Archive
07/05/10
Monday's Sunday-Morning Service
By most logical chronological standards and measures, Today would be, should be, as it really is, considered Monday. Indeed, everybody in America knows That yesterday was, unequivocally, Sunday, the Fourth of July — Families barbecuing, lighting sparklers and Roman candles.
But at a summer boys' camp, At least this one, on one edge of Lake Nebagamon, Anything goes, when it comes to time, Since the eighty-two-year-old institution is, unabashedly, A throwback of an all-but-obsolete kind,
A miraculous anachronism functioning in its own dimension, So far as it relates to the outside world, One fantastic time warp in which time doesn't exist, Where days can be whatever they're needed to be, Since they're just abstract constructs, alterable, fungible.
The camp director decided that Monday would be Sunday, So that the boys could join in the town's parade And watch the ten-o'clock fireworks, from the swimming dock. Thus, Sunday is this Monday, and rituals have been preserved — Worship sevices and the nighttime council ring, as usual.
So now, I'm left with this one perplexing question: If the kids have no difficulty shifting Monday and Sunday (A flip-flop as monumental, to me, as switching night and day), Why can't I, an old man invited to attend services, again, Be a ten-year-young camper, again?
07/05/10
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