Grandma and Grandpa Camp, A Survival Story

Unique as the stars above, gentle as a summer rain with just a touch of tornado in the mix. Cousins yes, closer to sisters I'd say, our four granddaughters are masters of mayhem and inherited (directly from their fathers) an uncanny flair for shenanigans. Grandma and Grandpa Camp is the ideal venue for the madness to begin, a rollicking adventure absolutely, but there are chores too, taking turns, manners, picking up, no princess passes. Sometimes rules, sometimes no rules. Girls chased out of the chaotic camper for a Grandma attitude adjustment, they find Grandpa. Forever a Boy Scout at heart, he instructs them in the fine art of axe chopping, shark attack, flipping pancakes and frying bacon on a Blackstone, fixes bikes and teaches them survival skills read from his very own well-worn Boy Scout manual, snake bite remedy, poison ivy identification, cowboy beans and weenies, they are hooked,  bedtime stories of the great outdoors instantly puts them to sleep.

Last year during Grandma and Grandpa camp an unnamed granddaughter packed her favorite Nutella Slime. Enjoying the evening campfire, Grandpa escorted the girls over to the restroom, sat down for a spell to rest his weary bones. Rising from the bench, a dark, slimy, sticky mass stuck permanently to the backside of his shorts. Back at camp I tried scraping, pulling, scrubbing, the mystery mass stuck, and quickly realized, hey this looks, smells and tastes just like Nutella, the shorts were toast. Grateful for the darkness, trying to muffle hysterical laughter. Silence, guilty shifting eyes, sideways glances from one sorrowful little girl to another, no confessions made, but KP was assigned and there was no grumbling. Both Nutella and slime banned forever from Gma and Gpa camp.

Manic bike riding, terrorizing round and round the worn circuit, one of our lovelies took a tumble, scraped and bloody, looking to Grandpa for a little sympathy. While patching her up, applying the giant sized superhero band-aid, he explained, "you know what it means when you get banged up, maybe a little bloody even… It means you're having fun." A tiny smile replaced those salty tears, Grandpa's a superhero too.

We pack up the camper, stuff dirty clothes under the bed, Doritos and pancakes stuck to the floor, head home to Iowa, six of us crammed in the old Dodge, hours of giggling, goofy girls at the neverending party, what on earth were we thinking? I need therapy ... and gin.

Driving in my car, pop music cranked on the radio, granddaughters jamming to "Starships", our ride is rocking, three-year-old into the beat, arms flapping the chicken dance in her car seat, oldest hysterical, calling her out, "Hey girl you look like an old lady jogging, pumping back and forth, focused."  Youngest nodding uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh. The middle two gyrating in sync, uncontrollable. Yeah, I'm chill, understandably offended by the old lady stereotype, but they are sorta crazy and very funny.

Monster slip and slide covers our front lawn, screaming, belly laughing, four crazed granddaughters chasing our defenseless grinning, neighbor boy. He's fast, escapes to his home turf, but absolutely cannot stay away, the challenge alive in his mischievous smirk, bring it on girls! What a brave man he will become, in a few years I expect he won't run so fast.

They've all gone home, Grandpa and I recovering creaking bones and what's left of our sanity. A few new battle scars on the camper, the house is still standing, quiet for now but we treasure the delightful antics of those amazing little girls, always eagerly anticipating their next invasion.