Such great memories. So much warmth, kindness, generosity and love....
Sherrilyn Brannon, 5/11/09
Comment from Cindy: I want what Sherrilyn said on an embroidery sampler hanging on the wall at Camp. If only we were really that wonderful, but it's a fine goal...
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Camp by Marigrace, on facebook
Camp= Robin drinking coffee and watching "Good Morning America", Raetha wanting to go swimming again and again, and again, Zoe, in a car seat sitting on the counter, the "older" Stoddards bopping in and out, (how did it happen that you all are not that much older than me now?) Hanging on the porch in the rain, sitting on the corner seat (always believing it was my seat) watching Cindy mix some delicious food up at the counter, Sally- showing me her stitches on her ass, Scott, playing Neil's Sugar Mountain on the turntable, Tommy and Joe howling as they played another endless game of Risk, Charlie -sitting in a loin cloth telling some zany story, David= finally having the gold shots work (I remember watching the pain), Wayne, always asking "how are you?" and meaning it..... Babies.. beautiful babies.... playing, laughing crying, growing into adults before my very eyes. All these from different times, but always accompanied by the presence of Robin and the pictures of on the walls.
Good Lord, I missed Deb... there with her kind, gentle soul.. the voice of reason, laced with compassion with that glorious edge
Marigrace O’Gorski on Facebook 5/11-13/2009 (2 separate posts)
Good Lord, I missed Deb... there with her kind, gentle soul.. the voice of reason, laced with compassion with that glorious edge
Marigrace O’Gorski on Facebook 5/11-13/2009 (2 separate posts)
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Camp Through the Years
When I first went there in 1967, I could already tell that Camp was something special to the Stoddard family. I had already hung out often enough Orchard Rd. in East Natick, but when I went to camp I had the feeling that this was a special place to the family, a home that was more than just home. It was when I went to Camp that I first sensed that maybe I was actually going to become a part of that family. I guess Camp was (and still is) the place where everyone was family.
Some years later, when little Zoë and I were living in Lexington, along with going to be with family, going to Camp also meant making a foray into The Country: Route 125 was pretty undeveloped, route 16 was without a number of its later bypasses, and the Camp road itself was a narrow 2-track cart road where you were liable to scratch up your car on the encroaching branches. All around was nothing but woods, and when you came out at the end of that little road there was Camp, just Camp: no year-round house across the road, no Association Beach Club over at “the green camp”, no McMansions on a paved road that didn’t exist yet. During this period Camp was a safe and welcoming place where Zoë could spend summer vacations in the loving care of her Gram, while I took some extended downtime from the single parent gig (beyond the regular weekend time kid spent at Cindy & Wayne’s), knowing that my kid was happy and having a great time. I really loved that parenting role better than anything else in my life, but I have to wonder whether I’d have loved it so wholeheartedly without that occasional long stretch of time off. And of course I was up to Camp every weekend during those summers – for the kid, for the family time, and to be in The Country.
Nowadays the place where I live is more in the country than Camp is, and my kid and her kids and husband live just up the road. So when I go to Camp it isn’t to get out of the city and into the boonies, as it was years ago. These days the family is much bigger and more spread around, and Camp is the central gathering place, not too far from where any of us live, where all of us can be together and still be at home. That part has never changed. There’s no other gathering, not even the Christmas celebration, that’s quite like Old Home Weekend, where the whole family, including an ever-growing constellation of friends, lives in close proximity to each other for a period of days, and where we all BELONG. What Camp means to me now is that convergence, that coming together. You just don’t get that anywhere else, not really.
Oh, and the lake is nice, too.
David
May 6, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
"Camp"
“Camp” By Donna (Amado) June 2009
This has taken me a long time to get into print (sorry Gram) because the thought of Camp evokes such strong feelings, in many layers, that it is difficult to capture effectively and I surely won’t do it justice here…
Camp holds 3 major dual-components for me, personally:
· Stillness & Reflection
· Depth & Processing
· Love & Acceptance
It’s a lot of work and planning (for me) to get up there; lists of what we’ll all need, laundry, pack camping supplies and necessities, coolers, load up the car, buy food on the way, 3-hour drive…but once I see those first camp signs on the tree I begin to feel some release of the vice that accumulates from the pressure of the “real world,” which gradually becomes far removed from the Camp experience. The next set of camp signs brings further release which depending on the mood of the moment, the music on at the time, and if the kids are awake; can make me cry. The first priority upon arrival is to hug hello and quick catch up with Gram and greetings to whoever happens to be at Camp. You guys know me, I can’t actually relax until I unload the car (still miss my Jeep) and set up home-base. I have no problem being teased for this (“Setting up the condo?”)
