September 6, 1995

Dear Lauren,

Since Grandpa and Lathan have been exchanging email, I decided to write you some she mail. (It takes a cockney accent and dropping your h’s to get that explanation.)

Happy birthday. By the time you get this the celebration will be over and we’ll have sung to you from the phone. Fourteen! It can be a great age or a drag depending upon what you make of it. Don’t waste it. Use it to the utmost bad and good, funny or aggravating. Laugh at the funny ’til you snort, shrug at the aggravating and say “Oh well,” and meet the next moment face to face with a grin on yours.

This morning, I sat beside a white-blossomed African violet and drank orange juice from a red cup. The violet, the juice, and the cup woke me up to the day’s possibilities–so far unknown. (I discovered later they were picking- up- trash possibilities.) Out the window, I saw a woman walking two skinny dogs and noticed that the three of them looked alike.  I overheard a man say, “Every time the sun comes out some dinky cloud covers it up” and I liked the word dinky and realized that I don’t use it enough. So let me use it now. Yesterday, we saw a dinky armadillo–must have been a puppy? kitten? armadilly? a dinky dillo? a mere child. It strolled along with its mind on something else, just browsing the ground, probably humming to itself. Never noticed us at all. It reminded me of Winnie the Pooh when he moseys along hoping for a little something delicious and refreshing. Maybe a pot of honey. Maybe a juicy bug.

We had 106 campers, yesterday. Now 14. And some of them are leaving. The loveable silence runs down my ears erasing all harsh sound. A bird sings. An insect chatters. The grass is quiet. The trees look taller. I think the trees had huddled down to protect themselves from the jolts of noise, moving bodies, and cars driving round and round.

Our job doesn’t include picking up trash after a crowded weekend. We do it to help the cleanup crew who are kind to us and always respond to any request–especially James who wears a straw hat and cleans the bathrooms so faithfully and thoroughly. And we do it to make sure we earn our right to camp here with free space and full hookups–electricity, water, and sewer. You ultimately must work for what you want.

Trash detail is nasty work. I wish everyone would clean his own campsite, leaving nothing to look ugly for the next camper. And some do. But there are slobs who think only of themselves, and someone will always have to clean up their messes.

I didn’t look forward to it but, as I picked up gum wrappers, bottle tops, and cigarette butts, I saw a butterfly with reversible wings–white and silver on the outside, orange and black on the inside. When I crawled under some brush to reach a beer bottle–I’d never have been in that place otherwise–I found a patch of blue day flowers blooming. I pulled on a piece of pink yarn buried in the dirt and found that it was tied in a bow around a rock. Now this was a mystery so I made a wish on it then dropped the rock where it belonged and threw away the yarn. My wish came true. I wished for a chocolate brownie before the day was over. So, we drove into Jasper, went to the Spice of Life bakery, and bought one. What did you expect? That a wish on a piece of string tied in a bow on a rock would create a brownie? I couldn’t take the chance. My taste buds had put on their dinner clothes, got all gussied up for chocolate, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

We got sweaty and filthy on our work detail; our glove fingers were black; other people’s trash doesn’t look lovely or smell sweet. And yet it was an interesting day. Hope yours was too.

Love,

Grandma, aka Rosalie