The Bishop's Ranch

The youngster started church youth camp last weekend. He had friends who were going, and he had been looking forward to the retreat for a month. He gathered all the items on the packing list and filled his suitcase, a first for his personal organization.

Despite our lifelong affiliation with the Episcopal Church, we had never made the two hour drive north to the Bishop’s Ranch. Traffic over the Golden Gate Bridge last Sunday was heavy, belying reports that the price of gas had prompted a drop in discretionary driving. The posted prices, between $4.45 to $4.55 per gallon along Highway 101, matched those on the Peninsula. I was mildly pleased that the privileged denizens of Marin County suffered the same as we did. It wasn’t schadenfreude, more like misery loving company.

The Bishop’s Ranch is about six miles off the freeway, nestled among the vineyards near Healdsburg. Its buildings and landscaping were neat, well-maintained, and welcoming. At 5:15 p.m. he was one of the last to arrive. I counted over 30 kids, about an even split of girls and boys. Thank goodness there was plenty of supervision. We helped him unpack, gave him a hug, and wished him well.

It had only been a few hours, but I felt my nasal passages clearing in the dry air. A mound of work was waiting for me on my desk, but spending an unplanned vacation day in wine country became immensely appealing.

Friends have told me that at my age (ahem) it’s okay to stop working for the future. I left the freeway and pointed the car east. Time for some instant gratification.