The Well Fed Muse

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2013-05-02T23:13:19.688-07:00

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Thanks

yours, the stolen face

That was a lot of fun! Here's what I came up w...

2013-04-30T14:54:14.480-07:00

That was a lot of fun! Here's what I came up with (unedited, b/c that's more fun!):

The freeway bends and twists before me, too slick and titled for my car. I grasp the wheel, yanking and pulling it, all the while straining to shut out your screams. Left, right, up and down, the car plummets from level to level, screeching tires against wet concrete. As we jump the barrier for the third time, you whisper something in my ear—it’s the reason we’re falling, the reason I’m failing, falling—but I can’t hear you. I can never hear you.

I let go of everything. Of the wheel, of my fear. I allow us to free fall.

The car lands on its side, and though there should be a thunderous crash, a hiss of gas and a cloud of smoke, I see nothing but your face. I pull you out, and you’re still whispering, then screaming, then whispering again. But I can’t hear you—I can never hear you.

As the ground beneath us rumbles, I look up at the labyrinthine freeway. No wonder we fell—it’s upside down, I think—but your eyes tell me the truth: I wasn’t careful. We fell and it was my fault. You cower and I feel the fear return. It will explode, and you will be burned alive. I throw my body over yours, and wait.

Considering my rebellious years didn't begin u...

2013-04-29T21:59:37.676-07:00

Considering my rebellious years didn't begin until I was 25, I have sparse mischief to pull from. However, I do recall an incident when I was 13. I was obsessed with both the movie and the book of " The Outsiders " and decided to experiment with coifs in said novel and film. It didn't occur to me that these were NOT unisex hairstyles and so I proceeded with my plan. I'd established an affinity for whittling and, after awhile, wood didn't cut it. I unsheathed my pocketknife and began sawing at my hair. Assymetry was a thing to aspire to, and so, I gathered, this would catapult me into follicular popularity. I finished with my avant gardening skills as I heard my mother without the expected envious glee. My universal makeover was done.

I'd like to say that my escape is in a backpac...

2013-04-08T23:56:46.872-07:00

I'd like to say that my escape is in a backpacking trip into the depths of nature because that sounds more hardcore than anything, but hardcore isn’t the reality of my escape. My never-fail refuge is within four walls, at my disposal every night and morning: I hide under the covers with a book. This dream vision includes freshly laid linens, light spilling through airy curtains onto a plush blanket, pillow melting under the weight of my dreamy head.

The key to this setup is quality and nature of the pages in my hands. The book can completely upend my escapist unreality. It has been known that a book such as Weisel’s Night can send my utopia into the dark depths. What I need is a clean slate realm: Rowling’s Harry Potter or Keret’s Suddenly, A Knock on the Door. Maybe Hesse’s Siddhartha or selections from Homer’s Odyssey would suffice. Whatever the literature, I require a new and separate reality; I want to exist in a new existence.

The light pouring from the window is flecked with a fairy dust, and my linens are more immaculate than they will ever be again (until I change them again). A perfect quiet is punctuated by the musical outbursts of small birds, and this is not my actuality. Life here is soft and painless. I can lay motionless and mount the skies, join a world of imaginary excuses, gaze into an eternal river, deny a proffer of lotus—All in the cradling comfort of a my respite.
--Vanessa Anik Averbach

It should be the woods; a never ending entanglemen...

2013-04-08T14:51:10.542-07:00

It should be the woods; a never ending entanglement of soft earth, fallen logs overwhelmed with moss, shamelessly rotting on the ground, watched over maternally by the tall, tall Evergreens. You breathe and your lungs are grateful for the fresh oxygen for once, filling them up like two pink balloons. Everything is a little wet; just enough to remind you, you are also water. You think, I haven’t felt this sense of peace since childhood. Before dresses and boyfriends and bills and goals, there was just you, actually in the moment, simply being, a child in a grown up place perhaps but mostly happy. Sometimes holding mother’s hand, tugging at her purse. Sometimes hearing sharp words and eating cold meals. But in the woods there were elves and fairies and wild, carnivorous animals. In the woods there was magic. All you hear is the sound of breaking twigs underneath your heavy feet and the occasional bird flying overhead, saying you are not alone and there could be danger.

It should be the woods that I run to when I can’t worry another second about my credit card, my car payments, how to have my dream job, be liked, be loved, eat organic, cocktail parties and invitations and when will I ever, ever get married. It should be the woods that I want, seeking comfort in the smell of pine and dirt. It should be the woods, where no one lies to you, where no one disappoints.