Once that is done, I NEED to head to the water, where the kids are already waiting – “Can we swim NOW, Mama???” Suits, sunscreen, dry towels, book, journal, camera; ahhhh…the internal chaos begins to settle into a calm stillness allowing me to reflect on what has been stuffed down to allow me to keep going every day at home.
An eternal connection occurs; to the “self” and the loving of others - family and friends who also reflect and connect in this vortex of compassion and wisdom that Camp becomes when we gather. A little piece of me lives at Camp all year long waiting for me to come back to myself.
I believe that being at Camp allows for stillness and introspection which brings out the depths of each of us. This can be (usually is for me) a good thing; bringing about self-acceptance, growth, and peace. This has also been known, at times, to cause conflict to arise. Those conflicted either clear the air and continue to love, or they leave, usually not to return! “Who the hell is Linda?” (I never knew, but have had “Lindas” of my own at Camp!)
While at home, I may meet someone and imagine how would they fit in at Camp? Would they respect Gram and the “Elders”? Would they walk the loop with me; swim to the raft, kayak, and help to keep the children safe? Would they pitch in or expect others to carry their weight? Would they “get” the humor? Can they be still and insightful, compassionate, empathetic, silent? My imaginings of other’s capabilities have not always (as you who love me know) coincided with the reality so I no longer put too much weight on this projection, but sometimes I can rule them out right away from the exercise!
Camp is joy and cathartic love and Gram is the nucleus of the microcosm of Camp. Gram lovingly knows “her” people. She senses when to give you space and when a quiet sit together is just the thing. So when Gram offers conversation and advice, one listens and shares.
Gram and her Stoddard Clan are some of the most wonderful people on the planet and I like to think that they/we do her proud by being who we are. I often feel a bit on the edge looking in, as I do in most realms, but only of my own doing. I dive in and duck out based on my absorption level and need for solitude, of which I get very little of at home and often crave like a drug – peace and solitude. Yet, I deeply love my Camp family and know they embrace me even with my flaws. Being there feeds my soul like nestling in the Great Mother’s womb.
This has taken me a long time to get into print (sorry Gram) because the thought of Camp evokes such strong feelings, in many layers, that it is difficult to capture effectively and I surely won’t do it justice here…
Camp holds 3 major dual-components for me, personally:
· Stillness & Reflection
· Depth & Processing
· Love & Acceptance
It’s a lot of work and planning (for me) to get up there; lists of what we’ll all need, laundry, pack camping supplies and necessities, coolers, load up the car, buy food on the way, 3-hour drive…but once I see those first camp signs on the tree I begin to feel some release of the vice that accumulates from the pressure of the “real world,” which gradually becomes far removed from the Camp experience. The next set of camp signs brings further release which depending on the mood of the moment, the music on at the time, and if the kids are awake; can make me cry. The first priority upon arrival is to hug hello and quick catch up with Gram and greetings to whoever happens to be at Camp. You guys know me, I can’t actually relax until I unload the car (still miss my Jeep) and set up home-base. I have no problem being teased for this (“Setting up the condo?”)
Once that is done, I NEED to head to the water, where the kids are already waiting – “Can we swim NOW, Mama???” Suits, sunscreen, dry towels, book, journal, camera; ahhhh…the internal chaos begins to settle into a calm stillness allowing me to reflect on what has been stuffed down to allow me to keep going every day at home.
An eternal connection occurs; to the “self” and the loving of others - family and friends who also reflect and connect in this vortex of compassion and wisdom that Camp becomes when we gather. A little piece of me lives at Camp all year long waiting for me to come back to myself.
I believe that being at Camp allows for stillness and introspection which brings out the depths of each of us. This can be (usually is for me) a good thing; bringing about self-acceptance, growth, and peace. This has also been known, at times, to cause conflict to arise. Those conflicted either clear the air and continue to love, or they leave, usually not to return! “Who the hell is Linda?” (I never knew, but have had “Lindas” of my own at Camp!)
