Family camping is a strong childhood memory. From the state parks of Illinois and surrounding states to the Canadian Huron waters at Ipperwash Beach (Ontario), we vacationed as a family with limited gear but packed in lots of fun. Most of our camping was with other like-minded families. This recollection was written at a time I was homebound from the side effects of chemotherapy but longing for the freedoms of the great outdoors.
As a kid, I looked forward with great anticipation to summer camping trips. Our family would join two other large families, and together, we’d head south to Kentucky Lake State Park or east to Shakamak State Park in southern Indiana.
Mom would coordinate makeshift camping supply logistics like NASA preparing for a space launch. There was the gear, food, and enough clothing for six days of tent camping with six, count ’em, six children. I’m not sure if the same feat could be accomplished today without the modern conveniences of prepackaged foods and specialized camping gear.She performed miracles, bordering on loaves and fishes, as she put it all together on a shoestring budget while maintaining daily routines. The older children packed their own suitcases, which were sturdy cardboard beer boxes, that had been carefully procured, painted and secreted into the house so as not to endorse the product or its consumption. These uniform crates would easily pack into the Apache pop-up camper designed to sleep four comfortably out of a family of eight.
On the day of departure, we kids played with nervous anticipation for the moment Dad would rush home from work at the college where he taught accounting and management. He’d hitch up the trailer to the eight-passenger mid-size 1963 Ford Falcon station wagon, and in one fluid motion, we were loaded, seating assignments secured, and moving down the two-lane highway of the day.
I remember a state park trip when Dad set up the Apache pop-up, still wearing his tie from work that day. It usually took three days for him to get out of college mode and into camping. He enjoyed evening visits with the other adults (also professors), but it often had the flavor of a college departmental committee meeting. It usually wasn’t until day three that he was ready to take a hike or play some rough house games with the kids. He just couldn’t unwind from the office. And while he wasn’t in a commissioned position where his productivity was needed to produce income, he simply had to be doing something for the greater good. His focus was always on our well-being, but that, of course, was directly tied to the work. His vacation demeanor was summed up on one camping trip when, on the afternoon of Day 2, he turned to Mom and said, with animated frustration, “BONNIE!, I’M NOT PRODUCING!” It’s been an inside joke in our family for years.
One of the best trips had to be the one where just he and I left the others, who were busy playing their own games, and we went for a rowboat ride on Shakamak Lake. While teaching me, a fifth grader, some rowing techniques (no doubt learned from his Canadian Navy days), we came across a sunken rowboat floating a foot under water. After towing it ashore and making sure no one had reported it lost or stolen, we hauled the damaged but repairable boat home on top of the eight person Apache pop-up camper, which we learned can double as a small boat carrier for eight people. He was money ahead for the trip! It was like going golfing and ending up with more golf balls than you started with because of what you found in the weeds while looking for your out-of-bounds shot. You just felt ahead for the day, regardless of the cost of the round or your score. It was the best camping trip ever as it had “produced” a net gain, which went on the credit side of the accounting ledger.
Dad learned to relax better with subsequent trips, especially in retirement (he was at his best on family cruises), but his need to always be accomplishing is a habit, an attribute, he never lost. He was always pursuing a closer tie to a grandchild, or a witness for our Lord, or promoting the college, or comparing his family size with any other grandfather he could buttonhole on the Lido Deck to check family rosters.
I recall when the two of us traveled to England on one of our genealogy trips. We landed at Heathrow, got our bags, and took the train downtown. At the station, he made a beeline for the taxi stand. “Dad,” I called to him, “I just want you to know that since you’re retired now, we’re going to take this at your pace… but please slow it down a step, will ya?”
These stories reflect Dad’s attribute of producing simply in return for the wondrous gift of life. I must share a bit of that tendency as I’ve been noticing during the down days of chemotherapy (referring to earlier times). It’s during the listless times the small print side effects become apparent. I miss being able to “produce” things that could be financially beneficial to my family, but I also miss those things that are personally enriching. It’s easy to recline in this easy chair every day and tickle the keyboard to sense a bit of accomplishment in writing these stories, but it’s frustrating to have the normal endeavors of life just out of reach. I hope eventually patterns will settle in where I can pace myself to pursue other interests in photography and music. I’m not complaining – just reporting in. I’m grateful for the promise of wholeness to come. But, just for the moment… “SUE, I’M NOT PRODUCING!”
To my readers: This story is reposted from its original publication in 2012. It is archived here as I transition content to WordPress.
Craig W. Tidball, Copyright 2022
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Love this Craig!! Yes, dad’s infamous line has been remembered and laughed about for years now!!
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