Aw, Man. Am I Chasing Camp?

Camp, 1990's-era

(Before I get started, I’ve never liked titles with ‘Chasing’, Searching, “Finding’, ‘Saving’ or any of those present tense verbs in them. No analysis here.  I just think they suck.)

I drive all over Oregon and Washington for my job.  I’ve visited around twelve thousand homes and most of them are the same. Just like in your town.  But because of the area, there is a percentage of these homes in gorgeous areas that I can’t stop thinking about.  Now, I’m rarely amazed by the houses, but the locations are unbelievable.  Some are obviously out of our price range, but still lovely to visit.  Then there are those that could be an option for us as we sell our house, and I’ve started cataloging them in my brain.

I came across one this week.  In an area I’ll never consider, but the actual set up was beautiful.  Out in the country, rolling hills and trees.  The house was meh, and too big for us.  The woman who owned it said her husband was out back, which usually means a guy working in a barn, landscaping or working on a car in a garage.  But this guy wasn’t doing anything at all.  He sat in a chair, looking at the little pond in his backyard.  He was a retiree, sitting in a cheap chair in his backyard with only the sound of birds.  He was just…being there. That may bore the living shit out of you, but I was envious the moment I spotted him.

To silently just be. No one laying any responsibility on me.  No noise from neighbors.  I’m in the woods, but only a few minutes in the car from groceries or tacos.  I never knew that was what I wanted.  Or, have I wanted that all along?

In the early 1970’s, my grandfather bought land in the East Osceola State Forest in Upstate, New York. There was, and still is, nothing there.  Miniscule towns an hour northeast of Syracuse, where I was born.  The construction of the cabin, or ‘Camp’ as we called it, is not my story to tell. It was a small cabin with a steel barrel for a wood stove, an upstairs loft with beds, an eventual toilet that replaced an outhouse, a kitchen, and a back porch. It was put together with scraps and only the ingenuity of the family and friends that helped build it. I feel like half the story of the Mercurio’s surrounds Camp itself, and I’m not the person to tell it because most of the time I was there, I was in long, footy-pajamas.  But I remember the feeling of being there.  We moved to Florida in 1981 and I visited a view more times.  I even brought my Florida friends there to hang out.  The best part of Camp, as anyone would attest to, was the back porch.  Screened, with a solid wall of trees and the forest air to breathe in. You went out there when it rained, if it was freezing, or every night just to suck it all in.

I’d like to share a poignant moment that happened there.  I don’t have one.  There are also plenty of shitty ones I don’t want to share.  I can tell you it was a feeling, and it was my only access to that feeling. It just as well could have been any cabin in the woods.  I don’t know.  But Camp was my doorway to it.

I grew up in Orlando.  Spots of green here and there, but mostly a sprawled suburbia with concrete and traffic and construction.  I also…prefer suburban life.  I like access to quiet and also access to a city.  I’ve never lived in a rural area, and I want to be close to grocery stores, fire departments and the occasional dinner out with the Mrs. We’re definitely homebodies, but I like concerts and comedy shows and the diversity of people and ideas that cities usually have.  But something kept pulling me to green. 

In 2001, Amy and I visited her sister in Seattle.  We were there for ten days, including a visit to Oregon for a few.  I remember my first morning in the house in north Seattle, with a view of the Puget Sound.  I drank a strong coffee on a deck on an overcast day in May, and the breeze was chilly enough for me to need a blanket. That was it. That was all I needed. Daytona Beach could suck it.

I could put one right here, in the Mt. Hood National Forest, right?

Fifteen years ago, I moved to Oregon.  Oregon is wall-to-wall trees on this side of the Cascades, as most people know.  There’s one day of snow every other year or so, and the misty light rain of the wintertime.  I’ve found a comfortable place to live, and a blue state to boot, but have I just been recreating Camp all this time?  Have I been trying to recapture a feeling I had in a shitty childhood and make it my own as an adult?  Is this my Rosebud? It’s certainly possible. It’s only by luck that my wife has been along for the ride.  My kids like it here and any downsides haven’t really amounted to much at all. 

Most people create their environments, directly or indirectly, without even knowing it.  Dramatic people are comfortable with chaos.  People in motion prefer to be unattached.  Those bound by tradition don’t move much.  You might be something that you don’t realize.  I wanted fame and fortune with I was eighteen, but I didn’t chase it.  Why?  Maybe I didn’t want it after all.  My brain thought I needed something else.  It’s tough to imagine a life of peace with you’re young and stupid and you live in America.  That kind of life story doesn’t get a documentary.

I’ve written about my problems with self-judgment and I spend way too much picking apart my motivations and shortcomings.  Maybe I believe deep down that this is the answer.  Something about Camp brought me peace and I’m looking to manifest it again to bring me peace as an old fart. 

I’m getting close.