Jessie's Girl

I was 22 the first summer I directed an overnight camp. "They didn't make camp directors this young" the dads said burrowing. "Oh yeah" I laughed with an easy and forced chuckle.

Summer camp. It gives and it takes.

Each year, more gifts: a deep and abiding relationship that ebbs and flows and fills and fulfills. Two small balls of love and energy, oh how they give and take. Windows that open first to breezes and splashes and the crisp of cold. And a resume. Yes. Of skills that encompass buzz words here and gone: coach, engage, resolve, experiment, respond.

And it takes. Furiously. Feverishly. Grabbing handfuls of time, pockets of energy. Days and weeks. Demanding, delaying. Trading sweet, smoked stained memory making for the dog days of city summer.

And so a single track, the notes picking up the corners of my mouth. Out of context and far away. Takes me there.

A bus exhaust, sun sweat, festival wafting, slow walk home. Summer friends and summer love. Our song. Our drink. Our place. Declared in unison. No one left behind. A motley crew of lazy tees, sloppy shoes and finger run hair. Intertwined hands and bottoms of feet. Drink and skip. Laugh 'til we cry.

Give. give. give.

Jessie's Girl. You know, I wish that I had...

stones scattering

To conquer.  To summit.  To rise to the occasion.

Oh to be a little boy...standing at the bottom of a fresh pile of gravel, small stones sliding as you nose your boot in, in, in.  The mound towers, your eyes shine and then you breathe it in....the dust, the must, the challenge.

And you lower your head and plunge in.  It is furious, it is fast, it is relentless.  Two steps up, one slide back, stones scattering.  But you can do it.  You will not be defeated. 

Not when your brother is ahead, making it, on top....  "King castle!  You dirty rascal!"

real work

And they run…arms pumping, legs spinning, head down. They are pleased with the result –
the profile, the surge, the feeling, the momentum.

Until they stop.

A gnarled stick, a purple flower, a mushroom to kick.

A tree stump spilling over with soggy, punky fibres.


Use the stick, saw the tree stump.  “I cut down tree Mama!” Eyes shine, face beams.

Concentrate now. This is work – real work, a true purpose.


Until…


”Whoa! Look at this! A bridge! That tree made a bridge!”


Wheels turning. I can do that. I can do that. Using stick for balance, carefully placed feet.


“Careful sweet pea – the mossy spots are slippery.”


“What’s moss?”


And then.


“I did it! I’m standing on the bridge!”