Moose in the Kitchen

When I was a youngster of 12, not like now when I merely look 12, my family went camping. I have since learned that this camping we did was fake camping, that camping as real men do it involves stripping naked, strapping a machete to your bare hip and hiking out into the wilderness to survive on your wits and dehydrated food for two weeks. Your toilet? Is a hole in the ground. A hole you dug with your own two hands. Real men don’t use shovels. When I was 12 though, staying in permanent wooden tent-like structures covered in canvas and equipped with electricity was the ultimate in natural living because there were trees. And bugs. It doesn’t get a lot more real than rubbing lotion on your sunburnt arms only to discover that a many-tentacled bug met its untimely and creamy end in your toiletries kit and you’ve now smeared its desiccated carcass all over your upper arm.

One feature of this camping, this false camping with its hot showers and plentiful toilet stalls, was organized day trips for the kids. One of these trips took us down the Tuolomne River for a picnic. Sounds idyllic, yes? It was. Sunny, warm rocks, forbidden kool-aid. Lovely. Until a camp counselor mentioned pirates. I have no idea what the context was, perhaps he was discussing his predilection for parrots and hoop earrings and I made the leap, but somehow I got the idea that there were pirates on the Tuolomne River (on inflatable rafts perhaps?) and any minute they would jump out of the trees.

I was a bit high-strung as a kid. But my panic was real. I was truly worried that pirates were going to attack us. Probably for our kool-aid. I kept looking for my brother, hoping he wouldn’t be snatched by some sneaky, wizened pirate planning to replace his peg leg with a fresh leg, if you know what I mean. AND I THINK YOU DO.

I am happy to say that I have outgrown my fear of pirates. In fact, when we saw a roving band of pirates this weekend, I wanted to run up and hug them. Because, pirates! Roaming free! In their natural habitat! With corn dogs and fried twinkies! And they were real pirates, you understand. No two-bit plastic Halloween costume from the bargain bin at Walgreens. We’re talking knee-high leather boots, caped coats, and tricorne hats covering long, slightly matted hair. There were eye patches. No word on the peg legs, but I’m fairly sure I saw a parrot.

Blase in my old age, I didn’t shriek like a soprano banshee and knock over a popcorn stand in my race for cover. I just nodded to Crunchy and said, “Hey, look. Pirates.” (Not even an exclamation point. I am so cool. I also feel reasonably secure in the police force and their dominion over pirates.)

She replied, “Yeah. There are a lot of them around.” Then, to demonstrate our complete ennui over this massive influx of pirates, we bought a strawberry daquiri in a pineapple to share. I’m ashamed to say that I ate all the whipped cream.

If you’re wondering about this Peter Pan-esque life we lead, what with the pirates and the whipped cream, we were at KaBoom, the best fireworks show anywhere. There was also a concert, I think. I can’t be sure, what with the pirates and the churros and the glowy crowns. Yes, someone bought me a glowy crown. I was ridiculously charmed by this. One might argue that I am easily charmed, but when charm costs under five bucks, who’s complaining?

Watching the fireworks with Crunchy and beaming in my glowy crown: