Sundays I take Tommy to the local warehouse shopping club - you know, the one with the membership fee, the one you go to when you want to buy 200 rolls of toilet paper or 5-dozen bagels in a big plastic bag.  While MBW and Chris are at the normal grocery store, getting the normal size portions of regular items, Tommy and I go to the big box.  I have to go there every week to buy gas, as they have the least expensive gas and I commute 62 miles each day - and saving a few pennies a gallon adds up in a Suburban.  And since I’m there anyway, I go into the store to pick up the 6-8 things we need in bulk that week – one of which is always milk.  I swear we drink more milk in a week at our house than some small rural counties do in the same period of time.

I'm not sure exactly why Tommy always comes with me, and Chris with my wife, but it just seems to work out that way.  Tommy likes to go with me, and we have certain games that we play when we make our weekly trek to the Big Box.  For example, every week we roll our shopping cart into what Tommy calls ‘the cold room’ – the open cooler where they keep the produce.  He sits in the cart while I push it into a far back corner of the cooler, then I pretend like I am leaving him there and duck behind a stack of produce and ‘hide.’  I wait for a moment or two and pop back out, and together we leave the cooler and go on our way.  If for some reason I forget this little game he reminds me.  He never seems to get tired of it.

 

Another game we play is when we go by the big freezer; he will ask me to stop close to the doors.  When I do, he will point across the store and say, “Hey dad, look at that!”  I will dutifully look while he opens the freezer door and puts his hand on some cold item for a moment. When I look back, he says, “Dad, I have a secret to tell you.”  When I lean in close to put my ear next to his lips, he puts his ‘cold’ hand on my neck and says, “Gotcha!”  I jump back in shock, pretending to be frozen.  He loves it, despite that we do it every week.

 

So this past Sunday we went to the big box, gassed up the Suburban, and went into the store itself.  We did the cold room game, I let him freeze my neck once again, and we were rolling through the meat department when he says to me, “Dad, they have Lion Chops here!”

 

You have to understand a couple of things about Tommy.  He is five years old, just starting kindergarten, and he’s reading at almost a 3^rd grade level.  The kid devours books like other kids his age devour candy.  He talks a lot, but I’m always surprised at what he hears and remembers when I’m not aware he is listening.  Whether it is from a book we’ve read together a few months ago or a snippet of a conversation he overheard three weeks past, things stick in his head and come out at random times.  He is also one of the most observant kids I’ve ever known.

 

So when I hear him say, ““Dad, they have Lion Chops here!”  I stop the cart and look where he is pointing.  Sure enough, there is a sign on the other side of the aisle that looks like what he said, except that the sign really reads ‘Loin Chops.’ 

 

Tommy is very excited.  “Lion Chops! What are those, Dad?  Is it really from a Lion?  Can you eat them?  What do they taste like?  They don’t have Lion’s around here, do they?  I thought they came form Africa!”

 

I turn the cart around and we head over to the Loin Chop sign.  We stop there and I ask, “Is this the sign you saw?”

 

“Yes, that’s it!  Lion Chops!”

 

I say, “Tommy, look more closely at the sign.  Lion is spelled L-I-O-N.  How is this word spelled?”

 

He looks carefully and says, “L-O-I-N.  That’s not Lion, is it?”

 

“No, it’s not – but it’s very close.  I can see why you thought it said Lion.  That was very good spotting!”

 

He goes on to ask what a loin is, where it comes from, what it tastes like, when we can have some.  We discuss this as we move away from the display and continue to get the rest of our large volume grocery needs.  We talk about other things, and we play the cold room game one more time before we get in the checkout line to pay for our purchases. 

 

As we’re rolling our cart across the acres of paved parking, heading toward our Suburban parked in what seems to be the next county, I think about two things.  First, what a lucky man I am to be where I am today – healthy, with a fine family, able to buy good food, a good job, health insurance.  To be able to spend quality time with my son, even if it is just a trip to the Big Box grocery store.

 

Second, I wonder what Lion Chops would taste like?

 

No, really.  Why do we do it?

Is it because we love camping?  Because we love the outdoors, the fresh air?  Is it that we love the idea of getting away, no one to tell us where to go, when to come home?  Is it the freedom of the open road, the call of the wild, the ability to wander?  Is it because want to remember all the good times we've had?  The places we've been?

