CAMP CARLISLE
Scheduling their children’s Carbide Camp dates and juggling when to go on our family vacation took two people, a chemical engineer with keen math skills and a homemaker who kept a calendar of the dates for three camps with different sessions. It was not easy for my parents since Cliffside accepted boys and girls from 8-12 (separate boy and girl sessions), Carlisle took girls from 13-16, and Camelot had boys from 13-16. By the time I was a first-year camper, the enrollment had soared in all of the camps, so the competition was keen.
When Carbide’s staff mailed the sessions' dates and registration materials, you needed to return them quickly, or you might not get the session you wanted. People like me were on pins and needles until we received our acceptance letters. My brother Rob loved his time at camp, same with my sisters Jill and Angel. My youngest brother Rex called home after his first few days at Cliffside, asking that my parents pick him up and take him home. He did not like the experience, which was fine, and I do not think anyone tried to convince him otherwise. Even at eight years old, he knew what he liked and disliked. So that meant only four of us went to summer camps. I am unsure if my other siblings went to Carbide camps every summer, but I did.
When Carbide’s IRD team wrote their prospectus in 1946: They assumed that more boys than girls would be interested in camp. At the time, it was thought that ‘girls lead more sheltered lives, and only a few parents would relinquish their girls into the care of others. Four camping periods were set aside for boys and only two for girls that first year. The final enrollment in 1946 disproved this thinking because 40 percent of the campers were girls. After 1946, the enrollments ran 50 percent boys, 50 percent girls.’*
Whereas Cliffside was an experiment in child development using well-regarded educational theories advocated for younger children, Carlisle and Camelot seemed much more progressive in their approach. Cliffside’s longtime Director, John Goetz, wrote a master’s thesis in 1957 based on data he’d collected concerning the success of Cliffside in meeting the goals set out in the prospectus. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, no one carried out an assessment of the impact on the thousands of young people that attended Carlisle beginning in 1953 and Camelot starting in 1949 until they both closed in 1983. Union Carbide was sold to Dupont in 2001. I understand that files related to the camps were no longer available to the public.
After it closed in the late 70s, Camp Cliffside deteriorated over time. Today little is left to stand for all the children who became well-rounded adults, partly because of the guidance of counselors, CITs, and loving directors like Mr. Goetz. Camelot and Carlisle were located in such a remote area northeast of Charleston that the environment and kudzu have taken them over now by all accounts. Almost nothing is left of these two camps except a hunting and fishing lodge and the memories of campers who were fortunate to have had the opportunity to participate in a developmental experiment of major proportions... that maybe no one ever tracked or studied.
*
I was ecstatic the first time I was old enough to register for Camp Carlisle. I’d heard stories at Cliffside about its sister camp for older girls, but I had no idea what to expect. I was a few months shy of thirteen years old, with light reddish-brown hair, still too many freckles, and was beginning to develop boobs. Barely. We’d gone to Holly River in June of the same summer.
We pulled into Carbide’s Tech Center in South Charleston, and Dad parked the wagon. I had a new blue trunk for my clothes with my last name stenciled on the top. Dad took it out of the car and hoisted it onto a school bus to take all the luggage, food, and staples to the camps. We got back into the car, and he drove to the New York Central Station in West Charleston, where everyone planning on attending the camps was awaiting transportation. Later, they used old school buses to transport campers and staff to both camps.
Carbide had made arrangements for 200 campers and staff (Counselors, Counselors in Training/CITs, Junior Counselors/JCs, cooks, director, nurse, and other crew) to travel by train on tracks that ran north from Charleston along the Elk River through Coonskin Park down to the tiny village of Quick. The train followed Blue Creek toward Carlisle and Camelot on an older rail line that I understand was used to transport coal back to the furnaces at Carbide. The tracks ended about two miles from the camps, where they let us off.
I don't think I’d ever ridden on a train before, but I felt at ease once I could no longer see civilization out the windows. The terrain along the tracks reminded me of the state parks where my family often camped, set in the mountains with trees as thick as thieves and little evidence of humans. We got off the train, and all of us began to hike along Blue Creek to Carlisle, and then the boys would go on up the road to Camelot. Beyond Camelot was the tiny village of Galahad, so you can understand how the King Arthur theme of the two camps came about. Every time I walked down the dirt road toward Carlisle, it felt like a real adventure. We had to cross Blue Creek several times, with water reaching our shins, and sometimes push through thickets of overgrown brush that appeared to be overtaking the road in stretches. Along the way, I met some of the girls I’d spend the next two weeks with, all children of Union Carbide employees.
I noticed that the older girls ahead of me wore headscarves, pedal pushers, or rolled-up jeans, t-shirts, tennis shoes and were carrying walking sticks. I realized this must be the accepted camp garb that I should imitate from then on, and I did. I recently found some old labeled photos of girls hiking at Carlisle in the 50s, and they wore the same camp attire.
Out of the blue, my hiking group became silent. I could see that Blue Creek had been dammed-up, which created a man-made lake that acted as Camp Carlisle’s swimming pool, with a diving board perched over the water and several canoes lined up on the bank. There was a small wooden bridge across Blue Creek. I spotted a trail that led from the bridge to a fenced corral with six horse stalls under a rickety-looking roof. In front of us was a gravel road, and next to the road was an English-styled sign with the words Camp Carlisle in an old-world script.
As we were about to turn onto the road, I had a flashback to the day I’d first set eyes on Cliffside, holding my mother’s hand. The cabins there had been neatly stained, an American flag was blowing in the wind, and squeaky-clean children wearing Cliffside t-shirts smiled at me as they headed toward the baseball field. Camp Cliffside was a magical haven where we would learn to become more self-confident away from what were often conflicting distractions.
Now walking into Camp Carlisle with a motley group of raggedy-looking teenagers, I had an entirely different impression. Several small buildings weathered a dark brown, lined up in a slight crescent formation against a dense stand of pines and rhododendron. I guessed these structures were the camper’s cabins. A larger building sat in the center of the crescent, which looked a bit like the dining hall at Cliffside, but with wing additions on either side. Beyond that were more cabins, maybe a dispensary, a director’s cabin, and the like. If I had to describe the entire scene with two words, it would be: rustically beautiful.
Looking back on the first time I saw Carlisle, I wonder if those visionary IRD employees had planned all of this. Cliffside was for children; it was not far from their homes; almost everything was structured. There were rest periods and numerous rules, and adults were watching over them to ensure they’d be protected. It was age-appropriate but not an open and empowering environment. At Cliffside, we were not ready for that, at least not yet.
