I was just a preschooler, barely old enough to remember anything, so my memories of that old tent are like small snapshots in my mind. But a few of those snapshots stand out vividly. I particularly remember my fascination with the hole in the top of the tent and how the rain would drip through and puddle on the dirt floor.
Our old iron bed was strategically positioned so as to avoid the dripping rain. I remember too how the legs of that old bed bored their way into the ground of that dirt floor. The canvas flap that served as a door was tied back to allow entrance and exit from the tent. Though we were only yards away from a stagnant swamp, I don’t remember the mosquitoes which must have had a field day with us.