Weekend at camp

Memorial Day Weekend at my parents' camp was cold, as it usually is, far too cold for swimming, except on a dare, but the sun shone most of the weekend. Close to the ground, in the boundary layer, the air was almost hot. On an old quilt spread across the grass, Blonde Sister-in-law and I sunbathed until our pale skin remembered what it felt like to be warm. My husband and I set our little tent up under the lilac bushes, so that we could wake up to the scent of blossoms and the sound of birdsong. We played bocce and went canoeing in the marsh. My father and I took a sail to see what changes the winter had brought to the river.

For the first time in 23 years, my husband and I had no kids with us at camp. (Our sons were at the College Ultimate Championships, and our daughter was busy fighting crime in a long red cape.) As I watched a pair of geese swim near the dock with four little babies, I felt a pang at the thought of my own little ones all grown up. But of course, even though none of the grandchildren were at camp this weekend, that doesn't mean we didn't hear from them. My father, still getting used to his new cell phone, happily called family members at the end of the day and gave us reports. Blonde Sister and her family had gone to Big City Like No Other for the weekend, so he put her on speaker phone so we could hear all that they had done that day. “Isn’t this something?” he kept saying, “To think we can connect with everyone no matter where they are ....”



My sons had taken my camera with them, so this photo is from last year. It could just as well be from forty years ago. The familiar view across the bay has not changed.