Today is Walter Breuning's birthday. There's a party planned at The Rainbow Retirement Community where Walter lives. The mayor of Great Falls and the Governor of Montana are both expected to attend Walter's party as well as a representative from The Guinness Book of World Records. For you see, Walter is now the world's oldest man at 114 years, and the fourth oldest person alive. There are three women also born in 1896, whose birthdays are earlier in the year. The women live in France, Texas, and Georgia.
Walter's friends say he's just an ordinary guy. The women say he's always a gentleman--a gentleman who wears a pinstriped suit and tie daily no matter what the occasion or weather. His friend, Ray, says his buddy Breuning is "a nice guy, not a pain". His friend George describes him as self-assured and outspoken, and always says what he thinks.
Just to give a glimpse into Walter's character, when he was 100, he walked into a downtown Great Falls bank in the mid-1990s to take advantage of a promotion. Five-year certificates of deposit were offered at a special rate, and Walter thought he should take advantage of the opportunity. The banker politely advised Walter to consider a two-year certificate instead. He firmly declined and insisted on the better deal available with the five-year CD. He assured the banker he would be there in person to collect his money when the CD matured. Five years later, at the age of 105, and to the amazement of the banker, Walter once again entered the bank and collected his earnings.
Walter's our local celebrity. He's not rich, or talented, or especially intelligent, or an athlete or an entertainer. He's just Walter--a nice guy who's not a pain and who has lived a very long time. Happy Birthday Walter. As always, all is well.
The Well: A source of water, nourishment, life. The Well: Those who live in-ease rather than dis-ease. The Well: That which we strive to be.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Faint Cry
This afternoon I took lunch to the barn for the kittens and Puff. Usually I am greeted by three hungry playful kittens jumping at the bowls as I head toward our customary meeting place. Not today, though. Only one kitten and Puff lead the way as I called for the other two. The sound of my voice always bring the little guys out of hiding. But not this time.
I became a bit anxious as I called and called with still no sign of Chip and Ernie. Each time I called, I also paused to listen for the sound that one or both was heading toward the barn. Each time I paused, however, I heard a faint cry that sounded exactly like the cry of Puff's kittens. With the cry, I became even more anxious that one or both of the kittens had become trapped or injured. I walked to the end of the barn and called again. Then listened. Again I heard the faint cry, but couldn't get a fix on the direction. I walked toward the garage where the little guys like to hang out. Again I called then listened only to hear the faint cry.
My hands were full of empty bowls I had gathered from the breakfast feeding, so I decided to stop at the house, unload the bowls, and grab a flashlight before commencing a bigger more intense search.
I ran into the house, dropped the bowls in the sink then opened the cabinet and grabbed the flashlight. Before running back outside, I stopped to regain my composure. Standing very still, realizing that one or two of the kittens might have found danger, I once again heard the faint unmistakable sound of a kitten's cry. How could that be, I thought. I'm in the house and the kittens are somewhere outside. Remaining very still, feeling a bit confused, again the faint sound of a kitten....
How can that be? It was only when I allowed my brain to quiet that I realized the faint cry of Puff's kitten was in fact the sound of my enlarged adenoid--a nose whistle!
WHAT A RELIEF! The kittens weren't crying, WHEW! I ran directly to the barn and found Puff and her three sons, heads in the bowls, quietly enjoying their salmon pate.
I turned and walked back to the house swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling like a complete idiot, but thankful for safe kittens and nose whistles. Once again, all is well.
I became a bit anxious as I called and called with still no sign of Chip and Ernie. Each time I called, I also paused to listen for the sound that one or both was heading toward the barn. Each time I paused, however, I heard a faint cry that sounded exactly like the cry of Puff's kittens. With the cry, I became even more anxious that one or both of the kittens had become trapped or injured. I walked to the end of the barn and called again. Then listened. Again I heard the faint cry, but couldn't get a fix on the direction. I walked toward the garage where the little guys like to hang out. Again I called then listened only to hear the faint cry.
