Letterboxing

Confessions of a Slack Boxer 

 It's been six years since we first began letterboxing, and I'm still a slack boxer. 

For those of you who are ill informed, letter boxing is a sport that involves a blank notebook, as well as a personalized stamp and stamp pad. I would also recommend shoes suitable for hiking. It's best to begin this activity after mud season and end before any serious hunters arrive in the fall 

 To begin letter boxing first log onto the internet and visit Letter boxing North America. Hone in on your state and you will find directions to a multitude of boxes hidden in forests, hiking trails, rock walls, cemeteries, and parks. Gather up the directions and a compass and venture forth. 

 The goal is to follow the directives, find the box, and mark the pad within with your stamp and a greeting. You then use the enclosed stamp to describe where you found the letterbox. This is recorded in your notebook. 

 Russ and I have indulged in this activity in Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Illinois. We have discovered hidden cascades, forgotten graveyards, abandoned farmsteads, ancient trees, and acres of wetlands. Vertical climbs over monstrous boulders and evidence of moose and bear scat are part of some of my least favorite memories.

 Although we engage in this together we have very different styles of boxing. Russ, like any former Scout, is focused and determined and relentless in his search. He rarely gives up. He will backtrack over a trail looking for signs that he may have missed, remove any debris away from a possible sight, use his compass and the sun for aid, and usually find the hidden object. I have known him to cross a riverbed three times. But that was due to reading the map incorrectly. 

 I, however, am usually out for a stroll. Need I even describe my casual amble through the woods completely oblivious of any markers or signs? I mainly am aware of wildflowers, mudholes, and mosquitos. If we've searched for any length of time, I'm always happy to stop. If nothing else, I'll rest atop a fallen tree and munch on granola bars. The energetic, mind-numbing search I leave to Russ or others. This behavior has resulted in my immediate family christening me a slack boxer, or just a slacker. The term holds no derision for me. I enjoy my title and I've earned it. 

 The season began earlier this year. Our first venture was to find one of the suspension bridges in Vermont. Since there are only five, Russ did some searching on the internet before we left because the directions consisted of photos of roadways and park entrances. He left confident that he had found the correct spot, and we headed out to W. Rutland on a cool, crisp Saturday morning.

 The first marker was found and we happily followed two more into the woods to the suspension bridge. It appeared to be new and in excellent shape, and the directions clearly showed that we were expected to cross it. Two gorged river mouths boiled and frothed over the rocks some twenty feet below before passing under the bridge. Our ears were filled with the thunderous tumult of the water. 

 Russ was the first to cross the bridge. Since I've had experience and know how wobbly two people on a suspension bridge can be, I waited on the other side.  Although not fond of heights he diligently trudged ahead with his walking stick akimbo. 

 When he reached the other side he motioned for me to follow Halfway across the bridge, it suddenly dipped from my weight and the whole structure began to sway and buckle in the wind. It was then I realized that it was a very long overpass indeed. Underneath the waters roared and foamed while I halted, closed my eyes, and began to scream at the top of my lungs. For a long time. 

 After that I began to cry. "I can't move!” I cried. “ I'm paralyzed, I'm so scared!" I called to Russ. 

 "It's ok, keep coming." 

 I attempted two more steps, began another primeval scream, added some whimpering, and yelled, "I can't, I really can't." 

 "Then you'll have to turn around and go back." 

 "But I can't do that either," I wailed. 

 "At this point you have no choice. Come on Kathy,” he called. “Just look at me; don't take your eyes off me. You can do it." 

 The wind was still causing the bridge to sway while my steps resulted in more dipping. Slowly, with my eyes straight ahead I took a few steps, cried, took a few more, and bit by bit continued my erratic walk to my waiting husband. I fell against him when I arrived. 

He patted my back, saying, "You made it, it's over. I’m sorry. Are you ok? I’m so sorry." 

 "I think I am until I have to go back, but that was horrible and much longer than I thought. Do we have to go back?"

 "Fraid so, there’s only a campfire ring on this side," he replied. 

“Hmm...I wonder where we’ll sleep?” "Ok, ok, somehow I’ll go back, but, Russ, weren't you scared?" "Actually," he confided honestly, "I thought I was going to evacuate my bowels. But once I started, it seemed worse to try and turn around, so I kept my eyes forward, balanced with the walking stick, and just kept coming." 

 "But why didn't you tell me it was so bad? You knew I'd freak. I would have never come."

 "I know," he said. Being the rabid letterboxer that he is, he added, “But you had the map.”

Mama and Papa's Words of Wisdom

Thumper was the first to record it for posterity. 

 “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” And although he said it, his mama first told it to him, and I’m sure her mama gave her the same advice.

 Given enough time you will repeat or invent words of wisdom to pass on to your children. “If you don’t finish your dinner, you’ll be too full for dessert.” Remember? You’d dutifully choke down that last bite of potato, that final spoonful of peas.” You secretly wanted to send it to the starving children in China. 

 Bored? “How can you be bored, I was never bored. Why I walked uphill to school both ways. And don’t cross your eyes when I talk to you, they’ll freeze that way.” 

 Leave the door open and the query is, “Were you were born in a barn? I mean, we’re not heating the outside.” 

Be just a little too proud and you’d hear, “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.” It was a known fact that “cleanliness was next to Godliness.” “A little soap and water never killed anybody. Land sakes, you could grow potatoes in those ears!” 

 There were those times you wanted to follow the crowd, go to that party, forego a haircut, wear that faddish outfit. “As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say. If everyone took off their clothes and ran naked down Main St., would you?” 

 When the kids were young and close to tears over a broken toy, a skinned knee, a lost quarter, I would sing out, “Too bad, so sad, cut off your head, go to bed,” and a smile would follow. 

 And when wrestling with Dad whenever they tried to tickle his feet he would caution, “If you mess with the bull, you’ll get the horn.” Words he learned from his father.

 Mine recall my constant refrain of, “Life is not fair, get over it,” whenever they protested that a sibling seemed to experience favoritism. When young, one of them would ask if he/she was my favorite. I would always cheerfully insert their name and proclaim, “You are my favorite Peter.” (Or Hannah or Elisabeth) 

By the time they were teens and snarling that I liked someone better than them, I usually replied, “You’re right, I do.” That usually ended the conversation. 

 Russ always gave sound hiking advice, “Don’t step on what you can step over, don’t step over what you can step around. Never stand if you can sit, never sit if you can lie down. Never pass up an opportunity to use the bathroom.” Useful advice for more than the woods. 

 When did these words of wisdom begin? Were they stated at the dawn of time? Invented when the first child said, “No!”? When the second born cried, “Ouch!” after his brother’s punch? If not then when the children looked at each other and sang, “Nani-nani-boo-boo, you can’t touch me”, surely mama and papa spoke. 

 Somewhere, sometime, some parent stated, “Because I said so, that’s why!” And the rest is history.

 Just yesterday, my three year old granddaughter Antonia, observed her sister Trinity at a year old heading for the basement door which was slightly ajar. She lowered her voice and stated, “Trinity, don’t even think about it!” Trinity immediately stopped. Three years old and already a parent in the making.