It's that time of the year again, when the thoughts of all 'at risk youth' workers turn to the Troubled Youth Conference at Snowbird.
I made it up here, in spite of the stalled semis blocking lanes of traffic on the interstate. I made it in spite of my desire to not part with my family, even for just a couple of days, even though I look forward to this time just about from the time I start driving down the canyon to go back home each year. I carted all of my assorted junk up to my room and called Drie to let her know I'd gotten here safely and sat to collect my thoughts, but not for too long.
On a lark at around ten o'clock, I decided to walk down to the Iron Blossam Lodge at the other end of the resort earlier this evening to check on things generally.
I played a game of pinball (quite without any finesse, at that) and instinctively walked up to the sixth floor straight to old #606. Sheesh. It's been at least nineteen years since I did that.
I hesitated in front of the door, reflecting upon all of the good things that happened there, and the people who were a part of them. Our family had some wonderful times in that loft, spending many a week after school let out swimming, playing pinball, hiking and generally relaxing about. I thought about Tad and my dear grandfather, Bompa, who shared great times there with me and have since passed on.
I sat in the lobby on the couch for a minute or two, listening to a chance play of "Closer to the Heart" by Rush and writing a wee bit in the old pocket journal.
My walk back was sweet, with a warm breeze bringing a scent of pine and woodsmoke, and Chuck Mangione and Buddha Bar II on the iPod accompanying the creek in the bottom of the canyon. I talked with my dear ghosts, walking the paths and snow until I got here to sit and write a little more...