A Camp Edson Christmas
By Cynthia Davis
Copyright © 2007, 2011 Greenroom Books
Christina Brannigan sighed as she shuffled through the scraps of stray reindeer antlers, red noses and tattered ears. Who knew eight children could generate a two-inch accumulation of paper waste in under an hour?
The table didn’t look much better. Gobs of glue and glitter clung heavily to the areas surrounding the campers’ chairs. A couple paper vowels and a handful of consonants covered the table where the kid with the thick glasses sat. He’d shredded his reindeer pattern into strips, forming oversized letters which he rearranged throughout the entire craft session. Surveying the state of the tiny craft cabin, Christina sank into the nearest folding chair and dropped her head to the table.
“Thanks for craft time. I wish I could stay here all day.”
Christina bolted upright, peeling a glue-smeared antler from her left cheek. She started to respond to the snot-nosed 8-year-old with knotted hair and a lazy eye, but her “you’re welcome” trailed into a drawn out “umm…” as she scrambled to remember the kid’s name.
“Faith,” the girl supplied, wiping her entire forearm across her nose as she backed against the door.
Christina mentally kicked herself. Remembering their names was rule one. She knew that.
Faith waved a soggy reindeer head in Christina’s general direction. The ragged, stumpy protrusions sprouting from the top didn’t bear any resemblance to antlers, much less the hands after which they were patterned.
Surfing the internet for emergency craft ideas, Christina thought that gluing handprint antler cut outs to reindeer heads seemed like a fun, easy craft; but then, she wasn’t the only one left drained and disillusioned by overly optimistic hopes for Camp Edson’s impromptu Christmas Camp.
She had been sorting through a collection of stubby scarves and half-finished hats, questioning the wisdom of counting on her new-found knitting skills for gift-giving purposes when the e-mail from her aunt Meg appeared on her computer screen just before eleven o’clock one night last week—December 18th, to be exact.
Nothing about the last minute request surprised her. Meg Wilson was no stranger to big goals or impossible challenges. After all, she’d left a high-paying, fast-paced career as a rock-climbing instructor at a Manhattan sporting complex to manage the affairs of young, disadvantaged campers with her husband, Michael and a mostly teen-aged staff at a rural camp in upstate New York. No way was Meg going to turn down a last minute request from Social Services to take in eight kids for the holidays. She told the social worker yes on the spot—those kids would celebrate Christmas with her and Michael and her adopted daughter, Dee, right in their cozy log cabin if it came to that.
But that wasn’t necessary. By December 21st, Christina found herself in a whirlwind of cutting, pasting, baking, and frosting alongside an entire team of former camp counselors and community volunteers who worked in shifts to make Christmas a reality for the displaced kids.
She glanced at the wall clock as she swept brown reindeer scraps and stray eyeballs into a large dustpan. Six hours! she calculated in relief. Tonight she would sleep in her own bed, full of her mom’s cookies and pumpkin pie. She was glad to have done her part, but even happier to be heading home. Even though Camp Edson had long since become more to her than convenient summer job, she had to admit that the past four days hadn’t been among her best at the camp. The kids were rowdy, the staff was weary, and unless something pretty miraculous happened pretty fast, anyone heading expectantly toward the Douglas fir in the lodge tomorrow morning would be on their way toward a big disappointment.
A single drop of icy wet precipitation hit Christina’s face as she headed up the path to the lodge. She frowned, wiping her forehead in disgust. That’s all we need, she mentally grumbled. Her frown deepened at the sight of the stooped figure pushing a broom aimlessly across the floor of the screen porch, eyes downcast as though studying the assembling dirt. Ostensibly the volunteer janitor for the week, Mr. Engal performed a continuous circuit of sweeping witnessed by multiple sources at all hours of the day and night. Adding to the growing body of rumors and lore was the fact that no one had caught so much as a glimpse of his face.
Christina skirted past the old man and made a beeline for the kitchen entrance to the lodge, the large L-shaped cabin that was the hub of activity at Camp Edson. Anna, the cook with a heart as large as her ample Italian frame, was sliding a tray of cookies into a large, industrial oven as the door slammed, announcing Christina’s entrance.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Anna was saying, thumb pressed against her fingers in as she waved her arm in an expansive gesture.
“Well,” Meg said, “They’re going to call back to confirm, but it certainly seems like it.” She tossed her sleek auburn ponytail over her shoulder, scribbling something on a note pad. Although her tone was cautious, Christina could tell by her expression that she’d located an eleventh-hour source for donated Christmas gifts. Finding an organization with gifts left to give had proven to be the bane of Christmas Camp. The church down the road sent volunteers and vitamins, but not a single video. Social Services sent sandwiches, but seemed fresh out of shirts and socks. At lunch there’d been a rumor of a Women’s Guild with a few leftover gifts from their annual Presents for People drive, but the lead ran cold when the organization’s founder delivered nothing but tidings of meager membership and feeble funding.
Christina gave a gasp of excitement at the news. Clothes and toys for the campers, and all in time for Christmas morning! She could leave Christmas Camp with a happy ending. Relieved and happy, she took a deep breath, savoring the smell of Anna’s roasting turkey. The cook was preparing a big Christmas Eve meal, after which she, and most of the rest of the volunteer staff would head home to celebrate Christmas with their families. Thoughts of turkey and mashed potatoes for the road and dessert waiting at home seemed a fitting finale to the rocky week.
Christina peered over the long counter which separated the kitchen from the lounge, the gigantic living room that was the center of social life at Camp Edson. Michael had just returned from the attic, laden with ornament-filled boxes into which the campers dove with glee. Christina watched as Dee, the former troubled camper she helped find a home with her aunt and uncle, patiently guided the younger kids’ ornament-clutching fists to the tree’s upper branches. Wavy brown hair pulled back with a silk scarf complimenting her mocha-toned skin, Dee bore little resemblance to the scared and scarred child Christina met her first summer at camp. Christina briefly wondered if any of the current batch of Christmas campers had similar potential, but her thoughts darkened as the broom-pushing janitor swept his way across her line of vision.
“Again with the broom! What’s with this guy?” Christina exclaimed in irritation. Anna’s mouth went into a flat line as she shook her head. “He’s just doing his job, dear,” she soothed.
“Aren’t janitors supposed to come with, you know, a range of skills? And if sweeping is his specialty, where was he this afternoon in the craft cabin?” Christina countered in exasperation. “He was too busy up here eavesdropping on everyone to send his broom into real action.”
“Church down the road said he’s the best they’ve got. Sent him up here special,” Anna insisted. “And as far as the craft cabin,” Anna said, “No way can we send a volunteer in to clean up after what goes on in there.” The old woman flashed a mischievous glance toward Christina, recalling any number of the artistic mishaps which shaped Christina’s first summer leading arts and crafts at camp. After giving Christina a playful swat with her towel, Anna turned her attention to the turkey, frowning as she tapped the thermostat. “Cooking kind of fa
st,” she muttered, fiddling with the oven’s temperature control knob.
She wandered out to the lounge. Jimmy, the kid with the thick glasses, circled the tree, making inane rhymes based on the lyrics of Christmas carols. Christina scrapped any leftover thoughts she may have had concerning his future success. This kid was just out there. She glanced toward Faith, who had also lost interest in decorating and was folding and creasing what little was left of her reindeer. Christina sighed. Didn’t these kids appreciate what they were doing? Their attention spans seemed shorter than the stubby bristles on the end of Mr. Engal’s broom.
“Snow!” shrieked one of the campers, running toward the big picture window behind the tree, leading a stampede that threatened to create an indoor shower of glass ornaments. “That’s not snow,” Michael said,