Small World

We have staff children this year. Danika and Silas are the third generation of family on the ridge; Oliver and Lilly from Tasmania, and who, with their parents, are with us; Maggie is the daughter of a woman who has been a naturalist guide here for years. The youngsters spend a lot of time together here in organized kidcare, and staff members recognize them as their own family members, too.

Working in the office, I get a clear view out the window of the lawn in front of Potlatch and just east of the lodge--the log structure that Woody built back in the early 50s. On Wednesday, Jack, a first year staff member, had stopped washing the outside windows for a moment, and Dan, whose father has been one of our visiting naturalist-lecturers for years, took a moment from his trash-emptying rounds. All of them were cavorting! Kicking a soccer ball, waving a stick, showing handfuls of Australian coins, practicing handstands.

We are really lucky here to be such a small world, to be a community where the youngest has something to offer the oldest, where we can all play together with spontaneity, and where we all look out for each other. Especially the kids. If we're lucky enough to return for a second year, we see the growth in the kids--even Silas now toddles up to Jack, slaps hands in a two-year-old high five and says, clearly, "Hi, Jack!" Danika (4) stands up at staff meeting with an announcement about and invitation to her kids party that will last "until there's no light," and everyone pays attention. Lilly charms us all with her pink mini-wellies and play clothes over which she sports a tutu and fairy wings.

And Maggie, at 9, is an accomplished fiddler. She played with the other musicians at FallFest, serious face, tapping toe keeping the meter. If we see paper airplanes and artwork hanging in the "Smithsonian" staff room at North Face Lodge, we know that Maggie has been holding court with her crafts. While waiting for the incoming guests last Monday, we test-flew the various models in the upper lot. Anya and Jonathan helped pitch the planes, Jack and Tate (on the roof) helped gather them in. And Maggie ran circles around the lot of us.

Yesterday after a half day in the dish pit at Camp, I returned to my room bent on taking a nap. I'd been up since 5:00 in the morning, my feet were killing me, and I was looking forward to lying down. A note was taped to my door, from Maggie and her mother, Maria, asking me over to their cabin to talk beads and have tea. Suddenly I realized how much I wanted to do that, so I packed up my bead supplies, put on my jacket (early Fall here, and it's chilly), and tapped on their door.

Maria put another log in the stove, heated some water for tea, and the three of us showed each other our beading projects, talked about different patterns and techniques. I taught them how to make a star, and Maria showed me an Athabascan-style snowflake pattern that I'll work on this winter. Then as I started gathering stuff to head back to my room, Maria suggested that she and Maggie play the song Maggie wrote, the January Moonlight Song. Maria played melody on her violin; Maggie played the harmony she also composed on hers. I could see in my mind animals and people swirling and pirouetting in the January night as the tunes filled the 60-year old log cabin. Then Maggie played a couple of French Canadian songs--jigs or reels, I forget which. Lively, spirited, and outside the leaves danced on the wind.

And then I thought...in that head-shaking, how-could-I-have-missed-this way...it's not just a privilege to live here in the National Park all summer. It is a privilege to live within this small world, this place where we can leave i-pods and headphones behind, this community where age and youth are equal, where earth--not pavement--supports your feet, and where you rely on your talents and caring to create your joy, where you all--together--are part of this incredible string of once and future generations.