At Carlisle, we’d traveled on a train and left the real world behind. Then we walked two miles into the middle of the wilderness to discover who we were and how we might someday become adults who would appreciate this amazing experiment with our young lives. Carlisle counselors acted more like friends than supervisors. There were few rules other than for safety reasons or having to do with the boys at Camelot. Lessons were individually applied and not as structured, self-expression was encouraged, plays, musicals, and singing were welcomed, not silenced, and best of all for me.... storytelling was the essential underpinning of the camp. It also was an opportunity for the kind of absolute freedom I’d never experienced before, and I would spend the rest of my days searching for its equivalent.
Then, like so many times at Cliffside, the Carlisle girls unexpectedly began to sing as we meandered up the road toward the winged building in the center, or what I heard a girl call The Castle. There were dozens of girls singing, and the song went like this:
I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.
Chorus
Val-deri, Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri, Val-dera,
My knapsack on my back.
I love to wander by the stream
That dances in the sun,
So joyously it calls to me,
Come! Join my happy song!
Chorus
I wave my hand to all I meet
And they wave back to me,
And blackbirds call so loud and sweet
From ev’ry green wood tree.
Chorus
Oh, may I go a-wandering
Until the day I die!
Oh, may I always laugh and sing,
Beneath God’s clear blue sky.
After hearing them sing the song so sweetly, I knew I was meant to be there, at Carlisle, and with girls like these. It may take time, but I hoped this rag-tag bunch of older girls would come to like me. Unfortunately, I’d found that whenever girls get together like this, they can form groups that tend to be exclusive and off-putting. I had experienced similar cliques at school, so I knew they could also be cruel and harbor bullies. But with the help of my parents, my first boyfriend, Harry, and my time at Cliffside, I’d first learned to love myself, which was huge, but I also learned to allow others to love me, too.
And so I began my charm offensive at Carlisle. I decided to use the technique Harry said had worked for him. Bullies, he claimed, rarely go after people who radiate confidence. So I should hold my head high, be proud of myself, and never again allow a bully the satisfaction of goading me into reacting. And if I wanted friends, I needed to learn how to be one first. Finally, he said that he was initially attracted to me because he thought I was pretty. Still, I’d also looked him square in the eyes as an equal. Straight away, he felt I was a person he wanted to get to know better. I would soon realize that Harry had given me excellent advice because I attended Camp Carlisle six weeks later for the first time.
*
I spent the afternoon getting my cabin and counselor assignments, picking up my blue trunk, sitting with scores of other luggage in front of The Castle. My counselor was a tall athletically-built blond girl of about nineteen that I’ll call Mo. She had an easy-going way about her and didn’t smile a lot, but when she did, it was infectious. I made up my bed with sheets my mother had packed, sorted out my meager toiletries, and met the other girls in my cabin. About half of the girls were first-year campers like me, and the rest were second, third, and fourth-year girls. All of them seemed nice, and most had open and smiling faces. We sat on our beds and listened to Mo as she laid out the daily schedule of activities, listed all the things we could do in our free time, and claimed there were many opportunities where Camps Camelot and Carlisle got together. The most popular get-togethers were hootenannies, dances, sing-a-longs, cookouts, tubing down the Creek, and overnights. I soon learned that Camp Carlisle and Camp Camelot carried surreptitious raids on each other for fun. I thought Overnights might be cool, especially if they involved horses and camping under the stars.
Before supper, first-year campers were given a tour of Carlisle by the director, Al Ball. He pointed out the available facilities and services. He hoped we’d participate in most activities but said it was not mandatory. However, he expected everyone to attend supper at The Castle, where new events were announced every evening. We walked past the ball fields, badminton/tennis court, lake and swimming area, rifle and archery ranges, and the horse corral and stables. I knew from the moment I saw the six horses peeking out of their stalls that this was where I’d spend much of my free time.
My days at Carlisle quickly fell into place. First, I participated in the activities set out for my cabin during the mornings. Still, when we had free time in the afternoons, I spent every minute I could at the stables. A girl named Sky had been hired to help the Horse Counselor, a sophomore at Marshall University called Jan. Sky was responsible for keeping the stables clean, feeding and watering the horses, and ensuring their stalls were mucked out. She was short like me and had the complexion of someone who’d spent much of her time outdoors. Sky had straight black hair cut short in a boyish style, and she seemed about the same age as most other counselors, eighteen or nineteen years old. She wore men’s jeans, a loose-fitting blue denim shirt, and rubber boots almost every day I worked with her. I later learned that Sky shared a room with the nurse in a small cabin along the row. Since we both loved horses and she knew so much more about them than I did, I liked her immediately.
Sky told a group of campers who had signed up for horseback riding that her most important job was teaching them how to ride a horse correctly. They’d learn the importance of treating the animal with care and respect, how to utilize each item in the tack, how to tie up safely, and the art of grooming. Next came saddling up, adjusting the girth strap, learning how to fit the bit to not hurt the horse’s tender mouth, and preventing the horse from bolting while you were trying to mount him. Sky stressed that proper mounting was vital because new riders often had difficulty and could fall off and get hurt. Finally, she promised they’d learn to coax the horse to walk, trot, and canter.
The Castle had a small library where I found books on horseback riding for beginners, the anatomy and diseases of horses and how to care for them, and tips on getting your horse to do what you want him to do. I signed them out and stayed up late with a flashlight, eagerly reading each one. The first time I visited the stables, I volunteered to help Sky muck the stalls, groom the horses, clean the tack, or do whatever she needed to be done. Even though there were CITs and JCs on duty at the stables, Sky took my offer of help because she said it was a big job. I must say that I was not angling for honor camper, which I would not be eligible to get until my fourth year. Still, down the road, my willingness to pitch in at the stables would give me a leg up (as they say in horse-speak) for other awards at Carlisle.
Along with learning as much as I could about horses by hanging around the stables during her off time, Sky sometimes took me and other campers out for a ride away from Carlisle, heading back toward the village of Quick. I had ridden horses before at a friend’s house in Teays Valley and on our family vacations out west, so I knew enough to get myself on a horse’s back and ride, but not the accepted practice for doing it by the book. While we walked the horses across creeks and over some rough terrain, the conversation was easy. I want to think that we had become friends, even though we had a few years of age differences. I could tell we had something important in common, but I didn’t know what that was until Thursday afternoon of my second week at Carlisle.
