Propane and coffee. The sizzle and warm toasty scent of camp potatoes and sausage. Slowly these things seep into my consciousness, the same way that I become aware of my ice cold nose, the dampness of my sleeping bag, my mother a foot away pulling something from the fridge.
When I open my eyes I see the window is fogged over. It’s cold outside and warm inside. Must be really cold outside if my nose is this cold. I hear the propane heater running in the trailer. I can’t wait to put my feet in front of it.
My older brother is probably awake. I lean out of the bunk to see, yep, the bed has been transformed again into a table. My younger is almost definitely not awake. I look down. The back of his blonde head is to me.
I stay here a little while longer. I want to get up but the coziness of a morning like this is not something to waste. My mother’s presence at the tiny stove is a warm blanket in itself. She sets the coffee percolator to boil and soon it will be jumping up into the clear knob at the top. Then it really will be time to get up. As it boils she makes potatoes and sausage. Somehow she also makes a stack of pancakes on that tiny stove, and eggs.
I can’t remember what my mother wore or looked like in those moments. Maybe she just had on one of those silky robes she had. But surely it was too cold for that.
Before anyone else can, I slide out of my bunk and duck into the bathroom. It’s a space barely big enough for tiny little me, I don’t know how my parents fit in there. I change out of my pjs and sit down at the table with my brother.
My feet are warmed. The day has begun.
I wish I could copy-paste those mornings into my life now. Every time I smell the coffee my husband grinds while the gas range heats up a kettle of water, I think about those camping trips. What I miss most is that warm presence of someone else taking care of me and the unknown of being in a new place. We’ve driven all day to be there, when breakfast is over, we’ll go do something. Maybe we hike, visit a historical site, swim, get ice cream in the small town down the road. I can replicate that.
But there’s still my mother at the stove. This warm blanket of love and cozy, gentle wakefulness. Safety. How do I replicate that? Can I? What does it mean that I long for it?
When did I begin waking up with this feeling of heaviness? Maybe my mother woke up with that feeling. On her vacation she still had to make breakfast for everyone.
What do I need to do for myself that would allow me to wake up in the way I did as a child on a camping trip?
I’m too wistful. Too much of a dreamer. Always have been. I think I’m getting closer. I take my breakfast in the sunroom, even though it’s still dark. We make a fire in the fireplace. Sleep with the windows open so that when we wake, our noses are ice cold. I write. I’m trying to change my life. I am changing my life. I only wish it was as gentle as waking up in the camper.
https://rebeccamlh.medium.com/camp-mornings-f281d12aa8ed