Little Pine, the Place that {Almost} Redeemed Camping

After the mega camping fail of 2021 (read about that here), John wanted to take me to Little Pine State Park, a campground in the PA mountains that actually has trees and shade. Going to a beautiful location definitely held appeal. But still, I told John that I'm arming myself with the same mindset I had when entering our church's three-day fast: "This suffering will do good things for my soul." 

"You do know," John said, "that some people go camping because they actually enjoy it, right?" 

Right. But arming myself with the mindset that self-deprivation will be good for me felt like the prepared way to go.

Little Pine State Park is a beautiful campground, even to people who aren't naturally drawn to camping. Our tent was pitched on a carpet of pine needles within hearing distance of a small but dashing river. We were surrounded by the same trees John had camped beneath when he was a boy, adding a touch of nostalgia to the place. We didn't have electricity or cell phone coverage, but all of us agreed that only enhanced our weekend.

We grilled burgers over the fire for supper, toasted marshmallows for s'mores, and went to bed late. I felt rested when we unzipped the tent door in the morning. My immediate view was a green picnic area, towering pine trees, and the edges of a mountain. It was a gorgeous start to our day.

On previous camping trips, the children always had cousins with whom they could dodge off and play. But this time, our family unit stayed together, a super fun aspect of our weekend. We checked out the river and a lake. The views were breathtaking from the top of the dam. The hill leading to the dam was breathtaking too; someone is out of shape.

Tyler and John fished for the trout that swam tantalizingly around their feet. Tyler fished in knee-deep water long after his legs turned red from cold and the rest of us had lost interest. He tossed back everything he caught except a solitary 14" brown trout that we cooked over the fire and served with butter. 

While my men fished, I sat on a rock and watched my other children entertain themselves in a shallow creek. They had no manmade toys, but they were fully engaged for a couple of hours. They floated dandelions and sticks, built dams, stacked up rock towers, climbed rocks, played with a frog, and threw rocks into the creek. I watched them, amazed at the possibilities a child sees in rocks, sticks, and ankle-deep water.

Sophia used water and a stick to paint rocks.
Great idea because your canvases are endless
and your work area is mess-free.

On our way home, John asked what I thought of my Little Pine experience. I didn't know how to answer. In many ways, it was a wonderful weekend as a family. 

But the raw truth is that camping will always be camping with smoke in your eyes and biting bugs on your neck. Neighbors had moved in with a gigantic bloodhound whose indefatigable baying reverberated throughout the entire campground. They also brought a Lab that celebrated their arrival by leaping out of their grasp and peeing either on our camp chair leg or directly in front of it. Throughout the weekend, tiny worms fell from our canopy into my dishwater, dangled into our hair, and needed to be picked out of our food. On the way home while contemplating my answer to John's question, I was still finding worms on myself. You would think there would be easier ways of achieving family togetherness and quality time. 

But even with unregenerated dogs and the messiness of nature, I had more fun and fewer opportunities to remind my soul of its necessary and beneficial purification than I expected. And I loved spending time with my favorite people. 

My verdict? Don't sell the tent.

At least not yet.

Buying Houses Like Proverbs 31

I told you what it is like living along a busy road. You can read about that here. A few days after I posted that, I was cleaning up my computer files and found a story I wrote in 2020 about the yellow house we were living in. I thought you might like it.

I couldn’t imagine why John looked startled. All I had said was, “You know? I feel like a Proverbs 31 woman and think I will buy our house from the landlord. By the time you come home from work tonight, you could be a homeowner.”

He eyed me suspiciously, as if I might be feverish and my reasoning crazed. “You want to buy this house? The house we don’t like?”

“Yes. It is the size we don’t like. We could attach the garage to the house and add a school room.” 

I already knew what the backyard could become if we put a picket fence along the flowerbed and added a flowering crabapple tree. We could seed grass in most of the garden, paring it down to a manageable size and giving the children more yard to play in.

“The backyard could be really cute,” I said. “Plus, we might like even like the house if it was twice the size.”

John was relentless. “The landlord said it needs a new roof. But I think what it really needs is to be bulldozed and rebuilt.”

We would not be homeowners by nightfall.

No doubt about it, the house is quirky. On moving day, we learned our doors were too small for our couch to fit through--we had to buy another couch. All bookcases leaned forward dangerously on our slanting living room floor until someone came with a level and shims to prop them up. The landlord had recently changed the staircase enough that a double bed mattress was stuck upstairs and everything bigger than a single bed was stuck downstairs, including the wardrobe for our closet-less bedroom.

The house was built in 1806, the year Lewis and Clark explored the West. You can expect hand-hewn beams to have some curve and character. I got used to having toys with wheels roll two feet away from the wall when I forget to turn the steering wheel when I park them. The children have new games to play like racing matchbox cars by lining them along the baseboard and letting go on the count of three. 

Lewis and Clark contemporaries didn’t need spacious houses or closets, apparently. Zillow says our house is 608 square feet. By the time we added our belongings to the small rooms, the house shrank still further. That’s why, if we are going to stay here a long time, we should own it and add on. Connect the garage to the house and add an upper room where we could host guests or have a brightly lit schoolroom lined with all the closets I'm missing out on now. 

My plan seemed brilliant until it rained.

Rain made lakes in the yard and a river in the pasture. It dripped onto boxes of winter coats in the attic and flowed steadily through our basement. I took off my socks and picked my way through the basement to find the stream's source. Water bubbled from the floor in a pencil-thin fountain from the floor, dripped from a doorframe, and spouted out of a crack in the wall. The three streams converged to form a river almost large enough to show up on maps.

My children thought it was a personalized gift, judging from a pint-sized prayer that said, “And thank You for the water in the basement so we can play in rain without ever having to go outside and get cold.”

But it was the same water that convinced me of John’s wisdom. We didn't want to buy a house with have a leaky, 214-year-old foundation. 

With fresh inspiration within me, I opened a realtor’s website. The first house I saw took my breath away. It was built from the same blueprint as my childhood home. I knew which room would be the school room and where I would put my bookcases.

“I found the perfect house!” I texted John. “I feel the Proverbs 31 woman stirring within me again. You might be a homeowner before nightfall.”