*
In the evenings and during the mornings, I was busy making new friends, swimming in the river to get my next certification, at the rifle range, trying to better my aim and score, and doing my best to be an overall good camper. I did not go on any of the Camelot raids, but in subsequent years, I was known to be an expert in hanging toilet paper on shrubs.
When walking past the cabins, I often heard the sounds of a guitar and the voices of girls singing drifting out through the screen doors. Many girls brought guitars from home and carried them to almost everything we did. I’d see small groups singing around the vespers campfire site, and at least one girl would play her guitar with them. They’d have their own sing-a-longs down by the river, after supper at The Castle, and walking down the road to Camelot as we often did. It was a treat to hear music in the air. Some of the songs they’d sing we’d learned at Cliffside, but there were others specific to Carlisle.
My love of singing began as a child in church but became a part of my musical awareness at Cliffside. However, it was at Carlisle that I learned to sing in harmony, and it still sends chills up my arms reading the words of camp songs where harmony was often used.
Some of the Carlisle songs I remember best were: Boom Boom Ain’t it Great to be Crazy, On the Dummy Line, Good News-Chariots Comin’, Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley, I Believe, In The Pines, Little Brown Mouse, Mississippi Mud, Mountain Dew, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, Oh Those West Virginia Hills, You Can’t Get To Heaven, Carolina in the Pines, Blowin’ In the Wind, Where the Rhododendron Grows, and Michael Row the Boat Ashore.
If I could send out a survey to all women who’d attended the camps as girls, I asked them: What was your favorite thing to do at Cliffside and Carlisle? I am positive I’d know the answer: singing.
*
Late on Wednesday afternoon, two days before I’d leave Carlisle for the summer, I was cleaning up the tack room when Sky entered. She was cradling a small black cat in her arms. It was a cat I’d seen around camp, and I assumed it belonged to someone.
“What’s her name, Sky?”
Sky gently placed the cat on the ground, then replied, “Don’t know, it’s a stray, been here all summer. Before camp ends in late August, I need to find her a good home, or she’ll starve up here in the winter. Know anyone who’d like a great mouse catcher? She’s kept the mouse population down in the stables, so she’d be good on a farm.”
My mother disliked cats, so that was not an option. I shook my head. “No, I don’t, but I’ll ask around. I’ve seen several dogs and cats at Carlisle. Are they all strays?”
“Some are, but not all of them. Sad to say, lots of people drop off pets around here.” Sky sighed deeply, then said, “ Listen, wanna take a ride with me tomorrow afternoon, about 2:00? Friday, I will be busy getting everything ready for the next session, and Saturday, you’ll be heading home. I want to show you something special.”
“Sure,” I said and grinned, “I always like riding with you.”
“Wear your bathing suit under your clothes. Lots of creeks to cross, so we might get wet.” She smiled at me, then hurried to the coral to help a girl mount one of the horses.
*
While getting the two horses saddled and bridled, Sky reviewed her plans for our ride. Throughout the last two weeks, I’d seen her ride out with individual campers and larger groups. They sometimes headed west and other times rode east toward Camelot. I’d ridden both ways myself with Sky, so I was familiar with the routes.
She was cinching in the girth strap on the saddle we had strapped onto Pedro, a gelding I usually rode. When finished, she said, “I’m gonna take you on a ride I usually save for fourth-year campers, but I feel you have the experience; I also think you’ll be up for the challenge.”
“Thanks for the confidence. Where are we going...to Camelot?” I asked.
“Nope, this place I want you to see is several miles from here. We’ll go west, crossing Blue Creek a few times. Then we’ll head... up.” She dusted her hands on the backside of her jeans. “It’s slow right now, but CITs will hold the fort here for me. And I told the horse counselor about our trip, so she’ll know where we’re going.”
“Cool, but um...what do you mean by...up?”
She pointed to the hills behind the stall. “We’ll head up a trail that circles that mountain behind us. Now, untie Pedro, and I’ll get Jenny. Did you bring some water for drinking?”
“Yep, a canteen, and I’ll strap it on the saddle horn,” I said. And in a few minutes, we’d mounted our horses and headed out of camp.
Once out onto the dirt road leading back toward Quick, she instructed me on how to assist the horse in climbing the steeper stretches ahead. I was to keep a firm hold of the reins at all times, lean forward into the climb with my legs firmly in the stirrups, and do my best to keep my right foot in contact with the horse’s girth. Let the horse have his head, she cautioned, don’t get scared and pull back on the reins. It will confuse the animal. If I should fall off, God forbid, tuck my head into my body and roll away from his hoofs like a ball. Ultimately, she said that her horse Jenny and my horse Pedro had ridden this mountain trail before, plus they were steady-as-you-go horses we could trust.
That was all she said for a while. Sky rode Jenny at a walk, and I was beside her on Pedro. We crossed Blue Creek several times, from one side to the other and back, and as she’d predicted, the water was deeper in some stretches. Finally, after what I guessed was about two miles, she turned off the road onto a narrow dirt trail.
“Stay alert. Pretty soon, we’ll begin a gradual ascent. Remember my instructions, Kat.”
Very few people in my life called me Kat, but the ones that did were friends I cherish. We rode single file as the trail was like a deer path through the woods. I had to duck often so branches wouldn’t slap against my face. Soon, the pitch of the trail increased, and we began to climb around the side of a mountain. It took me a bit to adjust my seating and lean forward into the climb. Pedro was sure-footed, and it was apparent this wasn’t his first time climbing on such a trail, so I trusted him.
Sometimes the trail narrowed so much I got that fluttery feeling in my belly, but we managed to stay on course, and I did not fall off. I was not scared, I wanted to justify Sky’s confidence in me, plus I did not want to screw up. I couldn’t look to my right for a while since the drop-off was steep and fell straight to the bottom. We were still amidst a stand of thick-limbed trees and couldn’t see that far. That is until we finally climbed the stretch up onto a wider section of the trail. Sky reigned in Jenny and coaxed her to the right so I’d have room to steer Pedro in beside her. I had not looked up until he halted as though he’d done it dozens of times.
Pointing, Sky said to me, “Look at that; isn’t it magnificent!”
“Oh my gosh, it is! Wow. Even though we are nowhere near the top, I can’t believe the view from here.” Sky nodded and looked pleased.
I was so mesmerized by the scene before me that I could hardly speak. In my vision, I could not recognize anything that looked like a camp or house, just acres and acres of trees and mountain ranges. Then, above my head, I saw an eagle soaring on a tailwind.
