I like camping. But I will admit to being a fair-weather camper. I enjoy it most when it doesn't rain. And when the campground is equipped with running water and flush toilets. Otherwise, my needs are simple. A tent and a sleeping bag. Nothing extra.
My husband, however, does not share this view, and on every camping trip, he complains incessantly about his discomfort and his desire for a camp trailer. Or a fold-up camp cot. Or an air mattress. Anything that might fit between his sleeping bag and the cold hard ground. Being a reasonable and accommodating person, I offered a compromise. I bought foam camp pads to be placed under the sleeping bags. Problem solved. Or so I believed.
These foam pads were the most useless objects I have ever encountered. They ended up everywhere in the tent. Except under the sleeping bags. So the complaining continued and the foam pads were banished. And in the interest of future complaint-free camping trips, I may be required to reconsider the air mattress.
But back to the foam pads. It seems camping's loss is Halloween's gain. Because rather than live out their days at the bottom of the camping-supplies box, lonely, despised and forgotten, the foam pads have found new purpose. An opportunity to redeem themselves. As lovely flower petals in a haunted garden.