Rain, Rain, Go Away

My parents met when they were both students at the University of Alabama; my father was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio while my mother was born and raised in Palm Beach, Florida. When they married in 1944 and settled in Cleveland, my father promised her parents that he would make sure their daughter could come and visit them at least once a year. He kept that promise faithfully.

As the years passed and their family grew to include eight children, we kids knew to expect that our summer vacation every year would be a three-day-long drive to Florida to see our grandparents. The annual pilgrimage involved a crowded station wagon with no air-conditioning. There were no seat belts back then, so we were free to move about the vehicle, with usually one child in the front seat with Mom and Dad, three in the back seat, and the remainder loosely sequestered in the back section by the tailgate. It was three days of being cooped up in the car while singing songs, playing games, arguing over the window seats and general mayhem.

kids will love it!” The thought of saving money was always attractive to my father. Less than $10 a night at a campground instead of $50 or more at a hotel? It was a bargain he couldn’t resist. So munching our chips, and watching the entertaining drama taking place in front of us. We could see our father’s anger and frustration with the tent growing by the minute. The setup seemed so easy when the friend was guiding him through the steps during the practice time. But now, it had quickly become a nightmare tangle of canvas and poles. After a very long struggle, the tent was finally up, and we all piled in, full of excitement.

My mother got us settled while my father paced outside, trying to calm down from his agitated state. How fun it seemed to us that we were going to be allowed to sleep in our clothes. A short time later, my father joined us in the tent with a smile and a good night hug for each of us. We had carefully arranged the best sleeping bag and pillow for Dad. He gratefully reclined, slipped his wallet under his pillow for safekeeping, and turned off the lantern. We all entered dreamland together, as a gentle rain began a soft drumming on the canvas overhead.

As the light of a new day crept into our dreams, it seemed like we all woke with a start at the same time. “Ewww! I’m all wet!” my sister wailed. “Me, too!” began the shouts of one brother after another. It quickly became evident that it had continued to rain all night, and the water had soaked through the floor of the tent. We were all laying in big puddles.

My father immediately assessed the situation and yelled “Everyone out of the tent!.” We scrambled out and ran through the rain to reach the safe space of the car, leaving our parents to deal with the soggy mess. We watched woefully from the car windows as they struggled in the rain. The tent had to be disassembled and packed up, along with the water-logged sleeping bags and pillows. Then, the mucky bundles had to be hoisted up and secured to the roof rack.

When they finally burst into the car and sank into their seats, we instinctively knew not to say a word. We sat silently, wondering what was going to happen next. My father’s head slumped forward, coming to rest against the steering wheel, as he panted heavily. My mother seemed come to the unhappy realization that his wallet was hidden somewhere among the folds of the soaking wet tent that was stowed away on the roof of the car. In his earlier haste to take down the tent, he had forgotten that he had stashed his wallet under his pillow the night before. appreciated this attribute as a child.

I am happy to report that, in the end, the wallet was found, the donuts were delicious, we made it to Florida without further calamity, and our family never tried tent camping again.