My hands were full of empty bowls I had gathered from the breakfast feeding, so I decided to stop at the house, unload the bowls, and grab a flashlight before commencing a bigger more intense search.
I ran into the house, dropped the bowls in the sink then opened the cabinet and grabbed the flashlight. Before running back outside, I stopped to regain my composure. Standing very still, realizing that one or two of the kittens might have found danger, I once again heard the faint unmistakable sound of a kitten's cry. How could that be, I thought. I'm in the house and the kittens are somewhere outside. Remaining very still, feeling a bit confused, again the faint sound of a kitten....
How can that be? It was only when I allowed my brain to quiet that I realized the faint cry of Puff's kitten was in fact the sound of my enlarged adenoid--a nose whistle!
WHAT A RELIEF! The kittens weren't crying, WHEW! I ran directly to the barn and found Puff and her three sons, heads in the bowls, quietly enjoying their salmon pate.
I turned and walked back to the house swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling like a complete idiot, but thankful for safe kittens and nose whistles. Once again, all is well.
First Snow
Yesterday, September 17th, I awoke to the sound of my teeth chattering as I tugged to free the comforter at the end of the bed tucked underneath two snoring dogs. Once my bones sufficiently warmed, I managed to poke a few parts out into the frigid room. Pat was already downstairs brewing a fresh pot of coffee, the comforting aroma making its way up the stairs and calling me out into the starkly cold day. Had I known the temperatures would drop this low overnight I might have put the heater on, but probably not. It just seems wrong this early in the season. But, this is Montana, a place that knows no rhyme or reason when it comes to weather.
Pat heard me stumbling around and hollered up that I might want to put on long johns. Instead, I pulled out my handy flannel-lined LL Bean jeans, a treasure found at a second-hand store for $7. They still had the tags attached. Second-hand, but first butt. That's a bargain.
The thermometer on the kitchen window read 34 degrees. I wondered if that meant outside or in. Checking the thermostat, I found that the inside temp was 58 degrees; I gave in and turned on the heat. But only for a short while.
I hurried to the barn worried that I would find the kittens huddled together shivering against the cold, damp morning. As I opened the door, out tumbled three fur balls, anxious for their breakfast and a chance to stretch their legs climbing up and down fences and scrambling to the top of the round bales. Before they took off exploring I picked each one up. They snuggled for a moment--purring, then struggled to free themselves as the day beckoned their attention. They were fine; Puff had done a great job keeping them close and warm throughout the night.
A few hours later I headed to town for groceries. The temperature hadn't changed, but the skies finally opened up as promised; and on September 17th, we received our first snow. All is well, and so it is.
Pat heard me stumbling around and hollered up that I might want to put on long johns. Instead, I pulled out my handy flannel-lined LL Bean jeans, a treasure found at a second-hand store for $7. They still had the tags attached. Second-hand, but first butt. That's a bargain.
The thermometer on the kitchen window read 34 degrees. I wondered if that meant outside or in. Checking the thermostat, I found that the inside temp was 58 degrees; I gave in and turned on the heat. But only for a short while.
I hurried to the barn worried that I would find the kittens huddled together shivering against the cold, damp morning. As I opened the door, out tumbled three fur balls, anxious for their breakfast and a chance to stretch their legs climbing up and down fences and scrambling to the top of the round bales. Before they took off exploring I picked each one up. They snuggled for a moment--purring, then struggled to free themselves as the day beckoned their attention. They were fine; Puff had done a great job keeping them close and warm throughout the night.
A few hours later I headed to town for groceries. The temperature hadn't changed, but the skies finally opened up as promised; and on September 17th, we received our first snow. All is well, and so it is.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Another Day, Another Snake
Can you see the snake in this picture? Neither can I, which can turn into a deadly misfortune for someone not paying close enough attention, or for a curious kitten, dog or horse. Nor could I see the bugger while straddling a fence less than five feet away trying to take the picture. It was only when I uploaded the picture and zoomed in a bit that I was able to see it--sort of. Hint: The dark object left of center is not the snake. The snake is actually all around the dark space.
