JoBiv's hollow head

I secretly loved the early mornings at Camp Arrowhead. I was a twenty-year-old nondriver, my dad had to drive me to camp every morning. I had to wake up veeery early to accomplish any sort of sensible washing/dressing of my body and often went without breakfast, only to have my dad give me an "I'm gonna be late if you stop at Burger King! We can't stop at Burger King!" heart attack.

But then we turned down the suburban street that led through the park to the camp. Sometimes we'd see my crush of the summer, Paul, walking himself and his guitar to work and we'd stop to give him a short lift. And then my dad would maneuver the car through the gates, over the potholes, let us out, and drive away. I would check in at the main cabin, where all the VERY early kids would be playing Old Maid or Tiddly Winks or napping on their backpacks. I'd give and get hugs. And then I'd head out to the field where all the campers met to start the day.

I liked to be the first one there. The field was wide but mostly shaded in the early mornings, surrounded as it was by towering trees - ancient maples, I think. Those mornings would be chilly, sometimes foggy, giving no sign of the sweltering hot day to come. I'd hug myself in my sweatshirt, feel the dew seeping into my socks and jeans, and breathe it in. A few birds would fly singly across the whole field.

It was lovely. Those quiet moments gave leave to enjoy myself. I mean to say, to enjoy who I was then. To think of how my life was playing out well, without much fanfare. I could forget fairly easily, in those minutes before the sun brutalized the fields, that anything was hard or bad. I could feel tired without hating feeling tired. I could delude myself. My brain was wonderfully empty. I would even say to myself, "Now is a good time to compose a poem or think a great and profound thought." That never happened, and I liked that, too, my empty brain.

Sometimes I think of that feeling when I'm walking to the Pea's house in the morning, before most people head to work, after most of the runners have gone home to shower. It's quiet, sometimes the dew still clings to gardens, and I feel beautifully alone without feeling lonely. It's not quite the same feeling. I don't allow delusions much anymore. I can't remember the last time I was properly proud of myself. I guess it's just the quiet that reminds me. The empty brain.