Chapter V. – In Which Byron Warren Gets Back to Nature, and Barely Back Home.
The twins, Alice Vera Warren and Robert George Warren, eventually outgrew their diapers (as most babies will) and entered that clumsy and no less hectic stage of life called toddlerhood. In fact, they had both reached the ripe age of four (and their brother the riper age of eleven), when their parents had an idea which they had not even been able to have for quite some time. Horatio Warren, the overworked man of business, came home to his wife Leona (the exhausted homemaker and mother of three) one fall evening with that idea, the divulging of which we shall witness. As we enter with the bread-winner, we find the wife half-asleep in an easy chair while the twins play somewhat quietly together with building blocks and Byron Merrill Warren, that most interesting of lads, colors (very neatly and without going outside the lines, mind you) in his superhero coloring book.
“Leona!” stated Mr. Warren very pointedly as he set down his briefcase. “We need a vacation!”
Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, looked askance at her husband as only a very quizzical – nay, doubtful – spouse can do. Mr. Warren batted not an eyelid.
“And I believe we shall do just that!” he continued, as if he had revealed the whole of the matter to his audience.
“And I assume you have been promoted to President of the company?” asked Mrs. Warren very dryly.
“No – what does that have to do with anything?” returned the husband.
“Oh, I don’t know – I was just thinking that if we were going on the first family vacation in recent memory, we might need something to pay for it,” said Mrs. Warren, continuing in her dry manner.
“Ah, but that’s where you haven’t thought it out as thoroughly as I have!” said Mr. Warren with glee. “This vacation won’t cost us much.”
“Well, if you’re planning to drive us all up the road and back, don’t bother – we already went to the grocery store this morning. And that cost us a pretty penny as it was!”
“Leona, listen to me. I’ve already planned it. It’s as good as done. Next weekend we’re going camping at the state park not twenty miles away from here. And, Byron, you’ll be glad to know that I’ve also invited a few other families – the Westminsters, the Caldwells, the Sikeses and the Proudfoots! They’ll be camping with us!”
Byron leapt up at the news, while the twins continued building with their blocks, oblivious to the world of camping.
“Oh boy!” shouted Byron. “Chet and Norbert and Albert are coming too? That’d be swell!” Then his young face fell ever so slightly. “But did you say you invited the Proudfoots? Does that mean Raquel is coming?”
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t – she’s a member of the Proudfoots, isn’t she?”
“But she’s kind of – I don’t know – she’s a little…annoying,” said Byron.
“Oh, nonsense, you two get along just fine at school from what I hear from Mr. Proudfoot. Besides, Mrs. P and your mother are good friends, and who knows? Maybe Raquel can look after your brother and sister for a while. She might love that!”
Mrs. Warren had also risen at the news, but she had her hands on her hips and a very exasperated look that suggested she did not share her son’s elation.
“You mean to tell me that you’re going to put me out in the wilderness for a weekend and let me get bitten by ticks and mites and who knows what other wild animals? And get all dirty to boot, and make me smell that smoke for hours on end?”
“They have showers, Leona,” explained Mr. Warren. This produced no visible reaction in his wife, except perhaps that her brow was a little more arched than before.
“There’s no debating it!” announced Mr. Warren firmly. “We are all going camping, and we are all going to have fun! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some camping gear to go purchase. Byron, would you like to go with me?”
Byron did indeed accompany his father, and in the days leading up to the big weekend, they put their combined energies into preparing, planning, packing, and pondering the trip and all they expected to do in two days. Before long, it was the fateful Saturday morning. The five families met up at the local gas station to compare notes and then drive off in a caravan of sorts. Mrs. Warren was not nearly as apprehensive as she had been earlier, what with the presence of four fellow mothers to cheer her. The Caldwells had a station wagon, which meant that Byron, Norbert Caldwell, Albert Sikes and Chet Westminster could all fit in the back. They spent the entire trip to the park in earnest conversation about many things. As for Raquel Proudfoot, she traveled in the back seat of the car in front of the Caldwells, and was able to make various and sundry faces at the boys at stop lights. The boys, in all likelihood, never noticed.
