This weekend, hubby and I are out of here. My mother has bravely come down to watch the kids, and we’re heading up to the bluegrass festival where hubby and I met eight years ago. Hubby now has the same cold the rest of us do, so this is less than ideal, heading up to higher elevation to camp with head colds. But I’m determined to do it. It’s a Father’s Day tradition. My banjo-playing dad attends this annual festival each year, and so, if I want to spend Father’s Day with him, I have to go where he is.
Dad takes his RV, and we camp nearby, an ideal arrangement. We have our own space, but there’s a kitchen and bathroom a short walk away. Then there’s the music, day and night, friends new and old, the peaceful lure of pine trees all around, and, oh yeah, no kids to take care of. We buy dinner from the food vendors, take strolls around the campground between sets, browse the arts and crafts vendors for trinkets for the kids, but there’s nowhere we have to be, nothing we have to do. Sure, the camp showers tend to be cold, and the days can be ridiculously hot, sitting out in the sun before the stage, and it’s noisy while you’re trying to sleep with a late-night jam session a few feet from your head. But I have water, sunscreen, earplugs, and did I mention, no kids to take care of? Paradise.