I love every second of camping. I love the smell, the sound, the uncertainty, the people you come across.
It’s easier out here. Even with kids and a Dawg…it’s easier because it’s simple. You go to sleep when the sun does. You wake up when the sun does. You think about 3 things logistically: enough water, whether or not you need your rain fly on your tent that night, and dry wood. Yes, that may be oversimplifying it (and it is) but that is what it all boils down to.
I’m in a self induced pandemonium of selling my house. The big ass house that is most American’s dream. People immigrate-and most never realize-the dream of the house that I’ve lived in for almost nine years. It’s almost embarrassing my house. And in fact, it is to me. But, how can one explain to most that you can’t live there in all good conscious? It’s hard to explain, but I can’t. I can’t keep it up. I can’t justify hiring people who can help me to do it. I can’t hate it. I can’t love it. I can’t ignore that my children know no other “home”. I can’t explain to them why we are rarely in it when it is my “visitation” week-on with them. I just can’t do the house anymore, it is as simple as that.
The house is not perfect. It has been lived in, and it has been lived in to the fullest extent of what living should mean. The walls show how well, and how authentically, my children and I have weathered all the life that living a good one offers up.
Someone will buy it and make it their own…and in 9 years a section of drywall will be chipped off by some kid that perhaps wears the same skates or rides the same bike as mine have-and the walls will be happy like that story The Giving Tree. This is my hope for the house that I built. These are the things I hear, and smell, and think about in the simplicity of my campsite. In the smell of the campfire, and in the sounds of my children shifting in their sleeping bags getting comfortable in the tent I put up for them.