The past few days have been absolutely gorgeous here in the SLC, like a soft, sweet goodbye kiss from your summertime love before she heads back to school. Monday was especially lovely. It was the sort of day that convinces me that God must own a ragtop — the sky was tall and clear, the details of the Wasatch Mountains stood out in sharp focus, and the southerly breeze puffed gently instead of gusting. As luck would have it, I wasn’t at work on Monday… but I also wasn’t where I wanted to be, driving the valley and canyons with the top down and the tunes cranked. Instead, I spent much of the day under a blankie on the couch, suffering from my annual change-of-the-season head cold. A miserable waste of a nice day, even if I did get to watch seven hours of Northern Exposure. That kind of DVD marathon is a rare luxury these days, and aside from not being able to breathe and the occasional coughing fit, I enjoyed it.

There was one other good thing about being home sick on Monday: it gave me the chance to see my parents’ old truck and camper leave the Bennion Compound for the last time.

Camping and boating were a big part of my parents’ courtship, and they continued with both activities long after they married and had me. I can remember only one childhood vacation where we didn’t travel in the camper, a long roadtrip to visit my mom’s aunt in California. We drove the old ’70 T-Bird on that one, and stayed in motels and at Aunt Rea’s house. All my other early travelling experiences were based out of an eight-foot aluminum house on wheels that the folks had purchased a couple years before my mom got pregnant.

The old camper was downright primitive compared to the luxurious amenities found in a modern RV. If you wanted hot water, you put a pan on the propane-fired stove. To get that water, you had to pump it out of the tank by hand. (Dad eventually installed an electric pump, but I can remember Mom hauling away on the chrome-handled spigot for looooong seconds until the water finally started to gurgle out.) There was no shower and the toilet was an after-market job that Dad never really liked because he had to carry the whole damn thing out of the camper whenever it needed to be emptied. The interior lights drew current from the truck’s battery — no generator — except for a gas lamp over the kitchen table. That one had a mantle inside, like a lantern, and it used to hiss and roar like a baby dragon, or so I thought when I was a kid.

Even with the Spartan furnishings, we had a lot of good times in that camper. My cousin Stacey accompanied us on several trips — I know she came with us to Yellowstone and Bear Lake. There may have been others, but the memories are dim now. We also travelled frequently with my parents’ friends, Barry and Caralee Skinner. Their sons, Cord and Chad, were the closest things to brothers I had growing up. Sometimes we lived out of that camper for two weeks at a stretch; other times, it was just a big transport to carry my extended family for the afternoon.

Eventually, though, things changed, as they always, inevitably do. First, Dad sold his old boat and bought one that we only used a handful of times before we became disillusioned with it. (In time, he would trade it for a ’56 Chevy.) Then Stacey’s father — my dad’s brother — was diagnosed with ALS, and my mom’s mother had a devastating stroke. Faced with the responsibilities of caring for injured family, there just wasn’t time for camping trips any more. The camper got put up on jacks in the barn, covered with tarps, and forgotten.

I grew up, found my own interests and my own way of travelling. Mom and Dad got involved in the antique car scene. When they started experimenting with out-of-town shows, they bought a second-hand RV instead of resurrecting the old camper. They reasoned at the time that needed more space, more storage, a shower and hot running water.

Some 20 years have passed since my folks last used their old camper. And a couple of weeks ago, Dad decided that he’s been storing it long enough. He uncovered it, cleaned up it and the truck, and put them both on the front lawn with a “For Sale” sign in the window. Given their age, I didn’t expect them to sell at all, let alone quickly. But I was wrong. They’re both in good condition, and the right buyer came along after only a couple of days. She drove her new rig out of here on Monday, while I watched from the front door of the house I grew up in and now call my own.

Selling the truck and camper made nine different kinds of sense, but I think all three of us were pretty sad about it. The camper, especially, had become a sort of time capsule from younger, happier days. While clearing out our old belongings before the sale, Mom ran across all sorts of mementoes: my old Speak & Spell toy; a box of long-forgotten photos; a piece of foam rubber signed in Magic Marker by my parents and Barry and Caralee, a souvenir of their trip to Yellowstone together, before the children.

In addition to the expected nostalgia, I actually felt a twinge of guilt as I watched the old rig roll away, because Dad would’ve kept it around if I’d showed any interest in using it. He offered it to me before he put the signs in it, and I seriously thought about it, but in the end, I had to be honest with myself and with him: I wouldn’t have used it. I’m just not that much of an outdoorsman. I would’ve been holding on to it for the childhood memories it held, and it took up too much space to be a mere souvenir.

In any event, I’ve still got the memories. I remember riding in the top bunk, listening to Dan Fogelberg on my Walkman as I watched the white highway lines zip past. In my imagination, they were doppler-distorted stars passing a starship as it ticked along at point-five past light speed. I recall sitting at the kitchen table and reading Dirk Pitt novels and playing cards with the Skinner boys (they were winning because, like a damn fool, I was wearing mirrored sunglasses that gave them a beautiful view of my hand). But there are two things that really stand out in my mind: the little pet-cock on the back of the camper which produced a thin dribble of fresh water — I brushed my teeth there — and the mornings when I was awakened by the hiss of a propane flame, the gurgle of an old-fashioned percolator, and the smell of my dad’s coffee rising into the thin, cool air of a mountain campground.

I can see Dad, probably younger than I am now and thin, with a full head of dark hair, wearing an old sweater with a pattern like an Indian blanket. He pours himself a cup, then turns toward me. Mom isn’t up yet, so he hands me a fistful of chocolate chip cookies, sits on the edge of my bunk, and lets me dunk them in his java. I understand that this is our secret, just man-stuff that my mother wouldn’t approve. We haven’t shared a moment like that in years.

Damn. Now I’m wondering if maybe, just maybe, I should’ve kept that old camper after all…