Words For Wednesday by Eli!

My Hands Are Always Dirty

by Eli Morin

My hands are always dirty!

I’ve washed and washed and scrubbed and scrubbed but my hands are still dirty!

My fingernails are black from the dirt in the cracks, I put soap on my hands, and smack!

And yet my fingernails are still black.

Let’s not get started on my face, coated in sand and dirt, the smell of smoke from campfire.

I know I need to shower, but darn it! I’m so tired!

My feet constantly smell I feel so bad for my sockies,

If they could scream they would yell “HELP!” through Becky’s broken walkie talkie.

But of course no one can hear so in the hamper they go,

With all the sweaty, stinky, disgusting dirty clothes.

Soon I’m on fishing with power bait and glitter.

You telling me a man can’t look pretty with sparkly spirit fingers?!

Soon it’s time for dinner and I must wash my dirty stinky hands, as I expand my fingers scrubbing every nick and cranny,

I find myself still with dirty hands sitting now on my fanny.

Maybe it’s useless, maybe it’s time to call it quits.

Maybe I should stop fighting the dirt and accept it for what it is.

For everyone has a little dirt in their hands that may never go away.

We ALL have that something that eats at us every day.

But here at camp it is more than singing songs and playing fun games.

We are a FAMILY at camp and I doubt that will ever change.


Vespers’ share from Grace Daverson


They say memories fade with time

But I don’t think so

because the weeks I spend

riding, swimming, talking, walking,

petting, reading, playing and dreaming

Here. Right here.

Those memories are as deep and crisp as the taste of a way too juicy watermelon at Outpost

And the smell of fur and feathers at smanimals

And the chunka, chunka, chunka of a kneeboard at the lake

And the sound of outdated music at way too early in the morning

and the sight of all the counselors, campers, of all my friends, dressed in grass skirts and

leis and lipstick, even the boys.

Here. Right here.

Those memories are as dear to me as

a cherished book of song.

Because I know that no matter how

tired, sore, or terrified I am,

I have not wasted a second of my life

Here. Right here.

-Grace Daverson