That summer when my granny died we'd both gone to camp together. She was now old enough to work there, but I was still a camper.

She used to drop in and say 'hi' occasionally, which was nice.

She went on a canoe trip and one day sprained a muscle while carrying this wooden box called the Wannigan.

If you know this box, you'll love and hate it. Its carried only by a leather strap across the forehead, indian style, and holds the day's food and all the cooking equipment. Its supposed to be racoon proof, but these days they're getting pretty cunning.

Anyway the day after she sprained her leg, she woke up with a really swollen leg. The trip leader, a guy we all call Goose, freaked privately.