While at home, I may meet someone and imagine how would they fit in at Camp? Would they respect Gram and the “Elders”? Would they walk the loop with me; swim to the raft, kayak, and help to keep the children safe? Would they pitch in or expect others to carry their weight? Would they “get” the humor? Can they be still and insightful, compassionate, empathetic, silent? My imaginings of other’s capabilities have not always (as you who love me know) coincided with the reality so I no longer put too much weight on this projection, but sometimes I can rule them out right away from the exercise!
Camp is joy and cathartic love and Gram is the nucleus of the microcosm of Camp. Gram lovingly knows “her” people. She senses when to give you space and when a quiet sit together is just the thing. So when Gram offers conversation and advice, one listens and shares.
Gram and her Stoddard Clan are some of the most wonderful people on the planet and I like to think that they/we do her proud by being who we are. I often feel a bit on the edge looking in, as I do in most realms, but only of my own doing. I dive in and duck out based on my absorption level and need for solitude, of which I get very little of at home and often crave like a drug – peace and solitude. Yet, I deeply love my Camp family and know they embrace me even with my flaws. Being there feeds my soul like nestling in the Great Mother’s womb.
Harper
Camp is very important to me for many reasons. Camp is one of my favorite places to go every summer. I am very fortunate to have a place like camp to go to, and spend time with my family. I love going to camp so much because it is one of the most fun places (for me, anyway) to spend a couple of weeks during my summers.
Going to camp is something I look forward to every summer. I love to swim, play, and hang out at camp. Some of my favorite things at camp are: family, the lake (and swimming until it is time to go to bed), the disgusting amounts of food, riding my bike around the circle many times, making s'mores, playing with Nell, and the many other kids there, yelling at the noisy boats on the lake, building fairy houses, swimming all the way out to the "No Wake" buoy, eating dinner at the picnic tables and watching the sun set over the sparkling lake, water tubing with Pat and Nell on the back of Marigrace's boat, making the messy "potions" that many of the adults hate, and so, so much more. All of these things, I am so grateful for, and I appreciate very much.
I love falling asleep at camp, or Gram's house hearing people I love talking or laughing or running around, and the loudspeakers from Camp Robin Hood, and even the somewhat obnoxious sound of the boats going by on the lake. I also love waking up every morning at Gram's house or camp (wherever I may be staying) to see the sun shining, and smell pancakes or something delicious cooking.
Occasionally I wonder, if there is any place on earth I would rather go to spend time with my family, than camp. Probably not. So, that is what camp means to me, and I am so grateful that I have camp there for me.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
By Cynthia Robin Stoddard Gascon Crandlemere
To me Camp is Camp with a capital “C”.
Camp is old memories.
Mr. Winkley, his profile with his pipe, shark’s teeth, seahorses and candy bars. Nana in the doorway in a thunderstorm, Grampa and his big Mercury. (They tell me I tried to wash it for him and he wasn’t amused!) Cutting our pancakes one bite at a time because Grampa Chick said that is good proper manners. Not slamming the door. Daddy in his black and white swim trunks. The Cushman bread truck. Burying trash in the woods. Shampooing in the lake. The Bretton Woods Boy Singers, “It’s a Grand Night for Singing...” truly a thrill. Where we were when Marilyn Monroe died, when Bill Murdoch died, the 1968 riots. Trips to Abbotts for Popsicles and comic books.
A real fireplace. Picking blueberries. Trips to Storyland. Trying to get a tan. Taking the boat out in the lake to read a book. The sound of “Taps” coming from Robin Hood.
Never once in all the years of my childhood realizing how fortunate we were to have a “summer home”.
Camp is newer old memories.
Weddings. Sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room surrounded by a crowd on the floor, staying up late. The “Who the hell is Linda?” award. The smell of pine and ferns. Papa Dick. The next generation playing, “Ew wanna pay wif fia?” Is the front the front or the back? Boogieman path and walks around the loop. Slamming the door. New traditions, like the Madison Donation. Endless possibilities for new traditions.
Camp today owns and holds all these memories and so many more.
