Parents' Weekend poems

Parents’ Weekend Poem: Andrew Berkey
Dear mom,
I am writing this to let you know I am still alive. Don’t worry, I haven’t been in a avalanche, or gotten frostbite or hypothermia--not too badly anyway. I haven’t been eaten by a bear, and I haven’t gotten lost in the wilderness, only confused once.
I have only scrubbed toilets, only eaten amazing food, only played frisbee golf, only listened to Sam on his guitar, only ran my fastest, only laughed my hardest, only had math class in a coffee shop, only had science by the lake, only read Dave Barry in history.
I have only slept in a tarp, only learned how get an entire free trip across the country on Amtrak from Danny, only learned what a good flea impression Katie does, only learned how it’s all right to put butter in hot chocolate to keep you warm at night, only made the best macaroni and cheese ever, only seen the one bright green bear in the world, only hiked my fastest three miles at six in the morning to get to the van.
I have only summitted my first fourteener, only woken up to my boots and gaiters frozen solid, only felt my feet once in 3 days, only made fried dough in a half-pound of butter, only hiked through a foot and a half of snow.
I have only taken the long way around, only seen the amazing views, only learned how amazing forty people can be, and only had the best time of my life.

Parents’ Weekend Poem: Patricia Echeverria
Afternoon of August 23: I am sitting in the San Vicente Coffee Bean terrace with my friends. The idea of HMI seems so distant. Even though I have just bought my equipment this morning, I am still wondering what a cagoule is. I am bringing seven hiking shirts, clueless of their futility, ignorant of their weight impact on a backpack I will be carrying for ten days. I do not realize the futility of wearing a clean shirt when I haven’t showered in ten days. I cannot imagine the odor. The thermometer marks seventy-four degrees; I can’t even imagine what all the layers are for. I can’t imagine my butt freezing simply as a result of sitting on the ground during circle at night. I cannot picture the rain flooding our fried rice, and my enthusiasm when snow replaces the wet rain. I cannot imagine my hyperactivity, a product of tarp-made vanilla ice-cream (after shaking the tarp, collecting the falling snow in my bowl, and mixing it with brown sugar, milk powder, and vanilla extract). I cannot picture the white snowfield covering our campsite near Heart-Shaped Lake, and Ali singing Christmas carols to it; I cannot yet imagine myself, ecstatically moving arms and legs, battling the tingly feeling of a frozen numb toe, while baking cinnamon rolls.
Surrounded by diet-obsessed angelenos, I stare at the Coffee Bean board. All the drinks claim to be fat-free, even the hot cocoa. The idea of adding a stick of butter to my hot cocoa, just for the sake of keeping my feet warm at night, sounds absolutely disgusting.
And the idea of consuming massive amounts of cheese for the same purpose seems Martian. It doesn’t occur to me that eating as much fatty food as I possibly can is necessary to stay warm, when everyone around me eats celery for lunch, and has tried everything from the Atkins to the Zone diet.
I am having a typical conversation with my friends in LA; we talk about the new couples in school, about last weekend’s party, about the people we saw there, about our friend who has just gotten a Beemer for her sweet sixteen. We are having the typical superficial conversation, pretending it is just another day in LA. As I sip my ice-blended, fat-free cocoa, wearing vintage sunglasses, and soaking up the sun, my cell phone rings. Before picking up, I look at the screen. It’s my mom; I wonder why she’s calling. She tells me that I am in the wrong place; I am supposed to be at HMI. Everyone is already there, and somehow, I am still in LA. Somehow, we got the tickets for the 23rd and somehow, we thought I was leaving on the 24th, and somehow…when I arrive here everyone says “hi” and, surprisingly, knows my name. Even on the first day, however, I remain ignorant of the beautiful sky I have been deprived from in LA; mostly, I am ignorant of my luck.

