Star of paintings and photographs, the width of the field cuts a wide swath on a water color block. Those who stand in its grasses for their photo rise through gold against dense woods. Our babies lay in the grass, we trusted our grandsons to it, who ventured far but still within ear shot, boys who ran through the grass with a net and a jar, collecting berries in a yogurt container with a string handle which they hung around their necks.. Our cabins stood around the rim, like chairs around a table. We furnished our cabins in June and stripped them bare in October, striking the set as a theater company does at the end of a season. The four camper families constituted the actors, each of us with our weekend guests.
What went on, evenings and weekends, was the summer’s play; and the furniture, wheeled onto the porch after wintering indoors, set the stage for the enactment when the players arrived. Some came for dinner, some to play scrabble, some played music, some read poems, some showed paintings: grownups and children bearing snacks like homemade green Jell-O to share. Time’s accumulation materialized in writing, photographs and paintings– a stream that wouldn’t dry up. Life wouldn’t end. Our bodily ills would not aggregate to decay. But some of the actors did not return this year. Ben’s wife Joan died, and Leslie’s partner, Sandy. Harvey and Frankie burnt a cabin, sold a cabin and built their retirement house, next to my wood and shingled 4 room camp.The mice that ran around at night, an occasional bat that flew in and hung in the rafters, reminded us who takes control once the humans leave. The summer of boundless good health, gives way to nights of hyperawareness. I imagine bodily failings, silence and the coming cold, and I flee to the noisy city. There, daydreaming crossing the street can get you killed, but there too, I find distraction.