I don’t believe there is a sound so conducive to sleep other than a somewhat intense rain falling on a tin top house roof, except for one other thing, camping in the rain with a homemade tent/shelter.
My daddy was so passionate about fishing that neither the heat of the summer nor the chilly winds of winter would deter his excitement. The only other thing that he absolutely loved was camping on the riverbanks of the river he was fishing. From a very early age, I can remember sleeping on the ground close to the ever-running water.
My job was to help gather the small pieces of fallen wood to start our fire that would be flaming or smoldering for ever how many days and nights we would be living there on the banks of the Big Black River. The contained fire was always built in the center of our camping area so that it was accessible from all sides. The fire was our source of warmth and to keep away unwanted visitors during the dark of night, and our resource for all cooking.
We had no stove, no butane tanks and no refrigerator, just a foam ice chest in which to keep our perishables. Daddy had an old tin bucket that once held blackstrap molasses that he would fill with water and set on a somewhat level space over the fire. He would add several spoonsful of Luzianne coffee. It would begin to simmer and the smell, oh, the smell! The black liquid was always so thick with coffee grounds, I really don’t know how they drank it.
Mama had two big black iron skillets and for supper she would fry bacon, or actually fatback, and scramble eggs in one and in the other skillet melt butter and fry our toast. The next morning for breakfast, bacon, eggs and fried toast. But this time she would add a little sugar and a pinch of cinnamon to the fried bread. Cinnamon French toast on an open fire! How good was that? I remember when she was so excited because Daddy had found a piece of an old iron fence that she used for a grate over the fire to set her skillets on.
We slept on the ground on a quilt with an old quilt for cover underneath a thick weeping willow if we were lucky, and fairly close to the smoldering fire. Sometimes it would rain a soft gentle drizzle and I loved it!
I remember once waking up to mama beginning to stir the embers to life and make breakfast, but my lips were so swollen. It still reminds me of the big red wax lips we used to buy for Halloween. I could barely talk, and for a 5-year-old, I was terrified. My mother was hurrying us into the car as she thought I had been bitten by a spider and wanted to get me to the doctor in the little town of Vaiden. After the scare, it was decided it was only a bite from a mosquito. I would not lose a lip this time.
During the day, I would play in the washed-up sand on the banks and pretend I was cooking. But then at night, we had our feast. Daddy was not only an avid fisherman, but he was also a good fisherman and caught lots of fish. He was our fish chef, and he would clean them, mix up his batter, get the grease really hot and fry them to perfection.
I know lots of friends who love to camp. Most of them have their comfortable RVs and even up-to-date tents, with all the amenities, but my memories of my camping days could never be made better by any of the comforts and conveniences.
Mama’s Fried Toast: Melt a generous amount of butter in an iron skillet — don’t let it burn — and fry the toast on each side until brown and then add sugar and a little cinnamon to the top of the toast.
Daddy’s mix for fish frying: 2 cups of yellow cornmeal, 1 cup of self-rising flour, 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes, salt and pepper.
