Sleep In A Tent
“You
still sleep in a tent?”
“Oh
yeah. Sleeping in it right now.”
“Really”.
“Yep.”
Pause
“We
remember you doing that. We talked
about it on the way up here. It’s
not the same tent right?”
“Basically
it’s the same. This is our fourth
tent. We’ve used it for four years so far. It’s the same as the other ones. Eventually they rot out. Actually. Not
the tent. The fly gets brittle and
tears from exposure”.
“You
still really sleep there every night?”
“All
the time. From mid April to mid
November. Since 1984. At this site. It’s the highest point on the property.
“We
remember you doing that.”
“We
still do it. We’re doing it right
now.”
Pause.
“Look: You’ve come up here and rented that
camp (in Raymond on a lake) Sort
of. (Sort of rented the camp and
sort of it being on a so titled “lake”).
Your there for a week. You
love it. Then you go away (home).
We’re in the tent the whole time.
That’s what we do here.
When I get up in the morning I crawl on all fours out of the tent. It’s dark. It’s raining.
Whatever. I have calluses
on my knees from doing it. All you
got is some camp photographs you took with your phone and, like, look at or
show them to people. You know
like... get away from me. Your not
doing that (sleeping in a tent).”
When
I get up in the morning it is dark and I walk by one of the outbuilding. On its second floor we have some beans
and all our onions (we grew) drying right now. On old sheets.
On the floor. I toss the
bean vines with a pitchfork every few days. The room; the second floor of this building, is perfect for
drying. A dry heat. It was built during the Civil War to do
that; be a drying loft. It’s,
like, once a year and it’s perfect.
No one cares. You don’t
even know what I’m talking about.
Okay? So there’s, like, no
electricity there. NEVER HAS
BEEN. Never need to. Never want it. GET IT? WE SLEEP IN A TENT IN THE WOODS. For over forty years.
GOT IT?
We
harvested all the cabbages. They
are in the (hand dug, field stone lined and dirt floor) cellar. The potatoes are drying in the dark at
the back of the barn on the floor under a cotton duck sheet... intentional...
as are it’s four companions... for doing this. Now. Once a year.
Okay?
We’re
still sleeping in the tent. Got
it? The Maple leaves are turning
red and yellow and falling off the trees.
The oaks will go another month.
Maybe we’ll still be in the tent then. Too. This is
what we do. We don’t have a home
security system with twenty spy cameras.
We don’t need one. Like...
whose gonna take the tent... down.
ME.
And
you won’t be there when I do. No
one ever is there. THAT’S WHY WE
SLEEP IN THE TENT: YOUR NEVER
THERE.
My
wife painted my office. First time
in thirty-five years. All the old
books had to be routed out. You
wouldn’t believe the great stuff I found in there. I’m shingling the back side of the house; twenty-six feet
wide. Four windows. Two on the ground floor. Two in the chamber. Here the upper corner (of the
homestead) sits on ledge.
I
purloined a Delft charger the other day.
The farm I found it in has been sold and they’re making summer rental
camps along the edge of the lake.
The house is empty.
They
told me.
The
charger was dirty but it was still in there.
I
mean really dirty: black.
No
one cared about it. I didn’t let
on. Just put it in the pile. Bought the pile. Loaded the pile into the truck. I put the charger up in the cab. “NICE” is the best description. You don’t even know what I’m talking
about. Yeah, yeah: 1740-1760 English or Dutch.
Perfect. Must have been in there
two hundred years.
NO
ONE SLEEPS IN A TENT.
Right?
TENT
– ONIONS – CHARGER. This is what
we do. We
Sleep
in a tent.
