Earlier this summer, I happened to run across a copy of "Especially Father", written by Gladys Taber in 1948. It's mainly about her parents and her youth, their vacation cottage in Wisconsin, and their journeys to other places before she began writing magazine articles, and the column "Butternut Wisdom” for Family Circle (from 1959 to 1967), and before her life at Stillmeadow. Even with more than fifty books written to her credit, they are still hard to come by so I was thrilled to find this one at a used book store. This book fills in the gaps of her sketchy biography and the stories about her Father are both hilarious and heart-wrenching. Father was quite a character and all throughout the book I was laughing one minute, sobbing the next. Partly because there was so much I could relate to. Good and bad. I was reminded of similar experiences from my own youth that, looking back, seem rather extreme now, although well-intentioned at the time.
One such time comes to mind. I remember a camping trip, I think it was 1964, and I was about ten. These camping trips were often the most thrilling and harrowing times we ever had as a family. We didn't have a big motor home, a camp trailer, or even tents for that matter. Excursions always had a purpose, there was no such thing as a "vacation" in my Father's world--like Hemingway, he wanted adventure. To make the fishing trips down to Mexico, he would throw a mattress in the back of his pick-up, cover it with sleeping bags and pile the rest of our supplies around it leaving a small space for my younger brother and I to lie down during the five hour drive through the night. The truck bed was covered with a plastic tarp that was cinched down, so we were quite secure inside on our little nest of pillows and old quilts, illuminated by a flashlight when need be. Generally, our Mother would worry over us a great deal, but went along with things just the same. Our destination was usually a small fishing village, or another such place where a group of friends would arrange to meet. No hotels or restaurants anywhere. Outhouses seemed a godsend. We romped freely by day, splashing in the Baha sea, and slept outside under the stars after a cooked meal (on a stick) over an open fire. I don't recall feeling uncomfortable or worrying about anything, but remembering brings mixed emotions. I'm sure Gladys felt that. It seems so, anyway.
As soon as I saw this "whimsical tent" ( featured in the August 2009 issue of Country Living, pg. 90), I was enchanted. I envisioned it as our summer hide-away, tucked beneath the wooded pine grove out back, a haven for solitary reading and cozy conversations; maybe even a manageable/mock camping adventure with my little granddaughters. So, with all this in mind, and me, additionally dreaming about the peaceful, secluded naps I would take in it, (hee hee) away I went to the CK website to purchase it. The company no longer has a US distributorship, so orders now come straight from the UK, which is fine, until customs gets involved. I can only imagine the over-zealous customs inspector sharp blade in hand, slashing boxes open with abandon (mine included), essentially destroying the contents; then resealing the box and sending it along. As you can imagine, I was aghast to find the tent ruined, with several gashes--the worst being seven inches long and twenty layers deep. (That is some seriously scary "inspection" process.) The CK company was quite apologetic and did attempt to make amends; I held out hope for a replacement. But in the interim, the tee-pee went on sale and all stock was sold out before they could process my request. (sigh) A refund was promptly sent instead. But the dream lingers on. Yes, we have come a long way since the "tent on wheels" in the back of a Ford pick-up.
