Paul Richardson: Warm thoughts of summer

 Summertime was meant for work during my years of offspring servitude. Mowing the lawn, picking strawberries, working in the garden, going to work with your dad in the family business, and being at the beckon call for any other task that might arise.

That being the “normal” routine, there were two summers that I managed to escape for a week. I don’t recall how that happened or what tactics I employed to wrangle this event, but by some miracle or a rare occurrence resulting in the alignment of the planets, and I was able to leave our ever-busy home and attend camp. They were both church camps, but camps nonetheless and for an entire week I was able to escape the normal routine of summer.

The first camp took place before I was old enough to be called into daily service by going to work with my dad. I was, however, old enough to mow the lawn and pick strawberries, which by the way is the most dreadful task ever. 

The camp was in the vicinity of Fulton, Missouri. This was at a time when there was no quick way to get from southwest Missouri to Fulton. Leave early and it was still a full day trip. Put a man and four or five boys in a ’63 Chevy pickup with a camper shell on the back, include the heat of summer and that is not only a long trip, but also pure torture. 

There was no factory air in vehicles at that time, but the pickup did possess an aftermarket unit that set underneath the dash. This placed a limit of two boys in the front at any given time. So, a regular rotation occurred where one would ride in the back for a period of time and then a turn would come for a rotation of riders and others would move to the front.

I recall my parents borrowing a sleeping bag from my Uncle John Geller, as he possessed that type of equipment. Upon arrival at the camp, we found this huge arch roof structure that resembled the interior ceiling of a church, with open sides. 

Each camper was issued a cot and each group was their own little company. Since it was summertime, I spent most of my night sleeping on top of the sleeping bag. In the early morning hours, the interior of the bag beckoned, and I moved under the covers.

In spite of the difficulties of the trip, it was one of the best summers ever! The second camp was during my teenage years. While it is a good memory, it was during those difficult teenage years where so much effort is spent trying to fit in or find you place. It was not as exciting as the first camp, which held some real horrors, such as severe blistering sunburns and reactions to poison ivy. 

While endured by other campers these were conditions I had not encountered before. Hindsight tells me that staying home, and working may have been easier!

(Paul Richardson's column, The Horse I Rode In On is published weekly in the Neosho Daily News, Seneca News-Dispatch, Aurora Advertiser and on the Turner Report.)