I get in my car and drive for 4 hours, stopping once to pee, once to get a sandwich. Checking for cops, passing 18-wheelers, I sing, I listen to the news, I talk on the phone before it cuts my friend’s voice off and suddenly I am alone and in the desert, the heat choking me into a cough. I arrive in Las Vegas and am instantly more alive, my body tingling. My life is exciting and though thoughts of worry press into me, they are shoved out by fantasies of handsome men and cigars and green and black poker chips, clinking in my palm. I think, I could be anybody. Anything could happen. There is adventure in the air filled with cigarettes. The smell doesn’t bother me here, like at home after I quit, instead it reminds me of being a teenager with porcelain skin and soft thighs who would live forever. I float in the pool, the warm water like a bath, the smell of chlorine sticking to my hair as it tickles my back like a soft feather. There is a light breeze gently lifting the leaves of the palm trees as I eat the strawberry from my drink. It’s cold and tart. I stare off into the mirrored glass of the towering hotel, standing so proud, not at all embarrassed by its grandiouseness. I know it is a lie and that life can be terrible but I sip my drink, the strawberry seeds sliding down my throat and smile. I think I will melt blissfully into the hot concrete.

It should be the woods but its kindness might kill me.

-Amber Hubert

I was a latchkey kid growing up in the 70s. My mom...

2013-03-15T09:16:23.079-07:00

I was a latchkey kid growing up in the 70s. My mom Mary worked as a waitress at an exclusive country club on Long Island; she did not get home some evenings till after 8pm. She would serve fancy dinner parties to members, but she would get big tips. I had the TV to babysit me when I got home from school. I remember sitting at the television on my red and black paisley patterned couch, with my TV table, eating my preferred TV dinner--Swanson Salisbury steak and mashed potatos. I would watch my assorted favorite shows: The Brady Bunch, I Love Lucy reruns, sometimes The Munster’s. But my all-time favorite was the Bugs Bunny show!

I would watch endless slapstick skits and silly jokes executed perfectly by this cute so called innocent grey haired, white tailed, hare! Bugs was the ultimate wisecracker. “Ehhhhh, what’s up doc?”-I would say that to my Dad every day, just enough to make him nuts! Bugs was the ‘wasculy wabbit’-always into trickery and perfect one liners. I could relate to Bugs because he always out smarted everyone. His arch nemesis, Elmer Fudd, was always chasing him around aimlessly, but he never seemed to get the rabbit! What did he want the rabbit for? Was he actually going to eat Bugs? Or was it just the thrill of the hunt? What I loved the most about Bugs Bunny is he could make me laugh, you the belly laugh, crack up kind. And I thought I was a pretty silly, just like Bugs. Watching him it made it ok.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Babs Bunny from T...

2013-03-09T16:27:53.779-08:00

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Babs Bunny from Tiny Toons. Not in a literal sense, but she had a lot of qualities I admired. Mostly, she was funny and she was a girl. She also did a lot of different characters and voices. I liked that she seemed able to transform herself into different characters at a moment's notice.

i also identified with Babs' love of old movies and TV shows, from silent films through the "golden age of Hollywood." In one episode, Babs did research about a female silent film actress (whose name I can't remember- she was some sort of cute bug or something), and she ended up meeting her in person. Babs was inspired because this silent film actress was a funny girl, just like herself. I remember feeling the same way- I liked both of them for being funny, capable female characters with a goofy sensibility and a passion for silent film.

If I remember correctly, Babs also had a good singing voice, and I always wanted to sing as a kid (and now I do! Hooray). I really liked the idea of being funny and being able to sing- those were the two main talents I admired.

2013-03-09T16:27:19.043-08:00

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I really appreciate Heather's honest, serious,...

2013-02-24T21:30:15.048-08:00

I really appreciate Heather's honest, serious, and helpful advice about how to learn and keep writing.

Last year at the Idyllwild Mountain Retreat, she had such clear feedback on my memoir outline, that it really helped me move forward. I really recommend Heather and the retreat!

2013-02-24T21:29:01.417-08:00

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Although I have lived in the San Francisco Bay Are...

2013-02-22T09:36:11.233-08:00

Although I have lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for 30 years, grew up in LA, and spent only a few young years on the east coast, I still feel that I am somehow getting away with something when our California winter arrives with a blast of cold air in November or December and leaves soon afterwards.