Parents’ Weekend Poem: Sam Barber
Being a couple thousand miles away from home is a big step. Let me re-phrase that-- when, for the past 16 years of your life, you have lived in the same place, in the same house, with the same parents, going to the same schools--well, then moving away from that for 4 months is a very big step.
I am going to change. I have changed. Not physically, physically I will stay the same. My hair will still be longer than mom’s, and I’ll still wear sandals in the middle of winter (don’t worry, I get as much crap for this here from my teachers as you give me back home). But I will change mentally. Already I have become more motivated, doing things like finishing all my homework and getting up at 6:45 to run five miles. I have learned to work hard at things I don’t want to do, like walking all the way to the outhouse to go to the bathroom instead of walking 5 feet away from the cabin.
But most of all, I have learned to love wherever I am, whenever I am there, with whoever I am with. Imagine 4 boys. Imagine 4 boys who haven’t showered for weeks. Imagine 4 boys who haven’t showered for weeks, underneath a tarp. Imagine 4 boys who haven’t showered for weeks underneath a tarp with no air holes because it’s snowed 24 inches in the last day and a half. Ahhh, the great outdoors. I love everything about this place, my friends, my classes, the food, the jokes, everything--so much so that I might have to bring home some of HMI with me. Think of the possibilities: rap battles to see who gets to eat dinner first, not showering for weeks on end, or maybe I’ll just build a climbing wall in our living room. Who knows? The point is that I know you spent more money than I am worth to send me here, but I promise you, it was worth every penny.

Parents’ Weekend Poem: Lucia Cowles
To Mom, Dad, Col, and Max, as well as anyone else who just might be listening:
Imagine the world is very dark. In fact, not only is it dark, but it smells, and unfortunately, like nothing at all pleasant. Imagine now that you are fumbling about above your head until you find the hole in your sleeping bag, and then that you are pulling your face up so that, looking out, the world is still very dark, but the vague outlines of the tarp above your head are now visible. Imagine the cold air hitting your face, and the relief it brings from the smell of the sleeping bag. The sun is still far from gracing the horizon: it’s probably around 4 in the morning. And you have to pee.

This is a terrible thing. It remains a terrible thing as you unzip the sleeping bag, pull on your layers in the cold and shove your feet into your frozen boots that refuse to tie and that are missing insoles because they’re in your sleeping bag keeping warm. It is terrible as you squeeze out of the tarp and stomp off into the woods in a good foot-and-a-half of snow. It is still snowing. It continues to be terrible until halfway back to the tarp when you stop and look up. There are no stars this night, but imagine instead thousands of small, white flakes illuminated by your headlamp falling softly down around you. Sound and space are muted by the thick white blanket covering the ground, and for a moment, enclosed in the space made visible by the headlamp, you feel totally alone. Imagine not a bad alone, the kind where you are in constant fear over what could be lurking just beyond sight. Imagine, instead, a brief moment of absolute peace. Peace from others, peace from any other obligations, peace from your own thoughts. Imagine for a moment that you just are, and that that is enough.
There are a lot of things that I could try to explain about HMI in this poem. I could talk about the dash for the best washing machines in the laundromat, the obscene amount of food consumed in the cabins at night, or the euphoric feeling that arises when you realize the big package in the middle of the mudroom is addressed to you. I could, in fact, talk at you for hours about all the funny jokes, and even the not-so-funny ones. I could talk about all the things taught and learned and all the amazing people here at HMI that make this place come alive. I have, however, learned from the past that telling the story, unless phenomenally done, is only a bland and watered-down attempt at recreating the past. There is no way to duplicate the experiences I have had here, but experiencing is the only way I can think of for another person to understand. So I asked you, instead, to imagine you were there in my shoes, though frozen and missing insoles. If, for even one moment, my description of that night came alive for you then you will know, if even only in that one, specific situation, what it is like to be at HMI.
I am not the type of person that can stay settled in one place for a long period of time. Even now I am thinking of where I will and must travel to next, and though it is probably difficult to watch me walk out the door so frequently, I thank you for allowing me to follow my whims. Thank you for letting me experience the world without restraint and I will do my best in return to bring my experiences back home. Imagine.
Love,
Lucia

