Christmas Campout

“Christmas Campout.”

These are two words no ten year old kid should ever have to hear put together in a sentence. They should never be used within six months of each other. They belong at opposite ends of the solar cycle, at opposite ends of any sane kid’s philosophical paradigm, at opposite ends of the universe, where they can never be combined to form the worst kind of holiday misery. 

Dad spoke them in a moment of crisis, his arms convulsed around grocery bags filled with frosting and charcuterie cheeses. It was December 24th and bits of sodden gypsum board dangled from the ceiling in front of him. The carpet reminded me of a sea grass plain I’d seen on a BBC nature show about manatees, though the ocean in our living room was only four inches deep. Our Christmas tree wallowed on its side, waves gently lapping against the weakly flickering lights. A steady stream of water burbled merrily from between the exposed ceiling joists just above it.

Dad stared desperately at all the ruined atmosphere. He swallowed, then something seemed to break inside his brain and he said, “I’ve always thought a Christmas campout might be fun.”

“But what about our party? I invited all my friends!” My sister, Angelica, was 13 and she was convinced there were people who liked her, though I couldn’t fathom anyone being that desperate for company.

“The party’s canceled, Sweetie,” Mom had her strong face on. She placed a gentle hand on Dad’s shoulder, “Let’s not stand in the water Dear, I think you might get electrocuted.” She pulled him back onto the porch with the rest of us.

My dad loved Christmas. He loved the music, he loved the eggnog, he loved the cheer. He was the guy on the block that outdid everyone by putting one million LED bulbs up on the house every year. He was the guy that wore a caroling Christmas tie to work starting on all-saints day. He was the guy that went to the home improvement store the day after Christmas and bought out the whole holiday section because he was already planning for the next year’s party.

“Insurance will covering everything,” Mom cooed, rubbing Dad’s back.

 “Everything except tonight," Dad’s voice cracked, “Unless Santa has started wearing a wetsuit.” 

I knew the truth about Santa already, but my dad still dressed up and came downstairs at midnight on Christmas, making enough noise to be sure I would get up and come see what was going on. A vision of him wearing a sleek velvet wetsuit popped into my head, a pipe shaped snorkel sticking out of his fake beard while he splashed around the sunken tree in Christmas themed flippers. I couldn’t hold in a snort of laughter.

“That’s the spirit,” Dad looked down at me, a little too much white showing around his eyes, “you’re up for a Christmas campout aren’t you Jimmy? Everyone knows Santa loves stopping by the woods on a snowy evening.”

I shook my head emphatically, worried this was headed somewhere dark and deep.

“Honey, don’t you think it would be better if we got a hotel? Insurance pays for emergency housing and hotels always have nice trees in the lobby.”

“Fake trees,” Dad said. He spun towards the garage, still gripping the grocery bags, though the contents could be little more than mush at this point, “Grandpa Thomas left me that canvas wall tent remember? Now’s as good a time as any to figure it out. It even has a little pot-bellied fireplace. Nothing says cozy like a pot bellied fireplace, and nothing says Christmas like cozy.” He set off briskly towards the garage, snow crunching under his feet and buttercream oozing out the bottom of a grocery bag.

“Alright kids,” Mom said quietly, “this is going to be a difficult time for your father. He’s going to need our support.”

Angelica rolled her eyes without looking up from her phone, “We’re not like, actually going to go camping, right? It’s like, 5000 degrees below zero.”

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Mom put a thoughtful hand over her mouth, “but I do think we need to humor him for a while and then we’ll just pull over at the best looking hotel we see before we get out of town.”

In the garage, camping gear was strewn across the floor, and Dad’s mumbling echoed down from the upper reaches of the storage racks. 

“See, we have everything we need for winter camping.” A pair of ancient snowshoes sailed out from the racks, followed by some lumpy looking snow pants and a pair of mismatched ski boots. 

“How old is this stuff?” I asked, eyeing the rusty pot bellied camping stove he’d pulled out.

“From the 90s” Dad hollered.

