Regular readers know that I'm a bit nuts about camping, so how can it be the biggest joke of the week?
Yesterday somebody knocked on the door. It was the wife of Steve's former Scoutmaster. Keep in mind that Steve is now 37. She rolled her eyes and said, "I really have to apologize. I was cleaning ____'s desk, and found some undelivered badges. So here's Steve's Camping Badge, about 25 years late." We had a great laugh about it.
The real joke is how little anyone here likes to camp, except me.
Here's a lesson for you youngsters. Om and I discussed camping before marriage. He said he liked it. I knew I liked it. Oops... be sure to talk about definitions. He calls it camping when you drive around in one of those metal houses on wheels. So not...
Anyway, we did go family camping three times. They were not outstanding successes. However, with the practiced eye of a mother determined to come home with happy pictures for the photo album, I bring you Camping in 1979. (Steve is the little guy with marshmallow on his face, Josh is still burning his.)
The bottom line is, Josh did not like being dirty. Omer does not like being cold or outdoors that much. Steve tolerated it all much better, but given choices he didn't want to camp either, once the Scouting years were over.
Me... well, most of you know me... the farther out, the better. (on the Border Route, 2009) I will skip the marshmallow on my face, though.
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