Camp inspires writing like this from Zoë and Donna, the younger generation: “This (photo of Camp) is hard to look at when it's whatever-below outside and the depths of winter. I like this photo and it makes me think of all the people who aren't in it, but must be just around the corner. There's Tommy with a big pan of food to put on the picnic table...or the kids laughing in the water, Raetha napping in the hammock and David emerging from the bunk house wondering what's smells so good...in come the twins and Shani having just woken up wondering who's around and Ben is full of glee to see them wondering if they'll let him hang with them... Meanwhile Neil is finishing up the last batch of dishes, goddess bless his soul.”
Camp is food, from old days to new. Fresh caught trout with catsup and English muffins. Pancakes with chocolate ice cream. A&P spice bar cake for Mom’s birthday. “Camp spaghetti”. Boxes of “Seconds” chocolates from Abbott’s. Tommy’s smoked meat. Clam dip. Baked Alaska. Corn on the cob. Blueberries. Chewing on Checkerberry leaves. Camp is where I can cook all day long.
Camp is important exactly because it is important to every single person in this family and more. It is the very essence of what makes us a family, while at the same time gives us a special place to celebrate being a family. We are Camp and Camp is us. We will never know how close we all would or would not be if we didn’t have this place to “be” together.
Camp is Old Home. Old Home has so many memories of it’s own.
And all the memories are so vivid and alive because Camp is still so alive, the touchstone for us all. Camp holds the echoes of precious voices that are gone and precious voices still to come.
And of course seeing my child and then my grandchildren swimming and playing in the same spot in the same lake where I swam and played is such a tremendous gift.
But most of all Camp is where my Mama is. Always has been and always will be.
Nellie Nails it in Three Poems
Camp
Small white house, shaped like a breadbox,
dusty white, with big blue shutters and a blue frame around the door.
There are tears in that old door.
I used to like to imagine that they had been made by huge mosquitoes.
There’s a little chimney, but only a loaf-thin Santa could get down there.
It feels so good to sit there with my cousins on the dusty, dusty couch,
roasting marshmallows in the old pot-bellied stove.
Somewhere, someone is playing music.
I couldn’t be happier.
Rain
The droplets fall making a soft pattering sound on the roof like little feet running over my head.
I hear Gram say ‘this house is like a rain magnet; rain comes to it like an ant to honey.’
The three-room house smells like cinnamon and cake.
I smile as I drift off to sleep.
Small white house, shaped like a breadbox,
dusty white, with big blue shutters and a blue frame around the door.
There are tears in that old door.
I used to like to imagine that they had been made by huge mosquitoes.
There’s a little chimney, but only a loaf-thin Santa could get down there.
It feels so good to sit there with my cousins on the dusty, dusty couch,
roasting marshmallows in the old pot-bellied stove.
Somewhere, someone is playing music.
I couldn’t be happier.
Summer sunset on the lake
I sit out on the deck looking out at the lake.
It looks like someone has taken the sky down and put it on the lake.
The sun, like a golden halo for the trees.
And all the colors surrounding it are aglow.
Waves lap gently on the soft sandy shore.
I sit out on the deck looking out at the lake.
It looks like someone has taken the sky down and put it on the lake.
The sun, like a golden halo for the trees.
And all the colors surrounding it are aglow.
Waves lap gently on the soft sandy shore.
Rain
The droplets fall making a soft pattering sound on the roof like little feet running over my head.
I hear Gram say ‘this house is like a rain magnet; rain comes to it like an ant to honey.’
The three-room house smells like cinnamon and cake.
I smile as I drift off to sleep.
Auntie Sally
Helping Mom/Gram get her proposal together in these last several months, trying to be vigilant to her desires and needs and getting them into words that held her meaning all put me in a different place when I began to the write about what camp means to me. I have been focused on what camp means to her; we spent many, many, MANY hours talking about her reminiscences.
She talks about when her father with Uncle Norm and Uncle Marlen bought the land and Grampa brought Mom and Nana up to see it in the side car of his Harley. She tells stories of her uncles and aunts; Uncle Marlen and his death always come up. Many people think of camp as being solidified after Mom bought it from the estate that Nana Chick left to Mom and Aunt Midge. But really the concept of what camp would mean to our family was solidified when Uncle Marlin died. The three men, brothers really though Uncle Marlen was not blood, had owned the land together so when Uncle Marlin died, Grampa and Uncle Norm had to figure out how to hold it all together so that it would continue to stay in the family.
