It feels a bit surreal to be done with Hebrew, down to Oregon, down to California, back to Oregon, and back to Vancouver, all in the past few weeks. It has been a good, but not exactly relaxing, month, so here’s the basic outline of the past month:
Thursday, August 9: last day of class. I cannot remember another class where I felt so completely exhausted by the end. I basically feel like a zombie. (Or, as I think I would say in Hebrew, “ha MAH-vet ha hoh-LAYK”: the “walking dead.”)
Friday, August 10: our final. Definitely the worst test I’ve taken for this class, but I’m mostly just relieved to be done. I should be cleaning and packing, but most of the afternoon is devoted to sleep.
Saturday, August 11: Eight-hour road-trip home, on which I get my first-ever speeding ticket, which does not much improve my mood.
August 12-17: Camp Attitude. Every year, my brothers go and spend a week at camp with a “buddy” who has some sort of physical or mental disability; we pay our own way so that it will be free for the campers and their families. This is my second year going as a camp photographer, since, at the end of the week, each camper is given a CD with pictures of them and their buddies to take home. I think that it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. It is a completely counter-intuitive place, that by all rights shouldn’t work. It doesn’t make sense to take 14-16-year-olds, who are generally at the most self-centered period of their lives, and ask them to spend a week of their lives without cellphones, computers, iPods, etc, and devote all their time and energy to someone who quite possibly can’t even talk back to them. It makes even less sense to expect them to pay for this privilege. It makes no sense to devote this time and space to a group of people who, in the eyes of industrial capitalist society, are a non-contributing drain on resources. It makes no sense whatsoever to hope that these children, who often cannot walk or talk or feed themselves, should be able to enjoy the things that their “normal” peers would at summer camp: horseback riding, fishing, swings, inner-tubing behind a boat, kayaking. It makes no sense. That’s why it strikes me as miraculous that it works. Here is a place—perhaps the only place that I’ve yet encountered—where the idea that all people have worth is not only affirmed in theory, but put into practice. The camp is built on the idea that everyone has something to give, so bring whatever you have and give it. If you are a builder/electrician/plumber/etc, there is a place for you: most of the buildings in the camp were made by their volunteer labor. If you are a cook, there is a place for you. (All week, amazing meals were provided by volunteer staff, including three generations of one particular family). Even if you are a lowly liberal-arts-major-amateur-photographer, there is even a place for you. And most of all, if you are a person with special needs, there is a place for you.
That, to my mind, is the true miracle of the place: witnessing the change that happens in high school students as the result of having to spend a week taking care of some one else, and paying attention to someone else that they normally wouldn’t give a second glance to. And invariably, it’s the students paired with the least-likely match—a catatonic girl lying in a wagon, a boy with severe cerebral palsy that cannot do anything but squawk loudly, a severely autistic girl that breaks into blood-curdling shrieks whenever she sees anyone under the age of two—that rise to the occasion, and at the end of the week, it is they who say that they have learned the most from their campers.
Still, although it was an amazing week, it was not a very relaxing one; sleeping outside on an unreliable air mattress after spending all day in more than 100-degree heat running around to try and get pictures of 40-some disabled kids is not the usual idea of R&R. In addition, I was reminded again that I am an incurable ladies’ man—at least, when the ladies are under the age of 10, over the age of 70, or mentally disabled. This week, I had two older female campers take a shine to me, so I could never be entirely sure when I would be attempting to take a picture of something, only to have my backpack abruptly grabbed behind me by Jackie, who would then grab my hand and take me off to visit with some other campers, or have Brooke urgently request to talk with me about her many imaginary problems (one of which, apparently, was that I had already asked her to marry me, but she was already married to the guy who was the cop on CSI, but it was okay because they had had a fight, but maybe they were going in for counseling, but maybe she was five months pregnant…you get the idea). All told, I ended the week feeling amazingly blessed, but also amazingly tired.
August 17-19: Family time. For the last time before David gets married, we’re all together, which is great, but not as relaxing as it might be; the older I get, the more sympathy I gain for Calvin’s dad’s assessment that vacation is that thing that we do for one week of the year to make the REST of the year feel like a vacation.
August 20-23: David moves to Los Angeles, and yours truly reluctantly agrees to be his moving service. (It is nice to have all of your worldly possessions easily fit into the bed of a Ford Ranger). Although I’m certainly not the most cheerful chauffeur, it winds up being a really good chance to catch up. It’s strange to see my little brother all grown up and starting his own life and family. It just feels kind of surreal.
August 25-26: Drive to the coast to briefly see my Aunt Gail Ann and Uncle Cliff. As usual, we have great bonding discussing the decline and fall of western civilization. And eating amazing food.
August 27-29: My three days of actual vacation. I get unpacked. I get repacked. I see those of my family members that are in town. I spend about 10 hours editing a book. I watch the Expendables II with my dad. I buy my train ticket.
August 30: All day in transit from Salem to Vancouver. It takes longer than it would by car, but I think I prefer it this way. I arrive, tired, but in reasonable spirits.