My favorite winter activity is reveling in the chilly air and knowing that here in Oakland by the Bay, the coldest chill will only last a few weeks. And soon after that chill —too soon it seems to me, we have not suffered enough—the brown hills will burst out in green grass and orange poppies and I will be running in only my T-shirt again. We may or may not have rain between November and January, but for those few months I can count on wearing my heavy leather jacket to work and turning the heat on in the evening. But only for a few weeks will I wear turtlenecks to work, only a few times will I sniff the morning air and find a memory of snow, and only one or two times when I will be tempted to keep the heat on all night to stay warm in my bed. It is this momentary appearance of cold that makes me appreciate it all the more, sending me into my favorite east coast outfits of turtlenecks, sweaters, down vests, fleece, scarves, and hats to go outside. Knowing that I need to fit in these pleasures of bundling up now, and feel them down to my east coast roots, before that ubiquitous California sunshine will break through the cold and warm me up.

Even during this short period of cold there are breaks. In January, a warm weekend may tempt me out of my fleece running sweater, and I start to mourn the end of the cold, but with any luck it appears for a bit more in January or February. I know by then that the coldest days and nights are gone, and soon I will turn, just as glad, to reveling in the lush green hills.

Winter in New York and hot chocolate brings a grea...

2013-02-21T15:17:37.294-08:00

Winter in New York and hot chocolate brings a great tender memory back to me. I love drinking hot chocolate-sweet, silky smooth, rich, and creamy hot chocolate. Sweet chocolaty, cinnamon aroma. Puffy mini marshmallows swimming around in all that velvety richness. This brown gooey lushness is so hot I can see the steam rising off my favorite Garfield mug as I wrap my freezing cold hands around it to thaw. My mom, Mary, made the best hot chocolate on the planet. No offense, but it wasn’t that pre-packaged “Swiss Miss” crap either. No way, she made it from scratch, and it was so, so warm and delicious. She always used whole steamed milk, Nestles hot cocoa and sugar.

My home town of Queens Village got hit with a bad blizzard in 1978. It snowed for hours on end, so much so, I had to leave high school early. It was still snowing when I went to bed that night. The next morning we couldn’t even open the front screen door because the snow drift was 2 feet high. My older brother got to shovel that snow drift-too bad for him! I joined my mom at the kitchen table to watch the WPIX TV news, “Total snow fall was 17.7 inches”, the anchor reported. I already had a mug of my favorite hot chocolate cupped around my hands.

Christmas at the condo on the 12th floor. Every m...

2013-01-24T21:03:04.507-08:00

Christmas at the condo on the 12th floor.
Every member of the family would gather for dinner at the large, white home of my Grandparents. The dining room glittery with polished silver and mirrored placemats. A sharp, sparkly, crystal pineapple as the centerpiece. Bright red pointsettia plants placed throughout the condo. The warm smells from the kitchen enveloped me like a baby blanket.

The crazy Aunt rambling about herself. The layed back Aunt laughing at her tales. The eager to please Dad hoping to avoid conflict. My stately Grandfather, dressed as a proper Hugh Heffner complete with ascot and smoking jacket. Slippers to match. Always the gentleman holding my Grandmother's chair for her.
With the Dad and Aunt's help, the matriarch would groan as she struggled to move into her chair from a nearby wheelchair. Finally settling into the soft cushion that would later be very difficult to get out of.

"You can all go to hell!" My Grandmother exclaimed, dementia setting in. Each member of the family had a reaction. My grandmother asked me softly through tears, "What did I do?" Everyone tried to make her feel better, but my Grandfather gracefully changed the subject to questions about each person's far away life. A million tiny details of each person's job, children, home, and life.

When my Grandmother died, a couple of years after my Grandfather, the holiday gatherings stopped. No one filled the matriarch's chair. The sparkle of our Christmas gatherings ended.

When I take my children shopping during the holidays, we see silver and sparkly glass through store windows. Sometimes we buy crackers for our table, just like the ones we had at my Grandparents. Each of us wearing a colored paper crown.
The bright, white condo out of reach, just like the store decorations. Just an illusion.

I can never forget the smells and the beauty of those dinners at the condo. My Grandfather's endless questions and my Grandmother's sweet, innocent voice. We were surrounded by warmth and glittering light. Happiness. It was magic.

My parents have lived in this house since I was in...

