We are leaving in moments for camp, driving to the marsh I love, to the river I know best, to that peninsula of oak trees and grey rock set amongst acres of cattails. After my trip to the Southwest, I know that camp will seem lush and green. The mosquitoes should be gone for the season, so we will be able to sit around a campfire, telling stories. Boy in Black and my brother will bring guitars, and my Dad, his clarinet.
We'll be missing some of the grandchildren: Smart Beautiful Wonderful Daughter and Red-haired Niece are in college. Schoolteacher Niece is on her way to Big City Like No Other to begin her grad work.
The nights will begin to be chilly, temperatures dropping into the 40s and 50s. Acorns will begin falling from the oak trees. My Mom and I already have plans for an early morning canoe trip: the mist on the bay this time of year is always wonderful.
I have spent every Labor Day weekend at camp since 1968, and I know what I will find there. Peace and quiet. Time to think and reflect. Time away from media coverage of tragic events that make me both sad and angry. Time to pray for all those who can't spend the weekend in such a tranquil place.