• I remember the camping spot vividly, perhaps this is because we always got the same one, my grandmother and I. I always looked forward to quite a few things about camping with my grandmother, but a few stand out in my mind. We got there, parked and unpacked all our stuff. I helped my grandma build the tent and then she would watch over my shoulder carefully as she let me build the fire then light it. I loved these things dearly but the second my grandma handed me the empty water jug was when the real fun started.
    I clutched the large flat jug in one hand, the other hand pushing bushes and branches out of my way. I could have easily taken the gravel road up a slight slope to the water spout, but I insisted on taking my own way. For my water collecting adventure I would have to venture out, not too far from the campsite to a small clearing, once I turned to face right I would see a large muddy slope. With its roots and rocks and mud that was always slippery even if it was dry it was perfect for a climbing adventure. So there I was, a petite seven year old girl with a water jug and a looming challenge. The hill laughed at me, and like a brave little soldier I laughed right back and started to climb. I had done it before, so I knew were to step, what branches to grab, what would crumble, what would hold tough under my weight. I often stumbled and slipped, but always got up again and kept going. Finally I was at the top, after what seemed like an Everest of a climb. All I had to do was turn to my left and I would see the water spout. How lucky was I that my favourite hill was right beside the spout! I filled up the jug and the sides expanded, making it heavier, once I knew I couldn’t carry it if it was more filled I turned the water tap off and closed the jug. Once I had the jug full I would stand at the edge of the hill looking down, I could have kept going down the road and it would have taken mere seconds to get to our campsite but instead I slid down the hill, slowing myself as best as I could. It was always fun and messy and grandma never seemed to mind. It was back in the times when a mud stain on my jeans was not something that had to be treated right away; back then those stain where like a badge of courage. Once I was at the bottom the hill with the water I looked back at it, this time though, it wasn’t laughing.
    Once I brought the water to my grandma I would disappear off into the bushes again for a short while and return with my shirt folded up as a basket for the wild raspberries I would pick. For some reason the little raspberry bush I found was never touched by anybody else, good thing it was tucked away out of sight for only a curious little girl to stumble upon. Of course these raspberries always tasted better than the store-bought ones. Another food my grandma and I got a lot was ice cream. I remember getting ice cream, all by myself like a responsible girl. My grandma would give me money and then send me to the small variety type store that was not far from the creek and our campsite just over a bridge. I felt so grown up and responsible when I walked alone like that, it made me feel free and yet, I always watched out for myself. I always tucked the money away in my pocket, and if I did hold it my fist was clenched around it so none of it showed. Perhaps I was paranoid but I was afraid someone would see I have money and take it, but it was better safe then sorry. Once I got to the corner store safely I got the ice cream my grandmother wanted and then chose my own, tucking any change into my pocket. Then I would trek back to the campsite and we would eat our ice creams. My grandma loves ice cream, so she never said no to a scoop or two!
    With topics like that I could go on for days, and I know that if I was to return to the camping spot I would explore those things again. Perhaps the petite raspberry bush that I stumble upon has grown and thrived, what if it has died and withered? Maybe the hill would still loom over me and laugh at how small I am, or maybe I would see it as small and laughable itself? I can’t say for sure, but one thing I can tell you that I wish will never change would be the stream. No matter how much I have grown physically, spiritually, or emotionally, no matter how mature I think I have become, I know that stream would bring back the greatest of memories. Hours upon hours of time spent, just me and the stream -not to mention everything that lived in the stream- , and sometimes the other children who were camping, but mostly it was just me and the stream. To many it would seem weird, a seven year old girl fearlessly and shamelessly playing in a slippery slimy stream with frogs and bugs and other stuff; perhaps this was because I would rather get muddy then play dollies. Either way, it was an adventure of epic proportions, hopping from one rock to another, doing my best balancing act so as not to slip on the thin green slime that covered the all rocks without fail. Often I would step into something slimy, retract my foot in shock, only to slowly sink my foot back into the muck to explore the new texture. If I was feeling a bit less jumpy I would stand on the dry rocks and pick pink flowers, collecting them into a makeshift bouquet for my grandma, always remembering to stay away form poison ivy. Sometimes my bouquet would be finished and I would set it down to pick it up for later, but often my little hands would fumble and drop it at the familiar sight of the rippling water left behind by a frog hopping from one spot to another. It seems the second I saw that I dropped all else, after all, frogs were my favourite. I would perch myself on a rock then, I would stay still and scan the water with hopeful blue eyes, looking for any eyes looking back at me. Sometimes it took a long time; sometimes it was just seconds before I spotted my slippery little friend. If I was really lucky it would be close enough to reach out and grab without much movement, but often that wasn’t the case. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the thrill of the chase and was great at sneaking up on them, pro even, but no matter how good I was, if they were farther away I would have to go into the water which rippled and scared them a bit. Sometimes they darted away, hopping over rocks and I caught them with some trouble, sometimes they sat still and I caught them with ease, but either way almost 90% of the time I caught my intended target. The other 10% of the time I either got distracted by a larger or more interesting looking frog, or the one I was in pursuit in hopped into the water and swam off into the murk. Even though I was defeated by them, I still loved the ones that got away; it fascinated me how they could just slip out of sight, almost like small green ninjas. To this day it fascinates me how much fun I could have with such simple things.
    Those of course were the times when a simple purple one piece bathing suit was fine for my fashion needs and my long brown messy hair was not a big deal, back when grandma remembered everything she had to, never forgetting a single thing that we had to bring, back when I was oblivious to the fact that my grandmother was going to develop Alzheimer’s, back when everything was great. If I was to go back in time to any time in my life I would go back to then, when my life was easy, when a stream filled with mud and frogs could keep me happy for hours, when I never fussed about how I looked or how I dressed, when I knew I could count on my grandma for everything. She is still around and happy, but it has gotten worse. She asks to take a picture of me and my sister when she visits, then does, then fifteen minutes asks to take one again. My sister hardly understands it as it is pretty much the only way she has known our grandmother, but I know better. I remember the times camping, I remember being surprised when she developed the film from the trip and I found pictures of me that she had taken in secret so as not to disturb me. I remember the grandmother that never forgot. And that is how I will always know her, and I will make that those are the things that I will never forget.