Smoke billowed across the campsite. The damned fire had finally caught. Snapping, popping and releasing that pungent smell. All the wood brother John found was damp from the constant rain that had only now let up. Fortunately, we had plenty of newspaper and some kindling stuck wherever there was an inch to spare in the station wagon. The fire was warmth and kept the scary darkness away.
We had stopped for the night. Finding an unoccupied site wasn’t difficult this cold May night since we were the only hardy adventurers looking for one. Hardy? By now, yes. We kids were old hands at setting up camp, having endured over two weeks of experience in all kinds of conditions in our journey from Virginia. And we set up usually in the twilight since Dad wanted to make as “good a time” as he could.
Dad added an experiment. “Jeannie, save the water the potatoes are cooked in.” He was a champion of conserving water. Especially in the desert. And we were settling in for a few days in the Petrified Forest of the Painted Desert. He considered his cup of Joe as his reward for captaining the Ford complement of wife and four kids camping across country. He figured his wife should get double use from that water. That night, he swallowed a lot more than coffee. It was starchy and thick. It didn’t remain in his mouth for long.
I didn’t mind the smoke that night in 1953. (It always found me regardless of wind direction or however I might move around. Campfire smoke still does.)
On this occasion it hid my smile.
The fearsome one was capable of making a bad judgement call. Ah, the look on his face.
Then we all laughed out loud, including a chastened father.