Morning at the Campsite

Journal Entry – August 30, 2025

Journal Entry – August 30, 2025

I’m sitting at the picnic table outside the trailer, coffee in hand, trying to capture the morning in words. Dad is behind me, tinkering with the trailer steps. I can hear the soft clink of his tools, the occasional sigh when something refuses to line up right, and the quiet hum of his focus. He’s always been slow and steady like that, methodical, never rushing, even when it’s obvious he’s tired. The air is cool, just the right kind of cool that makes me glad I brought a sweatshirt. My breath fogs a little in front of me, and I watch it drift away, disappearing in the morning light.

Inside, the little Keurig sits on the counter like it owns the place. Funny story about that one. One of his kids bought it when they first moved out. When they came back home, it just stayed. Nobody wanted to take it, and now it feels like it belongs to Dad more than anyone else. He makes the same coffee here as he does at home, but somehow it tastes better out in the woods, maybe because it’s tied to this calm morning and the soft sunlight filtering through the trees. The steam curls up from the mug in lazy spirals, and I take a slow sip, letting it warm my hands.

The trailer itself looks tired, but I like it that way. It has character. The paint is chipped in spots, a window sticks in its frame, the door creaks when closed, and the trim is slightly dented. We spent most of yesterday poking around, sanding edges, tightening screws, and making minor repairs. Nothing fancy. We didn’t rush. Now and then, we’d sit back in lawn chairs and watch the trees sway, letting the work wait while we rested. Dad hummed a tune I didn’t recognize, something slow and soft that seemed to suit the trailer and the quiet morning. I watched him move from one task to the next, calm and steady, and felt lucky to be here, sharing the space.

The campground is quiet today. A dog barked earlier, not too far away. Someone walked past carrying a mug of tea, slippers scuffing the gravel. I can smell pine needles and a faint trace of last night’s campfire, smoke lingering in the corners of the site. A squirrel is darting across the grass now, hopping from branch to branch, looking for breakfast or mischief. I could sit here all day and watch, but I also like having the pen in my hand, trying to hold onto this calm, even if only for a few lines.

Dad hasn’t said much this morning. Neither have I. We don’t need to. There’s a comfort in the quiet, in the steady rhythm of his tools and the occasional scrape of a chair leg as he shifts. Coffee, the rustle of leaves, the sound of birds flitting from branch to branch. That’s enough. Sometimes I watch him, just for a moment, and think about how much I’ve learned from him without him ever saying it outright. Patience. Focus. How to slow down when everything around you seems like it’s moving too fast.

The trailer creaks softly as Dad steps inside for a moment and comes back out, brushing dirt off his hands. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t glance at a clock. He’s entirely in the moment. I like watching him work like this, so at ease with the day, so present. I think about how different this feels from home, where there’s always some to-do list hovering somewhere, buzzing at the edges of your attention. Here, there’s nothing but the trailer, the trees, the coffee, and the slow unfolding of the morning.

I take another sip, feeling the warmth seep into my hands, and think about how these little mornings stick. They’re not extraordinary in any obvious way, no big adventures, no dramatic views or breathtaking moments. Just us, a slightly battered trailer, a Keurig that probably shouldn’t have lasted this long, and the simple rhythm of a slow morning. But that’s enough. That’s perfect.

By the time the sun is a little higher in the sky, Dad will move on to the next small project: perhaps the window latch, or sanding a corner that was missed yesterday. I’ll probably stay at the table a while longer, letting him work, scribbling notes and observations in my journal, watching shadows stretch across the grass, and listening to the soft sounds of the campsite waking up. I don’t need to say anything; we never do. The quiet speaks for both of us.

I like being here. I like the way the trailer smells after a night of rain and campfire smoke. I like the way Dad works, slow and steady, as if he has all the time in the world. I like the Keurig’s slight hum, the steam rising from the mug, the taste of coffee that somehow tastes better here than it ever does at home. No clock ticking. No hurry. Just the trailer, Dad, and the quiet morning stretching in every direction. This is enough.