Sky said, “We’ll continue on this same trail, then begin our descent to the bottom. We should get to my special place shortly. On the downhills, cling to Pedro’s girth with your legs, and don’t jerk the reins. He knows what to do as long as you do not confuse him. Let him have his head unless he tries to take off, which he shouldn’t. But if he does, remember you’re the boss. Resist the urge to check him, as he might think you want him to stop suddenly. Instead, talk to him, keep him calm, and that will keep you in control.”
That was it; we were off again. I’d forgotten to get a sip of water, and my mouth was dry as sandpaper. I decided to wait for it because the scene before me was breathtaking. Off to the right, I saw a waterfall tumble down a deep crevice in the mountain. From this vantage point, the falls were even more spectacular. In the distance and beyond the falls, I noticed a white trail of smoke rising into the sky and guessed someone was cooking or burning brush.
The descent went well. I let Pedro have his head and held the reins firmly but did not try to hold him back, even though it was daunting. Finally, we reached the bottom. Before me was a jungle of tangled honeysuckle vines and thick, twisted stems of poison ivy climbing a long-dead Ash tree. I could see no way to push past them until I heard Sky’s voice. That’s when I saw a narrow path that swung out around the jungle of vegetation and to the right.
“Hey, keep going. There’s an opening up here. Come on, you’ve gotta see this!”
I urged Pedro forward and saw Sky on Jenny as they disappeared into the snarled vegetation. I had to duck my head to make it through what appeared to be a narrow passageway through the vines. Pedro did not need directions from me; he knew the way. We pushed through the overgrown brush and came into a softly lit opening. Good boy, I said to him, good job, Pedro. Just at that moment, he suddenly halted in his tracks.
Jenny was grazing on the deep green grass next to a large pond, and Sky was standing on a boulder resembling a stone diving board jutting out over the water.
I remember shaking my head, for the area surrounding the pond was what I’d later describe as an evergreen grotto, with weeping blue spruce, prickly holly berry trees, and red pines fighting for precious space that I guessed wasn’t more than a hundred yards across.
After dismounting and urging Pedro to walk to the water, I finally looked more closely at the pond. I have never seen any other body of water that was so crystal clear to this day. I marveled that the water sparkled as a thin streak of sunlight found purchase through the dense trees and seemed to shimmer on the surface. At the bottom, I saw fish swimming in what appeared to be slow motion and minnows racing around in the shallows. I was awestruck by the beauty of the pond and the setting around it. The grotto reminded me of a scene in Disney’s animated films. I almost expected the bullfrog sitting on a lily pad along the edge to start talking to me, Alice in Wonderland style. Instead, I wanted to laugh and shout at the same time. That was how special Sky’s place was to me.
Sky laughed, slapped her thigh, and said, “I knew you’d understand how wonderful this place is, Kat. From the start, I could see in your eyes that you understood what magical means. Now, let’s shed these clothes down to our bathing suits and dive into the water. It’s about ten feet deep in the center and four or five near the edge. Come on, we’ve had a great ride, it’s hot, and the water is amazing.” Before I could reply, she’d stripped off her shoes and socks, slipped out of her clothes to a one-piece blue bathing suit, then walked to the edge of the boulder and drove in like the jungle queen.
I looked over at Pedro, who, like Jenny, was grazing on the grass. I had no other excuse but to follow Sky’s example. Once on the boulder, I kicked off my shoes and socks, pulled down my jeans, and took off my shirt to reveal a worn-out black bathing suit. I boldly walked to the edge but then hesitated. Sky was floating on her back, eyes closed, and she had a satisfied grin. I paused for a moment, then dove into the water.
Once I broke the surface, I had to gasp. The water was warm, like a sauna I’d never had or bath water after you soaked for a while. It was glorious. I turned over onto my back and did a few strokes to take me out to the center of the pond, then I floated like I weighed nothing. I can only explain it this way: It was as if I’d been transported to another place and time, for I’d never experienced that sense of euphoria before. I took small quick breaths to awaken my senses since I felt myself drifting off somewhere in my mind.
“Cool, huh?” Sky said after she swam to my side. “Let’s swim for a while longer.”
And so we did. It was the most relaxing swim of my life, lazy strokes around the pond, dog-paddling in place while I looked around the grotto. It was a special place, indeed.
After we’d had enough of swimming, both of us climbed out of the water. The pond bed was littered with small stones and leaves. I had feared mud and wiggly creatures underfoot. We stretched out on the boulder and let the air dry our suits. Then, after a bit, we talked.
“Sky, what is this place?”
““It is a small pond fed by an underground mineral spring. Throughout Virginia and West Virginia, there is a lot of what some people call…healing springs or warm springs. East of here is a famous place called White Sulphur Springs. Back in the l800s, people went there to sit in what they called the ‘healing springs,’ thinking the warm sulfur water would cure them of illnesses. This warm spring is similar, with the same minerals and sulfur in the water. It took me several trips here to find the actual spring. There’s a run-off into the woods over there,” she pointed. “We are not that far from Blue Creek, and I followed the run-off until I saw that it spilled into the Creek. I think of this place as unique, for there are water frogs I have never seen anywhere else. There are no predators here that I have seen, which is odd. And I have never seen another human here besides those I’ve invited. I am still trying to figure out this grotto's strange yet beautiful environment.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, letting my eyes span the grotto. “When did you discover it?”
“Two years ago, my boyfriend and I were riding that trail we were just on, which circles the mountain. Then, on a whim, we let the horses have their head, and they turned down the path to this simple paradise. He and I still come here to swim, but not during camp. I have only taken one other camper here, Kat, and that was the first session this summer. She’s a fourth-year camper and will study biology at Morris Harvey College this fall.”
“If you and your boyfriend discovered this place, and you come here swimming....does that mean you live nearby?”
Sky sat cross-legged on the bounder, then wrapped her hands around her legs. “Yes, I live on the other side of the mountain we rode around. It’s about thirty miles from Carlisle to my house on back roads. We live in a small community of people who have worked in the coal mines for decades. Most of the people there are poor, and others are poor and sick. It is the only home they’ve ever known and the only home I’ve ever known. My father works for Carbide, but his office is in the coalfields. He’s one of the men that makes sure the coal gets loaded into the train cars correctly and keeps a record of all the coal by weight that goes from the mine to the coal-fired furnaces at Carbide.” She sighed. “It is a hard, dirty job.”
I didn’t tell her that my father was an engineer at Carbide; somehow, I feared it would sound like bragging. “It does sound like tough work. How did you get the job at Carlisle?”