Those of us who reminisce about camp now talk about what it was like before the MacMansions; we talk about camp when there was only Grampa's Cart road. But, Mom talks to me about when there was no cart road, she talks about her father making that road by pulling two trees behind a tractor. The younger generations talk about the way other folks have taken down trees in their yards uglying them up; Mom talks about the years when there were no trees at all after the fire.
When we look forward, we talk about what will happen when the land and cottage will overflow and not hold us all. Mom talks about when there was no cottage at all after it was destroyed by the fire; she talks about standing on the road and seeing only piles of burnt pieces of wood and ash and being able to look down to the lake unimpeded by anything save for the char covered fireplace. She talks about how her father did not hesitate for a moment about the importance of keeping camp, about him and Uncle Norm going around to all the neighbors to buy their burnt property from them. Those neighbors didn't see what Grampa saw; they didn't see that this shoud be a special place for us all forever.
We worry about Cindy being afraid of the mice that might be in there; Mom talks about the time her Grandmother came up to see the land and wouldn't get out of the car because the place frightened her. We go to the lake and stand neck deep and talk, ducking under to pick up a rock that our feet have touched and throwing it to the side to keep the lake bottom sandy. Mom talks of the years we stepped on pieces of window glass or china rounded by the water and threw them into a bucket because they were so beautiful. She remembers the bricks tumbling down the hill into the water as her father and mine rebuilt our camp. We still find the broken chards of brick today. And after the camp was rebuilt she remembers her mother's friends coming up from Portmouth to surprise her with a house-warming shower, giving her beautiful quality china and how Nana always used it in that manner, having their meals formally in the tiny little diningroom. She talks about her mom and dad at camp and you can see in her eyes that she is seeing them right as she talks.
I think I'm ready now, to say what camp means to me. It means my mother's stories of the special things about love and family that she remembers while she sits here looking and seeing what we can't see. It means my father's stories that I can still hear when I sit on the porch and look out to the lake and listen to him. It means my brother's stories as he tells them on the deck at night. It means my sisters' stories when Raetha tells them from her memories, and Cindy from hers. It means the childrens' stories from Zoe to Pat.
And, finally, what camp means to me are my own stories. They are endless. They have defined me, they are mine. My memories are all about sound and faces. My heart cherishs the voices and the laughter; my eyes can never get enough of the faces I love so much. I find such pleasure in hearing the children; there is no laughter I love more than when my siblings and I laugh together; I love my mother saying, "that's enough of that". But maybe most of all I love that I can hear the voices of people long past. I can still hear my grandfather's and grandmother's voices, I can hear my father's voice and laughter, my Uncle Billy's, Dickie's is there and my Cindy's; and I love that I can see their faces, as with my mother, if you were sitting with me you would see in my eyes that I am seeing them right as I write. I love that the long and winding road of my life always leads me to that door.
Henekis
I have always tried (and failed) to describe what camp means to me. In a world where everything shifts, changes, moves and/or goes away camp has always been a constant in my life (much like the love that I receive from the people that often are my company). It is the place I go that has held me throughout the years. It is where my happiest childhood memories took place and the place that I have spent the most time dreaming of my future. When I am at camp I hold on to every moment for its vast depth.
I have somehow managed to develop into the type of person who is constantly on the go - busy, moving, consumed. Sometimes I forget to just sit with myself and breath. As much as camp has always been about the company and love that I am surrounded by it has also always been that space of calm where I remember to breathe. Camp is where my sorrow seems tolerable and my laughter comes from the deepest places of my being.
I can’t speak of camp without speaking of the water! I need water, crave to be surrounded by water, find sanity in the water! There is no water that fulfills that for me more than our lake. True meditation to me is lying perfectly still on top of the water, ears submerged, focusing on my breathing to keep me afloat with muffled voices and laughter in the air above me. Oh those voices and laughter! They are the treat waiting for me.
Camp (as alluded to so far) is also so much about the people! I am in love with our family – everyone individually and all of us as a whole. Camp is where I get to have everyone and we all get to have each other. The outside world can’t touch us while we are lost in the playing, the cooking, the eating, the swimming, the cleaning, the napping…the loving. There is safety and an indescribable beauty to that feeling. I feel so amazingly lucky.
In all, I have to say that I have always felt an utter sense of renewal from being at camp. It is a feeling I have never consistently gotten from any other one place. Camp is the perfect combination of the things that feed my soul!