It wasn’t long before the group arrived at the park, paid for their stay, found five adjacent campsites, parked, and got out to stretch their legs in the fresh forest air. Mr. Warren was pointing out the tall pine trees to Mr. Westminster as the boys charged out of the station wagon.
“All right! Fishing!” shouted Chet Westminster.
“Hold on – we’ve got to set everything up first!” cautioned Byron.
“Do they have ping-pong tables here?” asked Norbert Caldwell. “I love ping-pong; or maybe a TV – Batman comes on at noon!”
“This is outdoors, son,” said Mr. Caldwell, patting his son on the back as he came up behind him. “They don’t have any of those indoor games. We have to find things to do outside. You’ll see before long.”
Albert Sikes, Byron’s “study buddy”, was trailing along, reading a thick book, which happened to be his history book from school. He was reading half-aloud with his eyes glued to the page when he tripped over a rock. Without taking his eyes from his book, he brushed himself off and walked five more yards into a tree, which did not budge but rather knocked off young Albert’s glasses, which he quickly replaced.
“Hey, there sure are a lot of things in the way out here!” he complained. Then he spied his friends farther off and began to jog toward them. “Hey, wait up! Byron, did you know that George Washington was a soldier before he was president?”
At this point there were campsites to set up, and the families separated to do just that. Mr. Warren enlisted Byron’s help in setting up the tent, which they had bought from the store after much deliberation.
“Okay, son, these rods here go through the loops on the tent, and they stretch the tent out to give it shape; then you stick the rods into the ground, and voila! You have your tent.” Mr. Warren beamed proudly as if the job was as good as done. The two spread the tent out on the ground and began putting the rods into their respective loops. As his father put in the last few rods, Byron fell to looking at the instructions, which Mr. Warren had not heretofore consulted.
“Um, Dad – it says here that the gray rods go through the gray loops and the yellow rods go through the yellow loops.”
“Ummm-hmmm,” mumbled Mr. Warren. “Does it, though?”
“Uh-huh, and you’ve done it the wrong way.”
Mr. Warren sighed and looked up at his son. “What do you mean, I’ve done it the wrong way? The rods all fit in the loops just fine – now, give me your help. We need to lift this tent up and stick those rods in the ground.”
“But it says here,” began Byron.
“Never mind what it says! Now, I’m sure it’s all fine and good how the manufacturer wants you to do it, but I’ve already figured it out! Those things just confuse you. In fact, that’s what they’re meant to do. I do things myself.”
Upon lifting the tent, the pair found that the gray rods, which had been inserted through the yellow loops, were too short; and furthermore, the yellow rods, which had been inserted through the gray loops, were much too long. This did not prevent Mr. Warren from forcing the matter. In fact, he forced it so much that one rod (a yellow one) snapped clean in two. As his father groaned in anger, Byron put his hands on his hips and looked at him knowingly.
“I told you,” he began, but his father did not let him finish.
“Never mind! You can run along now. I’ll get your mother to help me. Leona!”
Byron just put his hands in his pockets and walked toward another campsite; as he did so, he could hear his mother saying something about not bringing any duct tape. He stepped into the Westminster’s campsite to find an interesting scene. Chet and his father were bending over a pile of logs. Mr. Westminster was striking match after match and throwing it at the pile, only to sigh loudly each time there was no perceptible result – which happened to be every time.
“Come on – light!” groaned Mr. Westminster. “Hiya, Byron! Did ya get your site up so soon? Hold these matches, son – I think I know what I forgot. Stay here a moment.”
As Mr. Westminster walked off toward his car, Byron put his arm around his pal.
“Havin’ trouble getting the fire going?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure why,” replied Chet.
“Did you throw any lighter fluid on it?” asked Byron. Chet’s eyes lit up.
“Hey! That must be what Dad’s getting now! I knew we forgot something.”
“Hey, isn’t this a can of lighter fluid?” asked Byron as he picked up a can sitting on a tree stump.
“Sure is! Here, give it to me!” Before Byron knew what to do, Chet Westminster grabbed the can, opened the lid, and sprayed its contents all over the pile of logs.
“That oughtta do it!” he shouted with glee. “Here, let’s light a match. Stand back, Byron!” Chet barely gave him enough time before he struck a match and threw it away from him into the pile, which exploded with a high orange flame.
