Back to work

Warm, dry (mid-40s)

Well, we all knew my responsibilities would shift when I broke my finger, but I have to admit it’s kind of weird to be assigned office work out at camp. I’m tackling files and other junk in a basement, poring over old food receipts and employment applications. I’m sorting through it to figure out where we should put all this stuff, but you want to know my honest impulse? Throw it all in the recycling dumpster. Do we really need to know how much money was spent on food during a week in March of 1992? Do we need to see exactly what the cook bought?

I was rolling my eyes at the futility of this project when I found a folder full of old documents, most of them items of correspondence from 1964. They went back and forth between the head of camp and the regional head of the Forest Service. Apparently the Feds wanted to build a road right down the middle of camp, where the meadow buildings are. I read the Forest Service’s dispassionate letters, and then marveled at the writing skills of the camp director, who moved me near to tears with her descriptions of the power and importance of camp in the lives of young women. It was nice to sit there for a few minutes, lost in the camp of 1964, before moving on.