Fortunately for Pat, he saw the creature before stepping too close. Pat was on the backside of the corral in an area that was used by the previous owner as a dumping ground for unused wood and fence posts. Cleaning it out and mowing down the high growth will become a fall project (once the snakes are well on there way for the winter). In the meantime, Pat needed to replace the fence that was removed when Shadow became trapped a few weeks ago. That was where Pat was when he encountered the beast.
Pat said that the snake apparently had been on the move when it saw Pat walking through the dense grass and weeds and stopped in the fully stretched out position. Pat only glimpsed the movement before the snake stopped, and he, too, stopped. He stayed still while looking around wondering what had caught his eye. Then his eyes sharpened enough to see the snake only two feet away looking right back at him.
Since the snake was stretched out he had no effective striking power. It is within the coils that they possess the energy to strike up to six feet depending on their length and strength. Knowing this, Pat walked around giving the snake a wide berth before hopping onto the fence and calling for me to bring the gun and shot. While he waited, he closed up the barn keeping the cats safe until the crisis passed. The horses were out to pasture and the dogs were safely inside the house. For now, all is well--all except the snake, that is.
Fortunately for Pat, he saw the creature before stepping too close. Pat was on the backside of the corral in an area that was used by the previous owner as a dumping ground for unused wood and fence posts. Cleaning it out and mowing down the high growth will become a fall project (once the snakes are well on there way for the winter). In the meantime, Pat needed to replace the fence that was removed when Shadow became trapped a few weeks ago. That was where Pat was when he encountered the beast.
Pat said that the snake apparently had been on the move when it saw Pat walking through the dense grass and weeds and stopped in the fully stretched out position. Pat only glimpsed the movement before the snake stopped, and he, too, stopped. He stayed still while looking around wondering what had caught his eye. Then his eyes sharpened enough to see the snake only two feet away looking right back at him.
Since the snake was stretched out he had no effective striking power. It is within the coils that they possess the energy to strike up to six feet depending on their length and strength. Knowing this, Pat walked around giving the snake a wide berth before hopping onto the fence and calling for me to bring the gun and shot. While he waited, he closed up the barn keeping the cats safe until the crisis passed. The horses were out to pasture and the dogs were safely inside the house. For now, all is well--all except the snake, that is.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Seasonal Change
Winter preparations are underway beginning with a huge grocery delivery. Hay is both plentiful and cheap this year, which inspired Pat to double his usual order. He'll spend most of tomorrow jockeying it around--a few will land at the feeding area while the rest will be stored behind the barn and out of sight.
Our list of things to do grows with each passing day. Over the weekend Pat and I installed much needed rain gutters on the bunkhouse even though it rarely rains, but when it does it's nice to walk out the door without becoming soaked from the waterfall coming off the roof. Next on the list--scraping and painting the bunkhouse as well as caulking all the windows and doors. I only hope winter doesn't arrive too soon or some of these chores will find their way to next year's list.
The signs of seasonal change are everywhere. The parade of bugs change up almost weekly. We are almost finished with the million or so grasshoppers that have taken over every square inch of land along with the thousands of cow birds who feed on them. And once the birds are finished feeding.... Well let's just say, thankfully the house is already white.
Stepping outside into the grass reminds me of a Hitchcock film with literally thousands of grasshoppers leaping into the air with the slightest movement landing in my hair, hopping down the back of my shirt or up my pant leg. The outside of the house, especially the screens, are loaded. There's no point to swatting at them, it only makes them more active. Driving along the gravel driveway requires nerves of steel as hundreds bounce off the windshield; and if I'm forgetful and open the window....bleh!
We can expect another few weeks before the snakes head off to den up for another long winter. The nights are cool, in the 40s, which doesn't bode well for the cold-blooded beast. Our friend, Miller, lives west of town in a hilly and rocky area. He recently told a story of riding his horse one cold winter afternoon to the top of a bluff on the north end of his place. Under the cliff, where snakes often make their dens, he stopped and watched in complete amazement as steam poured out of a rock pile. I could barely listen as he explained how hundreds of snakes pile together generating and sharing enough heat to keep themselves alive through the most horrendously cold winters. Miller had happened across evidence of one such den.
