Camp Wood

There is no place I’d rather wake up than in the lemon yellow interior of my little tent. Regardless of what’s outside, the experience is always the same: I lay with my eyes closed and listen. This morning the first sounds include the screech, screech of bugs talking with one another, the squabble and scratch of chickens greeting the morning, the giggle of little boys, stacked like cord wood in a tent nearby, the low voice of a Daddy shushing a toddler, and the fussy snuffle of a baby looking for her Mama in an unfamiliar place; all clues to our location. These are different sounds than we awoke to in the Raspberry Valley in Germany, or on the high moors of northern England, or the frosty, sandy, Sahara. I open my eyes and stare at the familiar water droplets pooled on the yellow inner layer of our tent and poke one with my finger for the fun of watching it run down the side of the tent, displacing two mayflies hooked together at the tail. The world awakes around us, and the sounds of some of our favorite families make their way through the walls of our faithful Hilleberg revealing our location, the only place in the whole world we want to be this morning: Camp Wood.

The Woods are dear friends, with seven fabulous J-named kids who are almost siblings to our little herd. It took our families about five minutes to fall in love and adventures of all sorts have ensued: from concussions stick fighting, broken noses (the eleven year old club playing tag in the dark), to fancy girlie teas for dolls, a parade of blueberry stained beach days and laughter soaked evenings with our favorite, “Mommy’s Time Out” bottle of wine under a starlit sky. We love these people, and, miraculously, they love us back! Last year I was green with envy when they announced that they’d be hosting “Camp Wood” in their back yard and inviting all the people we loved most. We were in the Czech, and we missed it.

This year, Camp Wood comprised seven families (approx. 30 kids, they move fast and I may have missed a few) and an Olympic theme. Instead of medals the awards were chocolate, gummy or blow-pop. Instead of archery, synchronized swimming and the 400 meter relay, the events were “best ballerina dancing,” obstacle course, and yard races of all sorts, organized by Mr. Wood, laughed at by all. There were nights of marshmallow roasting and fiddle music around the campfire, cut throat games of cribbage (I think Mrs. Glines came out on top) and more toddlers falling off of slides and down the deck stairs than any Mama could keep up with. Fun was had by all.

Playin' in the rain.

By all accounts the best part of camp was the rain. Camp Wood fell under the shadow of Hurricane Bill this year. By the third night, we were the only ones still sleeping in tents, everyone else was too wet. An Olympic medal should have gone to Mrs. Wood for “most people sleeping in one living room”. I don’t think any of the adults will ever forget the pure child joy of twenty or so kids running in a complete downpour, showering under the run off of the dining tarp and sliding in the mud. I don’t think any of the kids will ever forget the shock of the Mamas hopping up and joining the rain dance… “They’re acting like KIDS!!” I over heard one thirteen year old say to another. And so we were: Mrs. Wood and I, dousing our babies with buckets of ice cold water and tossing toddlers wholesale into the wading pool, laughing all the while. It was the best part of the weekend. I’ll treasure the look on the kids’ faces and the picture of my friend and I, arm in arm, soaked to the bone, for a very long time.

None of these adventures have made themselves known yet, as I awake in my happy tent. Like every morning there is only the promise of the coming adventures yet to be had and the sounds of the world outside waiting to come in. I wrestle with every morning’s dilemma: to get up and embrace the day and enjoy the adventure, or to linger in the golden light, play with the water droplets, flick the unsuspecting spiders walking on the outside, and pull the sleeping bag back over my head and doze to the sound of my husband’s heartbeat for another hour.