She knew her Kaylee would come through. That girl never missed a beat. Homework? Always exact and on time. Bedroom? Neat as a pin. Clothes? Perfectly matched. Sure enough, here was her letter. She ripped open the envelope addressed with hearts and curly cues and began to read.

Dear Mom,

It’s great here! I’ve made a lot of friends. I have to tell you (drumroll) I think I’m in love!  It’s the life guard. He called everyone out of the water and came just to see me on the campgrounds. Can you believe it?! What a sweet thing to do! 🙂

Some of the kids say it’s because I left my swimming buddy without telling anyone. Of course they’re saying that. They’re jealous.

We sing at the top of our voices every single day. It as noisy as gym class, only better. The Dean walks around smiling all the time. Somebody said he might put in earplugs sometimes. That’s just what I heard, though.

I asked the cook for some cookies to pass out in my cabin before we went to bed one night, but before she could give them to me (and I know she would have), my cabin mom came and told me she didn’t want crumbs all over the cabin. Something about chipmunks and what not. So what? Those cute little things would’ve loved a crumb here or there. 🙂

Well, I’ve gotta go. One of the kids got in trouble and another friend got involved . . . oh, who knows. Don’t worry. I wasn’t me!

xx oo xoxo,

Kaylee

PS Don’t believe everything Jessica’s mother tells you.

Pictures: enwikipedia.com

Finally! He opened the letter with a pocket knife. It would be great to hear at last from his son who had been away at camp for a very long week. No one could ask for a better boy than his son. Brown hair, green eyes, a zest for living; oh how he love his boy! His smile was so wide his face hurt as he unfolded the paper and began to read the boyish scrawl.

Dear Dad,

First of all, it wasn’t my fault. Please believe me. Not everyone does. Whew! Glad I got that out of the way.

The food is okay. Breakfast is best, then supper. Me and some of my friends told the cook that lunch could use a little work. I mean it’s only three meals a day. It’s not like science homework, for Pete’s sake. She pressed her lips together and her eye started twitching. I think maybe she needs one of those massages they advertise on t.v.

My favorite part of the day is swimming. The lifeguard seems pretty uptight. It could be from that one girl that they couldn’t find during the buddy check. He should get over it, though. She just wanted to leave before her friend. Like I said, uptight, right?

By the way, I have a mark on my leg that reminds me of the Target sign. My pants cover it up, though, so no worries.

Love, Dixon

His smile had faded with every passing word.

“Honey!” he called to his wife as he hunted for some paper to pen a quick reply.

to be continued. . .

Before we knew what was happening, she had us outside chopping wood. Using an ax was new to all of us except Sam. We had blisters in no time, and started regretting Sam’s turn into the barely visible driveway hidden to all but those who knew it was there. I heard Nigel gasp, and spun around to see Sam’s grandma swinging his ax like a seasoned lumberjack. Who knew the old lady could even pick up one of those things? We turned, zombie-like, to look at the wood pile, and at that moment it dawned on us how it had gotten there. Woa. Sam’s grandma handed the ax back to Nigel and told him it might help if he pulled up his pants.

“Lesson two. Keep private things private so you can get to what needs to be done,” she muttered as she started walking into the cabin.

“It’s chilly,” she called, “Hot cocoa for whoever wants it when you’re done.”

Well we all dropped our axes right then and there and started for the house. She was waiting for us at the screen door.

“When you’re done,” she repeated, pointing to the uncut logs and tools on the ground.

We turned around and spent the rest of the evening chopping. We actually got the hang of it and by the time we were done, we were not just ready for cocoa. We were ready for bed. It was 9:00.

What we had initially thought would be a quick stop for Sam to say hi to his grandma turned into a week. She always came up with a reason we needed to stay one more day. Instead of drinking beer and seeing things our mothers never intended for our young eyes to see, we ended up doing odd jobs around Sam’s grandma’s property; things like turning over dirt for a garden and planting seeds so small we lost half of them who knows where, and learning how to make lemonade with actual lemons, and how to shoot a gun and field dress a deer. Sam’s grandma had us take turns reading Shakespeare and Frost and Thoreau and Lewis to her after dinner while the rest of us listened as we stared into the fire. What school had never done for me, Sam’s grandma did, for it was then that I think I really began to love reading and thinking, both. We fell into bed every night by 9:00 and she woke us up with the prickly side of a broom at dawn. She especially liked whapping Nigel. After a couple of days he began to think it was as funny as she did.

That last night there we sat in the dancing light of logs chopped long before, maybe years before we had arrived. Sam walked over to her and told her spring break would be over in two days and we had to get back home. She reached up on her tiptoes and placed her cheek gently next to his.

“I know. Your mother called and told me.”

We did a double take.

“Grandma, when did you ever have a phone?” Sam asked, looking around.