I have somehow managed to develop into the type of person who is constantly on the go - busy, moving, consumed. Sometimes I forget to just sit with myself and breath. As much as camp has always been about the company and love that I am surrounded by it has also always been that space of calm where I remember to breathe. Camp is where my sorrow seems tolerable and my laughter comes from the deepest places of my being.
I can’t speak of camp without speaking of the water! I need water, crave to be surrounded by water, find sanity in the water! There is no water that fulfills that for me more than our lake. True meditation to me is lying perfectly still on top of the water, ears submerged, focusing on my breathing to keep me afloat with muffled voices and laughter in the air above me. Oh those voices and laughter! They are the treat waiting for me.
Camp (as alluded to so far) is also so much about the people! I am in love with our family – everyone individually and all of us as a whole. Camp is where I get to have everyone and we all get to have each other. The outside world can’t touch us while we are lost in the playing, the cooking, the eating, the swimming, the cleaning, the napping…the loving. There is safety and an indescribable beauty to that feeling. I feel so amazingly lucky.
In all, I have to say that I have always felt an utter sense of renewal from being at camp. It is a feeling I have never consistently gotten from any other one place. Camp is the perfect combination of the things that feed my soul!
Auntie Rae
his is my beautiful aunt's beautiful piece that she wrote about Camp.
Breathing Camp
By Raetha-jeanne
I am the ‘Underwater Breath Holding Champion’ of the world.
I can hold my breath from mid-November to mid-April, like a hibernating turtle buried beneath frozen mud, until a puff of spring air thaws winter’s chill. Then, I gush forward and burst open the shutters and breath, breath in the scent of camp.
Camp is the smell of a sweet stale inside April air that promises August. Camp is the smell of pine sap, moth balls, Grampa Winkle’s pipe and sweet fern. Camp is the smell of my mother’s coffee, my brother’s grill and wet towels left on the floor. Camp is the smell of babies and sunscreen.
Camp is the sound of wind rushing across the lake and getting caught in the Pine Barrens. Camp is the sound of a Friday afternoon stillness filled with the anticipation of the arrival of family and friends for the weekend. Camp is the chatter of the voices and giggles of the people I love the most.
Camp is a summer morning that smells like pancakes and bacon with both parents sitting on the porch sipping coffee, diamonds bouncing off the water and blinding me with the happiest feeling I have ever known. Camp is where all my best memories were conceived.
Camp is where I made my babies.
Camp is the place I feel safe. Camp is where every wound I have ever endured has been healed, from a skinned knee cured by lake balm and summer air to a broken heart eased by ancestral shelter and the grounding of familiar earth; sand, golden-brown pine needles, melted glass, blueberry bells and pine cones.
Camp is where tradition is kept. It’s where the language of family is spoken without lyrics, only tone. Camp is where I step down as the ‘Underwater Breathing Champion of the World’ and where Netdahe too has to pass on the crown and where neither of us will ever tell Tommy that he isn’t the underwater King anymore either.
Camp is the breath of my family.
Breathing Camp
By Raetha-jeanne
I am the ‘Underwater Breath Holding Champion’ of the world.
I can hold my breath from mid-November to mid-April, like a hibernating turtle buried beneath frozen mud, until a puff of spring air thaws winter’s chill. Then, I gush forward and burst open the shutters and breath, breath in the scent of camp.
Camp is the smell of a sweet stale inside April air that promises August. Camp is the smell of pine sap, moth balls, Grampa Winkle’s pipe and sweet fern. Camp is the smell of my mother’s coffee, my brother’s grill and wet towels left on the floor. Camp is the smell of babies and sunscreen.
Camp is the sound of wind rushing across the lake and getting caught in the Pine Barrens. Camp is the sound of a Friday afternoon stillness filled with the anticipation of the arrival of family and friends for the weekend. Camp is the chatter of the voices and giggles of the people I love the most.
Camp is a summer morning that smells like pancakes and bacon with both parents sitting on the porch sipping coffee, diamonds bouncing off the water and blinding me with the happiest feeling I have ever known. Camp is where all my best memories were conceived.
Camp is where I made my babies.
Camp is the place I feel safe. Camp is where every wound I have ever endured has been healed, from a skinned knee cured by lake balm and summer air to a broken heart eased by ancestral shelter and the grounding of familiar earth; sand, golden-brown pine needles, melted glass, blueberry bells and pine cones.
