Is it time to stop sleeping outdoors?

Am I willing to sleep on the ground again?
Some of us had been talking about camping, and the question came up.
Like most Americans my age, I grew up camping.
First it was “sleep out” nights with my older brother Steve in an army surplus, canvas pup tent. It smelled musty, and if it rained you had to be careful not to touch the tent. If you did, it leaked.
Even as a kid, I didn’t understand the logic of manufacturing a tent that leaked so easily. What was the point? If I had wanted to get wet, I would have slept outside in the rain.
Still, on a summer night with my big brother in the side yard of our house in Portland, it did the trick.
And it was soon clear that I wasn’t the only one to catch the camping bug.
Camping — family camping — hadn’t been much of a thing until about the mid-1950s. By then, GIs who had camped in the worst conditions imaginable were looking for ways to vacation with their families in peacetime. Camping was affordable.
But it wasn’t always accessible.
Back in the day (my apologies to younger readers), there were few retailers ready to serve those interested in family camping. In fact, World War II army surplus was the starting point.
A few ahead-of-the-curve marketers stood out.
For my family, it was a company called Heilite that manufactured a cool, though slightly funky, camping trailer. Not quite a pop-up; those would come later. But a product that combined both tent camping and a degree of comfort my parents could wrap their arms around.
The guy who sold the trailers in this part of Indiana and Ohio was a fellow named Jack Root, who was at that point living with his in-laws or his parents in Fort Wayne. There was no store. There was no showroom. My folks looked at the display model in a back yard. And they said yes.
That set us off on several summers of family camping: Quebec, Colorado, the U.P., Williamsburg and a chunk of Europe.
Fast forward a few years and it was time for me to buy my first tent.
It was little more than a joke.
As a college student abroad, I’d decided to hitchhike around Europe solo for about three months. I had little money but bought a cheesy sleeping bag, a primus stove and a pup tent that was something 7-year-olds would play with in the backyard.
The tent had no mosquito net. It had no zipper to close the door. But it didn’t leak. Much.
In fact, it was still working pretty well when my wife and I took our first, post-honeymoon vacation. But we knew its days were numbered.
At the first opportunity, we borrowed something better: A Sears, Sir Edmund Hillary-endorsed tent for two. Connie’s brothers had used it years before, but it fit the bill. Like that tent I’d shared with my brother years before, it smelled a little musty. But it worked.
Fast forward again and there are kids in the picture. The Hillary-endorsed tent isn’t going to cut it. So I explored other options.
Until that time, I did not know that it’s possible to rent a tent. It is, and it works when you’re still trying to figure out what the heck to do.
Rentals served us well for a few years, though I was nearly blown out to sea while camping at Hermit Island in Maine. We were out on a point called Joe’s Head, and as I broke camp I found the rental tent filling up with air like a balloon or a parasail when the coastal breeze turned into a gust.
Holding the tent, watching the edge of Joe’s Head, wondering about the financial implications of the choice between letting go and hanging on, I dug in my heels.
We bought our own family tent the next summer, and it served us well.
But these days, it’s showing its age — aren’t we all — with a bent frame and some wind-induced tears.
The questions now are: What makes sense at my age when it comes to tents?
And, at a very fundamental level, am I prepared to sleep on the ground again?
Or should I just make a reservation at the next Holiday Inn Express?