1966 – East Harbor State Park
The family’s still asleep. All of them. Dad and mom in the back of our ’62 Ranch Wagon. My godparents in a homemade wooden camping trailer. Which probably outweighs our Ranch Wagon.
My siblings and countless cousins crammed into a couple of old army tents. The smell of treated canvas permeates the Lake Erie breeze.
No voices. Just intermittent snoring — and distant cries of gulls stirring in the harbor.
Grateful for the solitude, I head out for a stroll. No particular destination.
I wander for a couple of hours. Contentment — bordering on exhilaration.
I write about the experience and title it “Waking Up First.” It sits in a drawer with the rest of my writing. Until, one day while I’m at school, mom burns it all, thinking that will somehow put an end to my asocial behavior.
2026 – Eagle Point, Charles Mill Lake Park
Odd, walking these campground roads at daybreak. Barely enough light to see details — including my own feet.
Soft-soled boots barely making a sound. Except when I drag a foot ever-so-slightly. Which I do occasionally and it pisses me off. I try not to. But then I stop paying attention and, next thing I know, the quiet is spoiled by the scuffing of a sole inadvertently dragging over pavement.
Not that it matters. No one hears. They’re all asleep. In their RVs. In their tents. It would be refreshing to see just one drunken camper passed out on a lounge chair in front of a smoldering campfire. But it’s not that kind of place. Not anymore.
I pretty much lived here 30 years ago, when the Ashland Times-Gazette hired me on as a staff writer. I’d sleep on the ground, next to the campfire. A canoe propped up on sticks to keep the dew off of me and reflect warmth onto my sleeping bag.
Sometimes a ranger would drive by and stop to see if I was all right. If I stirred from my sleep and heard the sound of his cruiser idling, I’d pretend to snore just so he’d know I was still alive. Then he’d leave me be and I could get back to sleep.
Odd to think that happened here. It was a different place then. Comparatively rustic. With its share of asocial souls. Like me.
You can hardly call them campgrounds anymore; you can hardly call it camping.
Now, at the break of day, all is well at Eagle Point. Family campers in deep, wholesome sleep. A more or less permanent condition. Should one of them awaken and hear or see me, would it arouse concern? Suspicion?
Would they toss all my writing on their campfire?
