deegee

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

The design was good, he reckoned. It was saber-hilt-ish where he would have held it while hiking (and in his head, where he'd hold it while fighting off the forces of evil.) At the top of the walking stick (but the bottom, if one were to brandish the stick as a weapon, holding the 'hilt' of the light saber...) things became a little more wizard's-staff-esque, flaring out into something that looked a bit like flame. JJ had a notion to add a bike grip to a portion of the shaft, at a comfortable distance from the part which would forever be the saber hilt, to him, which would be the perfect distance for him to hold it two-handed like a bo-staff. (why would he want to do that? well -- for defence, of course! Not that he was trained in any form of martial arts... but he'd seen his share of kung fu movies.) Anyways, it seemed like a good idea.

He had shown one of the marginally-older-than-the-campers junior counsellors (Jenny? He thought it was Jenny) his design for the carvings, which had received a noncommittal nod and shrug from maybe-Jenny. JJ didn't think she understood what he was trying to do, and how epic it was. the 'blade' of the saber. The flames. The buttons within easy reach of the hilt's handle. All very Darth Vader. But to maybe-Jenny, I'm sure it was all just a geeky walking stick. But nevertheless, she went to the workbench and got a whittling knife for JJ. Gave him 3.5 seconds of a 'don't do this' talk about sharps safety, and sent him on his way.

How hard could it be? He started with the grip. The 'hilt.' This went well. JJ even managed to add what looked and felt like leather wrappings, carved into the hilt. Then he began carving the buttons and various controls for the 'saber.' He had read some of the Star Wars books. He knew. blade length. blade density. All things a growing Jedi needed. But carving the buttons was harder. It meant using the tip, and gouging into the wood, and then smoothing out the cuts with the round shoulder of the blade. He was holding his tongue between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, carving a very important bit of the crystal power display, when the blade slipped, and suddenly, he was not an apprentice Jedi, but a kid at camp, far from home, with a jack-knife blade lodged in the soft tissue between his left thumb and index finger.

"Oh." He pulled it out. It throbbed. "Oh, balls." Blood pooled. Thick, dark crimson. It dripped, down onto his shorts, the stick, his arm. He held his hand up, partly because he knew that elevating the injury would make it bleed less... and also in the universal language of 'I have a question, teacher!' His face was going white, and he felt a little funny in his tummy, even as the blood dripped from his elevated hand onto his shoulder, and his face...

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

There had been a stick. Wasn't there always a stick? I mean, they were everywhere, but sometimes, one just called out to you. So it was with 'the stick.' When JJ discovered it, leaning forlornly against a bunch of other deadfall at the edge of the North trail, the clouds had parted just so, and a beam of light had illuminated it as he had passed. Like Wart when he first sees the Sword in the Stone (a TOTALLY underrated Disney.) It had stopped JJ in his tracks, and he had reached for it instinctively. He didn't actually know what kind of wood it was (yet,) but it was strong, and light, and, even before the carving and whittling (which he was about to begin) it fit his hand perfectly. Just the right height for the perfect walking stick.

At its base, it was a little under an inch in diameter. At the tip, it was a little over and inch and a half. It curved ever-so-slightly. JJ had picked it up on his first day, and when craft shop had been announced, he knew it was time to begin. He fetched the stick from under cabin F where he had left it, and marched over to the craft hut. The staff there had a bunch of different projects planned, but JJ declined, stating that he had a perfect walking stick / light saber / truncheon to work on.

First the bark needed to come off. JJ started with a small whittling knife, but when one of the counsellors (NOT Megs) saw what he was up to, they showed him what a spoke-shave was, and how to use it. This made uniform removal of the bark much easier. Then came squaring and capping the bottom of the stick, which had been snapped off. This took a little more work, and also involved a saw, which was new for JJ. Next came the carvings. This wasn't explicitly necessary, per se... but come on! Who wouldn't put their own touches on a stick of such a fine pedigree?

This part was difficult. JJ thought about starting into the whittling immediately, but he was too worried about screwing this up. He only had one shot at it. So instead, he started drawing out his design. It was part fantasy wizard's staff, part Star Wars hilt, part BMX handlebar. The stick lay on the table in front of him while he doodled.

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

I definitely need to reread as well, but I’m being lazy…

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

I've read everything, I swear I have... but was there a counsellor for cabin F mentioned by name? (and is anyone else bunking in F? Dexter?) I'm going to post up a craft post in a little bit, but I don't want to misspeak.

-D

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

How is everyone today?

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

JJ checked his schedule, a printed photocopy of an itinerary that he'd carried in his pocket for three days. It was creased and folded, had been wet twice now, and had started to fray in that way that only wet paper could. But he could still make out what it had said. Cabins D, E and F had two hours of craft shop, followed by an hour at the waterfront, and then lunch. The afternoon was activity field, followed by either paddle tennis or archery. There was a campfire that night, too. Jay looked over at table C. Nobody there he knew. Same with D. Heck, he could barely recall all the names of his own cabin-mates. 100% chance of Megs today. Great. He stuck his fork in the pancake, watching as it wobbled and stuck straight up. He fished in his backpack and produced a tupperware container. Stuffed a couple sausages into it, and then snapped the lid closed, tossing it back into his bag. He'd need runners, a towel, and his bathing suit. (where had he put the bathing suit?) Kids were milling about, some getting seconds, others pushing their plates away and excusing themselves to get ready for the day's activities.