“Didn’t your Grandpa Thomas give up his guiding outfit in the 80s?” Mom must have had the best voice control of anyone on the planet, as her “bright but curious” tone did not match the expression on her face.

“Maybe it’s from the 70s then.” Dad puffed down the ladder and began jamming things into the car, “they made stuff better back then anyway.”

In an alarmingly short amount of time, I found myself inserted into the back seat with nothing but a moldy smelling bundle of canvas in between me and my nauseatingly pre-teen sister. But mom looked back at us, her eyes promising she wouldn’t let things go too far, even as Dad put the car into gear whilst whistling “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman” loudly and out of tune.

Mom underestimated the level of Dad’s disturbance. She underestimated it when we passed the city limit sign going 70 in a 55. She underestimated it when Angelica started complaining her phone was out of service and Dad answered that “all we needed to communicate was Christmas spirit,” and she underestimated it when the car came to a stop in front of a campground gate with a “closed” sign posted on it.

“Just as well,” Dad rolled the window down and exhaled a puff of steamy breath into the frigid mountain air, “don’t think the car would make it through any more snow drifts anyway.”  

Mom shot us a relieved look, but it was premature. Dad jumped out, pulled on a Santa stocking cap and began hauling gear over the fence. 

“He’ll never get the tent up,” Mom said reassuringly, “when he fails, he’ll be ready to go.” But again, the conviction in her voice did not match the worry in her face.

“Here Jimmy boy, why don’t you give me a hand with this,” Dad opened my door and pulled the moldy canvas across my lap, “I’ll show you how to set it up.”

I looked at Mom for help, but she just mouthed “give it 20 minutes.”

The snow was deeper than the tops of my tennis shoes and bit where it touched my skin, so I did my best to put my feet where Dad had already made tracks. 

“Here’s a good spot, no rocks or lumps.” Dad chirped.

“How can you tell?” I asked, eyeing the blanket of snow.

Dad didn’t seem to hear me. “You take this corner and pull it out that way.”

The yellowed old canvas unfolded over the white snow, and revealed, surprise, surprise, a bunch of mold spots.

“Alright, now we just find the aluminum poles,” Dad said, rubbing his hands together, “and slot them into their sleeves—”

A car door slammed and Mom came down, hugging herself against the chill.

“Did you see the tent poles anywhere,” Dad asked, peering under the canvas as if we might have dropped them there somehow.

“Isn’t this the kind of tent that you cut poles for?” Mom said, her chattering teeth making it harder to execute her legendary voice control. 

“Oh, right.” Dad looked at the surrounding forest, “I don’t think I brought anything for cutting poles.” For a moment, he seemed at a loss.

“Well, maybe we should just leave all this stuff here and head back to town as fast as—” Mom started to say, but Dad cut her off.

“I did bring a lot of rope though, eh? We can make it work! On Dasher, On Dancer, On Prancer, On Vixen!” He jogged back to the car.

Many more than twenty minutes later, the moldy canvas sagged between some trees, the roof just high enough I could stand up inside. Everyone else had to hunch. Even Angelica had come down because it was starting to get dark and all the heat had left the car. Dad fumbled with matches at the pot bellied stove. 

“Just like “The Little Match Girl, classic Christmas story,” he chuckled.

“I hate “The Little Match Girl,” Mom whispered and by now there was no discrepancy between her tone and facial expression.

“There we go!” Dad cried, as a little wad of newspaper caught fire. The flame wobbled limply and a strand of cold looking smoke began to issue from the pile of twigs.

“Gather round, gather round,” Dad invited, “it's time for a little holiday warmth and—” here he fell into his Bing Crosby impression— “wieners roasted on an open fire!”

“That’s disgusting!” Angelica chattered. 

As much as I tended to disagree with her as a basic rule, she was right about this. The fire wasn’t warm and didn’t cook the hot dogs. And just because ketchup, relish and mayonnaise are red, green and white doesn’t make them good holiday fare.  

It was the caroling that finally did it for Mom.

“Alright, who knows “Frosty the Snowman?” Dad waved his arms like he was conducting an orchestra. Angelica looked at him like he was the devil in a tutu. I coughed because of all the smoke coming from the fireplace.