Camp is where tradition is kept. It’s where the language of family is spoken without lyrics, only tone. Camp is where I step down as the ‘Underwater Breathing Champion of the World’ and where Netdahe too has to pass on the crown and where neither of us will ever tell Tommy that he isn’t the underwater King anymore either.
Camp is the breath of my family.
Camp
Gram has asked all her children and grandchildren to write something about what Camp means to them. Camp means so much and so many things to me that I've been avoiding this task. I just don't really know where to start or how exactly to approach a subject that is so much about feelings and senses; smells, sights, temperatures, sounds, tastes, immersion.
Camp is immersion. The first thing I always wanted to do when I was little and arrived at Camp in the summer was jump in the lake. Straight away. (We didn't go to Camp in the winter back then. Never. Could the little ones in our family even imagine such a time? We just had the camp, not Grammie's house, not a paved, plowed road leading there. It was strictly a summer place. You would sleep in the back seat until the limbs of the trees on Grandpa Chick's road scraped the windows of the car and woke you up. Then you knew you were there.) And I remember being very small and not wanting to leave Camp and actually having my sneakers on and TIED (arrggggh, that's it, when the sneaker are on and tied; you are GONE, back to that other place that isn't really home or where you want to be; the suburbs!) and "falling" off the dock into the lake so Dad would be forced to stay longer. I don't even think I knew how to swim at the time. I was desperate.
Now when I go to Camp it is to immerse myself in my family. Their loudness, craziness, overbearing, over-the-top ways. Ways that I need to escape sometimes (I am, after all, an only child, at least by some definitions). But ways that I crave and need for sustenance and identity. So Camp is immersion. When I am there and immersed, I know exactly who I am. I am a Stoddard. I am proudly my grandmother's daughter. That's not a typo. Anyone who knows me well knows I spent every summer, beginning when I was 5 years old, at Camp with my gram. And I am nearly as close to my mother's generation (9 years to Raetha) as to my own (6 years to Netdahe, another 3 to Henekis). So while I love being the eldest grandchild, I also feel like gram's youngest kid. I'm grateful to be hers AND my mom and dad's. She helped raise me and I like to think that I take after her in some ways. Most importantly, she taught me loyalty, acceptance, forgiveness and unconditional love. And how to swim.
Back to Camp. When I first walk into Camp after an absence, I am struck by the smell of the aging pine and the way the light refracts through those single-paned windows. It usually overwhelms me with emotion and this has been the case ever since I can remember. That smell. That light. I'm home. I suddenly remember my childhood, my teenage years, young adulthood, and just last summer. Everyone is in that tiny, dusty camp. Champ is there and the two of us are playing cribbage during the day when everyone else has gone to Attitash for the Alpine Slide. Gram is sitting in her housecoat in the early morning, sipping her third cup of coffee and watching the Today Show while I stumble out of the side room in my pajamas. Aunts, uncles and their friends are laughing, smoking dope and watching Saturday Night Live and I spy them through the Raggedy Ann and Andy curtain that serves as my bedroom door. Grammie and Raetha have accidently locked themselves out during a mid-week, late night skinny dip and are calling me out of sleep to let them back in. They're giggling. I'm heading outside to sunbathe in the front yard (or is it the BACK yard) with Rae, who is grown-up (a teenager!) and beautiful and makes it so that boys come around. Neil and I are spending a February weekend on a mattress on the living room floor and I'm reading Jane Austin. I'm nursing my new baby girl on that crazy fold out couch that Poppa Dick bought while aunts, uncle and cousins sleep in the next rooms. I'm introducing everyone to my 5 week old foster child at the beginning of an intense parenting journey...
Everything else happens outside. In the lake, in the yard, at the picnic tables, in the hammock and in the road. And now all my friends, and all of YOUR friends want to come to Camp and to Old Home Weekend. Because Gram makes everyone feel special and at home and loved and part of a family. Unconditionally. Camp helps her to do this. Gram and Camp and Family are all the same here; they all stand for each other, reference one another in their existence. Our holy trinity. On Old Home Weekend I am so proud to show off my extended family to my friends and my friends to my family. Camp and Gram let me bring these people all together. I'm no only child! And Look! at how charming and strange and brilliant and f-ed up and neurotic we all are. Look at the ways we've screamed at and mistreated one another, but continue to come together in love. Look at the way we take care of our children and each other. Look at how we always come back to Camp, no matter what. It's love. It's why I know love so well. If Gram hadn't given us all Camp and herself, it wouldn't be this way. Love would be something else and it wouldn't be nearly as rich or safe or encompassing. I can't even imagine who I'd be.
