The right place for the old ways

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm weird in a myriad of ways, more than I have time to document or you have desire to read.  But the oddity du jour is this:  I am as wired and into technology, etc, as any modern computer geek you will find (limited only by the fact that I can't justify spending too much money on gadgets...), but I have a vicious streak of anachronism in me.

I love old things, and doing things the old way.  Things that have, to some degree, become passe fascinate me to no end.  I have a drawerful of calligraphy equipment, I just purchased a wooden longbow that I plan to use in favor of my modern compound bow, I pretty much prefer an honest-to-goodness paper book to my various e-reader options... the list could go on.

I don't utilize these things all the time.  Most days I write with a modern pen (and very particular ones, different for the whatever I'm doing at the time, thank-you-very-much).  But sometimes I like to pull out the parchment and a dip pen and ink- heck I might even go whole hog and wax the missive shut with my seal.

I think for me, it's a connection to the past sort of thing... when I write on parchment with said pen, I can't help but think that this was the exact same way Timothy Matlack scritched out "When in the Course of human events...."  One doesn't get that same historical mojo with a disposable Bic and a post-it note...  my compound bow is a good sight easier to shoot, and shoot accurately, than a bare longbow.   But when I draw that traditional bow, I'm in Sherwood Forest or participating in the Battle of Agincourt.

[caption id="attachment_329" align="aligncenter" width="300"] The oven at Flatbreads... the pizzas sit on stone shelves to the right and left of the fire, inside the dome.[/caption]

So what does this have to do with camp?   Simple.   This place is the right place to enjoy old school.  The camp and surrounding countryside offer ample opportunities to connect to the past.  The thought for this blog came to me as we dined at Flatbreads (an artisan pizza joint in North Conway, NH).  I was watching them make the pizzas and slide them onto the stone shelves in the oven with long wooden paddles... and as I stared into the fire of the oven, I loved the utter simplicity and timelessness of it.

Now, I know there are wood-fired pizza places elsewhere.  But as I ruminated on that fireplace, I began to realize just how much around here touched that same vein in me:   the many covered bridges, the simple farms, the last active human-powered water lock for boat passages in the country... and every year I discover more.

And then there's camp.   This place permeates with age and connections to the past.

[caption id="attachment_328" align="alignleft" width="300"] Just so you know... I have *will not* be shooting my longbow in my skivvies[/caption]

All around the dining halls there are murals depicting young men participating in camp activities... and they weren't commissioned last year, if you catch my drift.  One of my favorite places is the Alumni lounge, where a century of Color War results adorns the walls and rafters, a mosaic of red and brown arrowheads pointing backwards, tugging us to the memories generated here.

[caption id="attachment_327" align="alignright" width="300"] Look closely and you can see Brown has won the last 3 years. My boys aim to change that![/caption]

Generations of family men have come here- Allison and I are housed in an unused campers cabin, and every year on Parent's Weekend, we get people knocking on the door, wanting to show their camper the cabin that Dad stayed in when they were little. (And the same thing happened at Forest Acres the year we were there... mom showing daughter!)

Like the old ways I enjoy, camp is not a constant thing.  It comes out when it is needed, and we are allowed to reach out and touch, and feel the vibrations of history, and of things simply done and done well.  Whether it's a longbow, or tug-of-war, or young men singing a song about the Saco River, we know that we follow in the tracks of those who have done it before.

Let us revel in it....

 

Things change, they stay the same-- grab your earplugs and brave the rain.

Today.  Today is the first official day of camp.  The young men who have chosen, or were chosen, to spend the next 7 weeks here started arriving last night.  The very first white van, driven by the incredibly beautiful Mrs. Welch, pulled into camp towards the end of the annual "New staff/counselors vs. Veteran staff/counselors" softball game.  Which was officiated by yours truly.  (More on that later)

This softball game is one of my favorite yearly traditions.. it follows a BBQ cookout over at the girl's camp, and then... having gorged ourselves on ribs and/or chicken, baked potatoes, and strawberry shortcake, we go play softball.  As it turned out last night, in 110% humidity.   (Mr. Vaughn... I know that's not possible.  But it felt like it).   This year's version was one of the best games I can remember, won by the veterans with a 1-run margin on a walk-off triple.   The "News" often struggle with the game, as many are counselors from other countries, especially one island nation where the last thing that resembles softball was called "rounders"... and now they play cricket, among other sports.

