"Lady, Come Down!"

"Come down! Lady, come down!"

These are the words that I'm sure are wafting through your mind as you see that I have yet to post anything worth reading. Actually, these are musical words that are wafting through my computer speakers as my brain attempts to stretch from its frozen posture and type something sensible. Well, "sensible" is not exactly the right words. Since when do I ever write anything sensible? But I am rambling, as I am wont to do, which just proves my point at my utter lack of sensibility at times. And now I am starting to lose you as your own brain yawns quite perceptibly (don't deny it!). The fact is, I would like to post something about my life for once, and I feel like it's been so long that I hardly know how to do it any more. And the events I was thinking of describing are fast slipping into the past, and I don't know if I can make any of it worth reading or not. But I shall try. And the joy of it is, I don't need to feel like I'm enslaving anybody to read this because you are perfectly free to click me off of your screen forever.

I might as well start with Service Week. Particularly, I shall describe what we did on the fun days like to the White Mountains.

A pervasively chilly Thursday morning dawned, causing us to eagerly anticipate our planned hiking ventures. Perhaps we weren't exactly leaping for joy, but most of us were quite game still. After driving north for a couple of hours (our time throughout the day was featured with pleasures such as Madlibs and Authors), we all piled out of the van, braced for anything. I belatedly regretted not having any leggings on, but I slipped on my pair of Wilson swimming trunks that I got at Salvation Army in Florida for additional layering under my knee-length corduroy skirt. The fact that my supposedly gorgeous culottes are really men's swimming trunks is supposed to be a deep dark secret. . . but we all know that the internet is a very private mode of communication that won't let information leak out to undesired places. Anyway, happy that I had let my ever-wise mother talk me into bringing two sweatshirts instead of one, I completed my stylish outfit with a huge navy sweatshirt tied around my waist, thanks to Diane's generosity. She was staying in the van. Armed with this formidable opponent to the threatening weather, I debarked with my fellow hikers, ploughing through spring mud for a mile or so on up Rattlesnake Mountain, singing snatches of songs such as "Beautiful in elevation, the joy of all the earth, is Rattlesnake Mountain." I suggested the lyrics to Craig for his well-known composition, and he took to it very quickly, singing more of it than I did. I shouldn't be surprised if he posts the words as alternative lyrics on his website. Maybe Andrea and Gretchen will sing it at the next convention. Think of how inspiring that would be!

Well, eventually we attained the summit. And for not being a very difficult hike, the view was fantastic. Dropping right off of a cliff of sorts, we commanded a view of multiple lakes for miles around.

"Guess what?" I exclaimed to my cousin, Aaron. "My God made all of that!"

It was certainly worthy of some awe for His handiwork.

After we had been admiring the view for awhile, we had the privilege of meeting Davy Crockett and Kit Carson. I didn't realize that those two had ever joined up together, but apparently Davy and Kit were buddies. Well, Ben and Peter--ahem!--I mean Davy and Kit had set up camp with their wagons looped together when they were attacked by wolves! Fearsome creatures they were, each with a different colored mane--brown, blonde, and red. Howling and snarling, they attacked from all sides, but Davy and Kit were able to beat them back with torches until the wolves retreated with their tails between there legs.

"And then," Ben said, his voice intense, commanding the breathless attention of his young audience, and his not so young audience as well. "There was another sound."

"Whoop! whoop!" there were the Indians! Here they came, launching their tomahawks into the tree right next to our heroes! The only inconceivable thing about this attack was that the Indians resembled the wolves a little too closely. The hair color was definitely the same--brown, blonde, and red. Strange how these coincidences work--you'd almost think that the wolves had transmogrified themselves into the "Amerindians." But of course that is a silly notion. Anyway, Craig, Aaron, and Bobby--whoops, I mean the Indians, did a war dance before setting to their bloody business. But thankfully they were defeated! Davy Crockett and Kit Carson (with some help from Timothy) used their bows and arrows and hand-to-hand combat skills to vanquish their foes and save their lives.

"We're outnumbered!" Ben--I mean Davy Crockett, cried. "Three against three!"

It was a gory day. Consequently it was a satisfactory one.

Once our heroes were safe, some of us split up to either go back to the vans or press on to another trail. I decided to press on, and quite a few others did as well.

