For the fourth year in a row I spent Labor Day Weekend at Camp Tockwogh with a bunch of Unitarians. I headed for camp Saturday evening, after the Indy Hall Celebration/Viddler MealToday Giveaway. I rolled into camp just in time to catch the end of the campfire. My friends had squirreled away some s’mores makings, hiding them from the swarms of kids who, after toasting all the available marshmallows, lit their toasting sticks on fire and proceeded to have sword fights with their flaming lengths of tree limb.
I spent large chunks of the weekend doing my very best imitation of the sloth, choosing to move only for meals, trips to the bathroom and a couple of outings on a kayak. I read a book, wrote a couple of pages of my thesis, caught up with Cindy who is now firmly ensconced in her new job and life, made plans for Seth’s going away party and carried the melody in a rendition of John Prine’s Paradise.
Until I got out of town, I hadn’t realized the amount of stress I’d been carrying in my body. My throat has felt perpetually tight for the last week, a ailment that I kept blaming on everything except tension. As I drove out of town, I could swallow freely for the first time in days. Thankfully, I didn’t pick it up again on my way back into town and I’m hoping not to rediscover it in my apartment, hidden in the hall closet or behind the bathroom door.
If you’re interested in reading more of what I’ve written about church camp (I didn’t realize I’d done quite so much writing about it until just now) there’s a piece I wrote for a class last year after the jump. My professor wanted me to turn it into a short story, but without the motivation of an official assignment, it never happened.
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