The Blob

Before it can become its true self, it is an amorphous green blob, trussed up with three quarter inch rope, laying in the bottom of a canoe.

Maybe three feet long by 1 and a half feet deep, it weighs more than any one of us kids can carry. Despite our best efforts to keep it dry, it is invariably damp and permanently suffused with the odor of old canvas.

For old it definitely is. Though we kids could never understand it, it spoke of battles and the boredom of bygone wars.  But its glory days are long over now and it is but an old army surplus tent used by summer camp kids.  The smell of gunpowder replaced with the sharp tang of bug repellant and the earthy mustiness of age.

Setting up camp at night centers around building a fire and the metamorphosis of the blob into our primary shelter.

Depending on the weather, the mosquitoes and whether we have been fed or not, this process can take up to an hour.  

Eventually, where there was blob, now stands, or technically speaking, hangs between two pines, a 6 foot wide, 6 foot tall, 6-foot-deep tent, whose roof slopes, down to 2 feet in the back for drainage.

It must be said, that even in its transformational majesty, it is an inelegant thing.  A network of canoe paddles, a maze of rope and improvised wooden stakes extend out from its canvas core, holding up its outside corners.  A veritable minefield of tripwire for those unfortunates that have to use the Northwoods in the night.

With only 36 square feet it is a snug fit for 5 gangly boys, 5 backpacks, 5 air mattresses and 5 sleeping bags.

Invariably chaos ensues.

Amidst flailing elbows, newly learned curses and contortions worthy of Houdini, soon each boy is safely nestled in his own cocoon for the night.

And if we are lucky, it will rain.

Each drop, one note, played on threadbare canvas, in a celestial lullaby.

And, once again, this old tent becomes its true self, the sanctuary it was always meant to be.