Pop 89: Campfire Lore for Future Campfires
By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com
“That’s the third time that cop’s been down this road,” says Avril as we watch the dusty SUV roll by while we devour burgers on her back deck.
“Yeah, I know. Ever since you got here, the place’s been crawling with them.”
“Haha.”
“Maybe there’s been a break-in.” It’s not something we want to consider in a village where we leave our doors unlocked so that if our neighbour needs a Robertson screwdriver or a cup of sugar and we’re not home, they can just go in and get one. And besides, who would rob from someone here? We know everyone in town.
But robberies do occur. People pass through, people with no attachment to anybody, so there’s no attack of conscience. Not that the local kids haven’t performed their share of vandalism. And then, there was that whole rash of slashed tires when the village split over the new trail up the Butte. If you are new to town and you dare criticize how things are done, be prepared for blowback. But I’m not about to re-open that wound; it’s taken a long while to heal and move on. And some people are still sore, and others are not likely to trust anyone any time soon, at least not within the next couple of generations. And by then, the story will have expanded exponentially, with a few deaths tacked on to the climax. People may move on, but some of us move more slowly than others.
At the same time as the cop keeps circling the village, the campground behind my apartment fills up with happy campers, nearly a hundred of them. And they’re all from one family: The Bleaus. It’s the Bleau Family reunion, and the organizers, moms mostly, have made it easier for us all to discern who comes from which limb of the four major branches of the family tree by dressing the descendants of each Bleau sibling in their own primary-school colour. By Friday night, kids ablaze in bright blue, red, orange and yellow t-shirts scamper and squeal through the trees while parents visit, build a communal fire and set up a supper tent.
My heart aches for my own family as I watch these lucky tykes and teens play with their cousins and forge bonds that will form stories to be re-told decades down the road around future campfires. I am lucky to come from a big family, six kids in all, and never lacked for playmates as a kid. We are all close, and we try to work through our differences, and as we get older, we value each other more and more. And now, when I am troubled by everything from a bad dream to a bad cough, I can call anyone of my siblings and know they will be there for me. We will talk, laugh, compare notes, placate, flatter, promise feedback, and repeat reassurances for no less than an hour before hanging up. And then, when I do say goodbye, I always feel less alone, less estranged from the world and even myself.
And yet. And yet there’s no wee ones running around, bumping into things, squealing for no reason. Only two of us had kids, and we’re all - parents and aunties and uncle - breathing down their necks to have grandkids and grandnieces and nephews so we can spoil them, give them unwanted advice, and, most of all, hear them make all those noises and maneuvers one makes at the beginning of one’s life when the world is your oyster and all things are possible, and it takes an hour just to walk from the tent to the toilets because: “Look what I found! A rock!” Or “A bug!”
Watching the kids in the campground gather around their parents as a big storm approaches, I yearn to be that adult that little kids lean into for protection or reassurance or diversion. I also want to be that great aunt who starts squealing like a “big silly,” like the kids are doing now when it starts to thunder. I want to be the “fun” great auntie who lets them know it’s ok to be loud and rambunctious and thrilled at the power of nature while safe with the grownups. Watching these kids, I think of my sister who yearns to be a grandmother, and it makes me want to pick up the phone right now and call my nephews and say, Hey! What gives?! Move it already! While we’re still mobile!
The families are returning to the campground from Palais Royale, the town hall, Val Marie’s first dance hall and cinema. They rented it for pot luck supper and home movies and to stay out of the coming storm. The kids are racing each other down the gravel road in front of the school. One of the Bleau sisters explains to me they’re not actually racing each other; they’re trying to register their speed by running in front of the speed monitor at the end of the road. I see the police car in front of the hall.
“Yeah,” explains Ms. Bleau, “We invited him to join us for supper.”
“Sure he wasn’t just collecting intel?” I joke.
“Well, he certainly would have his fair share of it with us,” she laughs. “Not to mention the kids who were actually playing pool in the hotel. And the softball team that was betting on them!” says another mom. “Not my kids,” she quickly adds.
The storm is a doozy. The lightning is lasso-shaped, and the thunder starts with a low rumble and then cracks like a tree split in half and then grumbles off like a tired old dog looking for peace. The kids register their appreciation with more shouts and squeals. The supper tent blows over. Families retreat to their RVs and camper vans, where the soft glow from their tiny kitchen lamps casts shadows on the parents, playing cards and telling stories, on past the storm and into the night.