When I was around eight or nine years old my family lived at a campground in western Pennsylvania. Due to my father’s work, we moved around a lot, and I guess there were times when residing in our RV made the most economic sense. Apparently, this was one of those times, and that fall we became long-term residents of Crawford’s Camping Park in Darlington, PA.

It seemed the lot of us-—me, my parents, two younger sisters, a husky, dalmatian, and cat—-managed just fine in the 180 sq ft. living quarters. I spent a lot of time outdoors and learned valuable life lessons playing in the dirt and pine needles. Things like “caterpillars can give you hives” and “it’s best not to play throw rocks at other kids because you might actually hit one square on the head.” Basic kid stuff like that.

In the winter, the campground shut down and was empty but for our family and maybe two or three other trailers. The winters in Beaver County were cold and snowy and after the last of the fall campers had packed up and left the grounds were prepared for the off-season. Part of those preparations was collecting the picnic tables from around the park and stacking them up inside a large lean-to at the back of the property. Stacked up, they made a fun obstacle course, and I entertained myself crawling through the freshly constructed scaffolding, working my way between table legs and up to the top of the pile and back down again. Catching what I was up to, the campground owner approached and reprimanded me, saying “This isn’t a playground,” and if he caught me there again he’d have to inform my parents we were no longer allowed to stay.

That scared me. Up to then, I’d been moved in my infancy, attended two different schools for kindergarten, one for the first grade, two more for the second, and, along with a handful of short summer moves, this new place to start the third. It was all I knew, moving around like that, and I never thought too much of it. Until now. I was suddenly afraid of it happening again-—especially at the thought of it being my fault. That campground had become my home, and I didn’t want to lose it.

I made my way back to the RV shaken and with my tail between my legs. The camper itself was a 27 ft. class C style-—the kind with a loft bed built over the driving cabin--and in the earlier days, my sisters and I shared that top bunk. But now, in the third grade, I was beginning to want my independence and felt a bit too old to be sharing a bed with my two younger sisters. I ventured down into the main living area in search of freedom, the tight living quarters presenting two options: a fold-out couch which ran flush against the back of the front passenger seat (the seat could be spun around 180 degrees to extend the sleeping area), or a kitchen table that could be converted into a small bed each night. Given the choice, I opted for the couch, which I shared with the dog. And while it wasn’t very comfortable, I was happy to have a place of my own.

Since we lived at the campground during the school year, the bus would pick me up on the main road just outside the park. Always being the new kid presented its challenges--namely not knowing anyone--and with two siblings in a different school I had grown accustomed to the discomfort of choosing a seat on the bus or in the cafeteria, the loneliness of recess. I found the classroom slightly more comfortable, what with its assigned seating and expectations of sitting quietly, but back then I can’t really say school was my jam.

However, it was around this time I developed an interest in playing a musical instrument. The older kids put on a recruitment concert in the lunchroom, and I thought it looked like great fun. Following the show, those of us in attendance were presented with two options for joining an ensemble: the orchestra, which you could participate in as a third grader, and the band which opened up to students in the fourth. Eager to get going, I brought up the possibility of playing a stringed instrument with my mother, but, for whatever reason she encouraged me to hold off until the following year to join the band, so I did.

While we couldn’t start playing right away, we were allowed to choose our preferred instrument, a choice largely governed by politics. In those days, some guy named Bill Clinton was running for President of the United States and had just played the saxophone on TV. I guess people thought that was just cool as hell, because, without knowing anything about the guy, damn near every kid at the elementary signed up to play the sax-—including me. The band director--not too keen on the idea of conducting a wind ensemble made entirely of squeaking tenor players--had other plans and instated a rule that no beginning student could start on the saxophone. If that was your goal, you had to first play the clarinet for a year and then switch in the fifth grade. So, I signed up to play the clarinet.

Having something to look forward to the following school year excited me. It may have been the first time I felt that way in all my life, but unfortunately, my enthusiasm was short lived. One night, soon after my musical aspirations were set in motion, my mother approached my sisters and I playing in the top bunk. She told us we were moving again, and soon. Prior to that particular night-—and during the many that followed—-news like this hadn’t upset me. We just packed up and left, and I’d watch out the window as the people and places went by, not so much as missing a single friend or park or play area or really anything at all. But this time, something was different. I felt a sadness well up inside me—-a loneliness I would identify with for a long time. And after my mother had left, I climbed down to the couch, the place that was all mine where I could be alone, and hid under the blankets and cried.

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