I never went camping with my family, ever. My father did not fish or hunt. In my family, there is little real or feigned nostalgia for the rural areas from which my ancestors left to escaped subsistence farming, poverty and racism. I have never been there, and I am not sure I could find them on a map, and I have very limited desire to go there now. I love my city life.
As I was saying, we went camping this weekend. I know it is because DH has all of these fond childhood memories of his family's property and I've only know a sunken out-house, and leaking trailer.
My husband does try to do the cooking and clean up, which involves burning garbage. There also is the grass mowing. My husband loves to mow the grass. Granted since we have not been up there this year we had to hire a neighbor to 'brush-hog' the bulk of it so that it could be mowed. One of my friends from high school uploaded pictures from her Paris vacation that I simply cannot bare to look at. I made drip coffee in coffee maker older than I, with water I had to carry to it, with creamer from a melting cooler. Then it started to rain.
My husband was smiling, my kids got as muddy as humanly possible. We invited some friends up and their kids got as muddy as possible. They caught and released colorful if slimy little fish. They all spend time in the woods, looking for salamanders, firewood, and I am sure we brought home three big bugs and a frog. My family ended sun burned, gorged on s'mores and there was an enough grass in my son’s hair to weave a small hut. They are happy, and they will remember it that. We will likely be going again this month.
