It’s been said (yes, by mainly me) that I am a simple country girl. Truth be told, it’s smack-dab, right on target, bull’s-eye true. And I can prove it. Just you watch. Or read. Whatever.
Recently miss Charity asked her readers about their summer vacations: memories, plans, hoopty-does, and what-nots. For lots of folks, they just haven’t vacationed until they’ve chalked up a theme park excursion. Well, being a simple country girl, that sorta hoopla just doesn’t cut it for me – unless a grocery story parking lot and a rattletrap, two-bit rollercoaster count. It’s not in my genes (or my Wranglers) to traipse all the way across the country to take a turn on a sit-n-spin on steroids.
Ole mister Walt may have had a grande-Disney idea, but folks, that whole theme park scene seems more like a multi-faceted chamber of torture than a place of adventure, fun, and relaxation. All you DisneyLanders can keep the freaky ginormous costumed characters; the whirlin’ barf rides; the germ-festival handlebars, door knobs, and latches; the nasty and nefarious hotel bedbugs, dirty rugs, and stinky soaps.
To put it straight, plain, and simple, I am not going. Negatory, no takers, no ‘taters, double goose eggs, nope, no sirree, nada, now way – that sort of summer high life just ain’t for me. I do better with the low life. Well, the slow life. That’s what I meant. The slow life.
Anyway, this is what sings, rings, and jingle-lings of summer vacation for a simple country girl like me…
Ten minutes alone under a hot shower. Oh wait, that’s my personal winter vacation; let’s get on with this summer vacation discussion, shall we?
Give me a ratty towel next to lapping lake waves. Better yet, give me a tractor tire tube full o’ air out in the middle of said lake. And while you’re at it, plunk my man across from me, both sets of our feet planted hard into the hot, black rubber, hands clasped, and bodies teeter-tottering the tube until one of us kerplunks! into the lake.
Give me salted sunflower seeds still in their shells, a couple cans of chilled Shasta cream soda, some juicy cold cherries, and a bag of spicy chips. Throw in some cut-off jeans, cowboy hats, flip-flops, and sand between my toes. And we don’t want to forget the melodious summer sunshine crooners; give me George Strait, Bonnie Raitt, Elvis Presley, and Chris LeDoux.
Give me a long ride in the deep woods, truck windows down, doggies in the back, kiddo wedged between me and the driver man; no traffic, no rush, just bumps and dust. You might as well toss in our sweaty ole baseball caps, some squished sandwiches from a cooler, real wild critter sightings, and squatting in the brush.
Give me cold water fights on hot days: plastic water guns, a bucket, and a horse trough for water weapon refilling. Hand over my wet and sneaky boys, a lot of shrieking noise, and a tricky mama with the upper hand (and the garden hose). And at the end of the day give me a smoky campfire, a hard stump, and a long stick for stirring the embers.
Then when my son, husband, and doggies crawl into their sleeping bags, out on the edge of our property, and under all those bazillion twinkling stars, I’ll take that coveted long, hot shower, sleep alone in a snore-free, king-sized bed and wonder what in Harry’s Hullabaloo Rock Stew could be deemed a better summer vacation for me.
And quite possibly for you too.
What’s your idea of an ideal summer vacation? I doubt you’ll change my mind, but one never knows…