I slide down in my wheelchair and sigh as I look at the crinkles in the bottom sheet of my bed, as I’m about to be helped into it for the night. I flashback to when I was ten or eleven – some seventy years ago – I was a city kid attending summer camp in the mountains of New England. We lived in a rustic (at least, that was our perception) cabin, in what was advertised as country, outdoors living. It was “roughing it” in a wooded paradise far different than our existence in New York City.
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