The Bag of Everything Important

     We'd drifted through the campgrounds, stopped at trailheads, collected from camps and work groups, and found in gathering our National Guards a whole lot if us, Gen Xer's.  

     "Don't forget." A poet-musician held up a hand, the piece of yarn like a wedding ring.  Her eyes a mix of radiant-shine and an ocean of emotion.  A car full of academics with the payload of a trunk full of books swung close by.  Casually, big strong almost-eighteen year olds stood between it rolling to a stop and the building's wall.  "No damage!" One of them ordered.  Everywhere we were gathering we were committed to keeping it clean.  "There's four other carfulls," a parent let everyone know.  A diversity of books heading to Berea.  Each pinned with a label of "gift" donated by and logged in a Catalog of Us.  The binder section had grown from two sheets of looseleaf to its own chapter as we'd practiced finding the origin story of all our stuff.

  A uniformed group of men turned from holding a campstove, making a fresh Welcome cup of hot water, and greeted the new arrivals to the parking lot which had recently been a Sanctuary Spot.  On the edges of cities and rural all through ETA and WNC a diversity of people were making "human chains" of "community resource" to phase from free for all to focus up.

     The people who'd been learning traffic directing took turns holding place until the next who knows how to do it took up place.  "She's got the moves," an MP hoooooweeee'd and said of the traveler from Bermuda.  "Get some music on and I'll show everyone how we do it there." A little hatchback out of gas was rolled closer.  A button on a remote clicked, the hatchback opened, speakers like rows of corn were blinked at and logged as on loan as someone chose which to use.

     The "base camp" field radio crackled through a squelched transistor radio.  This is a high up patch, repeat, this is a high up patch.  The person studying to be a Sherpa blinked at the voice.

     "This is that pr-ah-LEADER!" 

  Some of us knew from a leadership skills training activity who it was.  Someone else pulled our place leader back from "just going over here to the port-o-potty." She rebuckled her belt and tentatively took the headphones.  "Yes?" She spoke.  A hand pointed at a clicker button that would make her voice be aired.  "What should I say?" She asked everyone gathered around.  No one else spoke.

  The filmer was standing "up tall".  A child who'd learned to do surgery Overseas.  The women's hips filled the screens and monitors to get a feed.  One whimpered, not nuts, nobody said they were nuts, then shook off the whimper and focused the get a grip energy.  She looked at me.  "NOT CRYING," she practically yelled and put her head back in place on her shoulders.  It had shifted its position, her backbone, in her sleep.  "I'll CLASSIFY IT." 

     Then, "Don't worry Loania."