The woods we travailed were charming. As we progressed, I talked with Jane about how the woods reminded me of woods in Narnia or in Lord of the Rings where Treebeard lived. She said they reminded her of The Last of the Mohicans. As our various clods of people separated according to their hiking speeds, I found myself with Jane, Brandon, Aaron, and Ben. So while we were sliding down hills and endeavoring not to slip on acorns and barrel into the person(s) in front of us, the notion of The Last of the Mohicans came up. Quickly it was determined that since Brandon was in the lead at the time he should be Natty Bumpo (or whatever his name is--I got confused and called him Natty Bumpkin), and of course Jane and I would be Cora and Alice. Aaron and Ben ran ahead and attempted to hide behind trees along the trail. The guys seemed to have forgotten that they weren't as narrow as they were when they were infants, so they were barely concealed behind the skinny trees. Still, we dashed through them, pulling out Killdeer on the lot of them. But no, that wasn't how it was supposed to be. Aaron reminded us that what really happened was that the Indians ran off with the girls, so all he and Ben had to do was convince Brandon to join their side and then he could carry his sister-in-law and Aaron could carry me. No, but in the book the girls rode horses. How lamentable! But that problem was quickly solved as Ben offered himself, then that plan was soon exchanged so that Brandon and Aaron would be the horses after all. The plotting was quite engrossing, but at the same time the talk of "carrying off the girls" was a little unnerving. I jogged a little ahead of them to widen the space, just in case the imaginations ran a little too wild. I needn't have worried. Jane and I were as safe with these guys as we would be with a couple of kittens, and just as secure from other enemies as we would have been with lions instead.

Soon we reached the meeting spot where the vehicles were parked. Situated on a dirt road with a lake on one side and a bit of swamp on the other, we ate our lunch off the hood of Gerry's car. Beforehand, however, we hung out with a new friend of mine, named Frank. Everybody seemed to like him quite well, except for Brandon. For some reason or other Frank ended up in one of the bodies of water four times (three of those times it was thanks to Brandon) and had to be quickly rescued. I was a trifle concerned since Frank doesn't know how to swim and I wouldn't want to lose him, but there was always somebody else willing to fish him out, and all in all he wasn't too worse off for the wear. We also hung out with another friend named Baldy--he was found in the river in Florida. What's up with these friends who can't swim? Yes, Frank was a great birthday present from Craig. I've long wanted to learn how to throw a football better, and now's my chance to get the experience.

After these proceedings and a vote as to what the students wanted to do, we loaded up in the van and sped off to some interesting factories. The Cabot Cheese factory and the Ben and Jerry's Icecream factory were ones we visited in the afternoon, and the Simon Pierce Glass factory was one we visited in the evening. They were enlightening, but nothing of amazing import occurred. The cheese factory people gave us a very personal tour as well as free cheese samples and a yogurt for everybody. Most of us tried out their new "Greek style" yogurt, and it was great fun passing our yogurt cups around the van and getting a taste of other people's flavors. Mine was chocolate raspberry (mmm. . . ) but I liked Diane's blueberry pomegranate better, which was great because she didn't want any so she just let us all eat as much as we wanted.

As for the Ben and Jerry's Icecream factory, the tour was rather short and a little disapointing for being more expensive, but it was still fun. The man who gave us the tour had unique bovine vocal qualities (like when he asked us to "Mmmooooooo-ve closer") which was corny but entertaining. After the tour I bought a ceramic icecream bowl for Chad's birthday. It's round (bowls usually are) and patchy black and white like a cow, and underneath are four pink legs that one gradually realizes are supposed to be udders. Inside the bottom of the bowl it says "Udderly Delicious!" Well, it amused me so I figured it would amuse Chad. Hopefully it did.

For dinner, we stopped to picnic near a gorge in Vermont that we have frequented in past years with the Bibleschool. I believe the last time we were there was in Clyde's first year of Bibleschool. Anyway, the evening was cool and unfortunately our taco meat was nearly frozen, but my daddy had the brilliant idea of heating the meat up on the car engines. He's thinking of inventing something that can heat up cans of soup when you're on a road trip, which I think is a great idea. Following through with this suggestion, Amy went to Gerry and asked, "Does your car have an engine?" I'm sure she breathed a sigh of relief when Gerry assured her that he did have such a heating tool that he happened to have under his hood, and thus the meat was brought more swiftly to its digestive end.

We got home tired but happy around ten o'clock or somewhere thereafter.

The next day we embarked for Newport, RI. I don't know if you've ever been to Newport, but if you haven't you should have somebody else describe it for you if you wish it. I'm too lazy to do so right now. While there we received a tour of the yachting school and the Coronet from none other than the guy who read Uncle Tim's article on it years back and got all inspired about it. He's the very same guy who has painted most of the pictures of "America's most historic yacht," that is, our old friend the Coronet. She's really not much to look at right now, but they seem to actually be moving again toward working on her. Using his inexpressible charm and old-time captain habits, Uncle Tim managed to fanangle his way so that we were able to go inside and on deck, even though it was supposedly a hard hat zone. "Once a captain, always a captain," our guide shrugged, once he had given up trying to stop us. Some people are just unstoppable.:)

After lunch by the water some of us waited in the van for some of the more tardy students to get back from the breakwater. As I sat in the first bench seat, a thingy or two drove by on the road right in front of us. And when I say a thingy, I mean a thingy, because I don't know exactly any other way to describe it, and I don't really care to know. It was some sort of vehicle that looks like a combination of a smart car, a tricycle, and a convertible. So as it went by, I let forth my profound observation:

"There goes the thingy!"

