I rise at 6:00 a.m. and decide to walk to the beach.
If I lived here, I think, I’d get up early every morning.
I sneak into Laila’s room to check on her. She is sleeping soundly. This is the first full-night’s sleep she’s had since we got here.
I tip-toe out. I make it to the door and hear a small whimper. I turn around. She is staring at me.
Ugh, I think, and wonder why I felt compelled to check on her.
I lift her up and put her in the baby carrier. We walk to the beach.
In From the Ground Up, Amy Stewart writes “If you ever wondered whether people at the seashore take it for granted after a while, let me tell you: We don’t. At least, I never have.”
When I lived here I took every opportunity to be near the ocean. I was busy with school and work, but I always found time. Sometimes it would be an early morning walk or a few moments in the evening. My favorite times became the times I went to the beach alone. I especially loved the beach in the winter. It’s chilly, but it’s almost empty, and it is still the same soothing sea.
When we get to the beach the sun is peeking over the horizon. The sky is pink and the ocean is an iridescent shade of turquoise blue. It is only that color in the early morning; by the time the sun fully ascends, it will be a dark, murky shade of blue.
I stare at the waves. I am captivated by them. Although I understand the science behind it, I am always amazed at the continuous ebb and flow of the tides, and the continuous motion of the waves crashing into shore. Constant and changeless, and constantly changing.
It is quiet. Laila babbles, but it is not the incessant chatter of a three-year-old. And when a baby talks, she doesn’t demand an answer. She is content to be snuggled close in the carrier. I give her a smile, and we listen to the sounds of the sea.
We watch the fishermen on the shore, and I wonder if they ever catch anything. But I realize that’s not the point. They arrive early in the day, before the noise of families and teenagers and college students lounging on the beach. They set up their rods and they sit on a cooler and wait. They stare out at the ocean watching the waves roll in for an hour or more, and they are “doing” something. If they manage to catch a fish, it’s a bonus. But even if they catch nothing, I bet they have a great time. I consider getting a rod and a reel and returning tomorrow.
We walk down the beach, and I swoop down to pick up a shark’s tooth. Connor will love it.
I remember being a small child and walking on the beach with my cousin Adrian. She had an eye for spotting shark’s teeth, and she had a mason jar full of them. I tried so hard, but I could never find them.
“Here’s one!” I’d exclaim excitedly, showing her a small black shell. She’d glance at it.
“That’s not a shark’s tooth,” she’d reply.
But how can she tell, I’d wonder.
It was many years before I found a shark’s tooth. When I was in high school and I worked on the beach, I finally figured out. Once I knew how to find them, I could spot them quickly. I’d often see them while pushing my lemonade stand down the beach. I’d pause long enough to pick it up. I developed quite a collection, including two that were about 1 ½ to 2 inches long. I don’t know where they are now; I had to put them away when Connor was a toddler. He was fascinated by them, and I often found them in the carpet.
Laila and I collect about 5-6 more teeth before leaving.
As we are leaving the beach, I hear an excited yell. I turn and see that a fisherman has caught a fish. I can’t tell what kind it is, but it appears to be 1 to 1 ½ feet long.
I smile, then head home.
Showing posts with label family vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family vacation. Show all posts
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Beach Umbrella
In the past I would spend an entire day at the beach with no thought to sunscreen. I didn’t even own any. But the children have changed that. They have tender, sensitive skin, and I am constantly afraid that they will get a sunburn.
Because of that, we have spent the entire week battling a beach umbrella. And although I am an experienced beach bum, I have no experience whatsoever involving beach umbrellas.
We don’t even own one. We were planning to buy one, but there are three in the storage shed downstairs. So we are using the ones here.
Our first day at the beach we looked at the umbrella, studied the other umbrellas around us, and wondered how to set it up. I stuck the pole in the ground and began twisting.
“That’s not going to work,” Lee said.
He picked up a plastic shovel and began pounding the top of the pole.
