Bunkadelic

From the year I was born until the year I began high school, my family spent our summer vacations in the Maritimes, spending two weeks at my maternal grandparents' in Cape Breton, and then another two at my paternal grandparents' in southern Nova Scotia. Or vice-versa. Jesus, those were great times.

My wife and I were married in autumn, 2002, and the preceding summer I returned to Nova Scotia. It was my first trip back in over 10 years. My mother's parents were gone; my father's, to me, looked just as they did in my youth. I remember then wishing that I could live there forever; something -- I'm not sure what -- about Eastern Canada (and New England, where we'd biennially visit on our way to NS) captivates me.

And not a summer goes by that I don't wish to be back.

When I was still in elementary school, my brother and I once begged my grandfather to let us sleep in the camper he'd bought that particular year. Because nothing beats sleeping outdoors (or semi-outdoors in this case). The wise patriarch gave his consent, and that night I rested my head in the camper.

Or tried to, at least; I awoke in the night with a stomach as agreeable as Louis Farrakhan at a KKK rally, and went inside to tell my folks. I was gonna barf. I hate throwing up more than anything (to illustrate this point, I would rather receive a bullet wound somewhere non-life threatening), and asked my mother for some "sick medicine". My grandparents were awake, and Grammy F got me a tablet of Gravol (perhaps more familiarly know as Dramamine) from the cupboard.

Mom used to grind the stuff up in between two spoons and put it in a dollop of strawberry jam, but since my grandmother simply handed me the pill, I popped it in my mouth and chewed.

Not a pleasant taste, to say the least.

What I'll always remember is what my grandfather said afterward: "if that didn't purge his demons, I think it's safe to say he's in the clear."

For some reason that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, and it still makes me smile when I think of it.

***

One year when I was four, a month before we took our annual pilgramige to the Maritimes, our family took a camping trip in northern Ontario. I was very young, but I remember it vividly: the horrible port-o-johns, the mosquitoes, some guy playing Kumbaya on an acoustic guitar so much that it tried even my young nerves; the hot dogs and marshmallows cooked over -- but in my case usually dropped into -- a campfire; and the smell of smoke that permeated everything.

I learned quickly that I hated camping in the woods, even though we stayed in a cabin instead of a tent. Actually, likely because we stayed in a cabin instead of a tent.

That cabin was scary, man. There was no light save for the Coleman lanterns we brought, and it was the definition of the word musty. It was like the moon: covered in dust since time immemorial.

What really fucked my shit up (or, in layman's terms, freaked me out) however were the beds. Bunk beds aren't inherently scary, I don't think, but the ones in that cabin were taller than California Redwoods.

At least that's how they appeared to me then. Under no circumstance did I wish to sleep in the top bunk of the room which my brother and I shared, lest I during the night roll out of bed to my death. Lucky for me, my brother was feeling adventurous and eagerly volunteered to take the top bunk. Even then was he a daredevil.

I was safe, or so I thought. I awoke later to discover my covers and pillow absent, and above me was nothing but blackness. I stretched out my arms, but they didn't extend very far.

It was clear to me then that the bunk bed had collapsed, pinning me underneath.

Boy did I wail. Mom, Mom! Dad, Dad! Help! I'm trapped!

I heard my mother enter the room. "E___, where are you?" she asked.

"I'm here! Over here!" I shouted, praying she would Kumbaya and save my helpless ass.

And then I heard a laugh. Not a small one, either.

The bunk bed hadn't collapsed on me, and my brother was still sleeping peacefully up at canopy-level.

In case you haven't already figured it out, in my sleep I had rolled out of bed, onto the floor, and then under the bottom bunk.

***

Why am I telling you this? Partly because I made a resolution to have a new post on Psychedelic Kit-Kat every day for the month of May and couldn't come up with anything better, but also because I think it helps show how a weird sense of humor can be formed at an early age.

Furthermore, I believe a sense of humor is just as important to human beings as a heart and a brain are. Unlike the brain or heart, one can survive without a sense of humor, sure. But would you really want to?

The next time you encounter a person who is overly serious or uptight, someone who looks to be in need of a good belly laugh, don't hate or despise him or her, much in the same way you wouldn't hate or despise someone with a terminal illness.

Instead, pity the person. Maybe he or she didn't roll under enough bunk beds as a child.

Or maybe he or she rolled beneath too many.