I arrived at breakfast bundled up in 4 layers of protective clothing, 2 pairs of socks, Sorel boots, a headband and hat, gloves and a sad sinking sensation in the very pit of my cold empty stomach. Cornbread Cookie Kendra was nowhere to be seen, although the Spanish-only speaking cook was dishing up eggs, turkey sausage and biscuits. Without Cornbread Kendra present, pandemonium almost let loose. Afterall, who would monitor the "No Leftover Club", who would select the quietest greenhorns to get their food first, who would hold up her fingers like coyote ears to get the kids to listen? Thankfully, in spite of the below freezing temperatures, a teacher from another school of kids visiting this godforsaken camp had her wits about her. She took charge and sent the children in table groups up to fetch their food.
I secured some hot water (clearly not boiled but above body temperature) and removed an earl grey tea bag from my jacket pocket, and prepared myself a cup of tea. After a biscuit and some eggs, that more or less froze immediately upon contact with my plate, I noticed a sad, shivering, sweet, adorable and chubby little boy at the table across from mine. He was fighting back tears and rocking back and forth. It was as though he was acting on the outside the exact feelings I was having on the inside. I felt an instant kinship and approached him slowly. I asked if he was cold, he nodded as tears streamed down his chubby cheeks, steam rising from them as they made their way down his cold face. I saw that he had only a sweatshirt on and asked if he had a jacket. He told me that his had gotten dirty and couldn't be worn. I put my hand on my compadre’s back and told him not to worry, I'd get him an extra jacket. It was at that exact moment that one of the naturalists wandered into the mess area. I pounced on her like a jungle cat and asked if she could secure a warm jacket for my freezing porcine little friend. Embarrassed by the notable absence of Cornbread Kendra and all other staff, she agreed immediately and returned within minutes with a warm jacket for my little buddy. Once he had the jacket on and was happily tucking into his fast freezing huevos, he smiled, and it was at that precise moment that I understood why I had been lured to gold country. Not simply to freeze my friends, but to serve.
After an artery clogging morning meal, I spent the entire day out on the mountain visiting mines, learning obscure horticultural facts and singing poorly composed folk music. The highlight of the day for the kids was the individual hike, where each child was sent down the ¼ mile path at 2 minute intervals to commune with nature and enjoy more freedom than they ever had before. The highlight for me came at noon while eating my rock hard plain bagel with soy butter, when I realized I had my can of Coke Zero in my knapsack and pulled it out for a thirst quenching chemical filled taste of the 21st century. Bliss.
The kids were also invited to join the "Hard Core" club which can only be done by eating the entire apple handed out at snack, core, seeds and all. If you do so, sparing the earth the discarded core, you get to write your name on Tumblesworth's guitar. This prize is so valuable that at least half the kids, including my adorable Livvy, ate the entire apple and jubilantly scribbled their names on the guitar. Of course, what confused me is how it is better for the earth to have the children eat the entire apple and then no doubt have it all end up in the toilet versus simply chucking the core onto the ground. I was about to pose the question of Tumblesworth but seeing the joy on the children's faces as they were individually indoctrinated into the Club, I thought better of it and kept quiet.
Dinner was an optimistic abundance of overly cooked spaghetti and turkey meat sauce with canned chemical tasting parmesan-like cheese that never crossed an international border, apart from quite possibly the People's Republic of China. The meal was served in the now familiar outdoor mess area at a balmy 30 degrees. Campfire entertainment for the evening was a local Miwok Indian woman who told stories with important morals, and sang several shrill and slightly off key tunes. I suspect that she may well have been making up the words.
And now I am standing in the wifi hotspot, arm to the sky, updating my loved ones and dreading my night ahead in the folding cot with my 16 tweenage bunk mates.
Tomorrow afternoon we will at last leave Coloma and after a 3-4 hour drive, I'll be home again. Hallelujah!
my best,
lightnin'
Tell Liv that she's truly Hard Core indeed (even if by now the core in her belly has softened even somewhat). These stories bring a tear to my eye (in the same kind of way plucking an extra fine nose hair sometimes does).
ReplyDelete