When I was young, we’d go camping.
Well, almost.
It was more of a log cabin-themed motel with pine trees planted in the field by the parking lot.
A bed as uncomfortable as a sleeping bag.
There was a lake, but we never went to it.
Which was good, since I don’t like boats. Or fishing.
Or camping.
There were bugs, though. Lots of them.
I don’t remember any roasting marshmallows or hot dogs, but I do remember a fire.
I think everybody got out in time. I don’t think anybody got hurt.
We drove home.
My bed felt wonderful.