The password for today is “Please don’t write anything inappropriate on the tents.”
For those who haven’t met me yet, who haven’t heard any of my stories, I’ve been to quite a few camps- 9 that I can think of right now but I’m not sure that’s all of them. Moving around that much has not always made it easy to recall which year or even where a story happened but it has taught me the importance of details.
The first small part of Fleur de Lis that put me at ease was the signs of wear on the stairs in the Farmhouse. I’m sure to other’s those gray white sections of each step would just be another indicator that the Farmhouse is old; but to me, they were reminders that it is a home. You see they happen because people travel up and down them often; with each trip, you wear off a little bit of varnish, stain and eventually wood, revealing the layers underneath.
I thought about trying to count how many times I take the trip but every time I tried, I would lose track before first period was over. So, instead, I have to be content with the knowledge that I climb those stairs around 12 times before 10 a.m. on a average day- a day where I haven’t left everything I need upstairs and retrieved the items one by one as I realized I needed them or there isn’t a trip going out that requires 4 or 5 individual journeys to grab sleeping bags for waiting seniors.
All of these trips back and forth mean that without meaning to I have worn away some of the existing layers of the stairs. So even though I have only been here a few weeks and my name is nowhere to be found on tent flaps or the walls of the Shang, I have left my mark.
So have all of you, not because you will leave your name where you’ve slept for the last few weeks but simply because you were here, because you made this camp your home and shared it with each other. And the imprint that you leave is so much more than gray white sections of wood on a old staircase because you made it on each other- with a walk arm-and-arm to swimming, an utterly unrestful rest hour, a smile across the Dining Hall, a joke that only makes sense to you. Your imprint, our happy memories, were made in the details of the day and unlike me, you didn’t have to go up and down the stairs to do it.
– Lady Sarena