A recent NY Times travel article so closely mirrored the past that our family lived every summer beginning in the 1970s that a tug on the brain and the heart insisted on it being shared.
Rustic vacation houses in the woods are called camps. As a child of the 1950s, "camp" to me meant a week in a bunkhouse with other youths, sharing starchy meals served up with omnipresent "bug juice", a cross between Kool-aid and liquid Jell-O, completing tacky craft projects, and following the flashlight's beam into an insect-ridden outhouse to answer a mid-night call of nature.
Upscale camps are now known as compounds. Our family’s place is just a camp, filled with household hand-me-downs, cast off furniture, musty towels and joyous memories. We spent every summer, from the day school ended in June until Labor Day threatened in September, in heavenly busy-ness and idleness as we chose. The idyllic seasons made memories in the lives of our family and friends that are the building blocks of the memories we're making today.
I hope you will enjoy the article and the memories it evokes.
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