Not Forgotten

Hello Reader.

I have one of those headaches that gets in the way of clear thinking. But I have been chewing on this story since last week, so I need to leave it here.

Last Thursday I volunteered for the morning at Double H Ranch, yet another of the spectacular things that Paul Newman helped put in motion while he was here.

What I didn’t know until that morning was that the other gent who founded the camp, Charles Wood, owned what we called Storytown when we were growing up in upstate New York. At some point some clowns bought it and turned a charming romp through the stories of our childhood (take a ride in Cinderella’s pumpkin, visit the Old Lady Who Lived in the Shoe) into the usual: scary rides, loop-d-loops, etc.

What a fun thing to learn of their partnership and to see with my own eyes the magic they wrought at Double H, a summer camp and winter sports experience for kids with serious illness and their family members. I could write about all the beauty and love and kindness I witnessed in just a few hours, but that’s for another day.

When I was getting ready to leave I went to the volunteer office. A gentleman was signing in so I stood aside and waited to sign out. He looked like a typical Adirondacky (the camp is near Lake George) guy, but he was wearing a mask, so I couldn’t see his face. He stepped away from the ledger and went off to start his work and I stepped up.

I saw the person’s name, although not the last name. He had signed in with just his first name and last name initial.

I recognized the handwriting right away.

I was so excited to realize that it was someone I had known thirty-five years ago when I lived in Lake Placid.

I was not at all surprised to find him volunteering at such a wonderful place, giving his time to work in the barns and to be with the kids.

What struck me in the aftertime of this meeting was that I recognized his handwriting.

I thought a lot about how that is something that isn’t going to happen much more in the world we live in now: knowing each other by our unique style of writing. Needless to say, it has made me melancholic.

There is something so interesting and cool about each human’s style when putting pen or pencil to paper. I can instantly recognize the writing of everyone close to me.

And I feel sad that new generations won’t know this magic.

I had not seen this man in thirty-five years, and I didn’t see him because he was wearing a mask (which many do at this camp given the nature of the illnesses many of the campers have), but I recognized him by the four letters he had written to sign in for his volunteer time.

I have not forgotten this story, nor him.

Blessed be, all. Keep writing. With a pencil or a pen.

xomo

We are off very soon for the wedding of these two gems, my younger son on the left. Nate + Gretta = Great. For real.