Dearest Rachel –
I’ve been trying to find the photo for the last hour, with no success; it happens, when I’m away from home and don’t have access to every single photo I’ve stored on every single hard drive in my possession. So I guess I’ll just have to write about it without showing you, hoping that a thousand words will remind you of what I’m talking about, and explain why I’m bringing it up at this point.
For what it’s worth, I have a shot of it in the video I made of your funeral, as part of the slide show I couldn’t put together for the event itself. It’s not even one of my photos, or from anyone else in the family; I found it in your FaceBook feed, which makes it theoretically easier (because anyone can find it, or at least anyone who was friends with either you or whoever it was that posted the image) and practically harder (because the feed rushes past you like a river, and this is an item that was posted three and a half years ago now – it’s a drop of water far into the comprehensive ocean that is FaceBook) to locate online. Obviously, I saved it somewhere in order to make the video, but as I don’t have it with me, the description will have to do for now.
It’s a picture of you, sitting in a wooden rocking chair, which I presume to be the church nursery, as you were rocking a baby to sleep. It was during your final year, since you were wearing a mask – like everybody else was at that time – which gives the picture a slightly unsettling feel, but we all know what that time was like. Some eras had people with perms out to here, others gave us bell-bottomed pants and tie-dyed shirts; 2020 slapped cloth masks on everyone’s. Your eyes, were either looking down on the infant in your arms, or closed as you yourself began to feel the effects of your attempts to calm the child (which is both understandable and acceptable – I never have, and still don’t, understand children much, but it stands to reason that, the calmer the person is who’s holding them, the calmer they will be in turn. Should the person holding them fall asleep, it’s reasonable to expect them to follow suit out of a sense of relaxation). It’s a very maternal scene, even if it’s clear to those who know even the slightest bit of context that the child you’re holding isn’t yours.
The reason I’m bringing up this photo is because Scott has been holding campfires outside of his trailer, presumably every night this week (and quite likely, will be doing so every night next week as well). Various staff members, both from church and camp, will show up and chat for hours on end; and I’ve been invited to these for the past couple of nights. I field questions about the trip, but after a while, that dies down, and talk goes on about the present and future, particularly the upcoming camp season. It’s not all business, by any means – not even close – but I make a point not to monopolize the conversation with my stories.
And stories there are to be told around the campfire; not the standard spooky legends we tend to associate with the setting. We’re too old for that now, honey; real life is scary enough. A mention of the golf carts being used here – and the several accidents people have gotten into from not driving them properly, especially on the uneven roads that spiderweb through car – leads to talk of various automotive scrapes everybody has been in throughout their lives (and we all have had one or another. Why, Daniel just got into one while I was on my way up here – but I think that tale will have to wait until I hear about the specifics from him, or at latest, when I take him to his traffic court date in a month or so). Hopefully, it tempers little Madison from being too eager about getting behind the wheel herself, although she seems responsible enough.
Somewhere along the way, however, Larry (the executive director here at camp) referred to two accidents having taken place here, to which Scott corrected him that there were actually three. To be sure, Larry was specifically referring to two golf cart accidents, which yours certainly wasn’t, but he did acknowledge Scott’s correction, and then some (For my part, despite sitting between the two of them, I kept my mouth shut about this; it’s bad form to constantly bring up my own situation. Better to let others bring it up – although it’s possible that my presence was enough to silently speak my peace on the matter).
What Larry said next, however, surprised me. He referenced that picture of you in the rocking chair, and claimed that they have that chair in the camp office (or perhaps their home, of which the office takes up a large part of the lower level); he and his wife refer to it as “Rachel’s Chair.”
Now I always assumed that the picture was from church, not camp, but anything is possible, I suppose. You’d accompanied me up here from time to time when I was needed to do some work up here, and you may have attended to other families’ children while I did so. Or it’s possible that the chair has, over time, been excess furniture at church, and it was sent up to camp where it could continue to serve in its own capacity. Or maybe it’s just another chair that looks like the one you were pictured in, and they call the lookalike by your name in your honor. I’ve no idea, and even less so without the photo (or the chair, for that matter) in front of me. But I thought that you might want to know that you haven’t been forgotten. Now, given how I keep in touch with you like this, you might think that would be obvious, but I’m not the only one who remembers, is my point. And it may be that it’s of no concern to you one way or another, given where you are, but I thought it would be nice for you to know.
So if your spirit ever walks the earth and you find yourself wanting to see other places than the little bubble that is my own line of sight, there’s apparently a chair with your name on it here at the camp office that you might want to rest in for a while. Maybe you could bring the spirit of one of those children you used to crochet gowns for, and rock them to sleep, for old times’ sake.
In any event, I think I’ve filled you in on the place, and it’s time I made my way home. Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 