As a family, in my younger days, we traveled and vacationed throughout New England and down the east coast. For many years, my parents loved camping, which did not consist of the 5th wheeler luxury trailers of today. With their modern conveniences of gas stoves, air conditioners, and cable television; bathrooms equipped with showers. No, we went camping as in tenting.
Other family members joined in these fun filled summer vacations. We’d all reserve our camping sites next to each other at different camp grounds. Such fun we’d have, especially being from the city, to sit around a camp fire and roast marshmellows on a stick in the fire at night, blowing out their flames before they resembled charcoal. How yummy they were no matter how well done, between two pieces of chocolate.
My father enjoyed setting up the camp site, collecting and chopping the wood, hanging the canopy over the picnic table and how I do remember him making a pot of coffee over the fire every morning.
We mostly camped throughout New Hampshire and Maine. I remember one camping place, The Old Sand Desert of Maine. I’d walk from our camp site with my arms full of cups, to a sand pit. There I would kneel for the longest time, digging in the sand and collecting in each cup, all the different colors of sand to bring back home with me. It was quite amazing to me. Purples, oranges, reds, yellow…sand.
We slept in comfort in our tent, upon bunks with air mattresses. The fresh air blew through the screens. We always did things and went places together, as a family.
There were years also that we rented cottages along the lakes or ocean. I remember well a trip from N.H. to Florida as a child. We stopped in many states, taking our time and saw many things, along the way.
We toured the White House, and climbed the Lincoln Memorial steps. We rode up to the top of the Washington Monument and had dinner in the State Capital building. We toured museums and visited the Unknown Soldier site.
In New York, I spent days touring and taking part in the New York World’s Fair. I viewed New York from atop of the Empire State building; went to Radio city and Times Square. Toured the United Nations and watched new laws being passed.
In Georgia, I learned first hand of segregation and as a child it shocked me enough that I've always remembered it.
In Florida, I found the ocean amazingly warm compared to all I knew of it along the New England coast.
After years of travel for vacationing, my parents decided to buy a summer home in the country, on a lake. This home remained as such for many years and in that time, many wonderful years of memories came to be. Seems strange as we tell this story, which the builders of these summer homes were known yet it was unplanned to meet again. My parents, in their search for the right lake home to purchase, came upon the land for sale by four brothers which my mother and siblings went through high school together, miles away.
These four brothers were builders and were building summer homes around the lake. My parents decided to buy the land and had their home built by these brothers.
My aunt, uncle and cousins also joined us there, and bought their summer home as well. It must of seemed strange for my mother and her brother to be once again in the company of some high school friends but now as adults, all with their own families.
And so it was, in the summer this is where we’d go. Even weekends, we’d drive north to this summer home from the city. Even in the winter a few times, I remember my father turning on the water and heat, loading that wood stove for a long weekend. Only having to drain the water before leaving so it did not freeze in the pipes.
The memories of this summer home are too many to ever tell all. We water skied, fished, lived in the water, had fires at night on the beach. Went boating, and on picnics and of course as kids, exploring. We stayed out late at night. We’d go to dances and drink soda. We’d get rides to the arcade, or walk barefoot to the ice cream stand for banana splits. We discovered we could run under the water falls of the damn and sit there in a rock like cave, and watch the water from underneath, gush through the damn before our eyes. There were neither fears nor worries. We all knew each other. We were our parent’s children in carefree summer days.
Of course, for me, as an early teen, there was summer love. There were a few, though one remained in contact even in letters during the off seasons. Yet, we were friends.
I remember him quite well back then. We’d water ski together, and hang out with the group that also had summer homes there. We’d sing and laugh while sitting around the beach fires at night. We’d lie in a hammock outside an empty camp and talk while looking into the night’s sky. We never kissed. It was a comfort I think to us both, to just lie side by side in that slow rocking hammock and be near. He’d come to my bedroom window late mornings to try to wake me. He’d walk me home at night when all our friends would part and head home for sleep in the wee hours of morning. He’d be waiting for me to arrive and voice his disappointment to my parents if I did not come up with them, as I grew older. And he’d write to me during the winter months while apart. After all, we were friends.
And as we did grow older, we did remain friends yet we dated others. Sometimes we dated others while at the summer home. Still, we’d always meet back late at night, around that fire on the beach, feeling it was the best part of the night. And there were times it was in our own home cities which we were involved in another and we saw each other less and less as we grew up.