“Whoa! Neat-o!” beamed Chet as Byron covered his eyes from the sudden heat. “I bet we can throw some pine cones on there to make it really sizzle!” Chet grabbed a handful of assorted matter – included pine cones but not limited to them and including pine needles, dead grass and dirt besides – and threw it onto the fire, which began to crackle loudly and emit thick, strange-colored smoke. Mr. Westminster returned just then to behold the spectacle.
“I thought I left that lighter fluid somewhere – Chet! What in the world are you doing? Here, give me those matches!” Before his son had time to explain anything, Mr. Westminster was poking the fire with a stick and waving the smoke out of his eyes as he yelled to Chet, “Why don’t you and Byron find something else to do? This fire’s too dangerous – let me handle it next time!”
So the two friends walked on to the next site, which happened to belong to the Sikes family. Mr. and Mrs. Sikes were spreading a table cloth on a picnic table and getting some food items out of their car. It didn’t take long for Albert to join Chet and Byron, as follows.
“Hey, Mom, did you know that the Boston Tea Party came before the Declaration of Independence? I know that now, but that was the question I missed on the test yesterday. I think Charlie Barnes missed it too, but he wouldn’t tell me. I think he was embarrassed because he got a 75 and I got a 92. The teacher said I was the best student in her class. How about that, huh? Mom, do you think I’m the best student in her class? I might not be, because Byron got a 98, I think, which is higher than a 92, and…”
“Albert – you can calm down with that stuff,” interjected Mr. Sikes. “Let your mother and I do some setting up for a while. And speaking of Byron, there he is – why don’t you go on a walk on the road or something?”
Albert Sikes closed his history book, tucked it under his arm, and set out toward his two friends, who eagerly beckoned for him to join them as they walked. Together the trio made their next stop at the Caldwells’ campsite. Norbert was sitting on the ground, looking up at the tops of the tall trees. Every now and then he would toss a small rock as high into the air as he could. Simply put, he looked bored.
“Hiya, Norb!” Byron called out. “Come with us – we’re going for a walk!” Norbert hardly needed another invitation, for he sprang up, tossed his last remaining rock aside, and joined his friends on the road.
The last campsite in the group, as the reader will no doubt deduce, was the Proudfoots’. As the four boys approached this site, Byron sped up his pace noticeably, an example not immediately followed by the others.
“Why so fast, Byron?” Norbert inquired. “If ya hafta go to the bathroom, I think it’s in the other direction!”
“Uh, no, I just want to get my exercise – you know, get movin’!” Byron backpedaled quickly up the road as he faced his friends. “Let’s have a race!” Whether it was from the nervous look on his face or from the unconvinced way in which he said this, the other boys did not quite catch on.
“C’mere, Byron! I wanna show you something in my book!” said Albert. “Remember the other day when we were talkin’ about how to spell…”
. Byron barely listened as he continued to backpedal, looking out of the corner of his eye. He spied what seemed to be the source of his anxiety, and it – or shall I say “she” – was running toward him in the form of one Raquel Proudfoot.
“Byron, Byron,” she sang out. “Are you guys going for a walk? I wanna come too! Hold on, let me get my Barbie dolls!”
“Aw, we don’t need any Barbie dolls on our walk!” returned Byron gruffly. “This walk is only for MEN!” The other boys began to guffaw and prepare male chauvinist remarks of their own, but it was quite too late. Raquel Proudfoot had rejoined the group, two slender Barbie dolls clutched in her hands.
“This is Sally, and this is Sandra,” she explained, lifting up each doll as she named them. “We just love going for walks, don’t we? (She addressed this question to her inanimate companions). Where are we going, guys?”
Byron, along with his three friends, just rolled his eyes and groaned. There is nothing more disastrous to the plans of a group of boys than the entrance of a girl, and they knew it. Chet Westminster looked as if he was about to protest, but Byron spoke up before that. He knew it was no use. Raquel would have to come along, and resistance was futile. He knew they couldn’t risk hurting her feelings and getting in trouble with Mr. and Mrs. Proudfoot. Besides, if Raquel saw that they were doing manly things (as young boys will do), she would probably lose interest and go away before long.
“Aw, come on, you can go with us,” sighed Byron. “Maybe we can find a trail around here somewhere.”
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