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Dear Boundless Families:

It’s been windy. Those deer flies haven’t stood a chance. Yet another ingredient in this rather paradisiacal session. Okay, maybe I embellish. Having 60 teenagers in any one place is, by definition, is a paradise lost.

I am mostly alone today. The 4uers took off camping for a day and a night and OE left a few days ago for some God forsaken river in Quebec.

Mixed english remains on property. Or should I say the “Mothia”. By some quirk of evolution, where is took sub atomic particles 5 billion years of awkward alignment to make this bizarre moment, students have adopted moths as their pets. They leave external night lights on at night as bait. At first light they scurry about collecting their prey on the windows. No torture, no locker room eating antics. None of that. They adorn their hats and T-shirts with the buggers alive. The wisest among these unfortunate fliers wake up and flap away pronto. But there are a few sleepy ones that feel the warmth of its primate carrier. It’s quite something to see. This mythical moth obsession must be a first in the annals of human history.

These delightful oddities that are your kids are really loving it here. Tony had half of them paddling by canoe up to my dock, and I told two stories related to the concept of identity – an important theme in their course, as well as demonstrating the art of storytelling – another key element of their curriculum. 

On the eve of their departure to Quebec, that group discovered its oasis, finally finding the pathway to its own sweet spot. They made a contract. A code. We shall soon see how it plays out.

The lock-picking obsessive game-playing OE tribe continues to amaze. One of them came after me in a good way (for those that tease you reveal their own comfort with you), and asked me to give him the wifi password for the property.

I quickly oblige,

“N.O.H.O.P.E.I.N.H.E.L.L.”

This was met with a resounding touché, and I found myself quickly in with this gang. Prison mentality I know, but what can I say. It felt good. I get the privilege of joining them on said God forsaken river tomorrow and Tuesday. Make no mistake, I actually desire this. Lock me up, but It’s one of the few days a year I actually enjoy my job and can pretend to be young again.

The 4uers, from the first moment, have lived off the fat of the land, to quote my mama. Any tendency towards teen drama is met by such a force of goodness within the class, that is resembles antibodies attacking a virus. One of the gals struggled emotionally last night, and the other five rallied around her like spiritual bodyguards. 

I still can’t stand the 4uers. They volunteer compliments about this program, never complain about our embarrassing ping pong table, and strut about dancing and learning. Yet I cannot help but be drawn in. We have this kid named Ben, whose appearance would neatly place him at Woodstock 50 years ago. He’s got the hair. The guitar. The charisma. The legendary blue eyes. The donned attitude of being chill. He starts a conversation about the best guitarists of all time. He says George Harrison is his number one, as would be the wont of his brand. I say Hendrix. He beams. Then I add, “maybe Gilmore”, and he knows exactly who I am talking about. He gives his approval, and in doing so, plays me as well as he does his strings. What a sucker I am.

He, and a few prominent others, set the tone for this class early on. They are among the most cohesive group I have ever seen. I don’t give a darn about the academics when I see them. Curriculum is only the excuse for their never ending dance and Secret Hitler parties. Utterly lovely.

Speak soon.

Steven