“Well, they could not find anyone who had experience with horses that could work full time out here this summer and help the horse counselor in the stables. Finally, someone told folks at Carbide that I had horses, taught kids to ride, lived nearby, and I might be looking for a summer job. So I applied, had an interview, and got the job. I won’t be able to do this next year since I hope to attend West Virginia University’s Veterinarian School if I can get a scholarship. I plan on applying to other schools, just in case. On a scholarship, I completed my first two years at the West Virginia Institute of Technology in Montgomery. I have a 3.8 average. Mr. Ball said he’d write me a good recommendation.”
I was instantly flabbergasted but asked, “You want to be a vet?”
“Yep, since I was about 6 years old. You see, people in my...village can’t afford to go to a vet. So for as long as I can recall, they treat their animals’ injuries and illnesses with homemade medicines from plants and roots. It is what they call...mountain medicine. But unfortunately, many animals die, and some are in terrible pain. I could not stand to see that happen, so two years ago... I set up a small free clinic in my village where people can bring their animals. I treat them with a more modern approach and medical solutions.”
I swallowed hard, then said, “That is wonderful, Sky. I am so impressed. How do you get modern medicine? Don’t you have to be a vet to do that?
“I have a friend in the Charleston area who’s a veterinarian and a kind man. He says I’m like an intern or a vet in training. I evaluate the animal, determine what I feel is wrong, call my friend, and ask for his advice. He often sends me the medicines and other materials I need for free as a service to my community. Sometimes, he’ll come out and see for himself when it is serious. Just recently, he offered to give me a recommendation. He is an alumnus of WVU and says he’ll call the Veterinary Department there and submit a personal recommendation to the Dean, his friend. That part really excites me.”
“That is fantastic! You should be proud of yourself.” I hesitated, trying to get my jumbled thoughts in order. “I am rooting for you, friend. You’ll be a credit to your family and your village. You know, I... wanted to be a veterinarian when I was younger. However, my parents felt I was too sensitive to be able to handle the heartbreaking aspects of that career, and eventually, I agreed. They were probably right, I am not tough enough to be a vet, but I admire your determination and strength. I have no doubt you’ll be a good veterinarian someday.”
Sky shook her head. “You should never give up on a dream so easily. If you want to do
something with your life, do it. I have seen your beautiful drawings in the Art Journal you carry around. Perhaps you are meant to have a career that you feel is more suited to your artistic talents. Whatever you choose, put your heart and soul into it, and you will be successful. You are a special person, Kat. I knew that almost right away. You have a strong spirit. Never forget that. Follow that spirit and listen to your heart, and you can be anything you want... if you work hard enough. That is a valid goal for anyone, but most do not listen to their heart or follow their spirit.”
I was filled with so much emotion that I just nodded but said nothing more. We rose, put our riding clothes back on, led the horses out of the grotto, and then began our trek back to camp. Before we climbed up the mountain-side trail, Sky turned in her saddle and said, “Let’s keep the secret place secret. That way, it will remain special.” I grunted in agreement, and we rode home in silent reflection.
*
“Kathy, where are you going? We leave for home in fifteen minutes,” my counselor Mo said sternly.
I was heading out the door of our cabin when I said to her, “I know, but I need to say goodbye to someone. It won’t take me long, I promise.”
I did not wait to hear her reply. I ran across the grounds as fast as possible, past the rifle range and then to the stables. It was deserted except for six horses and one riding instructor, Sky, who was tossing hay into a feed trough.
“Hello,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be hiking out of camp about now?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I just wanted to say thanks and goodbye.” I hurried up to her and threw my arms around her neck. I hugged her firmly, then let go.”
She grinned.“ I’ve enjoyed riding with you, Kat. And you did a great job in the stables with the horses. Someday, I see you making a difference. So don’t let me down.” She paused, then added, sounding sad, “I do hope I see you again somehow.”
Tears filled my eyes as I said, “I hope I see you again, too. What you said to me in the grotto meant a lot. I will never forget your words. Be a good vet, Sky; the animals need you.”
“I’ll try my best, Kat. But, remember, make yourself proud, and others will follow you.”
I gave her a quick smile, turned and ran back to the group of girls in front of my cabin, already beginning their hike out of Carlisle and back to the real world.
*
That was decades ago, and yet I have never forgotten Sky. I am ashamed to say that after that first year at Carlisle, I did not try to see her again or contact her somehow. It happens. We get busy and let nice people slip away without keeping in touch. It is an excuse, but I was a teenager. I finally had goals, a passion for life, and the future was bright.
In my defense...I never knew her name. Even after all this time, it is impossible to find someone when you do not know their real full name. Sky was a nickname I learned while I was at Carlisle. By the time I did try to locate her years later, the camps were closed, and staff who might’ve known who she was... were gone. I still cannot find the village where she lived since I never knew what it was called either. A dead-end, it seems. But in the end, it may not matter.
She was a mystery I never solved. And most likely, I’ll never see her again. But I know one thing for certain: I’ll never forget her, and I’ll never forget her love of animals and dedication to their well-being. I had not even thought of the concept of Guardians of the Road at that point in my life, but looking back on it now, Sky had to be the first person I would have honored with that title. Without question, Sky was the epitome of a Guardian of the Road and a person I have used as a role model. Whenever I have faced a life or death crisis involving an animal, I think of Sky and ask myself…what would she do in my place.
I do envision her as a veterinarian. I see her helping people who need a vet for their animals but haven’t the means to pay for the services. I bet she received a federal grant for free clinics in poor communities. I will never know for sure, but her spirit was so strong that I could not see her doing anything else. Truth be told, I think she was the key inspiration for a true GOTR since the best kind of Guardian would be someone like Sky. I hope that during my lifetime, I have lived up to her expectations of me and that she’d see me as a fellow Guardian.
Maybe she’ll read this blog someday and send me an email or a letter. Oh, what joy that would be for me.
I hope you have had a long and happy life so far, Sky. God Speed, and write to me.
*
Reflecting on that first experience at Camp Carlisle is easy now. I used Harry’s advice while there, but in the end, I had already woven that advice into every thread of my being. I finally knew how to deal with abusive people, and with a couple of exceptions, I never again allowed a bully the opportunity to get a reaction from me. I fit in at Carlisle, had real friends at Carlisle, and will be forever grateful for the opportunity to have been a part of such a laudatory experiment in child development. If I had to grade them, I’d give the Carbide Camps an A+.