Our list of things to do grows with each passing day. Over the weekend Pat and I installed much needed rain gutters on the bunkhouse even though it rarely rains, but when it does it's nice to walk out the door without becoming soaked from the waterfall coming off the roof. Next on the list--scraping and painting the bunkhouse as well as caulking all the windows and doors. I only hope winter doesn't arrive too soon or some of these chores will find their way to next year's list.
The signs of seasonal change are everywhere. The parade of bugs change up almost weekly. We are almost finished with the million or so grasshoppers that have taken over every square inch of land along with the thousands of cow birds who feed on them. And once the birds are finished feeding.... Well let's just say, thankfully the house is already white.
Stepping outside into the grass reminds me of a Hitchcock film with literally thousands of grasshoppers leaping into the air with the slightest movement landing in my hair, hopping down the back of my shirt or up my pant leg. The outside of the house, especially the screens, are loaded. There's no point to swatting at them, it only makes them more active. Driving along the gravel driveway requires nerves of steel as hundreds bounce off the windshield; and if I'm forgetful and open the window....bleh!
We can expect another few weeks before the snakes head off to den up for another long winter. The nights are cool, in the 40s, which doesn't bode well for the cold-blooded beast. Our friend, Miller, lives west of town in a hilly and rocky area. He recently told a story of riding his horse one cold winter afternoon to the top of a bluff on the north end of his place. Under the cliff, where snakes often make their dens, he stopped and watched in complete amazement as steam poured out of a rock pile. I could barely listen as he explained how hundreds of snakes pile together generating and sharing enough heat to keep themselves alive through the most horrendously cold winters. Miller had happened across evidence of one such den.
There's a badger wreaking havoc on our south pasture digging enormous holes. I'm not sure if the holes are part of his shelter of if he's digging into existing gopher holes searching for a meal. Regardless of his motives, he's creating a potential hazard for our tractor and horses. Our neighbor, Kathy, says the badger has been digging around her place, too. She's concerned for her more than 300 free-range chickens. The problem with doing away with the pest is that they are nocturnal, and who wants to stay up all night to either shoot it or bag it for relocation.
Speaking of predators, the brand inspector came around on Friday to brand two of our horses. He remarked that a rancher not far from us has killed more than 140 coyotes this summer. Apparently, the coyotes have been bringing down his young livestock and other small animals on his place. It's hard to believe that someone has killed that many animals, especially since they are mostly nocturnal as well.
Pat and I walk our dogs around 8:00 each evening; we walk until all their business is behind them. This way we all get a good nights sleep. For the past few nights we've heard "many" coyote voices yipping in several directions as we make our way down Almosta Road. One night in particular, we stopped under a mostly moonless sky looking at millions of stars while being serenaded in surround sound. The dogs stopped too and looked in each direction the sound came from. I can't help but wonder what the dogs think as they hear this primitive call--are they afraid? Curious? Is there a faint remembrance stirring in their DNA?
Change is definitely in the air--I can see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, and sense it as each day passes from summer into fall. And so it is.
Friday, September 3, 2010
A Close Encounter
He's dead and buried, it's over. It felt like I imagine a hostage situation would feel like. Not sure if someone is going to get hurt, or worse. Not sure how it will all end. Every one's keyed up full tilt, checking and double checking every step to ensure the best possible outcome. The best outcome for us, that is. But that means the perpetrator is going down because in this case he's not about to give himself up. Actually, he can't give himself up, he has no arms to raise, no flag to fly, he doesn't speak the language, and he's been trained to never back down. Too bad for him.
I think it was Monday night that I spoke with my cousin, Barb. One of the first things she asked was, "seen any snakes lately"? I said, "not lately, knock on wood". And I really did lean over and knock on the end table. Maybe I should knock on something else because the wood thing isn't working very well. And this morning Pat made an off-handed remarked that we'd escaped any real encounters this summer.
