“When you leave a beautiful place, you carry it with you wherever you go.” — Alexandra Stoddard
I’ve been lucky enough to travel a lot, and reality is a bit more tolerable because of the time spent getting out of the every day and going somewhere else.
I lived in Vermont for five years, and during that time, a good friend invited me to her family camp on weekends or for other celebrations. It’s a compound with a main house and room for campers and tents. My friend and a hundred or so of her relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. maintain it, including the arduous work of closing it up for the harsh Vermont winters and then opening it again when the snow melts and summer returns.
It’s been the site of weddings and funerals. Camp has welcomed new babies and said goodbye to seniors. It has been a place of joy and celebration, as well as a place for mourning and tears. It overlooks Lake Champlain, and from the wrap-around porch of the main house, you can watch sunsets, see boats gliding across the water, and play “What color,” a game designed for rainy days. Guessing what color car would be the next to drive by kept generations of kids busy on rainy days.
On the sloping front lawn is a “secret garden” of flowers and fairy figurines that was always the best spot for games of hide-and-seek or pretend missions of rescuing a princess or finding a “bad guy.” In the afternoons, a circle of Adirondack chairs is the gathering place for adults. Snacks are passed around, cocktails are offered, and family gossip, the news, and other pressing topics are covered.
After circle time, it’s dinner time. The main house has a communal kitchen that everyone shares. While different families have their “spots” at camp, dinner prep is a delicate dance of taking turns at the stove, doing the dishes, and cleaning up. There is an open closet off the kitchen, full of plates, cups, dishes, and kitchen tools that are shared by all.
While the dishes and glasses are mostly castoffs from when someone moves or changes out their housewares, to me, they’re a treasure trove of patterns and colors that I remember from growing up. Welch’s jelly jar glasses sit next to Tupperware from the 1970s and mid-century modern “highball glasses” covered in faded gold leaves.
It’s a miracle of modern family dynamics that it works—most of the time. Of course, there will be disagreements and conflict in any group, but just like the bay air that soothes babies to sleep, tough moments blow over, and camp life continues as it has since the main house was built in 1897.
While some like the great outdoors, there are also rooms in camp with creaky iron beds, vintage quilts, and lace curtains that flutter in the breeze from the lake. It’s reportedly haunted, but I’ve yet to meet a ghost. The spirits of the past are still around, and it’s a reassuring feeling to know they remain.
I spent a few days at camp recently. Usually, I try to go in the summer, but that didn’t happen this year, so before the windows get shuttered and camp is put to bed for the winter, I drove up. The air is different at the bay, different from anywhere in the world, which is especially true in the fall. The leaves have started to turn, the lake is a darker blue, and there are not as many sailboats bobbing in the waves. Sunsets come earlier, but there aren’t as many bugs, and sitting by a bonfire, with sparks rising to the sky, is a perfect way to end a day.
Camp might be 250 miles away, but it’s remained with me for the forty years I’ve been lucky enough to spend time in this rare place. It’s almost like Brigadoon from that old movie; no one ever believes it’s real, but it is; you just have to believe in a bit of magic. Finding a place, whether a park bench with a nice view of the harbor or a comfy chair on a friend’s deck, is a gift beyond measure. See you next summer, Vermont.
Brenda Kelley Kim has lived in Marblehead for 50 years, and is an author, freelance writer, and mother of three. Her column appears weekly.