But this crew of New Ones did themselves proud... they had plenty of folks who knew the game and knew it well... and a couple of the cricket players beat the ever-lasting snot out of the ball.  Just crushed it.  It really was a good game, and it was fun to participate in it.

About that... for the second straight year, I was requested/volunteered to provide umpiring services in the field.  (Batters batted until they put it in play).   I've been an umpire for a very long time, but we all know how much that counts.  After a few controversial calls, I think there are about 2-3 counselors who are probably planning a midnight raid on our cabin, to beat me thoroughly about the neck and head with pool noodles....  but there was one "New" guy who said at one point "Are you actually an umpire?"... guess some kind of skill showed through, huh?

Oh, and that white van?  Upon arrival, it disgorged a gaggle of boys from Israel, and camp is now officially camp.   Up to now, it's been all preparation, staff bonding, and the calm before the storm... but this place doesn't really come alive until the kiddos arrive.  They are, after all, the raison d'etre for this place.

A small group settled in last night, but today the big coach buses, and more vans continued to arrive, accompanied by the occasional family who lives close enough to drive their son up here personally.   And then... remember that humidity?  It ran head-on into gravity.  After 7 gorgeous days here in Maine, the rains arrived about the same time the campers did.   Go figure.

Don't get me wrong... it is beautiful here when it rains, and I love rain.  Love walking in it.. (I swear I am going to have a hooded cloak some day... they need to come back in style).  Love listening to it.  But it does put a damper on the sports and other outdoor activities that permeate this camp.

So, tonight... I am going to go lie down in bed, and read... and listen to the rain.  Listen to it pattering on the cabin roof.  And sleep, knowing that, at long last... camp has begun.

 

What's that you say?  Why the earplugs in the title?   100+ young men and a bunch of twenty-something male counselors, in a dining hall, with a full repertoire of camp songs, chants, conga lines, feet stomping, and table banging to draw from.... and the vim and vigor of youth begets volume.... and lots of it.

Greatness.

 

You were there, now you are here; the Old Blood sings!

Tonight, at camp, the evening activities highlighted both where we have been and where we are now.  The evening meal had a theme-- counselors, staff and associated families were grouped by the state/country from whence they hail, and were requested to dress up in clothes indicative of said region, and/or make a skit or presentation touting such areas, sometimes at the gentle expense of the rival regions or countries.  (The Ohio vs. Michigan one was particularly good)

Since the camp photographer is now here with us, there is a good degree of possibility that a certain Texan was photographed while wearing an entirely-too-small red cowgirl hat, a la Jessie from "Toy Story".  I shall have to hack his files and make sure those do not see the light of day....

Other than showing once again that we have almost as many Brits here at this camp as we do Yanks, it was fun to see the various groups showing their colors, or their native duds, or the completely-made-up-citizenship approach (I'm talking to you, Mr. Holcomb from Sveeden).  Once again, the Brits shone with a proliferation of Union Jacks, football kits, and a sign held by the lead person asking for an "orderly queue" to be formed.

After the meal, we moved to the campfire grounds, and the night transitioned.   It was no longer about where we came from... this is about where we are.  Right now.   For these two months.

For me, as I am sure it is for many others, the true start of camp begins with this first campfire.   Allow me to set the stage for you:

[caption id="attachment_318" align="alignleft" width="300"] Sunset gleaming on the Saco River[/caption]

This view is the heart and soul of Indian Acres.

[caption id="attachment_320" align="alignright" width="300"] A little fire, friends, family, and fun....[/caption]

As the giant bonfire is lit, we see many of the usual suspects wander out to regale their wares of stories, songs, and presentations:   the SNL-inspired IA Update, wonderful music by our many talented musicians, testimonies and silly skits.  We even learned how to say "I love camp" in Hungarian.

And, in what I am pretty sure is a first for campfire, even over all these years... there was a power paraglider who flew right down the Saco, just a few feet over the surface of the water, his engine overpowering the first musical act.  I was too slow to pull the phone out to record it for posterity, alas.

At times, several folks talked about the long history of this little place, as we sat on the (literal) roots of the pine trees and the (figurative) roots of the many people who have sat here before.    References such as these can often be trite, unless they are really true.  And I swear you can sit here and feel the old blood of this camp flowing through this little glen where we light a bonfire, sing songs, and make gentle fun of ourselves and each other.

