Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

Today, while teaching journalism, I met a little cowgirl. She had a busted up hand covered in a blue cast, and a pair of adorably tall cowboy boots on even though she wasn’t going to horseback or even doing anything more exciting than stumbling around the dusty roads. I’d seen her before in Photography with my friend Shutter, but never got a chance to actually chat with her. She’s tiny, a slight little child, barely up to my hips and she packs one wallop of a spark plug attitude.

Every activity I suggested we visit for an interview she vehemently vetoed barely before it’d escaped from my lips. No seemed to be the only word she knew, and I instantly started to rethink all the praise that my friend had gushed over this Negative Nelly. But, momentarily, she changed my opinion of her. Not only did she point out the massive hordes of caterpillars roaming the deck of the lodge as attacking “killerpillars,” but she refused to admit to her nicknaming and stomped away only to lose a boot and hop around in stocking feet til I came to her aid.

Remembering how much my friend raved over her though, I decided to see if she wanted to revisit the photography shack. Instead of the usual negative reply her face lit up and she pretty much ran for the shack. We combined forces, photography and journalism, and went in search of a scoop. The perks of journalism at summer camp are ridiculous. One day, we ventured to tennis and hung out while my mini journalist wrote snarky commentary about my tennis abilities as we played doubles against the better team. A few times, we ventured into drama and interviewed the campers while they were acting out improv games. Today, I got to lurk in the Arts and Crafts shed and make melted crayon art with the teensiest and cutest twins I’ve ever seen. Apparently when you’re taller than the average camper everyone believes you are in charge. Beautiful.

I’m so impressed with these kids and how ridiculously fast their brains work. I’ve been butchering camp songs for about three weeks and they come in and pick them all up in a flash. Youth. Ah, if only it could be bottled. But alas, then we would have tiny Benjamin Button-esque campers tottering around.