2013-01-24T17:15:53.032-08:00

My parents have lived in this house since I was in the third grade.
The clutter seems to increase every time I return, but I think it's too gradual for them to notice. It's not all clutter, and not all of it is their fault. My sister's room, my brother's room, my room- we have all left far too many remnants of our childhood selves behind.
Sometimes I try to go through a few things, ask my Mom to donate.
"Oh, but you made that," she'll say- certain that one day I will be happy to have a stone wash jumper that I sewed for a 4-H project. Haute Couture, indeed.
This trip, my eyes are drawn to a box of old photos. Held together by a plastic binding, each set captivates me. Here we are in South Carolina, I think. I suppose I remember this trip, but I don't really. It's weird to think of all the childhood memories I have forgotten. I had a great time growing up- it's sad that I can't remember all the happy times more clearly. Here I am in a red t-shirt, light blue glasses, long hair, feathered bangs. I'm sure I worked really hard on those bangs.
Here is my brother holding a huge, black video camera. Here I am posing in front of some outdoor steps, maybe at a motel. I have on a huge hat and I am posing like a model. I think I do recall that hat, and the way it made me feel cool and stylish, which is not something I felt very often. I wore it everywhere on that vacation.
Later, I am reading the paper when my niece approaches the table.
"What do you want from my restaurant?" She asks. "I have everything."
She offers me a scribbled paper as evidence, the menu.
I love her so much in this moment. This level of commitment to her imagination, to the idea that she has everything. Because she does. And she reminds me that I do, too.
I wish that she could remember and act this way her whole life. I know she won't, because that's just the way memories and feelings work. But for now, she has given it back to me. And that is quite a Christmas present. (That bright orange scarf she picked out for me is pretty great, though). :)eo

Seems there’s always something dying in my refrige...

2012-08-05T13:23:13.679-07:00

Seems there’s always something dying in my refrigerator. I remember a comedian from forever ago discussing refrigerators and saying that the crisper should have been called by what it actually does – “the rotter”.

Not everything goes there to die, however, only the healthy stuff – except for cherries. Those luscious deep purple orbs of sweetness that make summer so worth the heat that closes in around me and leaves me wanting nothing more than a nap. Cherries with their tough outer skins that yield with a satisfying crunch that echoes from ear to ear inside my head. Each crunch breaks into the firm moist flesh and fills my mouth with purple goodness – and a pit.

There have been occasions when I’ve miscalculated and swallowed a pit, and I can imagine my still-there appendix swelling with long ago bitten off bits of fingernails and cherry pits.

Oh childhood….it’s like being drunk, everyone reme...

2012-07-27T13:40:25.886-07:00

Oh childhood….it’s like being drunk, everyone remembers what you did except you. My parents love telling stories of all the crazy things I would do or say. Most of the time the stories are just as new to me as they are to the guests my parents are entertaining. I have my own memories though. Playing with my pets and talking to them as if they could understand me and talk back. I had mice and a dog named Belle. They were my best friends and I remember feeling like a Disney princess when I was surrounded by them. I remember playing in the mud and “cooking” various types of cuisine for my older brothers. I remember my brothers not being impressed and ditching me for their friends. I remember my favorite time of year being December because of the holidays and my birthday. I remember elementary school awards ceremonies where I would nervously accept my honor roll certificates and my bundle of roses from my daddy. I remember being so proud to have those flowers on my desk the rest of the school day. I remember reading as much as I could whenever I could. I remember the best spot to read was on the couch by the front door where the autumn breeze could reach me. I remember my family being close and loving, something I desperately miss now. Most of all I remember planning for a future full of adventure and success that I am still waiting for.

Jelly donuts. An Oreo cookie. A brand new Barbie...

2012-07-27T13:12:06.878-07:00

Jelly donuts. An Oreo cookie. A brand new Barbie. There was a reason why I loved going to the mall when my mom couldn't find a babysitter on her shift: everything was new and shiny. Plus, I didn't have to deal with the politics of illogically mean girls, as much as I looked forward to birthday parties, slumber parties or even being invited over for dinner. But sometimes it was worth the discomfort of not knowing how to act correctly during dinner. There was something sinful about not having to wait for the dad to start eating for you to touch something on your plate. Or being allowed more than one cookie. Just imagine -- a plateful of Chips Ahoy! a thousand chips delicious sitting on a ceramic plate while your neighborhood "friend" invited you to play a game on her Nintendo that entailed more than a game of Duck Hunt and Super Mario Bros 1. Glasses of milk, juice or even soda! Soda was supposed to be for picnics and parties or fevers of 101. My ummah would preen over how incredibly magnanimous she was with gifting us with a single Nutter Butter every once in a blue moon. When she figured that my big sister was old enough to watch after us kids, we would wait twenty minutes before we would start the great search, hunting for sugary treasures Ummah would hide all over the house. There were rules, of course. No touching the king-sized candy bars, as tempting as they were. Opened boxes of Chocopies, cinnamon-sugared graham crackers and cookies were okay. It was an unspoken game of hide-and-seek and if Ummah suspected we had found her hidden stash, it would vanish the next day and we would have to exhaustively hunt all over again. Sometimes when all we could find were a box of boring Keebler shortbreads or Chinese almond cookies, I'd want to cry over the lack of sprinkles and chocolate and jammy fillings. In fact, I'd be so mad I wouldn't even touch the insulting pink box laced with dragons or the butter-colored package of shortbread cookies. But the hunt would give us a sense of purpose, and bond us together, brother and sister, when we'd normally declare bloody war on each other the moment our parents came home. It was the one thing we never ratted each other out on, the one thing that reminded me that we were bonded by blood. Because otherwise we pretty much hated one another's guts.

