October 1, 2011-October 2, 2011

Saturday, October 1, 2011

After a restless night’s sleep, I awaken with a start. Sick or well, rain or shine, there’s no other choice: Liv and I are going camping.

One of Liv's bull's-eyes.

We scramble to get packed so that we can hit the road and seize the day. Normally, marinated skirt steak is the centerpiece of my provisions. It’s a big hit with the girls, who devour it in a matter of minutes. These are thrifty times, however, and I’m bringing juice boxes instead.

By 12:30, we’re settled in at the campsite. Liv decides she wants to go to the archery and rifle ranges, and that’s fine with me. When the staggered economy finally collapses and law and order dissolve into anarchy, marksmanship will be a useful skill. Liv proves to be a natural in archery: She scores three bull’s-eyes.

Next Liv wants to make candles, and that’s fine with me, too. When America’s creaky power grid finally goes kaput, we’ll need to tap into alternate light sources. As Liv joyfully sculpts her candle, it occurs to me that my lack of gainful employment has perhaps lent a morose quality to my thoughts.

Meanwhile, John “Captain Jack” Connolly is back at the cabin. Connolly has been entrusted with the most prestigious of all tasks—cooking for the tribe—and he’s meticulously prepping the grill. Late in the day, he serves up a few helpings of sausage as sort of a sorbet. The real grilling won’t commence until much later.

The campfire.

One of the dads dashes off to the hospital with his daughter because she needs a few stitches, but they’re back by nightfall, just in time for the campfire. As we approach the campfire site with the other tribes, the smell of accelerant hangs in the air. We all know better than to stand too close to the impressive collection of wood, which goes up like the city of Chicago in 1871 once it’s ignited.

After the campfire, we adjourn to the grill, where Connolly cooks meat after meat with both love and skill. Liv, who not so long ago aspired to be a vegetarian, stares down a hunk of wild boar without even flinching. Then, bless her little heart, she pops it into her mouth and chews it up.

In the wee hours of the night, the usual cacophony of snoring men fills the cabin. Predictably, there’s shock and outrage the next morning that people were snoring. But I say, cut the snorers some slack (and not just ’cause I’m one of them). Given all the food and drink in our stomachs, be glad for this signal that we were still breathing.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

I stagger out of the cabin at 7 a.m. and find a few of the dads gathered around the grill. They’re shaking their heads somberly. One mutters, “Such a shame. Such a shame.” Indeed. When I get up close, I see about three pounds of cooked sausage that had never been pulled off the grill.

“How’d it happen?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” answers a dad. “I guess no one was still up to eat it.”

Soon Liv and I are on our way home. I don’t feel any better than I did 24 hours earlier, but I don’t feel any worse either. I’ll take it. All things considered, I’m ahead of the game.