Camping

We did lots of camping when I was a kid.

We camped in an old canvas tent.

I remember the sound as it flapped in the wind.

I remember its feel and its scent.

I remember the sound of warm rain on its roof,

And the comfort it offered each night.

I recall how I felt looking out at the stars

By the campfires flickering light;

The feel of my pillow at the end of the day,

When my shoulders were pink from the sun,

My grandmothers’ kiss as she tucked us in bed,

After our prayers were done.

First thing in the morning the fire was lit.

Great Grandma brought graniteware dishes.

Golden brown hotcakes for breakfast of course,

And for super fried tatters and fishes.

Each day we’d go swimming and play in the sand.

My granddad would take us out hiking.

Sis and I watched as he whittled a cane.

And Stick horses were just to our liking.

We’d sit by the fire in the late afternoon.

I’d sit in my grandmothers’ lap.

Dad would go fishing, Mom would read,

And Granddad enjoyed a good nap.

Later on in the evening, when dinner was done,

There was coffee from a graniteware pot,

Delicious marshmallows we roasted on sticks,

And dried figs that my great grandma brought.

I remember the feel of hot sand on bare feet,

And melon seeds stuck to my chin,

The stories of camping trips long, long ago,

And the way that my granddad would grin.

Now we take our kids camping whenever we can.

That’s how all our best weekends are spent.

We retell all the stories that made Granddad grin,

When we camped in that old canvas tent.

                                STC