*
IMPORTANT BACKSTORY
Near the end of my sophomore year in high school, I entered a West Virginia state-wide competition for young artists. Julia Yavargolis, the Hungarian portraitist from whom I’d taken art classes for years, encouraged me to apply. Instead of entering a painting, she suggested I try my hand at sculpting in clay. So, without any background or experience in the medium, I created a clay sculpture, 18” tall, of two elephants standing on their hind legs and courting as if in a dance. Julia had a potter friend who helped me ‘fire’ what I titled The Elephant Dance in his kiln. With his guidance, I then applied a grey and rose glaze, and we fired it in the kiln a second time. My sculpture won first place in the state and was displayed with the other first-place winners at the Capitol Building in Charleston.
I soon discovered that along with the first-place award, I would also receive an invitation to participate in a unique program sponsored by West Virginia University for gifted and talented young artists and musicians. If I accepted the invitation, I could spend several weeks during the upcoming summer at WVU and receive individual instruction from university master art professors on campus, all free of charge. Half of the program was designated for young visual artists like me from West Virginia. The other half was set aside for talented young musicians from the Philadelphia area. I cannot remember why the Philadelphia kids were included. Still, I was excited that they’d be in the gifted program since most of the musicians were boys entering their junior or senior year in high school.
With my parent’s blessing, I signed up for the program and was thrilled. Not only would I be able to take college-level art classes and receive credit, but I’d be living in a dorm room on WVU’s campus like a typical college kid. When I received a letter from WVU about the details of the program and my stay there, I quickly became concerned because I did not have the clothing I imagined college kids wore on campus. I mainly wore jeans, shorts, and a few Sunday dresses during the summer. At WVU, I really wanted to wear the kind of outfits I coveted on the pages of Sixteen Magazine, but their letter stated that girls were not allowed to wear pants or shorts on campus. With that in mind, I approached my mother about getting store-bought casual dresses, so I would not look like a hick from Hicksville. Those hopes were soon dashed since my mother said they couldn’t afford to buy that many new dresses for me. Instead, she suggested I get some Simplicity patterns and materials and make my own dresses for the weeks I’d be away from home that summer. Resigned, I then faced several obstacles.
First, my expertise in sewing was marginal at best, and Second: my mother had the worst taste in clothing and fabric choices ever. If you don’t believe me, ask my younger sisters. At that time, I didn’t have any close girlfriends, but that would soon change during my junior year in high school in just a couple of months. I finally got the courage to ask Marcella, a sweet and popular girl in my home economics class, if she would help me find some pretty dress patterns at Ben Franklin’s Five and Dime in St. Albans, along with some attractive fabrics. I told her about my plans to go to WVU, and she eagerly signed on as my clothing adviser and sewing mentor. Years later, Marcella would be the maid of honor at my wedding.
This all happened in the summer of 1964. It was the era of miniskirts, long hair, bright colors, abstract designs, the Beatles, Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Mamma Cass. I had saved money from babysitting to buy a transistor radio, which enabled me to listen to the music that still speaks to my heart today. I loved the Mammas and Pappas, the Fifth Dimension, Peter, Paul, and Mary, The Kingston Trio, Sam Cook, the Drifters, and Mary Wells, to name a few of my favorites. With my experience singing at summer camps and occasionally singing in a not-so-great local band in Teays Valley, I knew by heart most of the songs that people my age loved.
I made about eight summer dresses using different patterns and fabrics. They were gently flared sleeveless shift-like dresses on the short side, which was the typical summer outfit for stylish teenagers then. With Marcella’s help, I also made matching bandannas that I thought looked cool. Now I realize they were obviously homemade, but it was the best I could do at the time. Overall, I left for WVU feeling pretty good about myself.
My father drove me to Morgantown in mid-June. It was a long drive on roads that wound up mountains and down hairpin curves in those days. I remember feeling sick to my stomach when we pulled into the dorm's parking lot where I’d be staying. On the way to the university, my father explained how he expected me to act while away from home. I was to ensure that whatever I did while at WVU should reflect positively on my family.
I cannot remember exactly how many teenagers were in the artists and musicians program at WVU, but a good guess might be fifteen artists and about twelve musicians. Once Dad and I hauled the blue trunk to my room in the dorm, he left for home, and I got to know the girls on my floor.
Eventually, there was a meeting in the cafeteria, where all the program’s participants sat on folding chairs and listened to a representative from WVU explain the specifics of our upcoming classes and the rules we must follow while there. Even though they’d sent us a letter about the rules ahead of time, they went over them again. For example, girls in the program must not wear pants, jeans, or shorts on campus. We could wear them inside the dorm but not out in public.
I remember thinking about the rule, trying to figure out why they felt it was necessary to be so protective. I supposed that when girls wore pants or shorts, the clothes tended to be form-fitting, and maybe that was considered inappropriate. Girls were also prohibited from being alone in a car with a boy from the program or other young men while on campus. Personally, I had never been alone with a boy in a car… up until this all-important summer of my young life.
After dinner, all the gifted students gathered in an empty parking lot between my dorm and the adjacent boy’s dorm. Jane, one of my roommates, suggested we have a Hootenanny, or folk music party, where different performers could get up and play instruments or sing. We often had Hootenannies at Carlisle Camp. There, kids would lead the group in singing folk songs, gospel music, camp songs, or tunes we’d heard on the radio or television.
Wearing my favorite blue homemade dress and matching bandanna, I led the WVU group in one song after another with the help of my new friend, Jane. After a while, people called out their favorite songs, and we all joined in to sing them. That’s when I finally noticed the young musicians standing at the back of the group. Most were boys with dark hair and olive skin, which I later realized were hallmarks of their Italian heritage. I soon learned that some of them were from the south side of Philadelphia, where American Bandstand produced its television rock and roll dance show that teenagers across the country watched weekly, including me. I’d have to say that I’d always liked the Italian boys on Bandstand best, with their slicked-back hair and flashing dark eyes that I’d later describe as sexy.
Then someone caught my eye. At the back of the group, one boy stood taller than the rest, with black hair, dark wide-set eyes, and a full mouth. He stared at me, and then a slow smile crossed his lips. Talk about handsome; he was heart-thumping handsome. When I returned his smile, he nodded mischievously. Then, after the sing-a-long ended and people began to drift away, he approached me and introduced himself. His name, I learned, was Peter, and in the fall, he’d be a senior in high school. Peter held out his hand, and I took it. That was it. We soon became inseparable. We hung out together from breakfast until dark when we were not in our classes. Peter played the saxophone like a professional musician in an orchestra or a star performer in one of the big bands. Looking back on that time, I realize how incredibly talented he was then.
