It’s pouring in Indianapolis.
I thought we might make it through our two-days of camping dry-shod, but that’s not the case. Still, with the way storms have been moving across the mid-west, we are fortunate we only wound up with a half-day’s rain and not a full two. But packing up wet tent is just no fun. Tomorrow morning better be sunny enough to dry it out. Here’s hoping.
It was absolutely beautiful yesterday when we rolled in to the KOA Kampground Greenfield, IN, about 20 minutes’ short of the city of Indianapolis. The Kampground is operated by the Witek Family, and the walls of the Kampground office give you a good idea what the clan is like: the ten commandments, various psalms, a sign asking you to wear a shirt and shoes in the office to respect their “convictions,” and blown-up photographs of scenic views from family vacations. The perfect arrangement of the people in each photograph makes it seem like the children have been ideally spaced out in age and growth rate for just such an aesthetic purpose.
And the Kampground is a family deal, right down to the four blonde and strawberry blonde-haired kids. Quite a few of the big photographs show the family all uniformly decked out in their KOA polo shirts. As we pull into our camp site, one of the young sons is riding around on his golf cart, leaping off before the thing has even come to a complete stop in order to direct RVs into their sites. The gesture is done in a way that is not “whee!” as much as the practiced boyhood indifference of someone who does this every day and has not gotten hurt yet.
And I, not as practiced, not as confident, managed to do okay on my first day of the Heather-as-nature-girl installment of our trip. I pitched the tent, I got a fire going and I made dinner over it: cavatappi pasta and sauce (Tyler, whose redneck cred makes him an authority on such things, says this does not count and scoffs at the idea that this place contains public bathrooms and showers in the main building). But I didn’t burn the food or myself, which I consider a stellar accomplishment. And I sat outside as I watched my fire burn to embers and played guitar. I watched the Kampground slowly fade out of the light and into its perfect moment … its moment of becoming.
Just like people have these perfect moments of beauty or accomplishment or self-actualization, campgrounds have it too – the perfect and quintessential campground moment, when everything about it is magic.
It’s dusk, when the fireflies come out in such numbers that they look like the ground is shooting up glowing green seeds and the young sun-kissed children start going after them. People start to lounge in front of their RVs to the hum of bug zappers or outside lights. The air smells like citronella and smoke and warming food. The nighttime campfires are going, and maybe there are marshmallows and hot dogs. The day’s swimming pool towels flap in the gentle breeze, draped over doors, fold-up lawn chairs or picnic tables. The gentle hum of distant conversations reaches you like you are underwater, a present vibration, but otherwise non-descript. So it’s reasonably quiet, but the world is gently active all around you. It almost timeless.
I love campground culture. I’d forgotten how long it’s been since I had any foray into it. My father and brother are the hardcore campers and my brother can cook over a campfire like nobody’s business. To my mother’s gently rolling eyes my father always talks about retiring to an RV and driving around the country. He actually sparked an interesting idea in my head for a different sort of summer/fall tour. A lot of the Kampgrounds feature live entertainment. We could perform and barter for a place to stay and some tips. I was so happy with the camping yesterday, I have to admit that it’s food for thought.
And I’m in love with the little maps people stick on the back of their RVs and then fill in the states where they’ve been. I want one. I’ve been scoping the ones on the RVs at this camp site and on the highways and you know what …. I could give most of them a run for their money. Eighteen states and counting.
Who ever thought I’d be able to say that?