Being a human being subject to the foibles of fashion and the indignities of imperfect psychology is a perfect place to write from, especially after having driven to the farthest reaches of Yellowstone from SpringTowne within the space of three and a half days in a spirited fifth-hand '91 Ford Ranger with well-worn running gear.
Ryan and I left town at around three thirty on Thursday afternoon. I had been to work at the Girl's homethat morning, and they had started the day off with a bang by being found out in a hazing conspiracy focused on one of their fellow mates. The girls were the subject of much discussion and handwringing by the staff and I between the day's lessons, movies and evaluations. Whenever any one of them has a hard time, I find myself worrying and thinking overtime to figure out better ways to monitor their needs and progress in fulfilling said needs. I take it harder still when the whole group needs a collective arse-wollop.
I needed to somehow leave my concerns far south of home this time, as we headed north into what we hoped would be a good finale to the summer away from the full-time classrooms we love but at this time of the year, anticipate with some trepidation. It would be hard work getting some rejuvination and spiritual rest out of this whirlwind tour.
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