His grandma motioned to me and led me over to a closet.

“Fred, would you be so kind as to open this door for me?”

I pulled the surprisingly heavy door open, and inside there was a little room, complete with a desk on which sat a cell phone and computer.

After a couple of silent minutes, Trent stuttered, “Wha . . .?”

Our thoughts exactly.

“Lesson ten: change is a fact of life,” she said quietly.

We were quiet the morning we were to leave. I couldn’t smile even when Sam’s grandma laid into Nigel with the broom. It felt like we were going from heaven to purgatory. The week had been filled with lessons like listening to nature clears your thoughts; and one that closely followed it, how are you ever gonna hear God if you’re listening to loud music; and one especially for Nigel, sleeping in makes you stupid; and animals trust people with kind hearts.

Sam’s grandma packed a lunch for us to take back with us and gave each of us a bear hug that nearly took our breath away. Last was Sam, and she hugged him for a long time while they swayed together in the clearing. Then she swatted his backside and he got in the car.

Leaning out the window he said, “Lesson eleven: Listen to your grandma.”

What a road trip: sixty miles and a world away. She smiled and waved as we pulled out of the barely visible driveway hidden to all but those who knew it was there.

Photos: www.goodfreephotos.com

The faint squeak of an old rocking chair caught our collective attention and only then did we see her. Her wrinkled skin reminded me of ruts in a neglected road, but it was soft and the color of honey and glowed like there was a light underneath that we didn’t see. Her not quite five foot stature was slightly stooped, but her step was sure as she rose and lightly stepped off the porch to greet us.

“Grandma,” said our driver, Sam.

“Sam, you rascal,” she replied, hugging him tightly. “And these are your friends.”

“Nigel, Trent, and T-ball.”

She hugged us each, and when she got to me she said, “I don’t know any woman who likes sports quite that much. What’s your given name?”

“Frederick Kellen the third,” I said quietly, my face growing hot.

The others chuckled as they did every time I answered that question which, fortunately for me, wasn’t often anymore.

“A fine name, Fred. I’ll show you all around, but first let’s get refreshed.”

She seemed happier than any eighty-nine year old I’d ever met, not that I’d met many of them.

Just as we were settling around the sparsely furnished cabin to the digest pork sandwiches, home-made sweet potato chips, and sweet tea she’d fed us, Sam’s grandma untied her apron and clapped her hands. We looked up. In the space of time it had taken for us to wander to our chairs and put our feet up; in the short time that we had taken to crack a few jokes and examine the rudely-made furniture; in the time we’d used to watch her fill the kitchen sink from a pump right next to it, she’d cleared the table, washed the dishes, and put everything else away.

“Lesson one: you’re lazy,” she laughed at the verbal dig.

We didn’t know whether to laugh or leave, but Sam didn’t seem disturbed by it, and he was our driver. We were stuck here whether we liked it or not until he decided to go. The road trip had been a group idea, one we’d dreamed up around the table at the school cafeteria, one that had grown from midnight texts and Facebook messages and senior year convictions about how we would live our lives without the restrictions of fathers’ advice or mothers’ apron strings or any other stupid restraints. Sam had always been the one who took our ideas and made them happen, though, and he had taken the lead in finding a route and planning things boys our age should get a taste of; things we needed to know about the world like strip clubs and beer and who knew what else. We were going to be men’s men. Nobody would mess with us by the time we went off to college or wherever it was we ended up. We were ready for it all. Well, maybe not all. We had no idea what to think of Sam’s grandma.

to be continued . . .

“We’re gonna die!” we yelled in unison.

The car was barreling down the mountain road at sixty-five. A spring breeze blew through the rolled-down windows, the radio was turned up with decibels enough to break the sound barrier, and our eyes squinted in the sun’s flashing pre-sunset glare.

It was great, this feeling of freedom; like flying or shouting at the top of a mountain. We laughed as we yelled and every so often the road twisted sharply enough so that we almost believed the top-of-our-lungs mantra we’d adopted on our road trip.

Bottomless drops became tangled montages of green brush that turned into rolling hills. When we reached a mid-point of the road, we slowed and turned into a barely visible driveway hidden to all but those who knew it was there. Brush on every side walled in the long path, barely worn tire tracks led us onward, the spring breeze that had blown our hair and stung our eyes in our race down the mountain now kissed our cheeks.

Ahead and slightly to our left it rested in the arms of the half acre of cleared land. We stopped, cut the engine, and heard something most of us had rarely heard before in our young lives. Complete silence, a deafening presence.

to be continued . . .

Photo: www.wikimedia commons.org 800px-Mountain_Road_in_Corfu-wikimediacommons.org_.jpg Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License ;  www.freepublicdomanpictures a-very-steep-country-road-in-the-southern-appalachian-mountains_w725_h546-free-public-domain-pictures.jpg