Swallows and Amazons: a review

As part of my attempt to cope with the hopefully final months of lockdown, and also be generally happy, I’ve been making more of a point of getting myself “fun books” from the library when I do my weekly school-books run.  

So I read the classic and beloved Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome.  I wish I could say I unequivocally loved it.  And I did enjoy it, and added the sequel to my TBR list.  But I didn’t completely love it.  I spent the first two thirds of the book equal parts inspired; and then, when Jason wouldn’t acquiesce to my bright idea to go tent camping when it was forty degrees overnight, irrationally insisting that I would not enjoy it; annoyed by the fictional Walker children, whose idyllic experience camping on a small island all summer is the gist of the story.

Let us briefly review the real-life experiences of the Miller family’s camping trips.

There was the memorable time when our tent morphed into a running flood overnight and practically drowned us, but we survived long enough for Caleb to stick his hand in a bees’ nest the following day.

There was the time Jason and I camped when I was newly pregnant with Jeddy and incredibly nauseous at all hours, and Jason cooked little smokies over the fire which nearly made me barf, and later ordered a full Thanksgiving dinner at the lodge which he tucked into with enthusiasm while I gasped for fresh air at the window.  That was the same trip where we experienced fog thicker than I have ever seen in my life, and we got lost driving the half mile back from the lodge because we couldn’t see four feet ahead.  That trip made such an impression that I got nauseous by association on foggy days for a few years afterwards.

Then there was that time we camped as newlyweds and brought our bikes and Jason’s tire popped en route to the campground and it was so stressful that I suffered chest pains about which I afterwards consulted a doctor.

There was the time we accidentally arrived after dark and couldn’t figure out how to set up our tents in the dark and we were trying not to lose our very small children at the same time we were erecting shelter in the lustrous glow of our car’s headlights, later to lie in our nylon tent listening to an unknown creature snuffling just outside.

On my most recent camping trip wherein my offspring was sleeping exposed in a hammock, a bear rummaged through our site in the middle of the night.

Once years ago we took baby Jeddy camping en route to the beach, and after fighting him tooth and nail for hours to get him to sleep, a wild thunderstorm broke overhead and we were equally terrified of lightning striking us, trees falling on us, and the baby waking back up.

There was a noteworthy trip when Jason left the tent in the middle of the night to use the campground facilities, and upon emerging from the well-lit building, realized that all else was pitch dark and he was unable to find his way back to the correct tent and so spent the night on the bathroom floor.

Hired gardeners planting flowers in my window box.

Oh, and there was the time we camped while Jeddy was potty training, and we woke him to use the potty in the tent, in the dark, and he still wet the bed.  Slash sleeping bag.  Slash tent that we were all sharing.

Good times.

Oh, yes, there was that one time it didn’t rain and bears didn’t come and the sun shone, hallelujah, amen.

In contrast, let us review the experience of the Walker children in Swallows and Amazons, of whom the eldest is no more than 13 years old, who wilderness camp all summer:  

They know how to catch and clean fish, sail a boat, cook over a fire, navigate by stars, and hoot like an owl, even though they haven’t all yet learned to swim.  Also they have the good will of the milk-supplying farmer, strangers in the woods, all the villagers round about, the grumpy old man (even after children burned the cabin of his houseboat by lighting off firecrackers on it), and their own mother.

They don’t get bitten by bears, wolves, snakes, ticks, fish, or even mosquitos.  Their wood is never too wet to light.  They sleep soundly on makeshift mattresses on the ground under tents fashioned from a sheet of canvas draped over a stick.  They don’t have allergies.  Nor do they have summer jobs or chores around the house.  They don’t get sunburned.

Excuse me if I struggle to suspend my disbelief—or wish for a thunderstorm to drive a herd of ravenous bears into the Walker camp.  Let’s see how they competently handle that.

At least, that was how I felt after Jason didn’t let me go camping in forty degrees.  

What a spoilsport.  I already know how to swim and hoot like an owl; what could possibly go wrong?

