The Fantastic And Not So Fantastic
Sorry for missing my daily post yesterday, I had a nice streak going, too. I have a good excuse, though, as I was trying to recapture fond memories of my childhood. It didn't really go as well as it could have.
What childhood memories, you may be asking? For years my parents, cousins and/or aunts and uncles would spend time camping at Burlingame State Park in Charlestown, RI. My uncle had one of those pop-up campers with a stove and a table and surprisingly stable cantilevered beds. Fun times.
My dad, who has an… interesting… array of friends, called me the other day saying that he had traded a recently acquired canoe for a almost unused pop-up camper, and he was reserving the week at good old Burlingame. Cool, I said. I took Friday off of work to go down with Em, hang out, and, you know, just "camp." As it turns out, though, when I told my dad "cool," nothing could have been further from the truth (unless, perhaps, I said "oh, cool and dry!)
So after a nice fire and many attempts at tuning in the Sox, we called it a night and came back to sleep in air conditioned goodness. My 11 year old boyscout self would hate me.
And speaking of my 11-year-old self, and to finally get to this post's title, we made a stop at the Fantastic Umbrella Factory, as magical place a place as there is in Rhode Island (especially for the pre-teen crowd). If you've never been, I recommend the trip (preferably on the way to the beach).