I suppose if I were to be completely honest, I have always been trailer trash. It’s not my fault. It’s how I was raised.
My parents have always camped. Their traditional anniversary dinner was fried bologna and beans, since the date falls in the middle of summer vacation and we were usually camping.
When I was young we had a camper truck and it was our weekend home. My mother would have it packed and ready to go when my father arrived home from work on Fridays, and we’d head out to explore the many beautiful parks of British Columbia and Washington state.
We moved back east a few years later and would drive to Florida every spring break. My brother and I would spend the 24-hour journey in the bunk over the cab – on our stomachs, looking out the window and watching the world turn greener as we headed south. That bunk was our private fort, away from everything routine and familiar.
My younger sister spent the first year of her life sleeping in a cereal box. It was actually a corrugated case that fit perfectly beside my parents’ bed/table, but my brother and I referred to it as a cereal box – makes for a better story.
I still remember the day the camper was sold. I was sitting on the steps crying because we had had so many good times in our miniature home on wheels. But I was surprised that when the buyer drove away, my memories remained intact. I guess I had thought they would roll down the driveway with the camper. To this day I am rather unsentimental about objects – my memories are part of who I am, not what I have around me.
The camper was replaced with a travel trailer, and every summer we’d head out west to camp with aunts, uncles and cousins scattered across the continent. There were campfires, singing, ball games, river rafting, rodeos and the odd crush on a cute park ranger. My uncles would make meals like “prairie dog stew,” which always freaked out the younger kids.
My 16th summer, my best friend Terri and I turned the trailer into our Laverne and Shirley bachelorette pad in the driveway, the small kitchen well stocked with Cheezies and diet soda.
This summer, my boyfriend and I purchased a 24-foot trailer and I’m delighted at how much we have enjoyed it. We looked at several models and the layout of this one seemed to be perfect for the two of us and various combinations of the four teenagers we have between us. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how often they want to come along.
We’ve attended music festivals where we camped in cornfields and heard strains of music all night; provincial parks where the morning silence is broken by loons, woodpeckers and the occasional car alarm; and private campgrounds, the most aptly named being Pleasure Park, as these parks seem to be mainly about pure enjoyment of life – think souped-up golf carts and as many party lights as the awnings and trees can support.
We spent many hours agonizing over the perfect party lights for our trailer to reflect who we are. Every place we’ve stayed has its own charm and there are always lots of dogs and lots of smiles.
It sometimes seems funny to me that we are so eager to leave our comfortable homes to spend the weekend in such a small space, without the comforts of air conditioning or a dishwasher. I love how small everything is – the fridge, the sink and the adorable little dish drainer – and how functional. Every available space is used for something, and often for multiple purposes, such as the table/bed and sofa/bed. It’s kind of like playing house.
My boyfriend thinks the appeal is how manageable everything is – we have what we need and no more. He also likes that anywhere within driving distance is a possible weekend destination.
It’s easy (inevitable, really) to meet so many people from different places. And there are no phones and no housework. At home, there always seems to be something that needs doing, but camping forces you to relax and slow down. It also forces you to get away from technology that seems to have become so constant in our lives.
Even our kids like having fun away from television and video games. They especially enjoy cooking outside. We certainly seem to spend more time laughing and connecting than we do at home (my 19-year-old daughter’s header out of the hammock is a highlight, as was the guy in front of us at the dumping station who lassoed himself with his septic hose).
I’m even more melancholy than usual this year to see summer come to an end. I have read that “to garden is to believe in the future” and I feel the same way as I pack away our sleeping bags and party lights and the miniature containers of parmesan cheese and margarita salt. I’ll tuck them into a corner of the basement, knowing that, like the bulbs I’m tucking into my front flower bed, they will come up in the spring to be enjoyed once again.
Sharron Bannon lives in Belleville, Ont.