Birthdays and other very special days

What is our only confidence?

That our souls to Him belong.

Who holds our days within His hand?

What comes apart from His command?

Keith Getty, Matt Boswell, Jordan Kauflin, Matt Merker and Matt Papa, “Christ Our Hope in Life and Death”

I wrestled with jealousy and possibly despair when Jason got his covid shot.

Being the eternally sunny optimist that I am, I had little confidence that I would ever get the coveted invitation to be shot.  

My soul belongs to Him.  

Those of us who naturally despair of good things in this life perhaps cling all the more tenaciously to this hope.  

Nothing comes apart from His command.  

Though the Department of Health may forget me or care not for me, my God has not forgotten me.  Nothing is a divine oops; all is under His command.  He gives us seasons of waiting for our good: Advent, and Lent, and the other times that try our souls.

And so I can rest while I wait, secure in His hand.

In the meantime, in token of His great mercy, He has brought springtime.  He has given us friends who are generous with their horses and their campfires and warm in their affection, who lift up our hearts.

He has given us dirt to play in and seed to bring forth food from the earth.

{I mean, my dirt is for playing in.  I’d be in trouble if this was my source of food.  But there are actual farmers in this world who know how to really grow food, from whom I can buy it.  But seeds and dirt are fun anyway.}

He gives us the hills and the greening spring fields.

And trampolines.

I was asked to take portraits of a certain puppy for a breeding website.  Puppy’s owner offered to pay me, but I wasn’t sure I could guarantee high enough quality, so we settled on a payment of three whole organic chickens, with which she threw in a bonus dozen organic eggs.

Meet Poppy.  (And if you want to buy a purebred poodle puppy, I can hook you up.)

Tis the season for new summer duds.

And a birthday for a special someone.

You can probably safely assume you’re old when you lick the candles while your kid cuts your birthday cake.

And then, right after Jason’s birthday:  plot twist!

A mere 392 days after entering quarantine, my day came.  The wonders of modern medicine and some unknown hero’s impressive logistical skills came together and I got vaccinated with about four thousand of my closest friends that day.

I was still convinced until it was over that I was going to be kicked out, either for being slightly late (the clinic created more traffic than I expected), for blurring the definition of “teacher” as my occupation, for having my birthday entered wrong in the system (my husband, who registered me, swears he knows when my birthday really is and his fingers just slipped), or for not eating breakfast that morning.

(A nurse addressed a whole batch of us at once when we first entered, but it was hard for me to hear, as I was in the far back and still standing properly outside the building, straining to hear through the open door.  I heard “You’re all here for your first covid shot, right?” and “None of you have any symptoms of covid, right?” and then she said “Something something...right?” and the whole crowd answered “Yes,” so I figured my answer must be yes too.  Only later did I realize she had said, “You’ve all eaten today, right?”  Which I had not.  Seriously, in that whole crowd I was the only one who skipped breakfast?  They had even come through offering single-serving packets of goldfish crackers, which I had politely declined, although I was glad for the lovely gesture.  If I had known my covid shot depended on gross cheddar crackers I might have chosen differently.)

After traveling what had to have been a mile of six-foot-spaced tape X’s, I took my seat with the vaccine administrator, carefully averting my eyes the whole time from piles and PILES of needles (they had 50 stations to receive shots).  Having already given hundreds of shots that morning, she was very efficient, and asked me what I was going to do when I was done there, just as she poked me.  I was momentarily distracted, thinking my first answer (“eat lunch”) might get me in trouble, so I was trying to formulate a truthful and non-controversial answer and then it was already over.  

I proceeded to the socially-distanced waiting area for my prescribed 15-minute wait period—without passing out, despite having to navigate stairs; a flaw in the system, now that I think about it—where I watched fifteen minutes of baby bunny and hedgehog videos, considerately sent to me by Ada, who knows I need help to cope with needles.  

And just like that, it’s over.  My next shot is scheduled for the end of the month, and presumably, even now, my body is memorizing all of covid’s secret weapons of destruction, rendering them ineffective against me.