Fishing for Brothers

Our intrepid camping ally, Ancient of Days.

It's Summer.

Camping time.

Something our family did every year (when the chicks were growing) in a little, blue tent trailer purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978. It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.

In my defense, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.

When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself. Three neat beds and a square central floor.

Perfect for a family of eight.

It took our family everywhere.

For many years, we camped for a week each summer in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.

Kimball Lake.

We had a lot of adventures in that time.

Today, I'm remembering one in particular...

Our two youngest were napping.

I use this word lightly.

Because there was no 'napping' happening.

Youngest Daughter (YD) was on the bed she normally shared with her older sister.

And Youngest Son (YS) was in the playpen on the floor.

Something he had learned to crawl out of.

Usually, this wouldn't have been a problem.

Let me describe our trailer to you.

It had three wings that folded out to form the beds.

The canvas wrapped around each of these wings and hooked securely underneath with elastic cords.

It was possible to slide through those spaces.

If you were small enough.

And YS, at thirteen months, met that criteria.

He crawled up onto the bed.

Rolled against the side.

And slid through.

Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.

YD, three, had been watching.

She saw him slip through.

And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed his hands.

“Mo-om!”

My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.

Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.

I ran into the trailer.

YD and the top half of YS were visible.

She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.

He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.

“Mo-om!” she shouted again.

I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.

Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.

That tiny son is now a husband and father and that trailer went down the road many seasons ago.

But every year, at camping time, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.

Picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.

And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..

It's a good memory.