Camp Nurse

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Well, that was fun.  The most complicated nursing task I performed was to provide a nail clipper to a family in need.  One of their offspring had bent a fingernail backwards, not to the point of bleeding or anything, but it smarted.  Despite my lengthy training and expertise, I allowed one of the parents to trim the offending nail so as to prevent further bendage.  Go, me!

It was fun though, the kids had as much fun as currently feasible, and there were silly camp songs by the campfire and s’mores and crawdad fishing (using leftover breakfast sausage; who knew crawdads found it so irresistible?) and marginally comfortable bunks and low water pressure and dirt.  Oh, plenty of dirt.  There were also very nice people, and trees, and gigantic slugs, and a trip into town for a latte when we had reached nearly our breaking points of caffeine deprivation.  Coffee was plentiful but of the drip variety that is hurtful to my tender stomach, oh and also it tasted like crap.

It was such fun, in fact, that I signed on to go back later in July to do it again, for a week.  The board of directors came to join us for a meal and one of them is running the week in question (and attends my church and is very nice) and when she spied us she cried, “You’re the camp nurses?  Why aren’t you the nurses for MY camp?!” And thus I was drafted.  Rhonda is working but will visit when she can, and Elder Spawn will be with me for either all or part of that week, communing with The Nature (i.e. pawing at slugs and throwing rocks into the creek) whilst I attend to the first-aid and medication-administration needs of a pack of wily young teens.  We made friends with a couple of the counselors and learned that wi-fi is available in the admin building, wherein we will be housed, such that I should not be deprived of my connectivity.  Furtive french-press-sharing arrangements were also made.

We at the Low-Pressure Church that I attend are very laid-back about the whole religion thing — as the minister once described it, we’re not particularly of the “my pal Jesus” school of thought — and it was interesting to attend a camp that was arranged by those who are.  There are as many types of UCC churches as there are individual ministers running each one of them, it seems, and our cheerfully self-described introvert-forced-to-be-an-extrovert minister’s style appears to suit me quite well.  To us, Jesus is srs bzns (srs but kindly), and we’re not inclined to attend services all day and then break out the guitar and sing devotional songs far into the night.  Sure, a couple of them, but then bring on “The Cat Came Back”!

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