Yet, we were friends.
So many memories.
Other family members joined in these fun filled summer vacations. We’d all reserve our camping sites next to each other at different camp grounds. Such fun we’d have, especially being from the city, to sit around a camp fire and roast marshmellows on a stick in the fire at night, blowing out their flames before they resembled charcoal. How yummy they were no matter how well done, between two pieces of chocolate.
My father enjoyed setting up the camp site, collecting and chopping the wood, hanging the canopy over the picnic table and how I do remember him making a pot of coffee over the fire every morning.
We mostly camped throughout New Hampshire and Maine. I remember one camping place, The Old Sand Desert of Maine. I’d walk from our camp site with my arms full of cups, to a sand pit. There I would kneel for the longest time, digging in the sand and collecting in each cup, all the different colors of sand to bring back home with me. It was quite amazing to me. Purples, oranges, reds, yellow…sand.
We slept in comfort in our tent, upon bunks with air mattresses. The fresh air blew through the screens. We always did things and went places together, as a family.
There were years also that we rented cottages along the lakes or ocean. I remember well a trip from N.H. to Florida as a child. We stopped in many states, taking our time and saw many things, along the way.
We toured the White House, and climbed the Lincoln Memorial steps. We rode up to the top of the Washington Monument and had dinner in the State Capital building. We toured museums and visited the Unknown Soldier site.
In New York, I spent days touring and taking part in the New York World’s Fair. I viewed New York from atop of the Empire State building; went to Radio city and Times Square. Toured the United Nations and watched new laws being passed.
In Georgia, I learned first hand of segregation and as a child it shocked me enough that I've always remembered it.
In Florida, I found the ocean amazingly warm compared to all I knew of it along the New England coast.
After years of travel for vacationing, my parents decided to buy a summer home in the country, on a lake. This home remained as such for many years and in that time, many wonderful years of memories came to be. Seems strange as we tell this story, which the builders of these summer homes were known yet it was unplanned to meet again. My parents, in their search for the right lake home to purchase, came upon the land for sale by four brothers which my mother and siblings went through high school together, miles away.
These four brothers were builders and were building summer homes around the lake. My parents decided to buy the land and had their home built by these brothers.
My aunt, uncle and cousins also joined us there, and bought their summer home as well. It must of seemed strange for my mother and her brother to be once again in the company of some high school friends but now as adults, all with their own families.
And so it was, in the summer this is where we’d go. Even weekends, we’d drive north to this summer home from the city. Even in the winter a few times, I remember my father turning on the water and heat, loading that wood stove for a long weekend. Only having to drain the water before leaving so it did not freeze in the pipes.
The memories of this summer home are too many to ever tell all. We water skied, fished, lived in the water, had fires at night on the beach. Went boating, and on picnics and of course as kids, exploring. We stayed out late at night. We’d go to dances and drink soda. We’d get rides to the arcade, or walk barefoot to the ice cream stand for banana splits. We discovered we could run under the water falls of the damn and sit there in a rock like cave, and watch the water from underneath, gush through the damn before our eyes. There were neither fears nor worries. We all knew each other. We were our parent’s children in carefree summer days.
Of course, for me, as an early teen, there was summer love. There were a few, though one remained in contact even in letters during the off seasons. Yet, we were friends.
I remember him quite well back then. We’d water ski together, and hang out with the group that also had summer homes there. We’d sing and laugh while sitting around the beach fires at night. We’d lie in a hammock outside an empty camp and talk while looking into the night’s sky. We never kissed. It was a comfort I think to us both, to just lie side by side in that slow rocking hammock and be near. He’d come to my bedroom window late mornings to try to wake me. He’d walk me home at night when all our friends would part and head home for sleep in the wee hours of morning. He’d be waiting for me to arrive and voice his disappointment to my parents if I did not come up with them, as I grew older. And he’d write to me during the winter months while apart. After all, we were friends.
And as we did grow older, we did remain friends yet we dated others. Sometimes we dated others while at the summer home. Still, we’d always meet back late at night, around that fire on the beach, feeling it was the best part of the night. And there were times it was in our own home cities which we were involved in another and we saw each other less and less as we grew up.
Yet, we were friends.
So many memories.
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