Neanderpundit

We were camping at Potato Creek. Mom and Dad and sister and I.

We parked our aging Apache Ramada down by one of the lakes and had a campfire set up. There appeared, across the road, a family of Mennonites. They mostly kept to themselves but they did wander across the road to the lake, sometimes walking through the general area where we were camping. They were pleasant and conversed occasionally with Dad who spoke enough German to make himself understood.

they had several children, the youngest of which was a gangly pre-teenaged girl who hadn’t yet grown into her height- she looked as if she had been made out of pieces of broomsticks and calico, and she was possibly a little slow.

This was obviously the summer vacation for the family and they were as relaxed as they could be, but still went into the water pretty much just to the ankles and wore all their clothes while doing it, aside from the youngest couple children who wore special non revealing outfits and went in and played no differently than my sister and I.

We came out of the water one time and Dad was grilling burgers on the camp grill, when he yelled something to the father across the road, in German. “ja!” he responded, and when we came up for dinner he handed the girl and boy each an ice cold Dad’s root beer. (he had asked permission to give it to the kids) the girl instantly fell in love with my father, and he couldn’t move but she shadowed him, couldn’t sit but she climbed up in his lap. The Mennonites across the road grinned, apparently used to this behavior, and let it stand. Dad, who never did anything out of line in his life, was quite uncomfortable, and kept looking to the Mennonite fathers to- I don’t know, maybe rescue him. Anyway, she sat in his lap and drank that root beer a careful sip at a time like it was a bottle of 1811 Château d’Yquem.

“I can have root beer because My dad says so. Billy can’t have more than one bottle because he will piss the bed. I never piss the bed anymore, I used to piss the bed when I was smaller but I’m all growed up now, just ask my mom! Billy pisses the bed almost every night and we can’t let him drink nothing after the sun gets close to the trees or he will piss the bed for sure but anyway I sure do love root beer! My daddy lets me have some when we come camping and sometimes when we go to the store, especially because I don’t piss the bed anymore. ”

Dad, with this tall gangly girl coiled up in his lap like a calico bag of plunger handles, can barely contain himself at the fact that she’s used to using that word, in a Mennonite community. She finishes the bottle with one final sip, holds it up so the last drop falls in her mouth, and points those big brown eyes at Dad and says “Do you piss the bed?”

I think Dad sprained something keeping his cool. The Mennonites across the road by this time are slapping their knees and tears are running down their red faces as they hoot at Dad’s discomfort, and as soon as one of them can catch his breath he calls the girl back to their supper, and bed.

Dad went in the camper and we could hear peals of laughter muffled by the ugly copper colored camper cushions. I never told that story to a single soul until this very moment.

Eyeball deep in shit at work and at home. More ice cream later, but right now life interferes.