Today camp began. Each year our drop-off has gotten a bit less outwardly emotional, although I still return home feeling a bit hollow. But I have come a long in the five years since I first took my older daughter to camp. Preparing for her first summer at camp was easy; meeting the reality of a good-bye was exceedingly difficult. I wanted a bear hug and “I’ll miss you Mama.” She wanted a quick hug and a kiss and a chance to melt into the new found group of girls.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
House Painting, only House Painting
Our house painter is an outstanding painter; unfortunately he’s a poor horticulturist. At least from his lack of respect for greenery I presume he’s untrained as a gardener; I’ve never actually seen his gardens. This doesn’t matter much when he’s painting the interior, but for exterior work it’s definitely a detriment.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
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