By Scott Shephard

I taught history for more than two decades and while I can give you dates for all kinds of arcane events, my ability to date my personal history is almost non-existent. I can tell you when Charlemagne was named Holy Roman Emperor (Christmas Day, 800 AD), the year when the first non-Roman emperor was crowned (476 AD) and even when the Edict of Nantes, which granted tolerance to non-Catholics in France, was issued (April, 1598). But I can’t tell you when this photo was taken.

I can tell you that the car, which in my memory was sleek, new and blue (I think) was our first new car in our young marriage. But I don’t know the year. I could make up years and who would know? That’s what good history teachers do . . .

Anyway, we are camping, if that’s not quite obvious to you. Notice the axe stuck in the log. My job, being the loving Neanderthal that I was, was to put up our living quarters and keep the fire going. Deb’s job, being the the good Neanderthal’s wife, was to do everything else.

Deb didn’t really like tent camping, partly because nature is kinder to men when it comes to its “call.” Also, I can hear Deb saying, “I don’t get tent camping! You pack food, pots, pans, and other things and transport them to a place that is much less convenient to cook in than your own kitchen. You sleep on hard ground and end up smelling like a campfire. And all you do is chop wood and roast marshmallows. I do everything else.” I don’t actually think she ever said the last two sentences. But I heard her think them many times.

The tent is long gone. We gave it to our neighbor when it was clear it would never get used by us. The car was replaced by an even newer, sleeker silver (?) Honda Accord. Timon Campground is still there. So are the Black Hills. And Deb, much younger than the Black Hills, is still going strong. Like a fine French Bordeaux wine, she gets better with age. But I do miss the pigtails.

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