"A thingy?" Amy scoffed teasingly at my limited vocabulary.

"Well, I don't know what else to call it, do you, Stephen?" I applied to Stephen, who seems to know more about cars than anybody I know.

"I don't know what it is either," he admitted. "I called it a thingy a little while ago though so it's okay if you do."

"There, you see?" I grinned at Amy.

"Well what if I don't think it's a thingy?" she retorted. "What if I think it's a thing-a-ma-jig?"

"No, a thingamajig would have more springs in it," Stephen replied.

"Well, what about a thingamabob?" she persisted.

"No, a thingamabob is more roundish," I told her.

"And has red hair," Heidi added from the second bench seat. Ha, clever girl! Yep, "Bobby" and "roundish" definitely go hand in hand, in my mind. (and in case you don't know me or the redhead in question, I am not being incredibly insulting because Bobby is not in the least bit round)

After lunch, we proceeded to the oft-traveled and very popular cliff walk. As we separated with people who moved at similar paces as ourselves, I ended up hanging out primarily with my older cousin and good friend Aaron, and for awhile we were also with the Post boys and my mom.

The main highlight of this cliff walk experience was going through the tunnels. I told Aaron about the time two years ago I had gone through the tunnels with Clyde and Bria, and Bria had stopped us before entering, telling us that we couldn't waste the acoustics and we HAD to sing something. So we sang No Nobis from Henry V. Well, we came to the first tunnel and were minorly distraught because people kept entering it, so we waited casually around until it was vacant, and then we plunged in. But people still weren't very far away, so we mostly chimed out a few notes and measures here and there. However, when we came to the second tunnel and no one was in sight, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. So we stopped dead still in the tunnel until we could come up with something to sing together. The pathetic thing was that we couldn't think of anything! The songs that Aaron suggested were ones I said I didn't feel like I knew well enough to make an enjoyable go on, so we floundered until I said:

"We could sing something simple like 'Wonderful Grace of Jesus.'"

This I knew was a favorite of both of ours, so he quickly agreed and we dove in. And the acoustics were spectacular! The tunnel was rippled, and the sound rolled all around and enveloped us in such unimaginable purity that we almost could have bathed in it. I sang soprano and Aaron bellowed his gorgeous harmony, and we rocked on, pacing up and down the tunnel as we sang one verse and chorus--any squeakiness in my second to last high note was graciously concealed by the tunnel's acoustics, and I almost felt like a professional. Too bad we can't always sing in a tunnel--we would probably all be famous. When we had finished, the sound of applause erupted from around the corner, and we were slightly mortified to realize that we had had a small audience (a man and his wife and kids). We didn't actually see the people, but they called out words of praise, and that was the last we expected to hear from them until a mile or so down the trail a man walking next to us turned and asked us if we sang in a choir! He seemed to think that we sounded terrific. Of course, he also has never heard me sing outside of a tunnel.

After some confusion as to where our meeting place was (apparently when Aaron and I got to the meeting place the vans had already moved to a different location because everybody else was going so slowly), we met up and proceeded to The Breakers, a huge museum-like mansion that belonged to Corenelius Vanderbilt. "Fancy" is a word that falls too short of the mark. We're talking about three story ceilings with gold leaf and intricate paintings, red carpeted staircases and all. The tour was an audio one, so we each were given our own audio devices and headphones so that we could punch in numbers from each room and move along the tour at whatever pace we chose. It was interesting how some of us fell into our various groups again, and also interesting to be only twenty seconds ahead or behind somebody else so that you could either watch their reactions to be able to tell at what part of the tour they were at (as I saw Craig's enlightened expression reveal that he had just spotted the hidden turtle pointed out on the ceiling) or know that something unusual was coming, such as Ben's sudden burst of "Twice a day!" breaking the stillness of the quiet room. Pretty soon I knew what he was exclaiming about: the chambermaids who worked in the mansion had to change the sheets twice a day, so when I heard that, I exclaimed, "Twice a day!" but it was more to make fun of him, even though it was pretty astonishing. I also learned that the only servants that were supposed to be seen were the men, and because of that the footmen and butlers (I think) all had to be at least six feet tall in order to get the impressive-looking job.

Well, the tour was pretty fascinating, and when it was finished I went to turn in my audio player to an older man. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that I still had the headphones around my neck, and as he waited patiently for me to disentangle my hair and person from it, he chuckled, "I thought you were going to leave me your beautiful head!"

"Not today," I laughed, and went on.

This time was followed by a little Newport shop browsing, tossing the Frisbee and Frank on the beach, and eating pizza on the beach before heading across the bridge for home at sunset. T'was a full and happy day. And I need to go home and go to bed. I have to feed the horses in the morning.