Peter had a friend I’ll call Sal because I cannot remember his name. The two grew up together, and both had been invited to participate in the music program at WVU. Sal played the trumpet almost as well as Peter played the trombone, and when they played a song together, tingles ran up my arms and down my back. After class each day, students would show up with their instruments and play music in the parking lot. Soon the word spread across campus, and along with our classmates, other WVU students would stand around the impromptu band and enjoy the jam sessions in the late afternoon. The type of music they usually played wasn’t exactly rock and roll. The best way I can describe it now is…jazzy folk-rock. And guess who was their not-very polished lead singer…me.
During the entire time we were together, Peter and I talked constantly. Like me, he came from a large family and grew up in an Italian neighborhood in South Philly. I believe his father was a policeman, and his mother worked in a bakery or was a teacher. He dreamed of attending college and majoring in music but worried his family would not have enough money to send him. As a result, Peter was working hard to obtain a music scholarship. And since he’d been selected for this high-profile summer music program, he hoped it might help him with that goal.
Along with talking, we kissed. We were cautious around the other students, but I imagine anyone that watched us knew we had become close. I still did not know the details of the facts of life, so this was all new to me. There were powerful feelings between us, that is true, but kissing was what Peter seemed determined to teach me. I realize now that he never let our relationship get out of hand and held himself in check to ensure we did nothing that would make me uncomfortable. I was glad he didn’t push me, but it was incredibly intoxicating to be alone with him. Instead, Peter spent most of his time trying to engage me. He had a way about him that I had never experienced. He’d lean close and try to make me laugh, and his focus was always centered around my happiness. I’d never had such a relationship, and it was thrilling.
All of the students had a curfew and were to be in their dorm rooms by nine in the evening, with no exceptions. Off and on, Jen, the woman who supervised the program for WVU, would check to ensure everyone was in their rooms and getting ready for the night. So, I hesitated when Peter said he had a secret to show me, which involved sneaking away from the dorm for an hour or so. My father’s words came back to me like a ghost haunting my decision about going. But, ultimately, I followed my heart and met him behind the boy’s dorm. He took my hand, and we ran into the night, laughing like little kids. Soon we were in a different parking lot; only Peter walked up to an off-white Volkswagon Beatle (the old kind) and opened the passenger door with a flourish of his hand. At that point, it was not yet nine o’clock.
I hesitated again, remembering the rule, but shrugged, climbed in, and sat neatly on the passenger seat. He got in, started the car, and we were on our way. We didn’t speak for a while; we just enjoyed being alone. He drove around campus aimlessly, but it was fun nonetheless.
“So, is this your secret…you have a VW Bug?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s my older brother’s car, but he’s in the Army now. It looks like he’s going to Vietnam, so I can drive it until he returns. Having this car saved my parents two round-trip drives to Morgantown. When our program here ends, I’ll drive Sal and me back home to Philly.” He looked at me and grinned. “Do you like the VW?”
“Oh, yes! My Dad has a Morris Minor, and it’s cute too. So in December, when I’m sixteen, I hope he lets me use it for my driver’s test. I’ll ace the parallel parking with that little car!”
Peter laughed, “I’ve never had a real girlfriend before…until you. I lie in bed in the dorm at night, and when I can’t sleep, I think about how pretty you are with matching dresses and scarves. It’s you that’s cute, Kat; you make me smile. So you are my girlfriend, right?”
“Yes, I guess you are right. I am your girlfriend, Peter. I’ve only had one other boyfriend, and his name was Harry. We went together earlier this summer when my family was camping in West Virginia. We parted friends, but I never heard from him again.”
“Harry should have kept in touch… if he liked you as much as I do. I know this sounds hard to believe, Kat, but I think we were meant to be together. We are true soul mates!”
“I don’t know what soul mates are, but… that sounds about right.”
We were stopped at a red light, and Peter leaned over and kissed my cheek. It was so sweet and tender I felt tears slip down my face.
“Why are you crying? Did I do something to make you cry? I would never want to do that to you.”
I just shook my head. Peter knew me by then and was aware that I was sensitive.
After driving around, listening to rock and roll on the car’s radio, Peter drove us back to campus at about ten. We sat in the car and kissed goodbye, then snuck back into our dorms. Just as I was about to open the door to my room, one of the girls in the music program stepped out into the hall and glared at me. She was slim and tall with ash-blond hair and the music group's most sophisticated-looking girl. She always wore attractive store-bought outfits and had Barbara Streisand’s famous short haircut with lots of makeup. I cannot remember her name, but instinctively, I didn’t like or trust her, and now she knew I’d been out past the curfew.
The first thing the next morning, Jen, the woman who supervised the WVU program, escorted me down to an office on the first floor. Jen was friendly enough but explained that someone had seen me outside after curfew, sitting in a car with an unidentified young man. She reminded me of the rules and said from then on, I should not be out past curfew or ride in a car with anyone other than family. If I broke the rules again, Jen would call my parents.
I agreed and was about to leave when Jen asked me who the young man was in the car with me? Was he someone in the art or music program? I just looked at her for what seemed a long time, then got up and left. There was no way I’d identify Peter as the boy I sat in the car with the previous night. Jen couldn’t make me tell, so I left the question unanswered. I am sure everyone knew Peter and I were hanging out, but I’d also bet they would not rat him out either.
Throughout my life, I have always stood up for what I thought was the right thing to do. Granted, Peter and I broke the rules and deserved to be reprimanded for it. But, in our defense, we hadn’t robbed a bank, stolen a car, or smoked cigarettes, for goodness' sake. To me, it seemed like they’d made a big deal about nothing much, but I was still an inexperienced kid at the time. Someone once called me a fighter and meant it as a compliment. I guess that is what I am, a fighter. I usually refuse when I am pushed to do something I am uncomfortable with or feel is wrong. That’s how I felt when Jen wanted me to tell her who else broke the rules. She’d have to find another way to learn the answer to her question because I do not tattle-tale.
The next couple of weeks went faster than I would’ve liked. The music students put on an impressive concert on WVU’s performance stage. And the art department had a final show of work completed by the art program’s students. I won first place in two categories and third place in one. I had worked hard on my pieces and was proud of my accomplishments. All of the art instructors encouraged me to pursue my education in art at college, which pleased me. Peter and I spent time together and continued the music jams in the parking lot, but we did not advance our relationship further, for which I was secretly happy. I’d never had a steady boyfriend, and the emotions were new, so taking things slowly gave me time to assimilate it all.