[caption id="attachment_319" align="aligncenter" width="300"] One the many talented permutations of musicians here. The man on the left is a remarkable Liverpudlian... I don't think they've invented the instrument he can't play....[/caption]

In the "Wheel of Time" series of fantasy novels by Robert Jordan (and Brandon Sanderson), one of the highest honors that can be granted to someone is for another person to proclaim "Tai'shar" followed by the region they come from... in the made-up language of the books, it means "True Blood"... a character will say this when someone has fought valiantly or shown great honor or respect to duty.   Anyone who has read these books would recognize the term instantly.   It is based on the idea that the truest blood of the old blood runs strong in this individual.

The old blood sings in this place, and in these people.   Many of them are IA/FA, blood and soul.

Tai'shar Indian Acres!   Tai'shar Forest Acres!

Goodnight.... and safely rest.

Mama, I'm home... (kinda sorta)

At a little after 3:00 pm EDT, the Welch family came home from a 5-day car trip.  Yes, we came home...to our summer home.  It might sound a tad high-falutin' to say "the Welch family summers in Maine".... but that's exactly what we do.   And, 3 years in, this is a tradition that has started to settle into our blood.  When I saw these today....

[caption id="attachment_315" align="alignleft" width="300"] I-A... I-A... I-N-D-I-A-N-A-C-R-E-S.... Indian Acres!!! Indian Acres!!![/caption]

I felt like I was at home.

Because I was.

 

And the feeling only got stronger as the first afternoon progressed.   From the random greetings until the meet-n-greet event just prior to the first dinner, and then dinner itself, the re-connecting with friends seen (usually) exclusively during the summer only furthered the sense of return.

I'm home for the summer, folks.  And there's a whole bunch of friends and family to share it with.

 

3 years ago, I blogged about camp here in Maine.   This year, I've decided to take another run at it.  Hopefully I'll come up with enough new material to make it interesting to the 1.5 people who actually read my ramblings.   One thing is already divergent--this time, we reside at the boy's camp, so the experience is a bit different.   Rampant testosterone has a way of altering any experience, methinks.

I'm excited to be back, and excited to be logging my thoughts and memories here again.  As I sit at my work desk, with only a small fan in the window to blow the cool Maine night in my face, slapping the occasional skeeter away from feasting on my blood, and listening to the utter quiet of the campground (before the campers actually get here, mind you)... I know, deep, deep down....

I'm home.  Gonna be a great 2 months.  Let it begin.

The joy of the music recital (no, seriously!)

Yesterday, I had the occasion to attend a "Coffeehouse Concert" at the music conservatory where one of my sons is learning to play the drums. This is a highly elegant name for what is, in effect, a mini-recital in the middle of the season.

Signing up for this coffeehouse has been very good for my son... his desire for playing the drums, and subsequent practice habits, had flagged somewhat of late, and the goal of getting prepared for the gig has spurred him back into it with a gusto.

But it's still a recital. And those things carry some bad juju in the parenting world... the jokes abound about the suffering and misery of the recital (except, of course, for when your own little darling is up...)

And yes, I concede that some of the performances have all the surface appeal of listening to Wolverine walking through a chalkboard store.   And it is patently obvious that a certain percentage of the young folks seem to be participating solely because someone is forcing them to...

But then.   But then, there are those.  Those young people whose faces radiate their feelings as they play their favorite instruments.  Effused with a true love of music, they brave their performance anxiety in order to learn the crucial element of being able to ply this craft in front of an audience.  It is easy to pick out the ones who are still taking these lessons because they love music and they love to make music.

And I realized yesterday that there are few things as powerful as watching a young boy or girl, a young man or woman, play a musical instrument with joy and happiness, realizing that you are seeing the next link in a chain of musical legacy that stretches back over the centuries of human existence.  Whether it's drums played to the Clash, acoustical guitar covers of The Police, or piano versions of Greensleeves and Ode to Joy, music is a gift from God, and it is truly a blessing to see young people who are infected with a love of it, and a love of the very difficult craft of playing it and carrying on that tremendous tradition.