A man nearby, sitting underneath a perfectly-placed umbrella, saw us and brought over a shovel. Not a cheap plastic one, but a heavy-duty shovel, similar to the one I use in the garden.
“Thanks,” Lee said.
“You’ll need to get it about two feet in to keep the wind from knocking it over,” he said.
The guy returned to his chair. Lee began pounding the top of the pole with the heavier shovel.
“I saw a shovel like this in the shed,” Lee commented. “I didn’t know this was what it was for.”
Why a shovel? I thought. Why not a mallet?
Lee managed to get the umbrella in the ground, and we returned the shovel. The guy looked as if he wanted to say something, but declined.
The following day we were ready. We arrived at the beach with our umbrella and our shovel, and we began pounding. Perfect, I thought. But I still couldn’t figure out how everyone else managed to get their umbrellas so deep. Our umbrella was at least a foot higher than the umbrellas around us, and the wind constantly caught underneath it. A few times the wind pulled it completely from the ground.
On the third day we forgot the shovel. Lee offered to walk back to the house to get it. While he was gone, I stood holding the umbrella over Laila, who had fallen asleep on the walk over and was napping in the sand. A guy nearby saw me. I saw him approach with a shovel. I smiled.
“Would you like me to dig a hole for your umbrella?” he offered.
“Oh, thank you,” I replied. And then, in case he thought I didn’t know how to put an umbrella in, I added, “We forgot our shovel. My husband returned to the house to get it.”
He dug the hole, about two feet deep. When Lee returned I was sitting under a perfectly placed umbrella. I thought back to the first day, when we pounded away at the umbrella, trying to hammer it into the ground.
“You’ll never believe this,” I began. “Apparently, the shovels are for digging.”
Because of that, we have spent the entire week battling a beach umbrella. And although I am an experienced beach bum, I have no experience whatsoever involving beach umbrellas.
We don’t even own one. We were planning to buy one, but there are three in the storage shed downstairs. So we are using the ones here.
Our first day at the beach we looked at the umbrella, studied the other umbrellas around us, and wondered how to set it up. I stuck the pole in the ground and began twisting.
“That’s not going to work,” Lee said.
He picked up a plastic shovel and began pounding the top of the pole.
A man nearby, sitting underneath a perfectly-placed umbrella, saw us and brought over a shovel. Not a cheap plastic one, but a heavy-duty shovel, similar to the one I use in the garden.
“Thanks,” Lee said.
“You’ll need to get it about two feet in to keep the wind from knocking it over,” he said.
The guy returned to his chair. Lee began pounding the top of the pole with the heavier shovel.
“I saw a shovel like this in the shed,” Lee commented. “I didn’t know this was what it was for.”
Why a shovel? I thought. Why not a mallet?
Lee managed to get the umbrella in the ground, and we returned the shovel. The guy looked as if he wanted to say something, but declined.
The following day we were ready. We arrived at the beach with our umbrella and our shovel, and we began pounding. Perfect, I thought. But I still couldn’t figure out how everyone else managed to get their umbrellas so deep. Our umbrella was at least a foot higher than the umbrellas around us, and the wind constantly caught underneath it. A few times the wind pulled it completely from the ground.
On the third day we forgot the shovel. Lee offered to walk back to the house to get it. While he was gone, I stood holding the umbrella over Laila, who had fallen asleep on the walk over and was napping in the sand. A guy nearby saw me. I saw him approach with a shovel. I smiled.
“Would you like me to dig a hole for your umbrella?” he offered.
“Oh, thank you,” I replied. And then, in case he thought I didn’t know how to put an umbrella in, I added, “We forgot our shovel. My husband returned to the house to get it.”
He dug the hole, about two feet deep. When Lee returned I was sitting under a perfectly placed umbrella. I thought back to the first day, when we pounded away at the umbrella, trying to hammer it into the ground.
“You’ll never believe this,” I began. “Apparently, the shovels are for digging.”
