Binder2

A Grave Situation.
As a family, we traveled a lot and made many camping trips when we were younger. I am unsure
whether this was a financial decision or the embarrassing thought we would be too loud, too
energetic and most of all too boisterousness for other people’s calm, peaceful, blissful, tranquil
hotel holiday time. Surely we would be too intrusive on their little bit of ‘paradise’ and mum and
dad took pity on them.
On one of our camping trips probably the one we drove from England to Israel in
1973. We had stayed at this Italian campsite for a few days; I remember the
corner shop at the bottom of the hill where you walked through a curtain of
colourful plastic strips that flew about like floating dancers in motion from fan
inside the shop. Mum and dad would send us down with a note of Italian words
so the shop keeper would understand what produces we needed; uova (eggs),
pane (bread) latte (milk) formaggio (cheese) words that are familiar today but
back then they were literally completely foreign.
This particular morning we were moving to our
next destination, like gypsies our home consisted of two adults,
four kids, tents, inflatable “li-lo” matrasses, tables, chairs cooking
gear everything including the kitchen sink. It all had a special spot,
which needed to be packed with precise logistics in order to make
it all fit back into and onto the car looking something like this
photo.
Mum and dad always faffed about and argued a lot about these
strategies. For example, whether the tents had to go on the roof
racks last in a certain way, and how the table and chairs had to be pinned down so that they didn’t
move, rattle or at the worst fly off in the middle of driving (I’m sure they did). The gas bottles and
cooking equipment had to be available for quick access for when we stopped at the side of the
road to make meals. More organized people than my mum and dad would take note of the correct
and precise way of fitting it all back into the confined area of a Renault 16. Basically it was like
doing a three-dimensional puzzle each time and yet mum and dad never seemed to remember how
the pieces fit. I have never seen mum or dad do a jigsaw puzzle in their lives! Why they took on
such a task only they would know
This part of packing up was obviously a boring part for us the kids, so, screening ourselves from
the yelling and anger; we kept ourselves busy and out of the way by inventing games. This
specific game was a strike of gruesome originality. We decided to make our own graves and burial
tombs from piles of leaves, branches and rocks. The good old days did provide us with plenty of
time for great creativity and imagination. Can you imagine kids today being so inventive?
Anyway regardless of the yelling, I decided to make my "grave" close to mum and dad. I was
eight years old and so very proud of my tomb. It consisted of a humongous pile of leaves and I
even inscribed it with CORINNE made from twigs and rocks. I stood back and looked at the
grandeur of my creation and proudly thought to myself “I have made the best grave ever!"
The time came for us to drive away. We jumped into the car, loud and rowdy as per usual, excited
and ready for our next adventure. Unaware of where I made my tomb, dad reversed the car and
drove right on top of my creation. I was genuinely hurt by the fact that dad had driven over my
grave and ruined it by smudging my name and making a mess of everything that I had worked on
for so long and with such care. For my three elder brothers this was hysterically funny. They went
on to invent a far-fetched story that I was now “really” dead and driving over ones grave makes
one “doubly dead”. They decided I can't be called Corinne any more because she is dead but since
I was still there, they decided I had risen from the disturbed grave, like the story of Jesus
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