I grew up camping. Two weeks every summer, rain or shine, we’d pack the trunk, pile the roof, and cram four carsick kids and two overwhelmed parents determined to “be Canadian.” We’d hit the road until we found a campsite that offered a wilderness experience — plus above ground pool, electrical outlets, laundry service, and bingo hall. If I had known the word “skanky” then, I might have used it.
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