I remember a trip I took with my dad. It was our last summer in Vermont and my mom was retiring from directing the Merestead Field Hockey and Lacrosse Camp. I was a junior in high school and my dad and I spent the day in rare accord. Motivated to make the most of our last day off, he was inspired to revisit our previous camp locations—Camp Songadeewin in Barton, VT and Camp Dunmore in Salisbury, VT—all in one day. I went along for the ride.
We departed at the crack of dawn, heading up to Lake Willoughby and memories of Fox Hall, granite outcroppings, cold crystal-clear lake water, rides with Uncle Lenny in the trash truck, the red barn, Mt. Piscah—all of my favorite childhood memories in one spot. I remember this place viscerally, with every cell in my being. I can recall the smell of pine in the woods, the scent of the hot granite after a summer shower, the cool, cool feel of the lake, the shape of the downhill curve in the road that took us to the beach and the wide open vista framed by the two mountains there. I can feel the draw of gravity down that hill to the beach, the slapping of my sneaker-clad feet against the asphalt, have the view tattooed into my consciousness, and would recognize the shape of those mountains anywhere.
Dad and I wandered around the camp, boarded up and vacant, but still pulsing with the heartbeat of so many memories, vivid in our minds. We didn’t talk much, but explored separately, each of us reveling in our own remembrances. We took a few pictures, spoke with the camp’s owner, stopped at the foot of the hill to take in that awsome view, recalled the story of my friend Heather’s falling out of the car at the turn in the road, along with her blistering anger at being tossed—she was fine, even her orange Fanta survived the fall…
We drove along back roads across the state to Camp Dunmore where I explored memories of camp pranks, thunderstorms that swept across the lake, dropping an unbaited hook off the dock and catching and releasing what seemed like hundreds of sunfish (my mom questioned whether maybe it was just the same one with a very sore lip), visits to the fish hatchery, to A&W and Calvi’s for ice cream in Middlebury. This is where I discovered of my own athleticism; learned the skills of cradling and dribbling, catching, throwing, and hitting; started to appreciate the value of teamwork and coaching. It is where I lay on a cot listening to the radio with other teenagers—tunes that still recall that time to me and often draw me back to that place.
As we drove back to Castleton, we stopped in a country store and in a generous gesture, Dad bought me a small painted wooden box that I admired. I still have that box. I value it as a simple token, but also as a powerful reminder of a day with my dad—a unique and harmonious day in our tumultuous relationship. We spent 7 hours in the car that day, drove over 300 miles, on one tank in his diesel VW Rabbit, spoke sparingly—caught in our separate memories of a state we both love.
35 years later, we both remember the day for its audacity and for its peace—a long drive and a short détente during my provoking teenaged years. I loved this day for the rare shared experience, but I love it more in retrospect for the powerful memory that it holds, for the affinity I still feel with my dad because of it; for the tenacity and yearning of that memory, wrapped in the sight and smell and taste of places we loved, shared with a person I love.