The Rose-Colored Glasses of Childhood Memory

I have great memories of camping with my family as a little girl.  Eating freshly caught trout for dinner.  Telling stories around the campfire.  The boys’ tent emitting various odorous gases, if you know what I mean.   So, I told Devin that camping would be a lovely addition to our little family life, and off we went to Colorado Bend State Park.

Except, I lost my temper at least three times while we were there.  That darn fire was smoking right into my lungs and heating our food erratically.  Those darn crickets were singing all night long outside our tent.  And, did I mention that cooking over an open fire is not as predictable as cooking in the comfort of my own kitchen?  Somehow, I remembered my own mother whipping up meals with ease during our family camping trips and felt frustrated that I couldn’t do the same.  My memories of childhood camping contained no mention of nasty mosquitoes and crickets and so forth.

Except, my memory was faulty.  Because, after we got down from the mountain, I called my mother to say, “Mom, I have a whole new respect for you.  You fed 10 of us (my 7 siblings, my parents, and me) on camping trips by cooking over the open fire.”  And, she said, “Honey, I didn’t do the cooking when we camped–your father did.  I’d put together sandwiches, maybe, but he did all the cooking.”  Oh.  Turns out my mother wasn’t such a domestic outdoor goddess after all and enjoyed a little break from cooking for 10 people.

It’s funny how the memory does that.  Or, maybe my memory’s not faulty; perhaps as I child I wasn’t bothered by the smoke and crickets and greasy hair.  Maybe I didn’t notice that the eggs weren’t cooked to perfection.  Maybe this ought to teach me a lesson about what really matters.

Or, maybe Devin and I will just be day-campers from now on.