As summer wanes, I'm chasing flickers of nostalgia by the campfire
When I think about my carefree childhood days at a campground in northern Minnesota, I’m hit with a sense of nostalgia.
Early summer mornings, we squished blueberry pie filling between bread in the campfire sandwich-maker for a gooey breakfast. The adults parked themselves at the campfire pit, chitchatting all day while the kids ran circles around the grounds. We bounced from the old-school arcade to the swimming pool to the lake, melted ice cream from the canteen dripping off our elbows. At night, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers mingled with bug spray and laughter; we kids begged to sleep in each other’s accommodations as the parents chuckled at the din. Each year, we had at least one long weekend dedicated to pure summer bliss, and we were determined to make the most of it.
Nostalgia is a funny, mysterious thing. Sometimes a particular sound or smell will transport me back to a time and place, almost instantaneously (to this day, the smell of strawberry shampoo teleports me right back to being 8 years old, rushing to finish my shower at summer camp). I often find these moments charming, endearing, but they are also laced with a hint of sadness and longing. There’s something about those memories that triggers the feeling that something is missing in the present. Now that I live in a city, I often feel nostalgic outdoors. My childhood memories of being in nature are grounded in a sense of freedom and the endless possibilities of wide-open spaces, a feeling I now yearn for in my urban environment.
When my husband and I started dating nearly a decade ago, he introduced me to the mountainous terrain of New England – a far cry from the 10,000 lazy lakes of Minnesota. This type of adventure took work – a grueling climb straight up the trails of the White Mountains, huffing and puffing with shaking quads. Our campsites were minimal and chosen based on their proximity to a trailhead. Each day we’d summit one, two, maybe three peaks. Exhausted, we’d crawl back to our campsite, tired, happy, and content to spend the rest of the night by the fire.
Fast-forward to the present, and things would have to look different now that we have a 2 ½-year-old. It had been awhile since we’d taken out the camping gear, but we felt the time had come to figure out camping as a family
This summer we decided to invest in a small camper to accommodate our little one. My husband found a utility trailer the previous owner had converted into a mini log cabin, complete with a wooden veneer interior and a full-size bed. For our first trip, we booked a campsite at a family campground in western Massachusetts, one that boasted a playground and small beach. Upon arrival, I grabbed our son and took off for the playground while my husband set up camp.
After he finished, my husband joined us as we made our way to the pond to cool off. No sooner was our son changed into his trunks than he ran straight into the water. He splashed and poured water from some abandoned beach toys, noticing curious little fish swimming closer and closer to his pruney toes.
As the sun started to set, we made our way back to our little camper. Our son wiggled into his pajamas. I built a fire, starting small and blowing gently on the kindling. Within 10 minutes the firepit danced with flames, flickering as the stars began to pop out in the night sky
My son, snuggled with his papa on the camp chair, was soon mesmerized by the fire. My husband pointed to the stars, our toddler sleepily following the direction of his gaze. Before long, he started to fade, and my husband gently carried him back to the camper. When he returned, we scarfed down our dinner of steak and potatoes, and then plopped a couple of marshmallows onto our sticks. With chocolate and graham crackers, our s’mores were complete. The sticky sweet filled our mouths and souls. The stars sparkled above us, and the fire crackled at our feet. For a moment, I felt like a kid again.
Struck with nostalgia, I found myself remembering my summers at the RV park. There was a little sadness there, thinking back to the carefree memories of my youth. But there was also something new: flickers of hope and excitement, realizing I had the opportunity to embrace being wild again through my son. Watching him run through the grass, climb sandy hills, venture into the pond – he didn’t have a care in the world, just total presence with his natural surroundings. Each time he looked at me with his cherry-red face and big brown eyes, it was an invitation to join in his joy.
It can be hard as an adult to set aside time to let go of life’s obligations and just play, but to a child, this is what makes life wonderful. Why would you not play with reckless abandon every chance you get? This was the carefree summer sentiment that I missed. The ability to enjoy the earth and all its goodness, savoring its beauty and gifts. With our son, I’ll have another opportunity to experience that again. But really, I think all of us are invited into this presence every day – by the people in our lives, the allure of the park down the road, the desire to dust off that old picnic blanket – and it’s up to us to choose to accept that invitation.
The memories of my childhood summers remind me that I have the capacity to be carefree. And perhaps in intentionally creating new memories, we’ll give our son that foundation as well. At least in my experience, there’s no better place to do that than under the summer sky.
