectful. Sadly, I find this pernicious attitude even among members of my immediate family.

(As anyone knows, the first thing about camping is to cancel at the last minute, preferably with an unverifiable iron-clad excuse. But I digress.)

Our destination.

“You’re doing what?” fleered my brother, Torpid, when he heard of my plans to take the family camping. His sniggering jarred unpleasantly through the phone receiver. Torpid always did have a nasty snigger, as many of his victims can attest.

“Everything you “know” about camping is from reading equipment reviews on Amazon!, he chortled.

This was patently untrue, and I hurriedly closed down the browser window on my laptop, lest anyone gather the wrong impression.

I snapped back, “Shows what you know! I have a varied and comprehensive wealth of camping experience, passed down to me by my loving parents.”

Sometimes Torpid finds a simple smirk will suffice.

Torpid was unimpressed. “Yeah, I was there, remember? Seems all you learned was how to whine and avoid doing any work. I remember one time, I was carrying a 40-pound pack, and you had only a knapsack with a single bag of potato chips. Boy, the way you carried on, anyone would’ve thought we made you carry 80 pounds of bricks.”

I am often surprised at the way memory plays tricks on older people. My brother, no longer a young man, seems only a few years from senility, probably as a direct result of all the sniggering he does. He may hold a high position of authority and responsibility in the Army, but it only goes to show how short-staffed the military forces are in these days of global unrest.

As a child, though he is three years older than me, Torpid was often intimidated by my superior intelligence, physical prowess, dashing good looks, and social charm. Even at a young age, I was sensitive to his need to feel important. I graciously allowed him to perform a few menial tasks, lending him the illusion of contributing value to our family dynamic. Where other boys would have insisted on their prerogative to set up the tent, and their right to carry heavy backpacks and to build the fire, I was never one to put myself forward. Even my joking ‘complaints’ were carefully calculated to build him up in my parents’ eyes. How sad that my brother, now supposedly grown-up, would fail to grasp the true extent of my generous nature.

“How long after you’ve gone shall I wait before calling out Search and Rescue?” Torpid jeered as I hung up on him, amidst more sniggering.

Undeterred by my brother’s snide remarks, the day of the the camping trip dawned, bright and clear. About 8 hours later, we were almost ready to go, as storm clouds gathered and winds gusted. My wife, Latte, was worried about the trip, ever since she had heard there was no Starbucks at our campground. Maybe there’s a Tully’s, or even a Forza’s, I soothed, duplicitously.

Fortunately, no one leaned backwards.

One of the things I have tried to teach my children is that camping requires a lot of careful planning. Even though we used an exhaustive checklist, it seems my family always forgets some minor piece of equipment. As we circled back toward home, only ten minutes into our trip, I chided them to ensure that, for the last time, we had everything with us in the car.

The effect of my sage counsel on the ears of my children was somewhat marred by unsolicited commentary. “I can’t believe you left the tent on the driveway!” exclaimed Latte. I’ve noticed that many wives seem to fixate on irrelevant details.

Do we really need a tent?

After what seemed like a trans-continental journey, we arrived at our campground and began to unpack. The constant whine from the drive had left a ringing in my ears, but my family was unsympathetic. “If you’d only stop whining, Dad,” they grumbled, “it would have been a more pleasant drive for all of us.” Latte wisely (but uncharacteristically) said nothing.

Two camp chairs and seven people … who did the math on that one?

As we surveyed our campsite, we noticed a nicely groomed, raised sand area bordered by fence posts, provided as a soft and level spot for our tent. Unfortunately, we soon discovered that the sand dais was too small. I can just imagine the boys back at Forest Service headquarters …

Genghis: “Hey, Adolph, we just received the latest tent dimension figures from the leading sports equipment manufacturers. Looks like the best-selling tents are all at least 8′2″ on the shortest side.”

Adolph: “Bwahahahahaha! Let’s write a new policy for all our campgrounds requiring all tent sites to be standardized. We’ll make the tent sites, oh, let’s say, 8′ square?”

Stalin: (sniggering) Yeah, and let’s put iron campfire rings in all the sites, but then issue a directive to disallow fires, fifty weeks a year!

Those Forest Service guys really enjoy their work. We pitched our tent on the only remaining semi-level part of the campsite, liberally festooned with large knobby roots that were sure to land us all in the chiropractor’s office. It was about that time that our youngest daughter, Thistle, announced: “I don’t have any shoes.”

Sure enough, she packed only flip-flops, hoping, no doubt, to avoid our planned death march to the Rainier Summit on Saturday. We decided to send Latte back to the last town we had passed to buy some shoes. “While you’re there,” I suggested, “maybe you could pick us up a tarp so these roots don’t put holes in the bottom of our new tent.” Latte leaped into the car and drove off without a backward glance, tires squealing, probably eager to top off her Starbucks thermos.

Sarah shows off her new shoes

As we watched the tail lights of the van disappear into the gloom of the forest, it began to rain.

Special thanks to Pat McManus, whose writing style I shamelessly borrowed in constructing this story.

Tune in tomorrow for the second installment of this gripping tale.

