Every year since 2021, I've taken my daughter on a fall camping trip.
We pack up and spend a couple of nights at one of Jordan Lake's incredible campgrounds — tromping through the woods, cooking over an open fire, and finishing each night off with a horror movie in the tent.
Yes, I know. She's probably too young for scary movies.
But she loves them!
And though all of this may seem like just a fun tradition to do with her dad, it's always been an opportunity to honor my brother.
He was the one who took me through the woods behind our house as children for thousands of hours, building forts and blazing trails.
He was the one who taught me the love of an 80s low-budget slasher film, as well as all the cinematic horror classics.
And he was also the one who taught me how to paddle our canoe through the unchartered waters of Pungo Creek.
So when I lost him tragically in October 2021, I made a reservation to go camping that November for the first time in decades so we could do all of those things.
My daughter and I did that for three years straight.
But this year was the first year I'd be taking my son, as well — now three years old.
I wasn't sure how challenging it would be handling them both out in the woods, but it was absolutely just as enjoyable.
Friday night we got in late after my son's soccer practice, but still made time to introduce him to Ghostbusters, a family favorite.
(Of course, he couldn't follow the story, but he sure loved Slimer.)
Then, I spent Saturday watching them ride their scooters up and down the roads of the campground, making friends, chasing Granddaddy Long Legs spiders, and playing in the water of Jordan Lake.
Toward the end of the day, the older lady in the next campsite over walked through the woods toward us.
"I have something for them, if you allow them candy!" she cried out.
A magic word to any kid, they perked right up.
I met her in the middle with a smile.
She handed me a small paper bag with a ghost on it, filled with gummies and lollipops.
As she extended her hand, I noticed a tattoo on her forearm which featured an owl on a branch, with stars and the moon in the background.
She didn't strike me as the tattoo type.
"I like your tattoo." I said. "What's the significance?"
"Oh." she replied, followed by a pause.
"Well, I wouldn't normally tell a stranger this, but my husband died last year and we always came here together."
I listened, knowing I had to share my version with her, too.
She continued, "This was his favorite place. So I’m actually here to spread his ashes tonight.”
I responded, “Thank you for sharing that with me. Can I share something with you?”
She nodded and listened as I told her this was the week I lost my brother three years ago and my daughter lost her uncle. So we, too, were here paying respects to someone we loved dearly.
We both shared our sympathies, knowing each other understood the other one's pain.
The kids shouted "Thank you!" as she walked back to camp.
She and I didn't speak again the rest of that night, but I'd periodically peek over to check on her sitting solo by her fire.
I was honestly blown away she had set up the whole campsite by herself, with a tent larger than hours and even decorations and lights.
And later that night, while watching Pirates of the Caribbean, we demolished that little bag of candies.
The next morning, while taking my kids to the bathhouse I noticed something on the other side of her campsite that about broke my heart.
There, staked in the ground at the front of her fully decked-out campsite, was a flag, a flower, and little sign in the shape of a fire flame that read, "Camping with the Williamses."
(Out of respect for her privacy, I use my great aunt and uncle's last name.)
Up until this year, it had been the Williamses.
But sadly now, it was just one Williams. One who couldn't go camping without setting up the full site, as well as the chair for her lifelong love.
As I packed up my gear before checkout I watched her, knowing she was mentally preparing for an act I had done myself — spreading ashes across a body of water that held the hearts of our loved ones.
And even though, we didn't know each other, I still felt like we had a special kinship between us. Like we had spilled each other's blood.
So before I left for good, I walked up to her, wished her good luck, and gave her a long hug.
She pulled away with tears in her eyes.
"It's nice to talk to someone who knows."
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