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Sunburn
I sit on the swing overlooking the marsh and rub fresh-picked aloe onto my sun-burnt legs. I wonder briefly why I don’t have aloe at home. Once established, it grows very easily—almost like a weed. And it soothes burns so well.
But I know the reason that I don’t have any is that I don’t really need it. In Columbia we seldom have days nice enough to spend entirely outdoors. When we do, we are seldom in swimsuits.
When I lived at the beach I never burned. I never even used sunscreen. My skin was baked brown, and I could spend the entire day lying on the beach with no thought to protecting myself from the sun.
Now, because I have two small children, I am constantly fretting over the damaging rays of the sun. I own several different bottles of sunscreen, in varying degrees of protection. Some are for sensitive baby skin; some are waterproof; some spray on. I bought the kids the shirts that surfers wear, because they block harmful UV rays. We wear hats. And, for the first time in my life, I am battling a beach umbrella. Those things are frustrating. But Laila’s skin is so tender, and I know I need to keep her out of the sun.
But I am stubborn. I still refuse to apply sunscreen to myself. I still believe I have the same skin I had five years ago, even though my legs are pale and ghastly white. (Whose legs are those, I wonder, whenever I see current pictures of myself.)
I took Connor kayaking this week. We paddled (or rather I paddled) around the marshes of Litchfield for about 1 ½ hours. It was great. We saw fish jumping. We went under the bridge. We crept up on a heron that had a fish hanging out of its mouth.
But it didn’t occur to me that while kayaking, we would be in the sun. Stupid, I know.
Fortunately Connor was wearing a tee-shirt under his life vest, long shorts, and the cast cover that he has to wear. But he didn’t have on a hat, and his cheeks are pink.
I was wearing a bathing suit and a life jacket, and my legs are blistered. They are throbbing. I feel like what I am: a tourist.
“Did you wear sunscreen?” Lee asked when he saw my blistered legs.
I gave him a sheepish smile.
“Idiot!” he exclaimed. “Has it ever occurred to you that whenever you make a decision, you should, as a matter of course, do the complete opposite?”
Ouch.
But I feel great. I am completely relaxed from a day spent in the sun. Life is so much slower and calmer here. It’s a different experience being a tourist. I don’t have to squeeze the normal routines of life into my time at the beach. It’s nice.
If only we could stay here forever.
But I know the reason that I don’t have any is that I don’t really need it. In Columbia we seldom have days nice enough to spend entirely outdoors. When we do, we are seldom in swimsuits.
When I lived at the beach I never burned. I never even used sunscreen. My skin was baked brown, and I could spend the entire day lying on the beach with no thought to protecting myself from the sun.
Now, because I have two small children, I am constantly fretting over the damaging rays of the sun. I own several different bottles of sunscreen, in varying degrees of protection. Some are for sensitive baby skin; some are waterproof; some spray on. I bought the kids the shirts that surfers wear, because they block harmful UV rays. We wear hats. And, for the first time in my life, I am battling a beach umbrella. Those things are frustrating. But Laila’s skin is so tender, and I know I need to keep her out of the sun.
But I am stubborn. I still refuse to apply sunscreen to myself. I still believe I have the same skin I had five years ago, even though my legs are pale and ghastly white. (Whose legs are those, I wonder, whenever I see current pictures of myself.)
I took Connor kayaking this week. We paddled (or rather I paddled) around the marshes of Litchfield for about 1 ½ hours. It was great. We saw fish jumping. We went under the bridge. We crept up on a heron that had a fish hanging out of its mouth.
But it didn’t occur to me that while kayaking, we would be in the sun. Stupid, I know.
Fortunately Connor was wearing a tee-shirt under his life vest, long shorts, and the cast cover that he has to wear. But he didn’t have on a hat, and his cheeks are pink.
I was wearing a bathing suit and a life jacket, and my legs are blistered. They are throbbing. I feel like what I am: a tourist.
“Did you wear sunscreen?” Lee asked when he saw my blistered legs.
I gave him a sheepish smile.
“Idiot!” he exclaimed. “Has it ever occurred to you that whenever you make a decision, you should, as a matter of course, do the complete opposite?”
