As I sat down to write out some stories, and aware that lyrics have always helped me get started, the Beatles song In My Life came to mind. A portion of the first verse goes like this:
There are places I remember all my life though some have changed, some forever not for better, some have gone and some remain. All those places have their moments with lovers and friends I can still recall, some are dead and some are living, in my life I’ve loved them all.
I recall playing the autoharp and singing that song for Kim Koch at her memorial service. I thought of others – Bob and Joy, Clem, Robin, Mark Urban, Paul McCarthy, Jack France, Mrs. Shep, Bev. And I thought of places that I’ve loved – the Kopka, Argo, the Mary Frances, Rebecca Falls, the cedars near Rainmaker. And places close to home – cabin row, Chapel Point, the Slim Lake trapper’s cabin, the canoes in the Barn rafters, and the cathedral that is Kirby Lodge. And I thought of canoes – W9, W41, W3, W13, W59, W 63. So many memories in a small moment. But my thoughts returned to Kirby and distinct memory from my first summer on staff as a Northwester.
I’d been working in the kitchen on and off for about six weeks. When not assigned to the kitchen, I either worked on maintenance, at the Trail Building, and for one week at Camp DuNord. In three days, the six of us, (five boy Northwesters BNWs and an experienced counselor as our trainer), would be leaving on a 22-day training trip in northern Ontario.
On that one day in my memory, the still morning was gray with a skin of clouds pressing down to make it snug. Only silence and Jerry the Cook met me as I stepped from the door’s threshold to the gravel path.
If Jerry was surprised to see me, awake and ready this time, he did not show it or ask. A primitive internal clock had gone off in me at about the same time as had Jerry’s wind-up Westclox.
It was a silent shuffle to Kirby. Entering the kitchen through a door near the walk-in cooler, nobody said anything, it was that kind of quiet; nobody wanted to break it.
Mrs. Shepard nodded, checking me off of her internal list. I nodded back.
Mrs. Shepard, who was the Head Cook, had gotten to the kitchen before us, as she always did. She had breakfast underway when we arrived. There, steaming on the stove, was the pot I knew would be cocoa. Using a soup pan as a ladle, Mrs. Shep was filling a stainless-steel pitcher for each table.
I grabbed an apron, washed my hands, filled a plastic bucket, grabbed a clean sponge, then went through the doorway into the dining hall. There, I went about my routine of swinging the benches down, wiping the tables with the damp sponge, and setting the places at the tables. The dining hall was cooler than the kitchen, cooler, it seemed than outside.
Jerry went outside and rang the first bell. The wake-up bell.
I’d been up later than usual, hanging out in the staff lounge listening to the collection of music there. I was learning songs, getting ready for the trip, liking the voice that lyrics lent to me. Now I was tired but the music had stayed with me, not bothered by the interruption of sleep. Borrowing from Simon and Garfunkel, I sang softly to the shadows and quiet places.
“What a dream I had. Pressed in organdy; clothed in crinoline of smokey burgundy, softer than the rain. I wandered empty streets down passed the shop displays. I heard cathedral bells tripping down the alley ways, as I walked on.”
I brought out the silverware, plates and bowls, folded napkins and placed a spoon at each setting. I checked the sugar dispensers. The chime of dishes and clink of silverware made my song a morning choir.
All the while no one spoke.
Jerry rang the second bell. The last bell would be my turn. It was deal Jerry and I had worked out. He didn’t want to ring the finicky bell when there were campers watching. When Mrs. Shep said to, I’d ring the third bell. I had learned the trick of ringing without embarrassment.
I brought out cups, boxes of cereal, and milk. I went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Shep pointed at the pitchers, her way of assigning a task. All of us who had worked with had learned her language. Gingerly, I took four pitchers of steaming cocoa into the hall, and placed each on a table. I went back for the others. All the while I sang softly to the cool corners of the dining hall.
Back in the kitchen, finished with the cocoa, I folded napkins to keep busy until next directed. Mrs. Shep said “Ring the bell.” Cutting through the dining hall, heading for the double-doors leading outside, I looked over the field of tables, little islands of order, each with a steaming chocolate fissure. It was still a gray morning with clouds pressing down making it snug.