Sitting By the Campfire

I hated camp. I attended Camp Kulaqua in High Springs, Florida, every summer beginning when I was nine or ten. I hated it. Oh, I liked arts and crafts, and I liked swimming in the springs, and I liked horseback riding, but only if they walked, not if they trotted or ran.

But I hated the people. I was always teased. One summer Peggy Miller hid my underwear in the rafters of the cabin. One summer I got sick on arrival Sunday, and stayed in the infirmary until the following Friday. I always wanted to go home, but had to tough it out for the full week until Mother would drive the two or three hours from Orlando the following Sunday to pick me up.

I realized yesterday that's how I feel about my life now. My family, my heart's home, is in Youngstown. I want to be there with them. Here I am, toughing it out at Camp Tucson, singing Carmina burana around the campfire, cleaning my cabin, doing my chores, hating every minute of it. Just waiting for Sunday to come so I can go home. Would somebody please tell me when Sunday is?

On another topic, Mr. Match called and came over last night. Said he wanted to see me before he left for a week of teaching in Alaska. (Excuse me, what was his assistant thinking to schedule him for teaching gig in Alaska in February?! The client is an airline — they've got the resources to bring their pilots to Tucson just as easily as they could fly him to Anchorage. Something's wrong with this picture!) Anyway, we had a lovely conversation over a glass of wine and he didn't call me "friend" once. And said he'd call me from Alaska and see me when he got back. Longtime readers of this blog know how I feel about this man and the possibility of a future with him. Where's my stinking crystal ball?!