Five years ago I was in a Boy Scout summer camp for my annual visit. Summer camp is one of those things that I remember fondly now, but at the time I couldn't stand it. In fact, it wouldn't be until two years later that I would step into a car to leave camp for the last time and declare, "someday I'll probably want to come back to this place. But right now, all I want is to leave." It always took place at the height of July when temperatures were extreme and insects were everywhere. There wasn't much to do if you didn't make a hobby for yourself. Mine involved weaving hammocks and walls from ropes, most days. It was slow and temporary work, in that by the end of it all the ropes would be untangled and stored back in the plastic tub the troop had designated for ropes. But it kept me busy and provided some comfort and novelty at the time.
There was a dumpster not far from the staff lodging. On my way back from the mess hall one day, I noticed a shapeless mass of black canvas leaning against the dumpster's side. I went to investigate and found an old golf umbrella. It had a number of loose stretchers, and the velcro closing strap was worn to uselessness. But I had never seen anything like it. It was tall, almost as tall as me. Until that moment I had never seen an umbrella made before the rise of collapsable, foldable, fit-in-your-purse-and-pocket umbrellas. This umbrella had a firm wooden handle and a solid metal end. What I had in my hands was a weather-proof walking stick. I took it back to camp and located a needle and some string.
It didn't rain that summer. It was an odd disappointment, one that came from a place of pride. I had finished what repairs I could within the first day of its rescue, and was more than pleased with my inelegant but sturdy sewing. It astounded me that anyone would throw away such a noble tool for such a minor defect.
I took it home with me and got the velcro replaced with a small snap. I took it out on every overcast occation. In my mind it commanded respect, having that vast shield overhead in the rain and that sturdy rod under my arm after the storm. Even when closed it had a certain air of dignity to it: it didn't conveniently fold itself out of the way. Its handle hooked it in place on the edge of chairs and tables, always close at hand. It came with me and kept me dry in New York when I was in culinary college and in Florida when I was an intern.
Of course, with as much use as it got, further repairs were needed on occation. I have no idea how old it was before it found its way to the dumpster where we met, but every so often the canvas would pull away from the tips or a stretcher would bend out of place. I've redone that original summer camp stitching several times, each time sure that it would hold. I've had an occation or two where the whole thing would turn inside out in a strong wind and be reduced to a damp sack of loose metal rods until I could get it home to a sewing kit. Given the five years I've had this umbrella, it's been the longest-running maintenece project I've ever undertaken. That's the sort of involvement that instills ownership. I wove into place the string that binds the canvas. I've bent the stretchers into place. It's my umbrella, every piece of it.
It rained all day today. I took my old friend out for a walk each time I needed to find a new building for a new class. It stood vigil over my backpack, raindrops dripping occationally onto the carpet. The day went by as normal. It was late. I was stepping out of my last class of the day, the rain had died down to a sprinkle. I stepped outside and pressed the bottom spring in. The runner rised up the tube, spreading the cloth taut as it went. It clicked onto the top spring and locked into place. Then it kept going. Before I knew what had happened, I was holding in my hands the umbrella pictured at the top of the page. To my knowledge this is the worst condition it's ever been in. Ribs and stretchers are falling everywhere. The canvas is hanging by a borrowed thread.
It could be said that this umbrella has served me well beyond its capacity, and that all it wants now is a peaceful death. I say that it wanted a peaceful death five years ago when I pulled it out of a dumpster. I didn't indulge it then, and I certainly won't indulge it now.
Repairs are once again underway.
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