Chapter Twenty

 

The next morning was sunny and crisp, with a glistening layer of pure white snow covering the countryside. Nervous excitement began to build the closer she came to the old camp. To her way of thinking, this meeting was sort of a rubber stamp on her idea. There was no doubt in her mind Mrs. McBride would have nothing but wonderful memories to share and positive, constructive advice Emma could use going forward.

Pulling into the long driveway, she saw the house on the hill surrounded by massive oaks. She blinked several times as if she was clearing away the old image she remembered and absorbing the new. The old house was not as large as she remembered and considerably more weathered. The Rollicking Hills sign was gone, though the post-it hung on remained. Her shiny memories dimmed a wee bit.

When Mrs. McBride appeared at the front door, Emma thought she seemed shorter than she recalled. “Good morning. Thank you for letting me reschedule our meeting.”

“Come in, Emma. What a beautiful young lady you’ve turned into.” Mrs. McBride led her into the living room. “I was sorry to hear your mother passed away.”

“Thank you.” Emma sat on a plump wingback chair and noticed a pitcher of iced tea on the table. “I want you to know how much I loved Rollicking Hills. As a child, coming to camp was the highlight of my summer.” Her nerves were getting the best of her. Slow down, Emma. “I learned to ride, canoe, fish, and churn homemade ice cream the old-fashioned way. When I worked here as a counselor, I enjoyed being with the young campers and teaching riding. You gave us a wonderful experience and made it seem effortless.”

“Emma, you are kind. We took great joy in sharing our farm with the children. Those years were incredibly special to us. Faith told me you are considering starting a new camp. Honestly, I don’t know if Rollicking Hills could survive today. Too much competition, too many kinds of camps. Everything from computer technology to golf, math camps, soccer, music, drama, and the arts. With kids glued to their cellphones and video games, are they even interested in riding, swimming, or hiking?”

This was not the conversation Emma had imagined at all. “I understand what you’re saying. However, I still think you have a niche. There must be children who would enjoy a low-key, intimate country camp experience.”

“Could be,” Mrs. McBride said. “During the years we ran the camp, we didn’t spend a dime on advertising. Our business was built by word of mouth. Our rate of return on previous campers ran eighty percent. Like you, the majority of our campers started out in elementary school and returned until they were sophomores in high school. Today the big challenge is to find the campers.”

Without asking, her hostess poured two tall glasses of iced tea. Emma helped herself to a few sugar cubes. She remembered sneaking sugar cubes from the breakfast table to give to Tatters, her favorite horse at the camp.

“Finding campers shouldn’t be a problem,” Emma said with enthusiasm, so relieved to inject a positive note into the conversation. “I’d like to get a grant to pay for eight to ten at-risk children from urban areas to come to camp for a week.”

“It’s possible,” the older woman agreed. “But what happens if you build a camp and you don’t get the grant? How are you going to pay your counselors, your increased food costs, art supplies, and livestock?”

In her perfect world, Emma never doubted she would get outside funding. Yet, what if she didn’t?

“Seriously,” Mrs. McBride said, “the camp’s weekly rate barely covered meals and salaries. Our children worked alongside us seven days a week, doing everything from saddling horses to arranging scavenger hunts. As you may remember, my mother was an elementary school art teacher who donated her time for arts and crafts.”

Emma rubbed her temple when another headache came on. Doubt about the wisdom of taking this on started blip-blipping on her radar.

“I don’t know if you realized it. John and I were employed nine months of the year in the school system. Since our summers were free, the camp fit our lifestyle. Will you be able to find similar employment to carry you through the nine months the camp is closed?”

The yellow Lab laid its head on Mrs. McBride’s lap. She stroked the dog’s broad head as his tail plop-plopped in approval against the hardwood floor.

“We were fortunate to have some advantages you might not have today,” Mrs. McBride said. “Our farm was debt-free. Inherited from Bob’s family. We didn’t open our camp until our youngest child was eleven years old. The older two were fourteen and sixteen.” She took a drink of her iced tea and placed it on a coaster. “The kids were accustomed to doing chores on the farm, feeding, watering the stock and mucking out stalls. Emma, the summers you were a camper, my two oldest were in charge of saddling the horses every day and conducting trail rides. Our two younger children, ages eleven and thirteen, helped with kitchen chores, sing-a-longs, and story time.”

Emma hadn’t realized the aspect of free, unpaid family members fulfilling such a large part of the camp’s labor force. Instead, she had looked at the daily life of the week-long camp from a child’s perspective. This was a reality check.

Mrs. McBride continued, “It would have been impossible to run the camp with toddlers underfoot. After all, the campers ate and slept in our home. Of course, I only mention this if marriage and children are something you plan in the future.”

“You have given me a lot to think about.” Emma’s enthusiasm wavered. She wiped her clammy palms on her jeans before standing. “Thank you for allowing me to come. Getting to see you again was a pleasure.” Pausing at the front door, she asked, “Tell me, do you still have Tatters?”

Mrs. McBride smiled. “That sweet horse was my favorite too. Lived to the old age of twenty-one and is buried back on the ridge above the lake.”

By the time she reached the Jeep, Emma’s positivity was flat-lining. Unlike her last departure from Rollicking Hills, this time would be her last. Even Tatters was gone. She was sorry she’d asked.

With each step she took toward the Jeep, her disappointment mounted. How could she have been this wrong, this delusional…blathering to at least a dozen people about her marvelous pie-in-the-sky summer camp? Due diligence flashed in her mind like a garish neon warning light.

She had no pool of free labor like the McBrides or a mortgage-free house. Moreover, no occupation except teaching would give Emma three months off to run a camp; her degree and experience were in social work, not education.

Purchasing a suitable property would be a considerable outlay of money. Liability insurance, taxes, and purchasing and maintaining horses—crucially necessary for a farm/horse camp experience—would wipe out her inheritance. Mercy. What had she been thinking?