I’m tired

and I can’t rest. My rock has been lifted and set back down in wet cement, before I could crawl back under it. My friend has died, my father in law has died, my mother is still in the hospital, and I have been on the road for six weeks. I am an ant.
At the moment, I am up in the wilds of New Hampshire at a camp for 300 leading a group of 20 teenagers. The ice cream is good; the food is horrible. I am weak from a diet of canned beets and kidney beans with undressed lettuce and a choice of pale tea or thick coffee. When you have a group of 20 river of life bursting, waiting for you to crack young people, it’s not enough. The more popular options of reconstituted mac and cheese, fried porkish cutlets and warmed over vegetables with a side of ketchup, would push me over the raft. An ant with leg weights.
On the positive side, the water main break has affected most of the camp, including the dining hall, but not my cabin. I can still have a hot shower and there is the possibility the kitchen will order in.

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