The date was July 2, 2014.The chairs were arranged in neat rows, facing the big white screen where the chapel used to be. I set down my tray for the potluck - a vegan version of beef stroganoff - and made room for the cups and utensils on the table next to it. I was quite pleased to watch friends go up for seconds even before many guests had arrived. I searched the supply tent for paper towels; I hated that there were so many flies. We killed some time with an impromptu singalong, accompanied on ukulele. The words to "Hallelujah" felt heavier than usual that evening...or was it just the humid July air that hung like a weight amid the trees?
Before long, a handful of familiar faces began to trickle into the nearly-empty camp. Minister Steve kept a close eye on the weather forecast, as there were storms rolling in, threatening to eclipse our last gathering in Tent City: appropriately enough, a screening of Destiny's Bridge.
Just before dusk, Jack approached me and asked if I could position my van so that in the event of rain, I would be able to switch on my headlights to expedite the process of dismantling the projector and other equipment. I did as he asked, not fully realizing that I'd parked on an incline. That, mind you, would come back to haunt me later.
The adrenaline coursing through my veins made it nearly impossible to sit and watch the film. I'd seen it many times before, so I set to scurrying about between the back of our "theater" and the refreshment tables. We'd already had a visit from the men (and woman) in blue earlier in the evening, but they didn't seem to mind that we were gathered there. Twenty-four hours from that night, their presence would be far more foreboding and, accompanied by their demands to vacate the premises, would feel far less welcome.
I stood still for a moment, my eyes glued to the flickering screen as my mind continued to pace. I pondered the different types of good-byes. There's the "see you later" kind, when you know - or at least believe - it's only temporary. There's the abrupt kind, when either you or the other party is in such a hurry to leave that it almost feels like a relief, or when it happens so fast you can't quite accept that it's real. And then, there's the drawn-out, gradual kind. The kind that burns slowly, bit by bit. You know the inevitable is happening, and you know that soon, the place or person or situation you once knew will be no more. So you take those little steps in stride, one more piece of your reality stripped away, another space left in the big picture.
That night was so close to the last good-bye, but not quite there, and hanging in the balance felt torturous. As if sitting down to immerse myself in the familiarity of the lines and the songs that I knew virtually by heart would have done that spot in the woods a gross injustice.
But fifteen mere minutes before the film ended, the rain began.
I snapped to my senses, dashing to my car and turning on the headlights. Success: the area was well-lit, and the equipment packed away in no time. One of the patrons commented that it seemed as if ever time she'd try to watch the film, something got in the way.
My hair was clinging to my face as I grabbed what I could and tucked it under tarps, into the supply tent, or elsewhere. I looked around and realized I was the last person there, save for the residents. And it was getting late. I ducked into the driver's seat, turned on the ignition, and put the car in reverse.
It didn't move.
I shifted into drive and cut the wheel as far as I could and still, nothing. I saw some sand being kicked up by the tires, muttered a few choice phrases under my breath, and got out of the car to seek help. It took both Brighams, two shovels, and a solid twenty minutes before I was free. The elder had used the phrase "sugar sand" - the name of the finely-textured soil that was unique to the piney woods of New Jersey. Worth noting that, several months later, it would also become the name of a song.
"God bless you!" Minister Steve called out, even as he was drenched and muddied to the skin after digging me out. Grateful, unstuck, but somewhere between mildly amused and slightly embarrassed, I started down the winding dirt road, back to the traffic light.
I've never been very graceful when it comes to good-byes.
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