Well, we can now say we've had an encounter--a close encounter--thankfully not too close, but close enough.
And here is how the drama unfolded. I headed to town this afternoon to grocery shop and visit with a friend. Once home I brought two armfuls of groceries into the house. I made two trips back and forth to the car passing the grill that sits only five feet from the back door. The dogs eagerly greeted me and gave me the customary 30 seconds to put the cold food away before dancing around at the door for a chance to pee. In the summer when the snakes are active, I rarely let the girls out without a leash or tied to the fence. When they're tied they have only about 20 feet of rope so they are always visible from the kitchen window.
For the past several days I've been taking them out for numerous walks throughout the day and only letting them run off leash early in the morning when it's too cold for snakes.
I had them both in the attached breezeway snugging up their harnesses when I paused for a moment to glance out the storm window panning the yard and walkway. My eyes widen as I glimpsed the green scales, the size of my fingernails, the unmistakable trademark of the dreaded snake. My heart pounded, my mind raced, the dogs squirmed to get outside and pee. Oh crap, I'm not exactly trapped, there are two other doors, but I realized that I had walked within three feet or so of this creature four times and didn't know what kind of danger I was in.
I immediately pulled my phone from my pocket and called Pat while taking the girls out the side door in a hyper state of awareness, not unlike Barney Fife from The Andy Griffith Show.
Pat said he would leave work and see what he could do to get the snake out in the open so we could first determine if he was a rattler or a bull snake. As you recall, the bull snake is "the good snake", and we would persuasively encourage him to move on; however, if it turns out to be a rattlesnake, then... Well, then, we might have to flip a coin to see who's going to shoot him.
But first things first. As Pat approached the driveway he called to check in on the situation. I suggested he stop by the barn and pick up a piece of plywood to act as a shield. For sure this snake will strike if provoked whether it's a bull or a rattle. He brought the plywood, a ten foot pole (no joke!), and a shovel. Pat came into the house via the side door, gathered up his gun and shot, then headed out to formulate the plan of attack. I had everything I needed--the camera and clean underwear, and oh yeah, a safe place behind the glass of the storm door, which put me only five feet away from the sleeping serpent.
The plan was: Pat would poke the snake with the ten foot pole while crouched behind the plywood shield. Hopefully the snake would awaken and begin to move around to see what was pokin at 'em. Once he was out from under the grill, we, no wait, not we, Pat would pull the grill off the gravel it sits on and onto the grass (it's not really grass, but a combination of prairie grass, wildflowers, and weeds). Then the snake would have nowhere to hide. With nowhere to hide, Pat could encourage him via the ten foot pole to move away from the house and onto the yard where he could shoot him. I say he because Pat won the coin toss.
Basically it played out pretty much according to Pat's plan:
Be both feel bad about killing him. He was an old snake with many rattles. Truth is he was only doing what he does, only he did it too close to what we do. The poor old guy picked the wrong place to take a nap.
I can't help but wonder how many snakes pass by unnoticed. This guy would have passed by unnoticed too if I hadn't glanced out the door as I did. I suppose he could have stayed there all day enjoying his snooze as we passed by taking care of our business. And once the sun set and the temperature dropped he would awaken hungry and ready to move off in search of dinner. But that's not what happened this time. And so it is.
I think it was Monday night that I spoke with my cousin, Barb. One of the first things she asked was, "seen any snakes lately"? I said, "not lately, knock on wood". And I really did lean over and knock on the end table. Maybe I should knock on something else because the wood thing isn't working very well. And this morning Pat made an off-handed remarked that we'd escaped any real encounters this summer.
Well, we can now say we've had an encounter--a close encounter--thankfully not too close, but close enough.
