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.