Ouch.
But I feel great. I am completely relaxed from a day spent in the sun. Life is so much slower and calmer here. It’s a different experience being a tourist. I don’t have to squeeze the normal routines of life into my time at the beach. It’s nice.
If only we could stay here forever.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Beach Vacation: Day One
It is early morning. Laila is lying next to me, sleeping. Lee is in another room, and I can hear him snoring. I hear a faint chirping sound, and at first I am unable to identify it as the sound of birds.
I open my eyes, and I am both excited and a little sad to see the sunlight coming through the windows.
I rise at 6:00 a.m. This is unusual for me; I am not a morning person. I make coffee and step outside onto the front porch. I expect it to be chilly like the air-conditioned house, but I am comforted by the sticky warmth. I study the marshes; their grasses glow a faint green in the early morning sun. A white heron swoops down and ducks out of sight. I believe I have found heaven again.
I walk to the back of the house, overlooking another marsh. We cannot see the ocean from this home, but I know we are close. I study the dark murky waters. Oyster beds peep from beneath the surface. I consider waking Connor to show him the oysters, which were completely covered when we arrived yesterday, but I think better of it. I grab a book and some coffee, and spend an hour reading.
We are vacationing in Litchfield this week, in my aunt’s beach house. As a young child I spent several summer days in this very house, playing with my cousins Anna, Jenny, and Andrew. When we arrived yesterday I was delighted to see that the small play house downstairs is still there, complete with a trap-door. When I was a child we would pretend it was a pirate ship.
But so much has changed about the house since I last visited it: they have added an extra room, and a deck overlooking the marsh in the back. They also have a floating dock now, which I don’t remember. There is a small garden in the back that wasn’t there before. And the front porch has been extended. The house is fabulous, and I am excited about the upcoming week.
When we arrived yesterday I told Lee I felt as if I were returning home. Not because of the house, per se, but because of the surrounding area. I have always felt a deep connection to the ocean and the marshes and beaches surrounding it. I grew up thirty minutes north of where we are staying, and I have so many fond memories involving the beach.
For two summers in high school I sold lemonade on the beach in Surfside; I developed a crush on a lifeguard named Josh, who left at the end of the summer to join the navy.
In high school I spent many days and evenings at the beach with my friend Victor. He had a jeep and an extra surfboard, and he was willing to drive to my parent’s house every day to pick me up and take me to the beach. When it got too hot we would go to his parent’s home, which was always air-conditioned to a nice 68 degrees and which had the softest, shaggiest carpet I have ever seen. We would lie in that carpet in the living room and watch t.v. until we had cooled down enough to return to the beach. In the evenings we would get cheese-fries to-go from Outback and take them to the beach to share.
The summer I was 18 was perhaps one of the best summers of my life. I worked in a restaurant with several high school friends. We spent our days at the beach and our evenings (after work) at dance clubs. We met Allyson, who was a student at Chapel Hill, and quickly befriended her. Allyson was staying in a beach home with a lady named Theresa, and I practically moved in with them.
When I was in college I was fortunate enough to live just a block from the ocean, off Dogwood in Surfside. When I was in law school, I often came home for the weekend and stayed with my good friend Ashley, who lived in Pawley’s Island.
The summer that I was 25 I lived in Myrtle Beach. I bought a surfboard, and befriended a group of surfers. They attempted to teach me to surf, and in the evenings after work I would take my surfboard to 62 Ave. N and ride the waves. Occasionally I actually managed to stand up. I was never very good, but I loved watching the waves roll to the shore from the water. All my life I had watched them roll in while standing on the beach; to see the back of the waves was new. The evening sun gave them a soft golden glow.
On the weekends I often stayed with Ashley in Pawleys, and we spent every Saturday and Sunday at the beach. We would arrive around 10:00 and stay until 6:00 or 7:00. We hung out with a large group of people, most of whose names I no longer remember. I always referred to them as the Pawley’s crew. I remember “Big Steve” would often comment on how lucky we were to live in Paradise.
