A pile of grocery items in a corner of the kitchen,
and a collection of camping gear
near the garage door--clues
of our family’s weekend plan. 
Lists on the refrigerator door, what to buy,
what to remember to bring along.   
Aromas of fried chicken, potato salad, and cake;
lunch for the first day, wrapped and put aside.    

Clothing selections laid out, to be packed in a suitcase.
Tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, axe, fishing gear,
air mattresses, towels, lawn chairs, stools, and lanterns
loaded into the car, the night before.

In dawn’s light, the rest followed:
food and part of the drinks in two ice chests;   
three children in the back seat, with
pillows, choices of personal Items,
comic books, magazines, toys, games;
two adults in the front with a watermelon between;
jug of water on passenger’s side floor;
first aid kit, sunscreen, mosquito repellent,
snakebite kit in glove box.

And we were off down the road in the 1948 Chevrolet
(which was magic to have held it all)
for a weekend or longer at Birch Creek Valley,
our vacation home camp. It was family time,
familiar, bonding, mysteriously transforming. 

We sang and played car games, driving  
through towns with only a gas station, a store,
maybe a bar and restaurant.
Their order was memorized so we knew
how much longer to get to our camping spot
along a creek that spread out a lace of flowing
smaller threads, and beaver designed  
holding pools for our fishing.    

We set up camp, got tent, beds and
camp stove ready for use later,
put watermelon,beer, and pop
to cool in the creek. 
We ate our un-refrigerated chicken,
which miraculously never made us sick,
prepared our poles, tied on our spinners,
and dug up worms near the water.   

In the late afternoon, we walked through
purple, yellow and white floral splotched
grass and dangled our bait into the waters. 
Before long, we’d feel a tug on our line
and see a flash of our fighting silver catch
as we pulled it in.  Nomad fishers we were,
who took just a few and moved along. 
My stepmother declared we walked
more than fished as my dad led us
off to yet another beaver pond
and stream offshoot and I sang along
the trail, “I love to go awandering…”

Back at camp, always left open and
never disturbed by others,  campfire was lit,
dinner prepared.  Fish were cleaned by
whoever caught them, but I bargained with my brothers
to clean mine. Some were cooked, the rest put on ice
for transport home to the freezer for future meals. 

We ate, talked and laughed, toasted marshmallows for
S’mores, sat around the fire, stared and poked into
bright orange coals, got smoke in our eyes,
played cards by lantern light, and fell asleep
to lullaby sounds of nature, curious to us city kids.

We awoke smiling and laughing at
our non-singer father, singing part of a song,
“heap big smoke, but no fire,”
as he got the morning fire crackling. 
We emerged from our sleeping bags, grabbed
our poles and bait and went to invite some fish
back for a breakfast fry with bacon, eggs,
and potatoes.  Then we rested, read, and
played around before more fishing, eating, etc. 

In the morning, we’d pack up, clean the campsite,
and travel back into civilization (only ten miles away)
stopping at a restaurant and bar for lunch. 
Those of us in the  backseat were
by now, tired of each other’s constant
company and eager to catch up with
our friends, watch TV and listen to our
records.  Those in the front
were thinking about the unloading,
putting things away, and getting some
space and peace away from the
backseat squabbling.    

This was our low-cost family vacation,

nature appreciation education.