The Start of My Summer Adventure.

Dirt.

Dust.

Bird droppings.

Doesn’t sound much like the start of a grand adventure, does it?

Since I am graduating from high school this year, people ask me about my future plans, trying to be polite. That’s what you ask someone finishing high school, isn’t it? “What are you doing with the rest of your life?”

When you are asked something over and over again the answers becomes rehearsed and stale:

“What’s your name?”

“Catherine.”

“How old are you?”

“Just turned 19.”

“What school do you go to?”

“I’m homeschooled.”

*Look of condescension, surprise, or awe.* “Oh, really?”

The only answer I’ve had to change over the years is my age. Now, instead of asking what my favorite subject is, they ask, “What are your future plans?”

When I blink and let out an extended, “Weeeell….”, they step back, raise their eyebrows, and wait for the conventional reply;

“Oh, I’m going to this college for a degree that will insure I have a steady income for the rest of my life.”

Although, I can’t say that.

I can’t say it, because I don’t know.

“WHAT?!” You ask. “You don’t know what you want to do for the rest of your life? You’ll just start mooching off of your parents and end up an old maid!”

Ok, so maybe you aren’t really asking that, but sometimes that’s what if feels like. Those understanding nods of sympathy tell me, “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out soon.”

Bird droppings.

That’s the only thing I have figured out so far. The only thing I know I’m doing this summer is working at a camp ground. Not as a janitor, a canoe washer, or a horse rider, but as a seamstress.

Yesterday, I slid the wooden doors open, blinking in the disturbed dust. Old inner tubes, old office chairs, and some very new birds nests met me in my new cabin. With my push broom, I swept out the inner tubes and dusty grime. Hands on hips, I perused my work space, pleased with the size. I found the artisan cabin larger than I had remembered it. Some wooden shelves and tables still stand stacked in one corner until I can go clean some more.

Over the course of this summer, I will work in that cabin with a sewing machine.

A treadle sewing machine.

Ideally, pleasant campers will step onto my porch, gaze around in awe at my wares, and learn how to sew simple seams and how to tack on a button (for a small price, of course.)

As I said, “ideally.”

If you know anything about me, you should know that I’m not a very organized person. I fly by the seat of my pants so much, my head is often wet from the rain clouds above.

I don’t have my whole summer planned out. I don’t know how much I’ll produce or sell.

The one thing I do know is this:

I am where I am supposed to be for this summer.

Call me, Treadle Cat.

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Cat

I am a 7-year-old​ stuck in a twenty-something's body. I enjoy long walks on the beach and peanut butter on waffles. If the following combinations of letters mean anything to you: OYAN, LotR, F.R.O.G., AiO, OBPC, DIY Then we can be friends. And if not, we still can be friends!

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