Peter admitted he was relieved I had not told anyone he was the person I was with that evening in the car. Still, most of our small group knew we had broken the rules. It seemed that the kids I’d spent so much time with that summer treated me differently after that night. I did not know if they respected me for my actions or thought less of me for them. I knew Peter was trying to get a college scholarship. He worried that any scandal might hurt his chances, no matter how trivial. But somehow, his lack of courage on the issue and the fact that he allowed me to take the brunt of the criticism alone… bothered me more than I admitted to myself at the time.
Two days before the end of the classes, when we’d all be going home, I went to breakfast a bit earlier than usual. Standing at the top of the steps leading down to the cafeteria, I saw the music girl from the hallway. She was the one who I felt sure had told Jen that I’d broken curfew, and maybe she’d told the rest of the kids about it too. Wearing a Sandra Dee pink blouse with a short white skirt and shoes, she strolled into the room with Peter beside her. They were snickering about something I could not discern. Peter then leaned close to her, put his arm around her waist in a familiar way, and gave her a suggestive smile. It was a gesture he’d used on me from the beginning, so I knew it well. The girl looked into his eyes, and there was an instant when I was sure they were closer than just friends.
I suddenly felt my heart clench like someone had thrust a knife into it. I could not breathe for a moment. Peter must’ve sensed my presence, for he turned away from the girl and looked up at me. Our eyes met and held. I stared at him with no emotion on my face, then turned and walked away.
The next day, I skipped breakfast and headed to the art building to pack the pieces I’d worked on at WVU. When I rounded a corner near the building, I nearly ran into Sal, one of the boys in the music program and Peter’s friend from South Philly. He had always been friendly toward me and was short, nice-looking with dark hair and eyes. We’d talked off and on during the summer. Finally, Sal reached out and sweetly took my hand.
“Kathy, I was sorry to hear about what Peter did to you.”
For the last twenty-four hours, I had been angry and humiliated. Initially, I worried that Peter seemed to have left me for the blond girl because I wasn’t as pretty or sophisticated, but I eventually rejected that theory. Now, after I thought I saw pity in Sal’s eyes, I felt like crying, so I started to walk away.
“Please don’t leave,” Sal pleaded. “I need to tell you about Peter. He has always been a guy who can sweet-talk girls. Peter is handsome, knows it, and knows what to say to make girls feel special. I have two friends in school who fell hard for him. But, then, after a while, he left them for someone he thought was prettier, more popular… or someone from a family with money. Peter is ambitious, he wants to make something of himself, but he’s left a lot of girls with broken hearts. I’d…hate it if he did that to you. I’ve watched you and think you’re a special person with great talent.”
I stood there in shock. Although I realized Sal was probably right, hearing someone tell me that the person I cared about was conceited was hard. However, that same person had also hurt other girls and didn’t seem to have a conscious about it. Just as bad, if true, he valued money over scruples. I was beginning to think I had been lucky to find this out when I did.
“You are a strong person, Kat. You’ll get past this and learn something from it. Next time you run into a self-centered guy like Peter, you’ll be wiser for this experience.”
I finally smiled at him. He was right again. Sal walked me to my classroom, and we said our goodbyes. Later, while packing up my art projects to take home, I remembered something that suddenly seemed important. When I first arrived at WVU, I heard a rumor that someone had been spreading about me, which I found odd yet funny at the time. The story was about my family and went something like this: my father was a big shot chemical engineer, wealthy, and my family and I lived in a stately home in Charleston. I even had a seamstress who made all my clothes, like the pretty dresses I wore on campus.
When I first heard the rumor, I laughed. Yes, my father was an engineer, but with five children he hoped would go to college, he’d been saving for our educations since we were born. My parents worked on many projects for our new house in Maplewood to save money. Dad dug the septic ditch and installed all the flooring, and my mother mortared the bricks in the fireplace and painted most of the bedrooms. Then there were my clothes. Did the kids here actually believe that a seamstress made them, especially for me? What a hoot! I couldn’t wait to tell my sewing partner Marcella that story.
I eventually got over my poor little-me pity party and returned to my room to hang out with my friends for the last time. I never let anyone else know how bad I’d felt about Peter leaving me for someone else. It was his loss, I decided, and even though I still felt blue now and then, Sal had been right. I learned something important during my summer at WVU.
I never spoke to Peter again. Several times, Peter tried to send handwritten notes to me with girls who lived on my floor. I refused to read them or let him tell his side of the story. No matter what he might say, I knew one thing to be true. He would be the kind of person I could never trust again. I was not yet sixteen years old, but I’d aged quickly. Perhaps he had a credible excuse, but in my heart, I realized he was not the person of substance I believed him to be. I imagined that if we had married down the road, I would’ve spent the rest of my life wondering who else he charmed like he’d been able to captivate me. Perhaps my unwillingness to forgive Peter was unfair, but I was still pretty much a kid, and there were no shades of gray in my mind at that point.
My father had to fly to New York on business for Carbide and could not drive to WVU to take me home. So instead, Dad arranged for me to take a commuter plane from Morgantown to Charleston. It was the first time I’d ever flown on a plane and an adventure, except that most passengers threw up during the two-hour flight. It was a two-engine propeller plane that flew close to the ground unless a mountain was in the way when it had to scramble up and then over it. Even though it felt like I was on a roller coaster, I found the trip exhilarating.
Less than four years later, after my sophomore year in college and when my future husband and I were planning our wedding, I received a letter from Peter. I’d forgotten I’d given him my address while we were at WVU. I never opened it. I kept it for a while, then threw it away.
*
What does this backstory about my life as a teenager have to do with my role as a Guardian of the Road? I hope that when you read the rest of the true stories in this blog, they will demonstrate that throughout my life thus far, I have applied the ethics and values instilled in me. In future posts, you'll learn that even in my darkest hour, when a man in a position of authority over me tried to force me to do something unethical and illegal, I held my head high, followed my moral compass, and refused to bend to his will. I resigned from my position and didn’t look back.
And whenever I encountered animal abuse, I took a stand to end it if I could. Or when I found animals in dire circumstances, I did what was necessary to save them if possible. I like to think of myself as a person who marches to the beat of a different drum, as Linda Ronstadt wrote in her brilliant song. Still, I am true to my word, even if I sometimes suffer personally for standing by my convictions.
*
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