Hey, Yeager I really liked the last post. Really g...

2012-07-20T23:35:02.586-07:00

Hey, Yeager I really liked the last post. Really good.

That last one was me Todd Yeager

2012-07-20T10:51:21.132-07:00

That last one was me Todd Yeager

Summer camp 1984. It was one of those years when ...

2012-07-20T10:50:03.714-07:00

Summer camp 1984. It was one of those years when locust sizzle like electric wires in the evening. I was nine. One morning before breakfast, a millipede scuttled out of a crack in the ceiling. The camp Director took a broom and smashed the beast into a pile of black jelly. I don’t think I’ve seen a millipede since.
I had been having a secret love affair with a girl all week. At the formal dance on the last night, I decided it was time to let her in on the secret. I waited like all the other goofy boys against the wall, nursing a cup of lemonade. I waited and tried to psyche myself up to ask her the age old question, “Do you wanna dance?”
Finally, the DJ called for a couples dance. I took a deep breath and asked her. The next thing I know, we’re dancing arm and arm to “The Girl is Mine,” by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney. It seemed too perfect to be true. My pre-pubescent heart was busting out of my chest. I knew this was going to be the start of a beautiful relationship. She smiled at me. I smiled at her. I looked around the room. I smiled at the people smiling at me smiling at her. I couldn’t stop smiling, but I knew it was time to say something. Anything. So I said “I hate slow songs.” She didn’t catch it and leaned in a little. I said it a little louder, “I hate slow songs”. She stopped smiling. I don’t remember if she waited until the song was over, or left right then, but I do recall calling out to her “… I meant in general”.

Fireworks – It was a job like any other, answerin...

2012-07-18T18:01:52.507-07:00

Fireworks –

It was a job like any other, answering phones and greeting anyone who had a reason to venture into the place. It was a small tool company. Machine tools. Making tools that other companies attached to their machines to create whatever they manufactured – drill bits, findings, I never did understand all of it.

The shop was grimy with a fine steel dust and filled with grimy men – toolmakers, finishers, each one dressed in overalls and aprons dulled by the ever-present dust and oil stained beyond whatever help the latest and greatest detergent could bring to the task of cleanup.

Almost weekly, though, the fireworks exploded in the office. The president, a large affable man with a booming voice and equally booming demeanor, and his brother, the vice president in charge of the shop, equally large and generally less booming found a place of disagreement.

Words became louder and filled the office spaces. Then, louder still, it seemed they would shake even the heavy dust loose from its grimy hide-y holes and hurl it into the space all around us. Just as quickly, quiet. It was over. All was well again. Peace reigned. Until next time.

I don’t know who invited us to that party on the e...

2012-07-01T19:15:08.731-07:00

I don’t know who invited us to that party on the east side in the 40s near the river. As I remember it, the afternoon began with a tuna melt at South Street Seaport and a ride on the bus going uptown with a chatty driver. And I remember it was hot. New York hot like swimming through hot honey, but dirty hot honey where when you sneeze soot comes out of your nose onto the toilet paper. I remember I was wearing a long white skirt and a striped t-shirt; my thighs stuck together and the cloth under my armpits was soaked through. I kept pulling the cloth away from my armpits, trying to get it to dry and sticking my skirt between my legs to turn them into pants as the bus heaved through the hot air on Broadway.

The party was on the roof of a tall building filled with identical apartments, the type my father lived in when I was growing up. Floors made of cheap fake wood stained dark, little bathrooms with fans that went on when the lights went on, small kitchens with short refrigerators and the air always smelling like slightly turned tomato sauce, balconies with one butterfly chair and a dead plant and possible a bicycle. Closets with doors that fanned open and shut.

