Tuesday, August 18, 2009
We Don't Camp
When I was younger, a lot younger, I used to think of my two sets of grandparents as the city grandparents and the farm grandparents. One set lived in town, the other a little farther away from town. I honestly didn't think one was better than the other -- I love all my grandparents. I enjoyed my time in their homes and I have funny stories to tell growing up around them.
I realize now that my children have this same feeling about their own grandparents. What might shock my parents is that they are the farm grandparents. I've become very city-fied, I can't help it. And my kids are, well, they are my kids. (The other grandparents aren't city grandparents so much as golf grandparents.)
I realized how far from Idaho I had moved, in both body and spirit, when on our recent visit my son was asked if he'd ever been camping. He declared, "No!" The man looked at me like I was Sylvia Plath in the flesh. The closest my kids have come to camping thus far in their short little lives is a trip we took to my family's cabin last year. That didn't end well, so I'm not in a big hurry to jump back into the bush.
We did take them on a hike, though. That counts for something, doesn't it?
Would you think less of me if I told you Cooper pointed out the green spots in the panoramic view and said, "Nice golf course." They were farmers' fields. PS -- That's my cute dad showing my kids how to make necklaces out of snake grass.