I Remember Everything

It’s the smack dab middle of Brat Summer. They say it’s the hottest summer on record. I’ve driven myself and my 13yo son to the middle of nowhere in the midlands region of South Carolina. I’ve presented an extravagant amount of chocolate and marshmallows (for s’mores, of course) as a decadent accompaniment on our summer getaway to an unfamiliar place with waterfront views, lots of peace and quiet, and the freedom to go several days without showering (a 13yo boy’s happy place). My son reaches for another piece of chocolate as I squeeze my perfectly roasted marshmallow together and watch its gooey shape plunge beyond the edges of two graham crackers. The sight of this mess makes me happy.

Camping, albeit a frugal summer getaway, feels like the greatest indulgence to me. There is plenty of time and nothing to do, and I find great delight in serving up the simplest of pleasures on silver platter display, even if that silver platter is actually an old banged up tin case that holds our well-loved deck of UNO cards (that also serves as a fine snack tray when emptied of its usual contents). Roasting marshmallows and discussing the optimal angle for that perfect outer mallow char keeps us entertained as we sit and divide our attention between the campfire and the lapping water at the lake’s edge just beyond our feet. Personally, I can think of no better pairing.

I’m feeling called to take a nap. T a long paddle with the 13yo and our massively cute and equally awkward golden retriever (who on this very trip has found a liking for joining us on the paddleboard), I ask my campmate to tend to the fire and I make an escape to the hammock hung in our tiny little private pine forest and I let myself be cradled as I’m swung back and forth. 

I remember being in a swing. I’m a toddler, but also not much older. I’m in the home of my teenaged babysitter, Kathleen—a short and spunky, rule-following brunette. (Matter of fact, my middle name is Kathleen. I, too, am short and spunky, and my hair is brown, though I can’t say I’ve ever been talked of as a rule follower. I digress.) 

I hear the clicking sound coming from the early ‘80s baby swing that holds and rocks me to and fro. I am small and nimble enough to crawl into this swing meant for a little baby. I feel comforted by the clicking. I feel safe in this swing. I remember the beige environment of Kathleen’s family home. I am told that I’m too big for the swing, but I know I fit just right. “You’re a mess,” they say as I climb into the little hammock, introduced to the belief that being a mess can be an endearing if not entertaining behavior. I remember the shag rug. I remember all of this. And I feel happy.

I’ve become nervous around rugs. Symbolically, they are mentioned when life is seemingly pulled out from underneath you. I am well acquainted with this sensation. And sometimes when I look down and notice I’m standing on a rug I consider that it may get pulled away in any moment…I keep myself perched on my toes, ready to pounce and hop if need be. I stand ready. True story. 

I look out onto the lake, the view extending just beyond our green tent. A late afternoon thunderstorm rolled in just as we arrived to our site a few days before, which initially delayed our camp setup. We instead sat in the back of my 4runner, hatch open, eating snacks and playing UNO while the storm raged. (I’m telling you—snacks and a deck of cards are always a good idea.) The extra time I was forced to sit still gave me the opportunity to consider the best possible location for our tent and, looking at it now, I’m very pleased with myself. This perfect placement of hammock and tent delights me. I feel happy.

We’ve been on the campsite for several days and I’ve become acquainted with the heron that comes to the water’s edge at sunset, the pair of blue warblers that bounce about in the shoreline thicket right around the same time, and the pair of egrets that walk the shoreline around sunrise. What a wonder—in such a short time, I’ve grown acquainted with this tiny little universe. I fully exhale and bathe in the view. I feel happy.

The corners of my mouth creep upward. My gut sends a message to my brain just as the skin on my nose pinches a little, a tiny smile scrunching the muscles of my sun-kissed face. 

My life has just begun.

A trickle of thoughts follow…

Life’s a mess. And here I am.

I am happy.

This hammock feels good. And right. And familiar.

Yesterday’s birds have come back again today.

I feel the warmth of summer and it makes me drowsy. The left, right, left, right, left, right, of the hammock. The perfect, rhythmic beating of the baby swing. Like a familiar heartbeat.

I remember it all.

I feel happy.

Shortly after we return home, my body still covered head to toe in muddy red clay, I drive around the curve that wraps around our neighborhood. I’ve just dropped my son at art camp and I’m coming home to unload the boards and bikes and everything else still soaked in a delicious stench of campfire. 

The thought returns. Life has just begun. 

Once again I feel the corners of my mouth lift upward. My belly lets out a small chuckle. As if I’ve won something. Defeated something. Dare I say the expression on my face may even be a tinge smug. This expression coming from the inside out is one of joy, patience, understanding, contentment, pride, and willingness. It’s many things. A waft of warm summer air rushes through the car windows as I steer the final pull of the curve and the campfire stench fills my nose. I’m reminded of the hammock swinging, the island hopping with my son and our big clumsy dog on our boards, our clay-stained bare feet, the blankets of pine needles, the chipper chirping of the tiny warblers during sunset, the creaminess of the roasted marshmallows, the absolute delight on the face of my son every time he puts down a Draw Four just as I say “UNO!”, the easeful passing of daylight with no plan or obligation or tension or dread, the moonlight view from the tent, a bottle of ice-cold Cheerwine sipped from the belly of a pine forest, the walks in summer rain… 

I remember all of this. And I feel happy.

My phone lights up with a new text message. It is my neighbor who is also my therapist. I haven’t seen her in nine months, and in that time most everything has once again changed. I wonder what she has to say.

Is that you with the paddle boards? You had a big smile on your face. I can tell you are happy.

If anyone is qualified to predict my current happiness based on an understanding of the past I constantly wrestle with, it’s this person. I know she remembers it all. Have I made progress, I wonder? Here is an affirmation. I receive it. Once again, the corners of my mouth rise.

I look at my hands and feet and they are in desperate need of soap and water. The car is an absolute mess. Everything is caked in mud and marshmallow goo. I’m once again feeling called to take a nap but now it’s Monday and there is not enough time and so much to do. I exhale, lower my chin and start to unload the bikes, then boards, and then all the equipment that must next be washed and dried and repacked.

At various moments during our camping trip, my son points out something that has at first seemed a mess, and has ended up being okay after all—the dog trying to mount the paddleboard in the lake, the rainstorm that greeted us just as we pulled in to our site to set up camp, the UNO game that ended up lasting well over an hour and ended in a dramatic upset (my son, gleefully, taking the win)…

“It’s worth it,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s worth it,” I agree.

This life we’ve returned to is a mess. The house is a mess. The world is a mess. I take my muddy shoes off and I walk into our home and I walk to the living room to do something and on the way I forget why I’m there…I shake my head. Old lady brain. Such a mess. I look down at my dirty feet standing on the rug and I feel the corners of my mouth once again rise.

If this rug gets pulled out from underneath you, you’ll know what to do…you always do.

I walk back outside to tend to more unloading and I gasp when I get a glimpse of my muddy, smelly truck. WHAT A MESS.

And also. So worth it.

Photo: Our waterfront escape at Hamilton Branch State Park, moments after our arrival and just before the thunderstorm, July 2024