Aaaaand we’re back…
First, I’m going to be trying a new titling system. It will basically just be a title that starts with the words “The story of” or some variant thereof. I write stories all the time, right? It makes sense. Anyway, onto the story…
In 1997, my father sent me packing off to the woods of Canada, like a member of a tribe being exiled for crimes. My crimes were a notorious lack of self esteem, a penchant for know-it-allness and whining. My father, in a fit of mad and blindingly bizarre genius decided to rip me from all I knew and put me in a position where I would be forced to adapt or go stark raving mad.
Naturally, I did both.
The bunkhouses were naught but wood decking, bunk beds (I got an upper for some reason) with horrifically squeaky, ancient spring bases to support the foam mattresses.
The first four days were orientation. It was like boot camp, but with a lot less yelling and screaming and a whole lot more of me being completely out of place. Several of the other campers had already done this before and I was woefully behind.
And nobody could say my name.
One morning at breakfast, on the third day of the camp, the day before we were supposed to depart for our five-day trip into the wilds, the staffman for our section, Section X, looked at me with a glimmer in his eye. He was a man of the woods, John was. He had a thick red beard and wore with pride the dark green plaid jacket of a Keewaydin staffman.
“I thought of a nickname for you.”
Everyone looked on with rapt attention. Finally, the whiny kid would get his comeuppance. Finally, they would have something to call him.
“Buddha.”
This is the first entry in a series of short pieces. For years I have longed to write about two magnificent summers in the Canadian Shield that changed my life, but had no clue about how to write them. This is my first serious attempt at writing about the things I saw and did and the people who I went with. Be gentle. This is going to take a while.
Dialogue