Aaaaand now I’m back in my parent’s house.
After spending a ‘practice’ few days in the new apartment (during which we caught TEN moths in the moth traps. this is just the beginning, moths) we are going camping with my folks.
My folks are…well. My friends have called us ‘hillbillies’ even though I grew up in suburbia, and it’s true that I have some hillbillian tendencies. These are fully carried over from my parents’ youths in North Eastern Oregon, land of grouse huntin’, trout fishin’, and a multitude of other things that rarely end in ‘g’. Our house is a study of affluent redneckisms. We have many nice lamps, and we keep a shotgun by the front door. We drive a Prius and a tractor. On the porch we have a lovely bag of golf clubs right next to a lovely pile of cobwebby wrenches. It’s the sort of thing that never really occurred to me growing up, but once I went to college and became exposed to a number of people that had never beat a fish to death on a rock I started to realize that my upbringing was a little more rooted in the country than I had realized.
Part of my upbringing were yearly trips out to the Imnaha river in North Eastern Oregon. For a week every summer we would go to a very specific campsite and shoot cans and cook steak and wade through creeks that were so cold they’d turn your toes blue –
“I kind of don’t like that you call us hillbillies,” my mother says. She is sitting next to me and I just read the previous passages to her and my father.
“Should I take it out?” I ask her. “That’s why I read it to you.”
“Well, I don’t…I mean, my parents both went to college.”
“You could call us mountain folk,” My father pipes in.
“I’ll just record the conversation,” I tell them. My mother chuckles and rolls her eyes a bit. Oh, that kid and her blog. I type for a couple of minutes.
“In fact,” my father continues, after a few moments of silence, “Eastern Oregon State University is the Mountaineers.”
“A mountaineer is much different than a hillbilly,” my mother says. There is a note of disdain there. Possibly some unexplored wound.
And she reads the passage and smacks me on the shoulder.
“There is no wound,” she insists. “Just insult.”
My shoulder hurts.
I ought to tell the state.
Now that I’ve spent the majority of the post talking about our hi…mountaineer roots, I’ll just end it here. I’ll save the camping stories for later. The video camera is possibly coming with me, so there may be some forest dancing on the site when I get back. We’ll be leaving tomorrow night, extra late, and driving through the night to get there early Thursday morning. Hopefully we’ll beat the crowds.
Any fourth of July plans for you all?