And here is how the drama unfolded. I headed to town this afternoon to grocery shop and visit with a friend. Once home I brought two armfuls of groceries into the house. I made two trips back and forth to the car passing the grill that sits only five feet from the back door. The dogs eagerly greeted me and gave me the customary 30 seconds to put the cold food away before dancing around at the door for a chance to pee. In the summer when the snakes are active, I rarely let the girls out without a leash or tied to the fence. When they're tied they have only about 20 feet of rope so they are always visible from the kitchen window.
For the past several days I've been taking them out for numerous walks throughout the day and only letting them run off leash early in the morning when it's too cold for snakes.
I had them both in the attached breezeway snugging up their harnesses when I paused for a moment to glance out the storm window panning the yard and walkway. My eyes widen as I glimpsed the green scales, the size of my fingernails, the unmistakable trademark of the dreaded snake. My heart pounded, my mind raced, the dogs squirmed to get outside and pee. Oh crap, I'm not exactly trapped, there are two other doors, but I realized that I had walked within three feet or so of this creature four times and didn't know what kind of danger I was in.
I immediately pulled my phone from my pocket and called Pat while taking the girls out the side door in a hyper state of awareness, not unlike Barney Fife from The Andy Griffith Show.
Pat said he would leave work and see what he could do to get the snake out in the open so we could first determine if he was a rattler or a bull snake. As you recall, the bull snake is "the good snake", and we would persuasively encourage him to move on; however, if it turns out to be a rattlesnake, then... Well, then, we might have to flip a coin to see who's going to shoot him.
But first things first. As Pat approached the driveway he called to check in on the situation. I suggested he stop by the barn and pick up a piece of plywood to act as a shield. For sure this snake will strike if provoked whether it's a bull or a rattle. He brought the plywood, a ten foot pole (no joke!), and a shovel. Pat came into the house via the side door, gathered up his gun and shot, then headed out to formulate the plan of attack. I had everything I needed--the camera and clean underwear, and oh yeah, a safe place behind the glass of the storm door, which put me only five feet away from the sleeping serpent.
The plan was: Pat would poke the snake with the ten foot pole while crouched behind the plywood shield. Hopefully the snake would awaken and begin to move around to see what was pokin at 'em. Once he was out from under the grill, we, no wait, not we, Pat would pull the grill off the gravel it sits on and onto the grass (it's not really grass, but a combination of prairie grass, wildflowers, and weeds). Then the snake would have nowhere to hide. With nowhere to hide, Pat could encourage him via the ten foot pole to move away from the house and onto the yard where he could shoot him. I say he because Pat won the coin toss.
Basically it played out pretty much according to Pat's plan:
- Pat poked the snake
- The snake woke up and moved out from under the grill
- The snake assumed the striking position and rattled his tail a bit
- We both yelled, "it's a rattler"
- Then Pat poked him a little more
- The snake warned again with his rattle
- Then the snake got poked some more
- He tried to back himself into the corner of the house
- Pat pushed and pushed with the pole while crouched behind the shield
- The snake was pushed off the gravel and onto the yard
- He struck at the pole a few times
- Pat kept pushing him further away from the house
- Then shot him
- 6 times
- He kept moving
- Pat chopped off his head with a shovel
- He kept moving
- We left him alone for an hour
- He kept moving
- We left him another half hour
- Pat finally picked him up with a shovel
- Put him in a wheelbarrow
- His tail kept moving
- Pat dug a hole and buried him
- He's dead and buried, it's over
Be both feel bad about killing him. He was an old snake with many rattles. Truth is he was only doing what he does, only he did it too close to what we do. The poor old guy picked the wrong place to take a nap.
I can't help but wonder how many snakes pass by unnoticed. This guy would have passed by unnoticed too if I hadn't glanced out the door as I did. I suppose he could have stayed there all day enjoying his snooze as we passed by taking care of our business. And once the sun set and the temperature dropped he would awaken hungry and ready to move off in search of dinner. But that's not what happened this time. And so it is.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Perfect Recipe
Living out of town, while scenic and beautiful, offers challenges too numerous to mention; actually, too numerous to even anticipate in many cases as I'm realizing each day with each new challenge. But one of the challenges I realized right off was the ease with which one could feel isolated even though town lies a fairly quick 13 miles north via the interstate. With the approach of fall last year, I discovered that many of the items on my to-do list would have to wait for warm weather leaving me looking ahead at many months of potential doldrums. Thinking about how I might become connected to something greater than myself (without joining a church), I decided to list some of my favorite things to see if I could cook something up. I came up with a few simple ingredients: reading, friends, cooking, and laughing. Throwing these into a pot gave me the perfect recipe for winter wellness: a book club.