Camp is immersion. The first thing I always wanted to do when I was little and arrived at Camp in the summer was jump in the lake. Straight away. (We didn't go to Camp in the winter back then. Never. Could the little ones in our family even imagine such a time? We just had the camp, not Grammie's house, not a paved, plowed road leading there. It was strictly a summer place. You would sleep in the back seat until the limbs of the trees on Grandpa Chick's road scraped the windows of the car and woke you up. Then you knew you were there.) And I remember being very small and not wanting to leave Camp and actually having my sneakers on and TIED (arrggggh, that's it, when the sneaker are on and tied; you are GONE, back to that other place that isn't really home or where you want to be; the suburbs!) and "falling" off the dock into the lake so Dad would be forced to stay longer. I don't even think I knew how to swim at the time. I was desperate.
Now when I go to Camp it is to immerse myself in my family. Their loudness, craziness, overbearing, over-the-top ways. Ways that I need to escape sometimes (I am, after all, an only child, at least by some definitions). But ways that I crave and need for sustenance and identity. So Camp is immersion. When I am there and immersed, I know exactly who I am. I am a Stoddard. I am proudly my grandmother's daughter. That's not a typo. Anyone who knows me well knows I spent every summer, beginning when I was 5 years old, at Camp with my gram. And I am nearly as close to my mother's generation (9 years to Raetha) as to my own (6 years to Netdahe, another 3 to Henekis). So while I love being the eldest grandchild, I also feel like gram's youngest kid. I'm grateful to be hers AND my mom and dad's. She helped raise me and I like to think that I take after her in some ways. Most importantly, she taught me loyalty, acceptance, forgiveness and unconditional love. And how to swim.
Back to Camp. When I first walk into Camp after an absence, I am struck by the smell of the aging pine and the way the light refracts through those single-paned windows. It usually overwhelms me with emotion and this has been the case ever since I can remember. That smell. That light. I'm home. I suddenly remember my childhood, my teenage years, young adulthood, and just last summer. Everyone is in that tiny, dusty camp. Champ is there and the two of us are playing cribbage during the day when everyone else has gone to Attitash for the Alpine Slide. Gram is sitting in her housecoat in the early morning, sipping her third cup of coffee and watching the Today Show while I stumble out of the side room in my pajamas. Aunts, uncles and their friends are laughing, smoking dope and watching Saturday Night Live and I spy them through the Raggedy Ann and Andy curtain that serves as my bedroom door. Grammie and Raetha have accidently locked themselves out during a mid-week, late night skinny dip and are calling me out of sleep to let them back in. They're giggling. I'm heading outside to sunbathe in the front yard (or is it the BACK yard) with Rae, who is grown-up (a teenager!) and beautiful and makes it so that boys come around. Neil and I are spending a February weekend on a mattress on the living room floor and I'm reading Jane Austin. I'm nursing my new baby girl on that crazy fold out couch that Poppa Dick bought while aunts, uncle and cousins sleep in the next rooms. I'm introducing everyone to my 5 week old foster child at the beginning of an intense parenting journey...
Everything else happens outside. In the lake, in the yard, at the picnic tables, in the hammock and in the road. And now all my friends, and all of YOUR friends want to come to Camp and to Old Home Weekend. Because Gram makes everyone feel special and at home and loved and part of a family. Unconditionally. Camp helps her to do this. Gram and Camp and Family are all the same here; they all stand for each other, reference one another in their existence. Our holy trinity. On Old Home Weekend I am so proud to show off my extended family to my friends and my friends to my family. Camp and Gram let me bring these people all together. I'm no only child! And Look! at how charming and strange and brilliant and f-ed up and neurotic we all are. Look at the ways we've screamed at and mistreated one another, but continue to come together in love. Look at the way we take care of our children and each other. Look at how we always come back to Camp, no matter what. It's love. It's why I know love so well. If Gram hadn't given us all Camp and herself, it wouldn't be this way. Love would be something else and it wouldn't be nearly as rich or safe or encompassing. I can't even imagine who I'd be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)