He needed to make a run to the "flushies" before craft shop. (the big, central washroom building. Most of the cabins didn't have bathrooms in them, only the staff cabins did.) Campers had to make the late-night trek to the flushies if they needed 'facilities.' The flushies were stuck on the back of the main lodge, obviously an afterthought, or added much later on, but as far as a communal bathroom went, they were clean, bright and there was something 'we're in this together' about having to make use of them. There were other washrooms, at the tuck shop, the waterfront, and the rec hall. But if a camper said they needed to make a run to the 'flushies, they typically meant the main, central washroom. It was the only place that had showers, too.

He excused himself and carried his plate to the mess sink, where junior staffers wearing black were collecting the colourful plasticware in buss bins. JJ found it amusing that if you were a staffer you wore a Wyaconda tee that was either the blue of "Prop" dept. (repairs to the physical camp facilities. Light bulb out? Mosquito netting ripped? Tennis balls stuck in the tree? It was the "Props" staffers you saw out doing repairs) or the black tees of "Slop" (kitchen staff) the green of JP (junior programming, by far the most numerous,) the yellow of senior staff (there was always a yellow shirt mixed in with the junior staffers, and typically it was a yellow that ran events -- movie nights, talent shows, regatta, 'camper olympics,' the tuck shop, etc.) or -- coolest by far, the red of 'waterfront.' A lot of staffers had personalized their tees with their nick's on the back, or their cabin slogan, or their job. For instance, JJ knew that Blake, who worked waterfront, and looked impossibly cool at all times, had 'paddle' written across his shoulders on his red tee. He hadn't asked (yet) but was pretty sure it was because on family weeks, Blake took care of boat rentals, including paddle boats. There was literally nothing at Wyaconda that marked you as top of the pyramid like a red, sleeveless tee that said 'lifeguard' on the shoulders.

Maybe today was the day he'd get his red lanyard...

Titles are for Idiots who have Hope.

well, it's all dead.

All those seeds, gone. All the time spent making sure I found a place that was protected, sheltered, away from prying eyes.

Fuckin' thieves. Worst was, I saw it happen, too. Saw them move in and take my shit. I couldn't do anything. There were four of them. Those aren't good odds. And you can't just gamble on 'it'll be ok' or hope for the best. That's the kind of thinking that gets you killed. So I just watched them as they plundered my plants. Watched while they returned to their camp. Watched while they met up with two others, and began to make a feast out of my hard work.

Now I'm deciding how they die.

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

first post is up. It's middling, but it sets a scene. Happy T'urdsday everyone!

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

JJ walked to the dining hall from Boys' cabin F. For some reason all the cabins had names, F was called 'Stirling,' and he wondered why. The names of the cabins were burned into a board and displayed proudly on the small porches' supports. JJ made a mental note to find out why the cabins had names, and where they came from. He was still learning his way around, and navigating by landmark, rather than by rote. In his head, 'his' cabin was the one closest to the Fire pit, which also doubled as the 'stage' for the every-other-night singalongs and talent shows. The head of Junior Programming (JP, to the initiated) a nice lady called Nancy, somewhere in her 20's, maybe (?) often told campfire stories before lights-out at the fire pit, and it was (so far) the highlight of JJ's short tenure at Wyaconda.

This was the morning of his third day. School had only ended a week ago. He was still getting to know... the place, his place in this place, who everyone was, how the schedule worked, how to get from the tuck shop to the waterfront, who the other boys in his cabin were... everything. He was also working on toughening up his legs, which seemed a favourite snack of the mozzies. It was a little bit of culture-shock, but he was happy to be navigating it on his own. "Hey, Jay! Hurry up, you're gonna be late!"

Well, mostly on his own. His older sister, Megs, leaned out on the back porch of the main lodge. Megs was older by five years, was in her second year of JP junior counsellor program (she worked at the craft hut, and sometimes, at the waterfront. JJ tried to avoid her at all costs, but she just seemed to be everywhere...) and so because of her station, her popularity, and just her general sisterhood, of course Megs was everything JJ couldn't stand: smarter, stronger, in a position of power over him, and popular -- with the other counsellors, both boys and girls, and most annoying of all, with other kids his age. He stuck his tongue out at her, and hustled to breakfast. He sat at his table, the table for Boys' F -- the "all summer" kids. Other campers came and went after a week, or two sometimes... but there were a half-dozen who like him, were Wyaconda-bound for the entire summer break. Was it a gift, or a punishment? Or was it purely so that his parents didn't have to 'parent' very much?

It was a kids' birthday at table C, and for some reason, he had made it known to his JP leader, and so the entire hall was currently singing a chorus of "skip around the dining hall" as JJ entered. The dining hall smelled of pine, and cleanser, and old wood, and -- today -- pancakes. He slid in at the end of his table, just as the song ended, and the birthday-boy managed to make it back to his seat amidst a chorus of "Are you six?! Are you seven?! Are you eight?! Are you nine?!" JJ piled a few thick "pooh-cakes" (the dough was always heavy and stodgy, according to Megs, who sat at the counsellors' table up front) onto his plate, dousing them with syrup. He was short, even for his age, and skinny as a rail, his feet dangling off the bench, not reaching the old pine floorboards.

Camp Wyaconda, August 1991

Looks like we are just waiting on Ducky’s character before we crank this thing up