So, the next time you have to "suffer" through a recital, listen for those nuggets.... revel in those young men and women who are so obviously reveling in their music.   And count yourself lucky to be part of the great symphony/oratorio/opera/gig that is Life.

A truly Super Sunday...

One of my most beloved friends lives in Arlington with his wife (also a long-time friend) and their three lovely daughters.  This man, along with his brother, have one of the best relationships with their parents that I have ever seen, especially with their father.  Although I am sure there were some teenage growing pains, since that family is comprised of human beings, these men have a tight-knit bond with their Dad and their lovely Mom.  I have told the patriarch of this family (who I leave unnamed out of respect for their privacy... this isn't their blog) that one of my life goals is to have a relationship with my sons like he has with these two fine, God-fearing men.   As far as I'm concerned, Mr. X is a benchmark for a father.

So.... how in the world does that apply to a Super Sunday?

Yesterday morning, I had the immense privilege of baptizing my youngest two sons.  Our church allows someone undergoing this solemn ordinance to choose who shall dunk them, and I served in that role for Logan and Ryan.   It was a very special start to this Sunday, and from what I have gathered from my friends in the audience, I wasn't the only one deeply moved by it.

And yet, the event itself is not the connection to Mr. X.  That occurred several days prior, when Allison needed to tell the minister who would be performing the baptisms.  She asked my boys, and they declared, without hesitation, that they wished to be baptized by their Dad.  That simple action warmed my heart almost more than the actual event, and is what made me think of Mr. X and his sons.

There is a lot of time to be played yet... I'm still in the first quarter of this Fatherhood Football Game, and there is still much work to do in order to emulate the baseline of Mr. X.  That said, this little vignette from our family life this week made me feel that I'm on the right track.  I am blessed to have close, wonderful relationships with all four of my sons, and I would not trade that for any currency, of any form, in all the world.   I love my sons.

Mr. X:  thank you for the great example.

The Armchair Economist, Purple Car Syndrome, and the new LEI that isn't quite so Nobel

Lately, as I've been driving around the metroplex, I've begun to notice that there are a lot of businesses that have malfunctioning signs, where some of the letters or a portion of the sign is not lit.  Not a big deal, except that many of them are not getting fixed on a timely basis.  For example, the Spring Creek BBQ on Preston Road in Frisco has been "reek BBQ" for awhile.  

I love "Spring Creek BBQ".... not quite so sure about "reek BBQ"....

After noticing that one months ago, I've begun to notice what seems like a LOT of this.  Now, this might be what I call "Purple Car Syndrome":  once you notice a purple car, you tend to start noticing all the purple cars, which makes you think there is a trend toward purple cars.  Observational data-gathering while just driving around is not necessarily empirical nor impartial.   But the number and/or percentage of malfunctioning signs isn't what intrigues me... it's that they are not getting fixed.  And that I can confirm from memory as I keep seeing the same ones over and over.

If I were a business owner, I would think this is something one would want to fix fairly soon.  Your name is your brand, and it's out there in glorious neon for all to see.   And that leads to my new LEI (Leading Economic Indicator).. alert the media and those folks in D.C. take note here....

(Full disclosure:  I have **no** chops as an economist.  Despite all the things I have learned in life, the interests I have, and the subjects I've studied, I've never put any cycles into economics.  Which is pretty funny since that field is often tied closely to mathematics.  Most people don't realize there is no Nobel prize in math... so if a mathematician ever hopes to get a Nobel, it will be in economics.  As for me?  The sum total of my knowledge in economics comes from the bartering systems of various role-playing video games I enjoy.   "I got meat.  You want wheat?")

And so, the new LEI that isn't quite so Nobel:   I can't help but wonder if... the preponderance of half-lit signs I'm seeing isn't indicative of what ails our economy at the present moment.   Things aren't horrible, but they aren't great either.. and maybe the business owners are having to really watch the coin.   In situations such as that, it might just be the case they don't feel they can put some funds in the "fix the sign" bucket.   Sort of like us, our house and the fence.  I would love to completely replace our fence for aesthetic's sake, but given the size of our yard and the cost of doing so, it's something that must be saved for and designated for the future.

But... I'm not trying to attract folks to my house with my fence.   These businesses depend on their signage to catch the consumer's eye, and right now many of them are doing so for the wrong, yet often hilarious, reasons.  And the armchair economist in me can't help but wonder if that's not significant.