Kumbaya

Do you know what blogging feels like some days? Camping. We're just friends, sitting around a fire and telling stories.

One of my fondest memories involving my Father was the day he took all of us kids camping. There were seven of us, my cousins and I, against the only adult brave enough to take us into the wilderness. Dad picked out a spot for the tents at the bottom of a hill while we unloaded the coolers full of bacon, eggs, cokes, and Smore fixings. I argued that we should set up camp closer to the lake, but he assured me that he knew what he was doing.

And then it rained. We all scattered to our tents to get out of the storm and found... the insides of our tents were soaked too. Evidently rain likes to form rivers down hills when it rains. Who knew?! Pfft. By the time we realized what was happening it was too late to set up camp elsewhere. The river running through our tents had made them too heavy to lift. With nowhere dry to stand I begged my Dad to take us home. He responded by pushing a picnic table into the main tent.

"Sit," he barked at us. We huddled, shivering and complaining on that table while he rummaged through his truck. When he came back there was a deck of cards in his hand. "What's that for?" I asked. "Poker," he said. That night we stayed up until the storm cleared, although it wasn't because we were bothered by the rain. We had stopped caring long before that happened. We were too busy having fun, playing Poker in the rain on a picnic table in a tent. Even the littlest, barely four, got in on the fun.

My Father wasn't a wise man. He often did stupid and dangerous things. He wasn't particularly good at being a parent either. He acted more like that crazy uncle everyone has. But sometimes, just when I thought he'd failed me yet again, he would come through and save the day. I lived for those moments. What "save the day" memory sticks out most in your mind? Pull up a log, sit by the fire, tell me if the fish are biting, and join me in some blogger camping.

Fun Fact: "Kumbaya, my Lord" started out in the 1920s as a Gullah spiritual sung on the islands of South Carolina between Charleston and Beaufort. "Come by here, my Lord" in Gullah is "Come by (h)yuh, my lawd." American missionaries probably took the song to Angola after its publication in the 1930s, where its origins were forgotten. In the late 1950s the song was rediscovered in Angola and returned to North American where it swept the campfire circuit as a beautiful and mysterious religious lyric.

My Happy Thought: I couldn't help but feel blue last night on the way to my parents. Not having Hoop home is starting to get to me. Work is well... work. The house situation is dismal at best. My realtor continues to push that we should lower the price. Meanwhile she's not pushing my house at all. Who has an open house and doesn't advertise? So I wasn't in the greatest mood when I pulled onto my parents' road. And then I saw Big Bit.

He was parked at the stop sign with his Go Kart. I pulled up and rolled down my window. He revved his engine and gave me a shit-eating grin. "You can't be serious!" I laughed. He nodded and revved the engine again. "I have a V8!" I called out to him. Suddenly he was gone, shot off in a burst of speed and gas. I pushed down on the peddle, closing the distance between us in a matter of seconds. "How fast am I going?" He screamed over the noise. "30 mph," I lied. His grin widened as he slammed on the gas again, peeling into the driveway ahead of me.

More August Search Terms (Again):
(What people put into search engines that bring them here)
1. vibrating underwear alarm That's one way to get up in the morning.
2. Shamu soundtrack Wouldn't that just be a bunch of clicks and whistles?
3. "poet nymph" There wasn't supposed to be an "o" on the end of that was there?

Days Til Hoop's Back: 7

P.S. I haven't forgotten about the birthmark picture I promised you all. I just haven't been home to load it. Mark it as one of my, "Coming Attractions." hehe