“All together now!”

“No, Frank, we are not going to sing.”

Dad froze, his mouth stuck at the beginning of the word “frosty.” 

Mom’s lips were turning blue. She was wrapped in one of those crinkly silver pieces of plastic that come in a package marked “Survival Blanket.”

“For years, Frank, I haven’t said anything about the maxed out credit cards every December. Or about how much I would prefer a quiet, low stress Christmas. Or about how much I hate eggnog and that stupid singing tie you wear everyday for two months solid. I haven’t said anything because I love you and I know how happy all those things make you. But this is too much, Frank. I will not sing “Frosty the Snowman” while freezing to death inside a tent that is more fungus than fabric, and I will not permit you to make the children sing either. I am sorry Christmas is ruined this year, but from here on you aren’t going to keep making it worse.”   

 Dad's arms lowered slowly. The crazed look went from his eyes and he glanced around the tent like he was finally seeing it for what it really was. 

“I’m sorry,” he swallowed, “you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll go warm up the car.”

He crawled to the door flap and even though it was well below freezing out, he looked totally melted.

The three of us stared at each other, teeth clicking together. A gust of wind shook the tent. The sound of a car trying to start but not starting because the battery was dead reached our ears.

“Oh God.” Mom said, and it was a prayer, not a swear. 

“Huddle together for warmth,” she instructed us and exited the tent, her survival blanket crackling behind her like a low budget superhero cape. 

It was the worst night of my life. Mom and Dad returned to the tent with very solemn looks on their faces. It took a few hours, but Angelica and I did end up huddling together for warmth. At one point, Angelica clutched me to her chest, sobbing through her shivers that she had always imagined she would die clutching one of the Jonas Brothers, not her actual brother. 

In the morning there was a small Christmas miracle. We were awakened by the crunch of heavy boots in the snow and a voice calling “Hey, is there anybody in there?”

Dad’s head popped out of his sleeping bag and all of us followed him through the tent door on our hands and knees. I have no idea what the man outside must have thought of us. Dad still had his Santa stocking cap on. Mom still wore her reflective blanket. Angelica's face was stuck in the “devil in a tutu” expression, and I imagined I looked just like someone who had been squeezed and freezed to death all night.  

The man was almost everything you would expect. He had a jelly bowl stomach and a big white beard, but he wore a green brimmed hat and a badge that said "Warden."

“You know this campground’s closed don’t you?” he said, looking us up and down.

“Umm, yes.” Dad answered.

“You guys get lost or something?”

“Umm, no.” Dad answered.

“You have to leave.”

“Yes, we're leaving.” Dad answered. Mom elbowed him.

“Oh, you wouldn’t happen to have jumper cables would you?”

I have never felt anything in my life as good as the warm air coming from the heater in our little car that Christmas day. Angelica even let me have a turn directly in front of the single back seat vent, as long as I never repeated anything she might have said about the Jonas Brothers.

After we made it to the highway, Dad apologized for the ordeal and promised that next year, we would do Christmas the way Mom wanted.

I thought he would be depressed with Christmas ruined and all of us almost dying, but he was still humming snatches of Christmas songs under his breath as we pulled up to our flooded house.

 Before he got out of the car, he looked over at Mom and said, “Well, even after everything, this turned out to be one of the most magical Christmases ever didn’t it?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Oh Frank. Please. He told us he came to the campground because he saw tracks going up the road on his way to town.”

"Of course that’s what he said, but why would he just decide to follow them? And what game warden wears his uniform going into town on Christmas day?”

“Frank, he gave you a five hundred dollar ticket.”

“I was obviously on the naughty list, but the jumper cables were the real gift. Just the thing we needed more than anything else.”

“Lots of people carry jumper cables.”

“Well," and Dad's eyes actually started to shine like a kid who really believed he'd just seen Santa Claus, "I’m just saying…he did look the part...except for the badge.”

Mom could only shake her head, but later that day I thought I heard her humming “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,” though it was hard to tell for sure over the roar of the wet/dry vac.