Tim

I think it’s time for a poll here at the Duckabush Blog. No, not pool, poll. If it were a little warmer I might be talking about pools, but we’re in the pacific northwest and it’s nearing the end of August, all of which means it will soon be raining, rendering the need for a pool obsolete.

Sigh. Let’s not talk about it. I’m not ready for summer to end. And don’t even get me started about the pathetic summer we’ve had this year.

This is my new, amazing George Foreman grill that I love and use almost daily. I need to write a complete review soon.

A poll is just the thing to cheer me up. Click on the one kitchen item without which you would be bereft, devastated, or even desolate. I depend heavily on all of these things so it’s going to be hard selecting just one.

Two faithful kitchen companions. Without them I would have to, gasp, knead bread by hand and actually chop my own veggies.

And then there’s my love of coffee, thoroughly documented in this little post. My children might vote for the coffee maker out of self-preservation. “Keep Mom caffeinated!” is one of their loudest cheers.

Kathy
Project 365 - Day 234

Instead of attempting mighty feats of blogging creativity tonight, I believe I’ll introduce a guest blogger, my niece Rebecca. Rebecca currently resides in Norway with her family. She and Joshua spend much of their time exchanging amusing and clever stories through e-mail. I received permission to include this one on the blog.

Fairy Tales … the Moral of the Story
by Rebecca

I have noticed that fairy tales are rich with lessons and moral teaching. Here are just a few I’ve found over the years.

1) Don’t stay out late at parties. If you do plan to stay out late, be sure your shoes fit snugly.

2) Avoid Evil Knights. You will recognize them by a black charger, a huge black cape, lots of black armor, and a visage obscured in shadow. In fact, avoid shadowy visages in general.

3) Watch your manners around old crones, they are extremely touchy. When planning a celebration of any kind, extend an open invitation so no one will be neglected or offended.

4) Be nice to every animal you meet or you will come to a tragic and untimely end.

5) Don’t ever marry a widower. Step-mothers die painfully.

6) If a talking animal, beautiful princess, very old lady, gentleman in a long robe, or pauper tells you to do something (or not do something) OBEY THEM!

Okay, I’m listening. Keep going.

7) Always marry the youngest princess. The others are most likely trying to kill you.

Curiosity has killed many a cat and it probably will kill you too. On the other hand, if you are the youngest of three children, handsome, poor, despised by your family, and wandering aimlessly, be as curious as you like. Enter the first ruined castle you come to and your fortune will be made.

Whatever the situation, it always helps to have a large club or stout walking stick on hand.

9) Wishes tend to back-fire. Keep it simple for yourself and whenever you have three wishes ask for a mop, a wooden bucket, and a keg of soap. You can’t go wrong with cleaning supplies and your mother will be pleased.

10) To overcome all of the trials in life you must be one of three things: extremely clever and able to think your way out of anything independently, extremely good and beautiful to attract a good fairy to help you, or so very stupid and clumsy that you are simply bound to stumble over the solution in time.

These two are good looking, clever and upright, I predict an excellent ending to their tale.

Those are some of the prominent morals that I have noticed, besides the obvious things like “stay on the path” and “don’t stick your finger on sharp spinning accessories”, and (of course) the tried-and-true “trust short people because they are either good fairies, good old ladies, or nice dwarves who have nothing better to do than help you in every way possible”.

Rebecca

Some of the baubles Princess Sarah has collected along her travels. Where is that Prince Charming?

Thank you, Rebecca, for joining us today. Next I hope we will get a look at Rebecca and Joshua’s analysis of evil lords and the wicked henchmen that follow them.

Kathy

Last night Tim and I went to a meeting at church. We met upstairs in the middle school room where we spread out in comfy couches and overstuffed chairs. That’s the way to run a meeting - recliners and couches and plenty of chocolate.

The couple coordinating the meeting looked so dear sitting together, I just had to take a picture. Someone laughed and wondered aloud why I was taking a picture in the middle of our meeting. Come on, the meeting hadn’t even started yet. Before I could say anything the subject of my photography spoke up quickly and said, “She has to, she’s doing that Project 365 thing and she has to blog every day.”

See how Beckie is poised to defend me.

Whoa! I guess that is how things get distorted. I am indeed committed to taking a picture every day as part of Project 365 but I never said I was going to blog every day. That implies a high level of creativity and some sort of original thought being generated daily. Not to mention the time involved in such a commitment.

It seems easy, however, even reasonable, to take a picture every day. My goodness, with five children, there is always something going on which is photo-worthy.

For example, someone has to capture this moment of Daniel and David with Adam, enjoying some birthday Jello & whip cream (a bit heavy on the whip cream but hey, he’s the birthday boy).

I never, however, said I was going to blog every day. The fact that it has morphed into something so regular is beyond me. A mystery. The first one was free.

These thoughts were racing through my mind as I slipped the camera away in my purse. Did anyone really want to hear my thoughts on photography and blogging and my prayers for how God can use this blog for His glory? Suddenly another woman turned to me and said, “Oh, that’s right. I heard you were Addicted to Blogging.”

Addicted to Blogging???
Addicted?
Hey, last I checked blogging was legal in all 50 states.
Plus, I can quit any time I want.

