Mountain Camp

Mountain Camp


He’s not terribly sporty.

He plays soccer somewhat reluctantly and church basketball, a bit begrudgingly.

Perhaps it’s the running.

He’s not much into sweating.

It took years to get him out of a collared shirt, khaki shorts and loafers.

His spirit is sweet and giving, not so much competitive or cut throat.

We dropped his nervous self off at mountain camp today.

A birthday gift from his grandparents and after watching the promo video a half dozen times, he committed.

An old friend’s son would be there too and so, a familiar face makes a place not so scary.

Along the 45 minute winding route to Camp Ridgecrest, he was quiet and still and every so often, would ask how much longer.

I tried to appease this son of mine, a middle child, one of three boys.

I coached and cajoled, squeezed his nervous hand and smoothed back his too long hair that would soon be streaked gold from the sun.

I didn’t tell him that I was swallowing my own worry, hopeful that my son would be embraced as clever and quirky, in a good way.

Our arrival meant handing over luggage, temperature taking and a formal lice inspection.

Check. Check. Check, thank goodness.

Come over here to choose your activities for tomorrow.



Fly fishing?


Indian lore?

What’s that?

We make all sorts of weapons.

A resounding yes.

Our fearful entry into Cabin 11 was halted by the friendliest of voices, “Hi, Russell! Want to come up here and play cards?”

And so, he did.

I made his bed, organized his loot, and before long, he and a gaggle of boys followed his big brother and set off to set up the hammock and play Gaga ball.

That’s where I spotted him, smiling and laughing amidst a group of boys.

I insisted on a picture, like all good mothers, and he was off.

I love a good bye.

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