“What could be better?” he would often ask. “We’re the luckiest people in the world.”
I agreed.
If someone had told me I would not be returning to the beach after law school, it is possible I never would have left. I intended to return. I planned to buy a home in Surfside and raise a family of surfer-children. But life had other plans for me. All in all, life is better than I could have imagined back then. But I still desperately miss the beach, and I still feel displaced in Columbia. A little like a fish out of water.
I console myself with the fact that Lee has agreed to move here with me once he retires. I plan to live out my old age in a house near the sea.
I also console myself with the fact that we are only three hours away, and since my parents still live near the beach, I can bring my children as often as I want. I am trying desperately to indoctrinate them with the same love for the sticky air, the marshy smell, and the salty water that I have. I encourage Connor to learn to swim by promising him that I will take him surfing as soon as he is a strong swimmer, and he seems excited about that. But it is still an uphill battle, since my husband so clearly prefers the air conditioning to the outdoors.
I was encouraged last night when Lee wanted to spend our first evening on the front porch.
“I like the hammock,” he commented.
“We could buy one. We can get one while we’re here,” I offered eagerly.
“Don’t go crazy, now. We have mosquitoes in our yard. There aren’t any bugs here.”
“We could get rid of the mosquitoes,” I said, unsure how we would really accomplish that, especially since I don’t like using pesticides. Bats? Frogs?
“But it’s hot at our house. We don’t have the breeze.”
“Well, what if we got some fans?”
I sighed, knowing it was futile. Even if I managed to create a breeze and eradicate all the bugs on our property, we wouldn’t have the salt smell. We wouldn’t have a beach nearby to provide that lazy sun-baked feeling.
But we are here, I thought. For one whole week we are here. And we can come back next year, and the next, and the next.
A small stone by my aunt’s door reads “If you are lucky enough to be at the beach, you are lucky enough.” I contemplate that for a moment, and realize how truly blessed we really are.
I open my eyes, and I am both excited and a little sad to see the sunlight coming through the windows.
I rise at 6:00 a.m. This is unusual for me; I am not a morning person. I make coffee and step outside onto the front porch. I expect it to be chilly like the air-conditioned house, but I am comforted by the sticky warmth. I study the marshes; their grasses glow a faint green in the early morning sun. A white heron swoops down and ducks out of sight. I believe I have found heaven again.
I walk to the back of the house, overlooking another marsh. We cannot see the ocean from this home, but I know we are close. I study the dark murky waters. Oyster beds peep from beneath the surface. I consider waking Connor to show him the oysters, which were completely covered when we arrived yesterday, but I think better of it. I grab a book and some coffee, and spend an hour reading.
We are vacationing in Litchfield this week, in my aunt’s beach house. As a young child I spent several summer days in this very house, playing with my cousins Anna, Jenny, and Andrew. When we arrived yesterday I was delighted to see that the small play house downstairs is still there, complete with a trap-door. When I was a child we would pretend it was a pirate ship.
But so much has changed about the house since I last visited it: they have added an extra room, and a deck overlooking the marsh in the back. They also have a floating dock now, which I don’t remember. There is a small garden in the back that wasn’t there before. And the front porch has been extended. The house is fabulous, and I am excited about the upcoming week.
When we arrived yesterday I told Lee I felt as if I were returning home. Not because of the house, per se, but because of the surrounding area. I have always felt a deep connection to the ocean and the marshes and beaches surrounding it. I grew up thirty minutes north of where we are staying, and I have so many fond memories involving the beach.
For two summers in high school I sold lemonade on the beach in Surfside; I developed a crush on a lifeguard named Josh, who left at the end of the summer to join the navy.
In high school I spent many days and evenings at the beach with my friend Victor. He had a jeep and an extra surfboard, and he was willing to drive to my parent’s house every day to pick me up and take me to the beach. When it got too hot we would go to his parent’s home, which was always air-conditioned to a nice 68 degrees and which had the softest, shaggiest carpet I have ever seen. We would lie in that carpet in the living room and watch t.v. until we had cooled down enough to return to the beach. In the evenings we would get cheese-fries to-go from Outback and take them to the beach to share.
