WHERE’S GRANDPA?

It was the late 70’s and a big camping trip was in progress. My brother-in-law John, my older sister Tessie (much older) and her children along with Dad, a true city slicker and Mom, Mrs. Slicker along with her youngest child and her friend would attempt to tame the wilds of Maine. Yes, into the heart of Mother Nature’s domain they would all ‘camp’ among the wild life of fir and fern of the wild!

Mom was prepared as the most accustomed to camping, having spent many an afternoon at Callahan-Kelley Park in Brooklyn with a baby stroller or carriage. Dad was a man of the wild, but it had to do mostly with the Independent A-train running into Manhattan to Canal Street.

Our leader!

Being the camper Mom is: she packed for the long arduous affair by preparing real camping food, which included a big pot of gravy to survive the wilderness and a few boxes of macaroni.  Hearing what she planned to bring, I happened  to mention that was more pasta sauce than the Italian army carried! The discussion was soon terminated by the appearance of a wooden spoon! Dad too was prepared, wearing his plaid shorts and black dress shoes and black rayon socks, exposing enough leg to keep the rabbits away.

There are always some inconveniences when camping, things that a true camper is willing to endure for the sake of the sense of adventure. Some of them were mosquitoes, bugs and no sidewalks, as well as having to hike a bit to the communal toilet down the road, things that were over looked in the excitement and planning of this magical adventure. Of course one had to withstand the lack of conveniences such as refrigerators not large enough to hold a large gravy pot or a refrigerator large enough to hold anything.

The real campers with a pot of gravy

The first morning dawned and slowly the brave and determined group awoke one by one. The ladies first, gathering together at the picnic table, discussing things such as husbands, working to clean houses and in-laws. About mid-morning it was determined to awaken grandpa. But no one could account for grandpa, Grandpa was nowhere around, there was no accounting for grandpa! Where’s grandpa was the refrain, first in curious repetition, then in sheer random panic. Grandpa was nowhere to be found. Was he abducted by aliens, no, migrant workers never came this far north at this time of the year Mom said. Did the local Indian population for a ransom kidnap him? No, that can’t be because no one brought enough cash. Besides they would need the cash for the tolls.

A search party was quickly assembled, with the mission to find grandpa. Mom gave the order to find grandpa no matter what the cost: up to $2.95 worth. Mom believed in the concept of diminishing returns.

Out set the party, narrowing their search down to the public rest room and the road leading to it. And miracle of miracles: there sat Dad, at the bus station at mid Sunday morning waiting for a bus to take him home.

It seemed even though dad was dressed for this expedition through the wild, was amply supplied with provisions by Ronzoni, he was what we call in camping parlance, unhappy and wanting to get back home, A.S.A.P, damned if anyone tries to stop him! Dad had had it, the bugs, the sleepless night before and the fact that he was out of cigarettes and no TV!

And so this brave band of pioneers, adventurers and brave souls, turned themselves around and headed back toward civilization, right after they finished the ziti and meatballs, with as mom says: “A nice salad.”

So dad put the kabosh on any trips beyond the local deli where he lived or his job., retiring to his chair and TV, to camp out and watch others try the depths of mother nature.

Somewhat a sad true story.