Happy Father's Day!

When I was five years old, on a fine summer Sunday morning, my father and I went for a walk on a dirt road in the woods. I had on my yellow striped polyester shirt and matching yellow shorts; he had on his straw fedora and plaid shorts. He would hold my hand, and when he saw something of interest, he would bend down and point it out to me. Nothing remarkable happened, but it was memorable in ways that grown people have flashbacks of their childhood; of simpler times.

I spent this weekend at Lake Erie with my in-laws. It was equally tranquil and had the same effect. With nothing to do but have wine and cheese, stare at the lake and enjoy lengthy conversations, I couldn't ask for a more delightful weekend. It's nice to know that simpler times aren't always in the past.

I couldn't share my birthday with two more wonderful men. Happy Father's Day Gilbert and Jim!

Summertime, and the living is ...

I always consider Memorial Day the unofficial start to Summer. The days start to speed up, gathering momentum as they go, which makes it seem like the most fleeting of all the seasons to me.

I was discussing with a friend today how, on the days leading up to a long weekend, my energy levels tend to spike. I make a list. I make several lists. Of things I'd like to do, of things I should do. Should I repaint the dining room (it has been five years)? Should I bake bread? Should we take a road trip? Should I read Maugham's entire life's work? My head starts spinning.

When we were little, summer days stretched luxuriously before us. We had no cognitive grasp of mortality and this made us rather cavalier about how we spent our summer days. This knowledge can be a good thing; it gives our lives purpose and direction. It forces us to think about what kind of legacy we want to leave behind, but must it take away from our desire to seek adventure?

Maturity brings responsibilities that shape our choices, even how we spend our time. But I think I'll take my friend's advise and do a little bit of nothing ... what will you be doing?

Memories of Camping

When I was little, we used to spend several summer weekends at a campsite in Westfield, Vermont. On the corner of the campsite was a general store where, when we had arrived and my childish energy knew no bounds, my father would give me a quarter and I would run to buy myself an Eskimo sandwich. Naturally, this must have bought my parents time to set up camp. My other sisters and I would shed our clothes (we had put on our bathing suits underneath), grab a towel, and follow the dirt road up the hill to the natural pool in the woods. On our way we would encounter other kids on their bikes, without helmets, barefoot and with towels around their necks. We would all return later, hungry and pleasantly exhausted, our bathing suits stained green from the moss and slime that grows on rocks in moist northern environs.

My father grilled hotdogs and hamburgers -- nothing fancy like today's gourmet grillers. My sisters and I would hang out with the Paxton boys, the sons of the family that owned the campsite. They would tell us scary ghost stories well into the wee hours, and I became convinced that the bridge on the grounds was haunted and I would not survive traversing it alone.

Every morning, my father would get up early to cook bacon and eggs on the fire. We would then go for a walk, the two of us alone. He would stoop down to point out chipmunks or interesting birds to me, and stop to light a cigarette from time to time. He was so handsome in those days, wearing a hat, and his skin turning brown in the sun. I haven't been camping since I was about ten years old, and wow do I miss it.

Do you have fond childhood memories of camping?