LETTER FROM CAMP :: BY PEG KEHRET

             Dear Folks:  I though I'd better write to you before you get the hospital bill.  Otherwise, you might worry.  Mr. Higgins is OK except for the stitches, which will come out next week.  Before you start lecturing me about driving when I don't have a license yet, I want to explain that none of it was my fault.  Not the fire.  Not the loose boa constrictor.  And not the garbage can crashing through the window.  As you have always told me, there is a logical explanation for everything.  You'll be glad to know I am learning you were right about that.

            You were also right when you said I would like this camp if I would give it half a chance.  I was afraid it would be boring.  I thought there would be counselors all over the place and strict curfews, and we'd have to do dumb stuff like go on hikes and learn crafts.  Boy, was I wrong!  Next year, can I sigh up for the whole summer instead of just one month?  I thought I would be lonesome, but I'm not.  Did you know there is a camp for girls just across the river?  It only takes twenty minutes to row over there.  Even less in daylight.

            I am getting off the subject; I started to explain about the hospital bill.  It all started yesterday afternoon when this guy named Boston said he had found a chain saw and asked if I wanted to help him cut down a tree.  I said I had never used a chain saw, but I'd be glad to help since the reason my folks sent me to camp was to learn new skills.  By the way, don't you think Boston is a terrific name?  He was born while his parents were on a trip to Massachusetts. I said it's a good thing they were not vacationing in New York; they might have named him Buffalo.  He said he's always wished they had gone to Minnesota.  People might treat him with more respect if his name was Saint Paul.

            How would you feel if I changed my name to something more interesting, like Dallas?  I think Dallas had a real nice sound and if people think I'm from Texas, so what?  Maybe I'll learn to talk with a southern accent.  As a matter of fact, I already am.

            One of the guys in my cabin had a drawl.  He's form Atlanta.  He says stuff like, "Y'all come see me, hea?"  At first I had a hard time understanding him, but now that I'm used to it I like his accent.  A drawl has more character than ordinary speech.  It is also contagious.  Do not be surprised if I have a drawl when I come home, even though this camp is not in the south.  When you live in the same cabin with someone who says "y'all," it's nearly impossible not to say it, too.

            His name is Jem, and he taught us how to cook Cajun hot dogs.  You'll be happy to know that I am no longer a picky eater.  All those reminders you gave me about tasting everything once, even if it's not what we eat at home, must have had some effect on my subconscious mind because I've eaten lots of stuff we never had at home.  It's all been at night, not during regular meals, but what's the difference as long as I'm learning to like a variety of food?  My favorite, besides the Cajun hot dogs, is something called Gut Buster's Orgy.  It's made with crushed potato chips, maple syrup, dill pickles, melted chocolate bars, peanut butter, ketchup, raisins, and a couple of other things I can't remember.  I'll try to write down the recipe so I can make it for you when I get home.  Maybe I'll make it for Grandma's birthday, since she's always saying if I learned how to cook I wouldn't be so picky.  The dentist that Mr. Higgins took me to says I'll have the new caps on my teeth before I get home, so I will be able to chew some Gut Buster's Orgy on both sides of my mouth again.  Maybe for Grandma I will call it something more delicate, like Tummy Tickler's Delight, even though orgy is one of my new words.  I have become very aware of language since I got here.  In fact, my vocabulary is growing rapidly.  Some of the words I never heard before.  Some I have wondered about because I saw them written in public places, but I didn't want to bother you by asking what they meant.  Well, now I know, which should make you happy since you are always saying I should expand my mind.

            I hope you are OK and not too lonely with the house all to yourselves.  I am fine, as you can tell from the newsy letter, which I am sure you did not expect but, as I said at the start, I didn't want you to worry about me.  I'll try to write again soon.  I just realized I haven't told you about the poison yet, but that will have to wait until my next letter because the sheriff just got here and I am on of the people who has to testify.

            Your loving son, Dallas.

            P.S. Don't try to call.  The electricity and telephone lines are still dead form when the tree fell the wrong way.  Boston had never used a chain saw before, either.