Sarah is sleeping over at Elise’s house tonight. Would these moments be captured if I weren’t blogging? I shudder to contemplate such a thing.

Just when I was beginning to feel a wee bit defensive, the woman asked for the address to the blog. “I want to check it out,” she smiled. It’s hard to be upset with that type of response. I can forgive a lot for a potential reader.

Do they make blogging business cards with your blog address on it? Wouldn’t that be just the thing to have on hand for these kinds of moments.

“Hi, my name’s Kathy. I blog, do you? Here’s my card. Leave a comment.” Snap. Wink.

Then again maybe a visit to Blogger’s Anonymous wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Anyone have the number? Do they have a blog?

Kathy (Blogging Addict)
Project 365 - Days 218 & 219

One of the delightful things about having a houseful of children is that we almost always have enough people to play games. When I was growing up, it was much more difficult to put together a good game with the resources at hand:

Me: “Hey, Mark, how ’bout we go play a game of tag?”
Mark: “Who are we playing with?”
Me: “I figure you … and me … and Posie … ?”
Mark: “Beat it, kid, I’m gonna draw instead.”

“The swift cannot flee nor the strong escape.” (Jeremiah 46:6a)

As it turned out, Mark was actually drawing up operational orders for armored-cavalry attacks on defenseless villages, a valuable skill which stood him in good stead in later years. Posie, though she was often willing, was too little to be a credible opponent in any game, six years younger than me and nine years junior to Mark. I usually had to find other ways to amuse myself with her. For the record, there are no witnesses to her wild claim that I put her in the clothes-dryer … although if anyone could use 40 minutes on “medium permanent press,” it would be her. (I love you, Poz!)

“In my day,” I tell the children, “Kids had to make do with ghost runners, ghost batters, ghost umpires, and even ghost spectators. I once played a whole game of baseball with just myself and three aluminum cans!”

“Right, Dad,” sneers my son, Weasel. “And I’ll bet you walked seven miles uphill both ways through blinding snow to get to the ballfield, too!”

I was hurt. I’m pretty sure that tale featured a hailstorm, not snow at all! Those kids just don’t pay attention anymore, when I tell my stories. But enough about me. Really.

This week Joshua invented a new game, which he christened “Never Ending Dodge Ball”. Organized dodgeball is one of his favorite games, and he greatly enjoys playing variants of the game at the gym in church or at the YMCA. As often happens, his creative brain came up with a version that can be played in our own backyard.

Rachel (like the Royal Canadian Mounties) can boast: “I always get my man … “

The rules to his never-ending variant are fairly simple:

Anyone who can find a nerf ball can throw it at any other player who is ‘alive’.
You must actually throw the ball at another player, you can’t tag them with it.
If you are hit by a ball (before it hits the ground) and don’t catch it, you’re ‘dead’.
When you are ‘dead’, you have to lie down on the ground (unless you are fussy about bugs, in which case you can squat).
If you have a ball and you are ‘killed’, you must hold the ball up so that anyone who is ‘alive’ can take it from your hand.
As soon as someone is ‘killed’ after you, you are restored to ‘life’ again.
If you happen to still have a ball when you are made ‘alive’, you are free to use it immediately.
If someone is newly ‘alive’, they must be allowed five seconds to get to their feet and run away.
You may never handle more than one ball at a time.
Hits in the head don’t count.

One moment you’re a predator, the next you’re prey …

Since there are two, three and sometimes four balls in play, the game can become quite interesting, with players chasing one another only to be hit in the back by someone they weren’t watching. Sarah adds a special wrinkle to the game, since she has a special little ball that only she can pick up (she is little, and couldn’t get the other nerf balls before her siblings swooped them away).

It is easy to become distracted in a standoff with another player, only to feel a gentle ‘poink’ in the back as Sarah sneaks up and assassinates you.

The game has several cheerful advantages:

• It can be played in a fairly small space, and boundaries don’t really matter.
• Players are rarely ‘dead’ for very long, which is nice for younger players, low on patience.
• The game seems equally fun for players from 5 to 41.
• It can be played for a short or long time (or until enough players get hurt and go inside, crying).

“Mutually-Assured Destruction” is more than just a political slogan, in this game.

It certainly doesn’t hurt that my children are very kind to one another. They are careful not to run roughshod over the little ones, and they stick scrupulously to the rules. They good-naturedly allow the younger kids to catch them, and they throw the ball gently to avoid injury (well, most of the time). I am always very proud whenever I think about how considerate and loving they are to each other — surely, we are greatly blessed by the redemptive work of the Holy Spirit in the lives of these five rascals.

Daniel takes ‘death’ very seriously …

By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. — John 13:35
Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. — Ephesians 4:2

Of course, injuries happen, and sometimes there is a penalty of five or ten push-ups for unnecessary roughness. Wasn’t it kind of Sarah to count the reps for Daniel?

Altogether, the kids probably played this game for more than an hour, today. David went off to bed with a bounce in his step:

David: “Josh, it sure was fun playing with you.”
Joshua: “I had fun, too.”
David: “Play tomorrow?”
Joshua: “Maybe!”

Project 365, Day 209