We went straight to the roof after someone you know buzzed us in. It was packed with friends of friends and acquaintances I don’t remember. Someone handed us both Coronas that must have started out cold because they were still sweating, but they were lukewarm by the time they got to us, with sad little limes floating in the fizz at the top of the bottle. The sun was setting and you were talking to a boy and I was watching you talk to a boy and trying to figure out if I knew anyone here.

And then the fireworks began: the first was an explosion of red, white, and blue sparkles that shone against the newly dark sky. Then a smiley face that defied the laws of anything I had ever heard of, and a white one that faded out in curliques but seemed to remain longer than the seconds it was alive.

The people on the roof cheered, and you grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Don’t you just die for New York in the summertime?” you asked me. And since the sun had set, I had to concede and agree.

Writing Pad-I also had an aunt who cant also stand...

2012-06-27T19:34:35.123-07:00

Writing Pad-I also had an aunt who cant also stand dirty homes. She's kinda OC and whenever she some dirt and dust anywhere, she would really clean it right away.

You move quickly, which can be crazy-making. But ...

2012-06-26T10:40:55.991-07:00

You move quickly, which can be crazy-making. But it also means you sort through the junk faster than most humans.

Like when you want to get to an answer to “what time is dinner?” or “when is your next doctor’s appointment?” or “when are you going to marry that man?”, you get your answers immediately. You make us all move faster just to keep up.

And at the flea markets: Long Beach 3rd Sunday (where the real people are), Santa Monica Airport 4th Sunday (where the rich people are), Pasadena 2nd Sunday (where it’s hot) and Melrose every Sunday (but only good for some things), you’re always done before I’m past the 2nd aisle of junk. You move quickly, your gait short but fast. “Can I have that for $20? Come on, you can give it to me for $20. No? Ok, next.” You know when the 50s dishes are authentic and when they’re knock-offs or cracked. You move quickly past the tea towels from the 20s (“you can do better”). You decide with seeming immediacy that this junk dealer is better than that junk dealer because he’s easier to push around with a little mild flirtation. I can tell you I need some art for the future baby’s room and you dash that off your list by scanning the booths with your dark-flecked hazel eyes, back and forth twice until you come up with a gem.

Dinners where we could have lingered longer, museums where you saw the gift shop but I’m not sure you stopped long enough to admire the art, weddings we left before the cake was cut. I’m not sure where you are always running to, but it certainly can be fun to try to keep up.

They gave us freetime between dinner and Campwide ...

2012-06-21T18:19:44.862-07:00

They gave us freetime between dinner and Campwide Share at Camp Kinderland. It was a camp started by Jewish socialists in the 1920s. Now they call it “A Summer Camp with a Conscience.” It’s a quite a tagline, but what I remember most from the 8 glorious years I spent as both a camper and counselor there was that hour at dusk when we were free to roam around and do as we pleased.

The other hours in the day were all scheduled: breakfast, clean up with the chore wheel, morning swim, sports, Arts & Crafts, Culture, lunch, rest hour, theater, cloud gazing, afternoon swim, music, dance, dinner, share, evening activity. For every hour there was an activity, we were never bored. Which made that hour after dinner that was all ours that much sweeter.

We would run back to get our sweatshirts and lather ourselves in bug spray so as not to waste one precious moment. The bunk would smell of Herbal Essences shampoo, sunscreen, musty wood from cabin walls not meant to withstand rains, and the sweet hormonal body odor of preteen girls. We would meet whatever boys we were sharing this freetime with on the front porch of our bunk (Pablo Neruda, Chana Senesh, Anne Frank, each were named after someone. We were in Pablo for 3 glorious years), or we would do a girls-only hour and sit in the grass of the field by the flagpole, talking about the missing girls, and how much we loved each other, and what would we do when we had to go home until next summer when we could be together again.

If we grabbed a few boys we would go out to the swings, hidden just beyond a veil of trees, the kids names who helped construct them burned with a woodburning tool into the side of the structure. We would swing and tease and talk about the missing boys, and who we thought was cutest, and what we though it would be like next summer, when we were in different bunks and would have been through a semester of high school.

Or we would go make a phone call at the office, a tiny house with two public phones and some benches made from split logs. We would call home if it was our one night a week we promised a call, or call a friend who wrote us a letter saying they missed us. Or call a grandmother once a summer. And to everyone we would say camp is amazing. It’s hard to explain. You really could only understand it if you came here.