On Sunday, while Emily was doing her death-defying Tri, I was delivering Malcolm to his favorite place on earth, Camp Woodward in central Pennsylvania – mecca for skateboarders, BMX bikers, roller bladers, and gymnasts.
Question: What’s wrong with these pictures?
Answer: You don’t see anybody skating! Even Malcolm is WALKING to his cabin, CARRYING his board. That’s because he knows the rules. Nobody skates on arrival day. Otherwise the camp would lose all control from the get-go. On the first day, the boys report to their cabins, meet the bunkmates, choose a bed and a cubbyhole, and go around to orientation and demos.
Starting yesterday morning, though, it was all skating, all the time. I’m sure by now the place has become Lord of the Flies in Amishland, full of feral, filthy creatures zooming along at breakneck speeds, subsisting on Red Bull and beef jerky, even though the cafeteria has a full array of salads, entrees, milk and veggies.
After I rolled away from the camp, having warned my kid not to touch the bug zapper above his mattress, my car steered itself into one of the antique shops I’d spotted on the trip up.
I had faith that this was going to be a good church-turned-antique store. My prayers were answered. Inside I found a dozen fantastic vintage books, for next-to-nothing. And I bought this sweet little doll dresser:
Which turned out to be full of Victorian doll clothing, even a toy mirror, placed there (I’m pretty sure) by the original owner. The store lady said she could have sold the clothing alone a hundred times over, but her husband insisted they not separate the bureau from its contents, which they themselves had purchased as a set.
Then I hit another shop, and another. I bought a lot of this British Trade-Ware, still with its 1940s stickers from Czechoslovakia. Fueled by Twizzlers Malcolm had left in the car “because I know you like these, Mom,” I was deep into my own extreme sports spree.
The 3.5 hour drive home alone was no problem. I was on an adrenaline high.
