Chapter Three

1989.

I've grown up camping. My parents have told me that my camping career began at an unripened age; two weeks old. There was nothing that could hold my mother back from camping on the May Long Weekend, 1987. You'd think if something were to stop someone from camping, post-birth recovery would do it. In my mother's case post-birth recovery was just half the battle. You see, after their accident (yours truly *curtsy*) they would make no more, that was certain. The decision to halt all future production of children was not enough, physical action had to be taken and this sent my mother into yet another surgery of, for lack of a more technical description, tube cutting. Ouch.

This is way off track.

The point is that my mom is, was, and always will be crazy... proven by the fact that she took me camping less then two weeks after two major pain-inducing incidents in her life.

Now we're back on track.

As far back as my memory allows me, camping is a vivid image in my mind (yes just one image... just a snapshot). Yet, even where my memory doesn't perform, there are still photos to prove to me that my camping as a youngster goes further back than my recollection.

Oh camping.

Apparently also as a two year old I knew how to pee all by my own self. On a potty. On a personal port-a-potty even. Behind a trailer. Trashy. Trailer trash. Boo ya.

Camping. Potty trained. Good at life. Yee haw.