Gravel Road Blues

I don't much care for the great outdoors. I've been that way ever since I can remember.

Nevertheless, when I was a kid, my parents somehow managed to ship me off to summer camp every year, despite my ever-persistent objection.

I would tell my parents I didn't like the food; I didn't like the bugs; I got diarrhea last time. I told them about the mean kids from the year before who teased me about being short. I told them about the time I peed my pants because the outhouses were locked at night. But did they hear me out? Not a chance!

Every year I got the same patronizing speech about how it was "every child's dream" to go to summer camp, and that I should be "grateful" for the opportunity to sleep in a dirty log cabin with ten other prepubescent girls.

Needless to say, the drive down to camp became somewhat of a dark harbinger in my otherwise happy childhood. Though, one year in particular proved to be quite eventful.

My mother and I were driving down the gravel road that led up to my summer camp. We were in the final leg of our journey when, all of the sudden, we spun out in our little Acura and drove right into the ditch. We were fine but my mom was quite rattled.

Unfortunately, we made it to the hell-hole which I call summer camp, and my mother told me to try and enjoy myself.  

After what seemed like an eternity, summer camp was over and my mom was back to pick me up. I eagerly hopped into the front seat of our car and the following conversation ensued:

Mom: Erin, go sit in the back.

Me: Ok

Mom: Here is a pillow for you

Me: Thanks.

At this point, I just thought my mother was being uncharacteristically considerate, and was encouraging me to take a nap on our drive home...

Mom: If we get into another car accident, take the pillow and put it around your head!

Aaah... now there's the mother I remember!