The summer I was 18 was perhaps one of the best summers of my life. I worked in a restaurant with several high school friends. We spent our days at the beach and our evenings (after work) at dance clubs. We met Allyson, who was a student at Chapel Hill, and quickly befriended her. Allyson was staying in a beach home with a lady named Theresa, and I practically moved in with them.
When I was in college I was fortunate enough to live just a block from the ocean, off Dogwood in Surfside. When I was in law school, I often came home for the weekend and stayed with my good friend Ashley, who lived in Pawley’s Island.
The summer that I was 25 I lived in Myrtle Beach. I bought a surfboard, and befriended a group of surfers. They attempted to teach me to surf, and in the evenings after work I would take my surfboard to 62 Ave. N and ride the waves. Occasionally I actually managed to stand up. I was never very good, but I loved watching the waves roll to the shore from the water. All my life I had watched them roll in while standing on the beach; to see the back of the waves was new. The evening sun gave them a soft golden glow.
On the weekends I often stayed with Ashley in Pawleys, and we spent every Saturday and Sunday at the beach. We would arrive around 10:00 and stay until 6:00 or 7:00. We hung out with a large group of people, most of whose names I no longer remember. I always referred to them as the Pawley’s crew. I remember “Big Steve” would often comment on how lucky we were to live in Paradise.
“What could be better?” he would often ask. “We’re the luckiest people in the world.”
I agreed.
If someone had told me I would not be returning to the beach after law school, it is possible I never would have left. I intended to return. I planned to buy a home in Surfside and raise a family of surfer-children. But life had other plans for me. All in all, life is better than I could have imagined back then. But I still desperately miss the beach, and I still feel displaced in Columbia. A little like a fish out of water.
I console myself with the fact that Lee has agreed to move here with me once he retires. I plan to live out my old age in a house near the sea.
I also console myself with the fact that we are only three hours away, and since my parents still live near the beach, I can bring my children as often as I want. I am trying desperately to indoctrinate them with the same love for the sticky air, the marshy smell, and the salty water that I have. I encourage Connor to learn to swim by promising him that I will take him surfing as soon as he is a strong swimmer, and he seems excited about that. But it is still an uphill battle, since my husband so clearly prefers the air conditioning to the outdoors.
I was encouraged last night when Lee wanted to spend our first evening on the front porch.
“I like the hammock,” he commented.
“We could buy one. We can get one while we’re here,” I offered eagerly.
“Don’t go crazy, now. We have mosquitoes in our yard. There aren’t any bugs here.”
“We could get rid of the mosquitoes,” I said, unsure how we would really accomplish that, especially since I don’t like using pesticides. Bats? Frogs?
“But it’s hot at our house. We don’t have the breeze.”
“Well, what if we got some fans?”
I sighed, knowing it was futile. Even if I managed to create a breeze and eradicate all the bugs on our property, we wouldn’t have the salt smell. We wouldn’t have a beach nearby to provide that lazy sun-baked feeling.
But we are here, I thought. For one whole week we are here. And we can come back next year, and the next, and the next.
A small stone by my aunt’s door reads “If you are lucky enough to be at the beach, you are lucky enough.” I contemplate that for a moment, and realize how truly blessed we really are.
Monday, May 25, 2009
First Family Camping Trip
Several months ago I decided to plan a family camping trip. I wanted to sleep in tents and enjoy nature. I wanted to "rough it." I recalled the camping trips of my childhood, and knew Connor would love it.
My parents agreed to come along (and I honestly don't believe we could have done it without them). We decided to take the trip over Memorial Day Weekend. I wanted to go to Cherokee, a small town on the Cherokee Indian Reservation that sits next to the Smoky Mountain National Park in North Carolina.
Cherokee is a tacky town. Architecturally, it's stuck in the 1970s. We visited it when I was a child, and I have always been drawn to it. With the exception of the casino which was built in the 90s, it hasn't changed at all since my first trip in the early 80s. It amazes me that an entire town can remain so static. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to it. It transports me back to the time when I was a small brown-eyed preschooler begging Mom to buy me an Indian doll in a purple deerskin dress (which I still have, by the way). Even though I know many of the tourist shops depict a historically inaccurate picture of the Cherokee, I was dying to take Connor.
The week preceding the trip Lee asked if I had given any thought to the weather.
"I'm an optimist," I replied.
"Well, there's a 40% chance of rain. Have you thought about what we'll do if it rains?"
"It won't rain," I replied.
Saturday night I lay in bed and listened to the rain lightly tapping the tent overhead. I looked at my two babies sleeping next to me, secure and oblivious to my concern. I worried that I wouldn't be able to keep them dry and warm. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. A few hours later Laila stirred. I changed her diaper and breathed a sigh of relief that the rain had ceased. She smiled and I cooed back. Connor stirred. And then the rain began again.
Our first morning was wet. I had been looking forward to the "Camp Breakfast" of my childhood--eggs, bacon, and toast cooked over a Coleman stove. But since it was raining we settled on The Pancake House in Cherokee--the one where the roof goes all the way to the parking lot. On the way over Mom reminded me that this was the restaurant where I discovered strawberry syrup over 25 years ago. I actually remember that breakfast. I was hoping to relive the experience, maybe share it with Connor; however, they no longer have strawberry syrup on the menu.
It was a dreary morning in Cherokee, so after breakfast we decided to make the trip through the Smoky Mountains to Gatlinburg. The trip over was overcast and gray; except for the winding roads, it was difficult to tell we were even in mountains. But once in Gatlinburg, it was sunny and humid. Lee and Connor rode the chair lift up the mountain. Connor was fascinated. We walked around Gatlinburg and did a little shopping before returning to Cherokee.
On the way back we stopped at Newfound Gap. Connor had a ball climbing some rocks near a monument. It amazed me how agile he is. He and I hiked a small portion of the Appalachian trail. Connor had a blast; I had a difficult time pulling him off of it--he kept wanting to go just a bit further. We returned to the monument, where Lee, Mom, Dad, and Laila were waiting. As we were walking to the car we noticed a crowd of people ogling over the mountain. We looked down, and about 100 yards below us was a baby black bear.
When we returned to Cherokee the weather was beautiful. We went to the campsite and cooked hot dogs over a fire. The nights at the campsite were the best part of the trip. We stayed at Arrowhead Campground near Cherokee, and admittedly I was disappointed when I first saw it--it was more "campy" and less "woodsy" than I was hoping for. But there was a grassy lawn in the middle of the campground, and our campsite overlooked the playground, which is where Connor spent all of his time. In retrospect I realize this was much more ideal than the remote primitive site I had envisioned. Connor quickly befriended all the other children who were staying there, and he played until it was too dark to see while we sat at the campsite and enjoyed some kid-free time. Watching him play reminded me of my own childhood, and I recalled the endless summer days that stretched into warm summer nights.
The trip ended too soon. On Monday morning we enjoyed our Camp Breakfast. We packed up. We skipped the tourist shops and took the scenic route home. We stopped at a picnic site in Pisgah National Forest, and Lee and Connor waded in the stream. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, packed up, and came home.
Connor had a great time. He can't decide what the best part was--it changes every five minutes. My parents seemed to have a lot of fun as well. I am already daydreaming about the next camping trip. And despite his jokes to the contrary, I think Lee had fun. .
My advice for camping with small children:
1) Stay flexible;
2) Keep it simple;
3) Skip the primitive sites;
4) Maintain a sense of humor; and
5) Purchase a waterproof tent.
My parents agreed to come along (and I honestly don't believe we could have done it without them). We decided to take the trip over Memorial Day Weekend. I wanted to go to Cherokee, a small town on the Cherokee Indian Reservation that sits next to the Smoky Mountain National Park in North Carolina.
