Where is your camp? Doesn’t matter.

It’s an idea. An escape. A simple notion from a simpler time.

My family had a “camp” and it formed who I am today. I carry that concept into my downtime. Whether in a tent, our travel trailer, a cabin in a state park, or at home. That’s right – home. When I disconnect …

Finding peace in a puzzle piece or an old copy of Reader’s Digest. A ball of yarn I tell myself I’ll crochet into a blanket and seeing my grandmother’s hands as I try (the final project never materializing.) A walk in the woods. Crayfish under over-turned rocks. Classic country twang suspended in cool night air in the same manner Conway Twitty did on the only station we could tune-in up in the mountains on a Saturday night.

Mountain pies over campfires. My first sighting of a shooting star.

Black Bears and Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles – Oh, my!

Watching the rain roll in, its cozy smell teasing our nostrils long before droplets fall atop the meager porch roof.

Content in the modest confines of camp. What more could we need?

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