Camping
In the lush expanse of nature, car doors beep and car alarms blare as people laugh and a generator hum mixes with the noise of mosquitoes.
My constipated son takes me to the outhouse to discuss snowmobiles and adventure motorcycles with a strained face.
"There are 300 toilets here," he tells me. "They'd have to level this whole forest for an outhouse that big," I tell him.
On the beach, a family who does not understand the rental agreements of their neighbours discovers a bounty of watercraft.
Puffs of smoke surround us. An enormous miasma of firesmoke clings to the body and seeps into the eyes and lungs to produce the smore, but the smore is a worthwhile endeavor.
"Do you have any wood that is particularly dry?" "No, it's all the same wood."
I zip and unzip the tent door. I am forever zipping and unzipping another door.
"Do you have diarheea?"
Diarrea
Diahrea
Nobody knows how to spell that word, but it comes up more than you'd think.
"No, we all at the same thing. Only you have diareah."
Zip.
Unzip.
The tent is the pants of the forest.
At the spelling bee, child after child leaves the dais disappointed, for nobody can spell the word diarrhea.
I am chopping down another tree to build my enormous outhouse complex.