I am suffering from August ennui. Seriously, and it hasn't even been that hot here in Raleigh compared to other summers. For whatever reason, I get seasonal affective disorder every August and, apparently, everybody else here does, too. It's always the illest (in the Southern irritated sense, not the Beastie Boys' slang of the past) time of the year at the place that pays me, so I've been in a foul mood and completely unmotivated to blog.
Mr. Sweetypants and I went to my parents' house in Shallotte over the weekend to help my Sainted Mama clean out their attic. My parents have been in the same house for 34 years and during that time, my mother has never thrown anything away.
I'm kicking around my next N&O column based on some of the things we found, but I've got three weeks to churn out that story. It will be based on the letter, handwritten on the back of a mimeographed office memo, I wrote my parents from camp when I was nine:
Dear mama and daddy:
I hate it here. Please come get me. The canteen only has 5 snacks. They only let you use the phone in case of emergency. We played three games of kickball today. I didn't have any paper so Mrs. Sabiston gave me this. We had to take a swimming test and I got a red ribbon so I can't go over 5 feet. Do you think Jill would like a patch? Come get me.
Love Leigh Ann
The camp was only for a week and I beat the letter home. I remained bitter throughout fourth grade until I begged to go to camp again the next summer.
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THE LIGHT EPHEMERAL
1 day ago
2 comments:
I loved camp. LOVED it. I went each year until they told me I couldn't come back and that I should GROW UP ALREADY and get a job or something.
I never went to camp when I was growing up. My "camp" was my neighbor friend's basement when I'd creep home after a night of watching movies and gorging on potato chips and dip, and find that my Mom had locked me out. Best part? Plenty of snacks, no swim tests and no mean girls in the next cabin over.
Glad you're out there! I've missed ya!
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