Parents’ Weekend Poem: James McKenna
Dear Mom,
First of all, I would like to thank you. These two months I have spent at HMI have been an incredible experience. Your help in getting me here made it possible. Thank you. HMI has changed my perspective on things I have felt rather strongly against in the past. For instance, I find myself very interested in the work that I am assigned, despite the lethal dosages of it. I find my self truly enjoying school. Within this two-month period of time I have experienced so much; here are just a few of the highlights:
1.Expeditions: the two expeditions that we have taken so far have been awesome. I have seen and learned so many interesting things while being in The Winds and The Sawatch Mountain Ranges. We did everything from summiting 14,000-plus ft. peaks to hiking independently from the instructors and finding ourselves extremely lost. Getting lost, freezing with my tarpmates under two feet of snow, and making hot drinks in the freezing rain and snow have all been (strangely enough) great times.
2.Cabin Life: living in a cabin these past months has been awesome. I have become so tight with my four other cabinmates. The five of us hang out in the common room, keeping warm in front of the wood-burning stove. Cabin One is where it is at; we even have a homemade flagpole made from an erected dead tree. And the pranks that have begun between cabins have been interesting. Waking up at three in the morning to an army of girls clanking pots and pans was horrifying, but girls, heads up, you have no idea what is coming to you.
3.Opportunities: the opportunities at HMI are like nothing I could ever have at home. After I have lunch or dinner (by the way, the homemade food is amazing) some buddies and I head over to the climbing hall and work on some of the routes we have set up on the wall. Or, we will spend the afternoon climbing on some nearby rocks. And soon enough will be learning to telemark ski. Nights after study hall we hang out with everyone on the porch, under the bright stars lighting up Elbert and Massive, listening to Sam play his songs on the guitar. (My personal favorite is Josh: parents, you’ll have to ask him to play it for you some time.) Or even AMX: going for a walk through the woods before breakfast, or some days running five miles at ten thousand feet, all with the beautiful views of the rising sun on the two mountain ranges surrounding us.
The friends I have made, the places I have seen, my accomplishments, and my struggles. All of these things I am so grateful for and could never give up. So thank you for everything that you have done to help me be here.

Parents’ Weekend Poem: O’Mara Taylor
Dear Mom and Dad,
I know that when you talk to me on the phone you can’t picture where I am, what I’m doing, or how I feel, and that you must think that I am in some black hole of kids who never call their parents nearly enough.
But here we are, palpable buildings, students, faculty, and you can see my world. I can hardly convey to you the overwhelming emotions involved with my new home, because this is my home right now.
Please understand that I don’t call often because I am running to a meal, or class, or chores, and all the while I am trying somewhat frantically to soak up everything while I am here. I am learning and doing things I never imagined I would or could do. I have carried a 65-pound pack, which as I explained to the fourth graders that I help teach for one period each Thursday, is a pack about the size and weight of them. I have carried that pack for 10 days, almost 50 miles for the first expedition, and have loved all of it.
This place is so incredible because of all the small things that make it up. Every evening we have a different competition to determine the order in which the tables get food. We have had dance-offs, rap battles, everything extraordinarily random but it somehow works. On top of that, it is openly an every man-for-himself situation when it comes to seating; if you leave your chair for any reason, even if you have your water bottle there, sometimes even your plate, it is completely acceptable for anyone to take your seat, it’s a free-for-all.
Each Friday my math class and I go to the coffee shop in town for class, and somehow a mocha and a packet the size of a small book of math problems seems like the perfect combination.
We subconsciously make rituals that we follow, like Kayla saying “it’s 6:15, here comes the light: 1, 2, 3…” in the morning, or me taking the trash out of the bathroom during chores, and how I always dance to at least one song during study hall, headphones in, probably looking insane to all the innocent bystanders. But within our rituals we thrive on spontaneity, like last week when the dinner cook crew declared that we must dress up like a 90’s pop icon otherwise we wouldn’t get fed (I was Ginger Spice), or when we have impromptu cabin dance parties or sing-alongs.
I could go on about this place forever, but being restricted to one page for the group’s collective sanity, I find I must stop my gushing prematurely. I’m having the time of my life and thank you so much for allowing me to come here and experience this. I love you, and I’ll be home before you know it, so please let me roam while I can.
Love, O’Mara