Pamela the rainmaker
When I was 20 years old, I finished my last six credits of college by studying Renaissance and Reformation history in Europe. We traveled to various sites throughout the continent, camping and staying in youth hostels to keep the price down.
We arrived at our first campsite to find the Rhine had overflowed its banks and our campground was under four feet of water.
Twenty-six years later, I have never camped without it raining. And I go camping every year.
Love is camping with a wet dog
I’m writing this from my campsite at Wellesley Island in the St. Lawrence River. We arrived last night to put up our tarp (we always use a tarp) and tent in the rain.
Honey guarded the site looking droopy and sad that we wouldn’t let her visit the Golden Retriever in the nice dry camper next door.
It’s not raining hard now. It spritzes every once in while and the day is cool and damp.
Honey is lying by my chair where I sit bundled up in a blanket.
I love camping but I don’t know why. Just once, it would be nice to have a dry and sunny day.
My luck is so certain that I’m thinking of hiring myself out as a rain maker. If you’re suffering in that drought in Texas right now, just send me a plane ticket. I’ll bring my tent. And my umbrella. And my tarp.