Back in My Day.. . .

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr

I sighed as we pulled into the deluxe campground. I knew what was coming. Fred had been grumpy and silent during the drive. I was sure he was dusting off his speech.

“Back in MY day,” he grumbled, “We didn’t bring a whole HOUSE to go camping. We didn’t need fancy parks. We hiked, pitched a tent, started a fire, and went fishing. If you can’t catch your supper, you shouldn’t go camping. Camping is SUPPOSED to be rough!”

He droned on, and I checked out. Suddenly. . . .

“HARRIET! Did you bring the portable TV? And my special pillow?”

Image result for crabby old man

42 thoughts on “Back in My Day.. . .

    1. I’ve never seen the point. You spend hours getting ready, packing food because not everyone is a might hunter, making sure the camp stove works, unpacking, setting up the tent, cooking, cleaning up, enduring a night with a husband who gets too hot and takes the blanket off YOU, because you must be as hot as he is. And the one mosquito that gets inside the tent and whines in your ears for hours before it makes the mistake of landing on your face, so you slap your own cheek and commit bloody murder. Then it rains, and your dear husband warns you that you cannot touch the inside of the tent because if you do, it will leak. So you spend the night on your own private stone bed of torture while he snores happily, doing your best not to move or breathe too hard so as not to make the tent leak.

      Rinse and repeat. Until it’s time to pack it all up again and head for the comforts of home.

      Wasn’t that fun?

      Like

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