camp Po-ne-mah. . .

my one adventure into girl's camp . . . was the summer after my mother passed. I guess she and my father had this preplanned . . . something to keep me occupied and a break for my father. My sister stayed home.

there was swimming, canoeing, horse back riding, crafts and the obligatory Wednesday night letter home. No letter, no dinner. The best vanilla pudding . . . ever. I felt the tugging of homesickness every day until we passed the mid point of my stay. Then like some tiny switch had been flipped, I no longer had that constant ache in the pit of my stomach.

One night, the sheer weight of being motherless descended in crescendos. Wave after inconsolable wave washed over my body and shook me. I was beyond bereft. My cabin mates were uneasy. I knew this and still I could not stop the wailing from some well deep inside me. A counselor was called and slowly, I re-entered this world. The next day, the camp owner, Billy Williams, called me to her cabin. On the porch were five musty old cartons of 8 x 10 camp photos. "Look", she said, "see what you find." And I did. I sifted through them wondering why until I picked up the first of the photos of my mother at that very same camp. And then later, the second. She had been here. She had known the ancient Billy . . . she had slept in the cabins, maybe the very same one in which I lay my head . . . played tennis on the same courts . . . road the same trails . . .

I had known she had attended the same camp, but here on this porch, it was finite . . . a connection made.

While I enjoyed my time there, I never returned. There was no need.

My mother died on February 10, 1962.