My family could rarely get me out of the Davy Crockett outfit. For this portrait, I was insistent that I be allowed to wear my coonskin hat…but higher authorities prevailed. The shirt moved west with us along with my spirit of wildness. And the shirt lives on having been packed for years in a box in our basement.
As mentioned, each evening was an adventure in curses as Dad set up the tent. My siblings needed to master putting up the pup tent. Rain was always a challenge. No one was to touch the tent walls or water would drip inside. There were drips and puddles and wet bags. Though sturdy, the tents could not handle a thunderstorm. We came back after visiting another historic site, and the saturated canvas pulled the stacks out of the sodden ground. More curses. Dad began to call such cataclysmic events – Whittemore fiascos.