Things are getting expensive. They have been for a while. I think about this as I look at the climbing ropes and quickdraws assembled on the apple crates I use for storage at the back of my van. I wonder how much I could sell them for if I needed to. It strikes me, not for the first time, how here in the UK climbers, mountaineers, hikers, bikers, kayakers and the like are all predominantly middle class. I suppose that makes sense. Transportation, gear and training aren't cheap ...it’s not like they teach navigation at school.
There are times I feel like an imposter amongst my peers, most of whom grew up in these financially stable homes, by all accounts. I’m just this rogue who’s infiltrated an unfamiliar ‘club’ of solvent people…and it’s not until I make the odd joke about something I mistakenly assume is a relatable part of childhood, and everyone goes quiet and sombre instead of laughing, that I remember not always having access to plumbing or electricity is, in fact, not something many people experience in their formative years.
As a young girl, a big portion of my childhood was spent travelling Alaska, Canada and the continental US in a van. It wasn’t even a camper van, just a normal Chevy – no water, toilet, electrics, cooker or even proper beds on board. What we did have though, was dad’s most excellent collection of cassettes with albums by Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin and The Beatles, to name a few, all stored in a vinyl suitcase designed specifically for cassette tapes. I can still feel the weight of the case and the cool metal latches releasing as I open it to see what will be serenading us between 10pm and 2am, while I keep him company on this stretch through the desert as everyone else sleeps. I was always the night owl. The tapes are all bootleg of course. But I enjoy looking at the graphics and cartoon-like text labels dad’s drawn in a Sharpie on each album. Sometimes he even lets me put on the one cassette I own, not a bootleg, but a genuine original I received at Christmas to accompany a Sony Walkman circa 1989. Vanilla Ice – To the Extreme. This was an incredible gift, I’d never gotten anything so extravagant from Santa before and that album got A LOT of airtime on long interstate drives. To this day, I can recite Ice, Ice Baby verbatim as a result. It’s a fun party trick. Also wildly inappropriate for a 7-year-old, but I guess Kris Kringle didn’t realise that when he gifted it.
My go-to song though is Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, from the White Album.
I didn’t have access to anything most people, and my own kids, take for granted; running water, electricity, heat – but I also don’t ever remember feeling lack. It was normal to reuse and repurpose things, make things and repair instead of replace. Scrumping oranges from the many farms we passed in California was an exciting way to spend an afternoon. I can still taste the bitter citrus now. Unfortunately that batch we just lifted was frost damaged. We still ate them all though.
Apparently, some people didn’t have to pee in a coffee can at night (or honey bucket as dad called it), and clean it out in the morning. Or share the bathwater with their parents and siblings (when they were able to boil enough warm water to fill a basin outside somewhere). Otherwise, swimming it was. Or rather ‘cold swimming’ as everyone calls it nowadays. It feels strange watching what were uncomfortable necessities to me now becoming health trends touted by 'influencers.' Every so often though, we could treat ourselves to the odd, coin-operated hot shower at a gas station or laundrette. I always slept really well after one of those.
When my friends talk of getting badly hurt or sick as a child, their stories always include a trip to the doctor or hospital without delay. Evidently it’s not normal practice to wait and see if a wrist is swollen enough to indicate a break, a fever is over 104, or there is any vomiting after your kid bashed their head on concrete before seeking medical attention. That concussion, along with all my other injuries, must’ve cost a fortune.
When I started school at the age of 10, I learned that making your own clothing and accessories was not the norm. The paper dress and homemade earrings I donned on my first day at Sand Lake Elementary were not as impressive to the other pupils as I had anticipated they would be.
That same year, in 92, I got my first newspaper round. Every morning, at 5am I was up rolling the papers into their plastic orange sleeves to start delivering them by 6 and get to school by 9. I can still smell the fresh ink now. Imagine my surprise when I reminisce about being a paper girl with friends who did the same ...but they tell me they actually got to keep the money they earned for their efforts.
I did start a side hustle making embroidered bracelets for people one summer though. I never told my parents about that. I wanted the money for myself this time. Most of the income from that, after expenses, was allocated to Friday nights at the Dimond Skateland. I smile as I recall how my heart raced when Ed finally asked me to roller skate hand-in-hand on a slow song. And how he never asked again after I kept falling over from vertigo when the disco ball came out.
In high school, I remember feigning that I just wasn’t hungry while all my friends ate lunch so I could pocket the money dad gave me for food to go out and do normal stuff with my pals at the weekends instead. I never brought home school permission slips for anything that involved a fee. As soon as I saw it would be an additional cost, I knew I wasn’t going. If I wanted to learn something, like piano or guitar, there would be no lessons, I just had to teach myself.
At 14 I got a job at McDonald's, the only place that would hire that anyone that young. By 16 I saved up enough for a blue Chevrolet pick up truck. Well, mostly blue. The driver's side door was black. Unfortunately I got fired shortly after for saying 'You jerking off' to a manager who asked 'You know what this is?' while rubbing his index finger and thumb together after I had complained about a shitty customer. The answer he was looking for was the world's smallest violin. So dad taught me how to change the oil to save money on servicing and when the clutch went, we replaced that ourselves too.
All this I remember as the diesel heater ticks like a metronome in rythym with the rise and fall of my sleeping childs breath. It's -1 outside at the moment. I wonder if she appreciates the warmth as much as I do. My eyes shift back to the ropes and quickdraws assembled on the apple crates at the back of the campervan we call home.