Later that week, I pitched the idea to two friends who were eager to buy in. We each invited a friend, then one of the friends invited another friend giving us an uneven total of 7 members. Our first meeting ended with a book list and a schedule of whose house we would meet at each month. And of course, the most important item, as Carol reminded, "refreshments--and they are not optional". And so it is--we read, we meet, we discuss and debate, then we eat--in that order!
In May when our highly successful season ended with a dinner at my house, we all felt a bit disappointed that we wouldn't have a reason to meet during the summer. In response, I suggested we rent a campground in The Little Belt Mountains for a weekend where we can debrief, plan for the next season, play games, hike, and basically enjoy an adult "going to summer camp" experience.
Ever since the mid 1990s when I played the role of Activity Director at a kid's grief camp I thought the camp experience was something that should not be exclusively for kids. My mantra in those days was, "there oughta be a camp for grownups, too". This idea became especially evident after spending a week with sad and angry kids who within hours of arriving became the happiest kids on the planet. "Just think how happy overstressed adults might feel after a few days here", I would say. Fast forward a decade or so and I finally discovered the magic for myself.
The seven of us rented the very same campground used for the grief camp. Sitting on a 20-acre clearing surrounded by pines with Belt Creek running through and the mountain rising behind, the main lodge smack in the middle with a dozen cabins scattered around, we set up our First Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And now I know how something as simple as camp can turn a grieving child into a happy one who on the last day swears she will return again and again. On our last hour while packing up our ton of leftovers, we too swore to return again and again. As we headed back to town, we stopped at the bookstore searching for our first book, wanting to hurry and get them all read, discussed and debated, eat Carol's mandatory refreshments, then plan for our Second Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And so it is--the perfect recipe for the winter doldrums.
Later that week, I pitched the idea to two friends who were eager to buy in. We each invited a friend, then one of the friends invited another friend giving us an uneven total of 7 members. Our first meeting ended with a book list and a schedule of whose house we would meet at each month. And of course, the most important item, as Carol reminded, "refreshments--and they are not optional". And so it is--we read, we meet, we discuss and debate, then we eat--in that order!
In May when our highly successful season ended with a dinner at my house, we all felt a bit disappointed that we wouldn't have a reason to meet during the summer. In response, I suggested we rent a campground in The Little Belt Mountains for a weekend where we can debrief, plan for the next season, play games, hike, and basically enjoy an adult "going to summer camp" experience.
Ever since the mid 1990s when I played the role of Activity Director at a kid's grief camp I thought the camp experience was something that should not be exclusively for kids. My mantra in those days was, "there oughta be a camp for grownups, too". This idea became especially evident after spending a week with sad and angry kids who within hours of arriving became the happiest kids on the planet. "Just think how happy overstressed adults might feel after a few days here", I would say. Fast forward a decade or so and I finally discovered the magic for myself.
The seven of us rented the very same campground used for the grief camp. Sitting on a 20-acre clearing surrounded by pines with Belt Creek running through and the mountain rising behind, the main lodge smack in the middle with a dozen cabins scattered around, we set up our First Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And now I know how something as simple as camp can turn a grieving child into a happy one who on the last day swears she will return again and again. On our last hour while packing up our ton of leftovers, we too swore to return again and again. As we headed back to town, we stopped at the bookstore searching for our first book, wanting to hurry and get them all read, discussed and debated, eat Carol's mandatory refreshments, then plan for our Second Annual Page Turner's Book Camp. And so it is--the perfect recipe for the winter doldrums.
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