Why do we do the same thing, over and over, thinking everyone else is just as fascinated by what we've done as we are, when, truth be told, most people politely smile, nod, and walk away thinking, "What's wrong with them?  Don't they get it?  WE DON'T CARE!"



I'm referring, of course to the obsessive, irresistible attraction of taking pictures of our RV - Over and Over and Over again - and posting them all over our blog or web site.

Look - I am a serial offender.  I'm the first to admit it.  Just take a peek at the 'Our Rig' page on this site.  I mean, it's ridiculous.  How may different shots can you take of a 27 foot white box on wheels?  I don't know - but I'm well on my way to finding out.




Take this shot, for example.  To me, it is a thing of beauty, the Mighty Camping Machine headed out on another Grand Adventure.  To you, it's a giant headache.   It's a ponderous beast, ahead of you crawling uphill on a 2-lane mountain road, chugging along at a stately 25 miles-per-hour, keeping you from getting where you want to go because WE'RE IN NO HURRY AND YOU'RE STUCK BEHIND US.

Now I might be a bit safer admitting to this addiction in this forum, a website where the content has a significant focus on RV travels.  I would expect some tolerance and leniency from the readers of this page.  But for those who have come to this page from some mis-directed Google search and find themselves at what they perceive to be a fetish site for trailers, well, I couldn't blame you from running away as fast as possible.  Or I guess it should be clicking away.  Whatever. 



Ah yes, time for another photo. Isn't it just gorgeous? The strong, bold lines of The Camping Machine parked amid the magnificent splendor of the mystical cliffs and formations of Goblin Valley State Park. What, you didn't notice the scenery? Of course not. How could Mother Nature possibly compete with the sleek, sexy shape of The Camping Machine? Notice how well toned it is, how shapely it's smooth walls are. The graphics, at once both alluring and understated, project a quiet confidence.  That's the kind of trailer you want to take home to Mom!

You know you really have a bad case of this disease when you go to the same campgound twice in less than a month and you take photos of your rig BOTH TIMES.  In virtually the same camp site.  Look, I'll prove it.  Below is a photo of The Camping Machine in site 26 at Sand Hollow State Park in southern Utah, taken the weekend of August 5-6:



Now here is the photo I took of The Camping Machine over Labor Day Weekend, parked majestically at Site 22 of the same campground.



What's the difference between these two photos?  Obviously the background is virtually identical, save perhaps the light falling on the not-so-distant mountains.  Discerning viewers will notice the subtle differences - one shot favors the 'face' of The Camping Machine, the friendly entry side, the welcoming shade of the awning.  The other photo exposes the 'modest' side of The Camping Machine' - the hookups.  Even so, it looks great.  And that's no mean feat.  How good would YOU look in a photo that exposed your backside?

Oh, one other thing.  One site is a pull-thru, the other isn't.  Personally I prefer pull-throughs.

I know what you're thinking..."If I only had a rig as stunning as The Camping Machine, I would take as many photos as you, Camping Machine Guy!"  Yes, I'm sure you would.  But it's more than that.  Anyone can take a snapshot of their rig at the local campground, simply recording the spot on Earth were they happened to spend a night.  I should know, I've taken my share of those photos myself.  Here's one:



Possibly in all the world there has never been published a photo as unremarkable this one.  Yet here it is.  Were it any other RV it would be exactly that - a 'This is the site we stayed at on such-and such date!' photo.  But because this photo features The Camping Machine and not some pedestrian, entry-level travel trailer, it rises above the sad snapshot category and elevates to, if not Fine Art status, then at least respectability. 

I'll wrap up this dissertation with my favorite photo.



Yes, here it is, what I consider the 'signature' photo for The Camping Machine.  I drove 20 miles out of my way to find this location.  I meticulously positioned both tow vehicle and The Camping Machine to obtain optimum light and placement relative to the background.  Like any top-flight Supermodel, I applied some digital makeup to the final photo, with the end result being the stunning, breathtaking, Fine Art Photograph you see before you.  To one day be viewed, surrounded by an obscenely opulent frame, in some gaudy museum by awe-struck adults who will marvel at the site and think to themselves, "they sure don't make them like they used to!"

So there you have it.  My obsession, compulsion, addiction.  My justification. 

Now excuse me, I have to attend a meeting at my local chapter of RVPA - Recreational Vehicle Photographers Anonymous. 

But first, I'm going to snap a quick picture of The Camping Machine sitting on my RV pad.

Don't tell, okay?