BB Grey–musings

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Today’s writing prompt: Have you ever been camping?

I woke up tucked inside a sleeping bag in the back of a 1974 Ford LTD station wagon — the original lowrider SUV, if you ask me. The back seats folded flat, creating a makeshift bunk where my six-year-old brother was snuggled to my right, and my sister was sardine-canned next to him. A foggy window beside me offered a blurry view of the outside world, misted over from the soft breathing of three little two-stroke engines — chugging along in the back — and two bigger engines up front, holding the course.

My father, reclined behind the steering wheel, was the high-horsepower V8: quick to flare up, quick to cool down. Beside him, my mother — steady and dependable like a straight-six — sat shotgun, likely turned sideways toward him, half-keeping watch over her world, half-dreaming of whatever the morning would bring. The hum of all five engines blended together, a warm purr that filled the cabin and soothed me back toward sleep.

I wasn’t startled awake. I simply drifted into a hazy memory of the night before — the warm feeling of being lifted from my bed, my mother whispering in Spanish that we were going on an adventure. I was carried to the waiting car, already idling and warm, sleeping bags laid out just like our regular drive-in movie nights.

Now, peeking through the misty window, I saw towering trees stretching far beyond my view into the fading stars of early dawn. I glanced at my brother, still deep in sleep, and drifted off again, breathing in the cool, sequoia-sweet air.

The next time I woke, the tailgate swung open, and the smell of bacon and eggs rushed in like an invitation. My dad stood there grinning, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes bright with mischief, as if to say, “Guess where we are?” My mother’s voice followed — practical and cheerful — telling us to put on our shoes.

Bundled in mismatched jackets, half-zipped boots, and pants twisted every which way, we sat at the tailgate, legs swinging, gazing into the awe-inspiring redwoods of Sequoia National Park. Breakfast came fast and simple: toast, bacon, scrambled eggs smoky from the firepit, butter-rich and dripping with love, served one by one by Mama Bird herself. Three paper cups of Tang — watered down and perfect — completed the feast.

Dad, with coffee in one hand and bacon in the other, mapped out the day’s adventures. Whether he spoke in English, Spanish, or our typical jumble of both, I can’t quite remember — it didn’t matter. It was the language of family. Mom nodded along, smiling, cleaning, cooking, and always making sure everyone was warm, fed, and loved. Her happiness lived in our laughter; her strength lived in my father’s plans; and together, their love breathed life into our small world.

These were the camping trips of immigrant children — American-born kids with parents who came with empty pockets but rich, full hearts. Every trip was a wild adventure. Every morning was a brand-new wonder.

Later, that spirit of adventure would carry us to Valdez, Alaska, where for two years we lived in a 28-foot trailer while my father worked tirelessly, eventually saving enough to buy his first home — cash — back in Southern California. That home became the foundation for everything he built after, flipping houses and creating a future for us all.

I never thought of those times as hard. They were magical — filled with excitement, wonder, and a love that wrapped tighter than any sleeping bag.

Camping was the best.

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