The Point

The Point           

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The tent’s fabric shook as the wind tugged and pulled.  Lying within a sleeping bag, listening in the darkness, my mind went back to a movie I had seen years before, Scott in the Antarctic.  My brother and I had pitched his tent in a camping area, which in reality was no more than a harvested corn field in central Illinois.  Had Jim not tied our small shelter firmly to the rear bumper of his red Plymouth Horizon we might have tumbled all the way back to Indiana.

It had been ninety degrees when we set out that afternoon.  The deluge in Logansport, the thunderclaps and inches of rain came so swiftly, as we drove on.  The bank’s thermometers told how much the temperature fell as we made our way to the farm show.  Seldom had I dared to take more than a single day away from the demands of soil, sun, and cow.  The trip anticipated, an adventure for those not so old to fear sleeping on the ground. 

By the time we set up camp the rain had stopped.  A hoody needed as we fought the wind that had gone unhampered since crossing the Rockies.  The land here open, unlike home where hill and wood dotted the countryside.  A disc harrow had prepared the field for the thousands that had migrated for the event.  Only a few, the young, the bold, or the foolish, pitched their canvas contraptions among the trailers and RVs that September evening all those years ago, as the temperature continued its downward spiral.

If the wind’s roar insufficient, the RV, not six feet from our heads, ran his generator for hours.  The flop, flop, flop of our canvas and the drone of the Koehler made sleep impossible.  The tilled and soaked soil oozed beneath the floor to conform to our weary backs, a reasonable bed.  At last – sometime during the night -- the generator ceased its growl, only the constant flapping of the sail that our tent seemed to be, filled the night.  It became cold.  Coats worn within sleeping bags offered little room to rearrange long legs and space to refold my arms.  Yet somehow I slept.

Woken when our neighbor’s generator started once again, followed by an apology, “Sorry guys but my wife needs her coffee.”  Which seemed reasonable considering day’s first light had not yet arrived.  I buried my head mumbling something like, “This is fun,”  “Boy is it cold,” and “What happened to the air in here…it’s rank!”  We found out later that the temperature had dropped into the thirties.  

Forced at last from our tent by biological need, we made our way across irregular soggy soil to facilities – temporary blue boxes standing in a neat row for all visitor’s convenience.  When the show officially opened and breakfast found and devoured we began to investigate.  Though we had attended The Farm Progress Show before, never did we have a whole day see so many of the wonders.  It had always been drive out and back within the same calendar date.  Often the show more than three hours from home shortened the period available. 

We closed the place down when at last we made our way to tent yet bound to the auto.  Another night sleeping on the ground which had hardened in the most uncomfortable manner was not restful.  Yet it was an adventure I will always remember.  Sometime we forget that the simple things are the things most important.  That time shivering within the flapping canvas, or lying upon lumpy soil can mean more than we ever expect.  For I don’t remember much of the exhibits we visited, or the field trials of the newest equipment meant to tempt us, but I do remember the time shared with my younger brother – and maybe that is the point.  

(638 Words)