Cherokee is a tacky town. Architecturally, it's stuck in the 1970s. We visited it when I was a child, and I have always been drawn to it. With the exception of the casino which was built in the 90s, it hasn't changed at all since my first trip in the early 80s. It amazes me that an entire town can remain so static. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to it. It transports me back to the time when I was a small brown-eyed preschooler begging Mom to buy me an Indian doll in a purple deerskin dress (which I still have, by the way). Even though I know many of the tourist shops depict a historically inaccurate picture of the Cherokee, I was dying to take Connor.
The week preceding the trip Lee asked if I had given any thought to the weather.
"I'm an optimist," I replied.
"Well, there's a 40% chance of rain. Have you thought about what we'll do if it rains?"
"It won't rain," I replied.
Saturday night I lay in bed and listened to the rain lightly tapping the tent overhead. I looked at my two babies sleeping next to me, secure and oblivious to my concern. I worried that I wouldn't be able to keep them dry and warm. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. A few hours later Laila stirred. I changed her diaper and breathed a sigh of relief that the rain had ceased. She smiled and I cooed back. Connor stirred. And then the rain began again.
Our first morning was wet. I had been looking forward to the "Camp Breakfast" of my childhood--eggs, bacon, and toast cooked over a Coleman stove. But since it was raining we settled on The Pancake House in Cherokee--the one where the roof goes all the way to the parking lot. On the way over Mom reminded me that this was the restaurant where I discovered strawberry syrup over 25 years ago. I actually remember that breakfast. I was hoping to relive the experience, maybe share it with Connor; however, they no longer have strawberry syrup on the menu.
It was a dreary morning in Cherokee, so after breakfast we decided to make the trip through the Smoky Mountains to Gatlinburg. The trip over was overcast and gray; except for the winding roads, it was difficult to tell we were even in mountains. But once in Gatlinburg, it was sunny and humid. Lee and Connor rode the chair lift up the mountain. Connor was fascinated. We walked around Gatlinburg and did a little shopping before returning to Cherokee.
On the way back we stopped at Newfound Gap. Connor had a ball climbing some rocks near a monument. It amazed me how agile he is. He and I hiked a small portion of the Appalachian trail. Connor had a blast; I had a difficult time pulling him off of it--he kept wanting to go just a bit further. We returned to the monument, where Lee, Mom, Dad, and Laila were waiting. As we were walking to the car we noticed a crowd of people ogling over the mountain. We looked down, and about 100 yards below us was a baby black bear.
When we returned to Cherokee the weather was beautiful. We went to the campsite and cooked hot dogs over a fire. The nights at the campsite were the best part of the trip. We stayed at Arrowhead Campground near Cherokee, and admittedly I was disappointed when I first saw it--it was more "campy" and less "woodsy" than I was hoping for. But there was a grassy lawn in the middle of the campground, and our campsite overlooked the playground, which is where Connor spent all of his time. In retrospect I realize this was much more ideal than the remote primitive site I had envisioned. Connor quickly befriended all the other children who were staying there, and he played until it was too dark to see while we sat at the campsite and enjoyed some kid-free time. Watching him play reminded me of my own childhood, and I recalled the endless summer days that stretched into warm summer nights.
The trip ended too soon. On Monday morning we enjoyed our Camp Breakfast. We packed up. We skipped the tourist shops and took the scenic route home. We stopped at a picnic site in Pisgah National Forest, and Lee and Connor waded in the stream. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, packed up, and came home.
Connor had a great time. He can't decide what the best part was--it changes every five minutes. My parents seemed to have a lot of fun as well. I am already daydreaming about the next camping trip. And despite his jokes to the contrary, I think Lee had fun. .
My advice for camping with small children:
1) Stay flexible;
2) Keep it simple;
3) Skip the primitive sites;
4) Maintain a sense of humor; and
5) Purchase a waterproof tent.
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