I’m with Red; it’s too cold. I’m dying for summer: open windows, classic rock, lobster rolls, Bumble & Bumble Surf Spray, pedicures, coconut shampoo, Adirondack chairs, road trips. The yearning is unbearable, the way it always gets at the end of winter. But we turn the clocks ahead this weekend, and that’s the first step towards spring, thank fucking god.
Joe and I are trying to figure out what to do this summer, what kind of vacation we’d like to take and how to do it with a one-year-old. I don’t think we want to fly, or leave the country, but we definitely want and need to go somewhere. We’ve been tossing around the options: the Cape, the Berkshires, Lake George, Lake Winnipesaukee, Lake Champlain, Newport, Block Island, etc.
This is when I mourn for camp. Camp was the perfect summer escape: unpretentious, old-school, totally disconnected from real life, and always there. It was just two little cottages in the Maine woods, situated at the end of a winding dirt road. Being up at camp was all about swimming with my cousins, picking wild blueberries, getting sunburned, visiting flea markets, gathering pinecones, slapping mosquitoes, eating ice cream at wooden picnic tables—everything a kid could want out of summer. I so wish we could bring Olivia there. How adorable is a pudgy baby sitting at water’s edge, wearing a bathing suit and ruffled sunbonnet, playing with a plastic bucket and toy shovel, tiny feet covered in sand? So cute it kills me, and it kills me even more that she won't have the same idyllic experiences I had there.
I was so overwhelmed with nostalgia for camp, I made a photo collage. See?
The rest of these are pictures of actual camp:
Joe and I are trying to figure out what to do this summer, what kind of vacation we’d like to take and how to do it with a one-year-old. I don’t think we want to fly, or leave the country, but we definitely want and need to go somewhere. We’ve been tossing around the options: the Cape, the Berkshires, Lake George, Lake Winnipesaukee, Lake Champlain, Newport, Block Island, etc.
This is when I mourn for camp. Camp was the perfect summer escape: unpretentious, old-school, totally disconnected from real life, and always there. It was just two little cottages in the Maine woods, situated at the end of a winding dirt road. Being up at camp was all about swimming with my cousins, picking wild blueberries, getting sunburned, visiting flea markets, gathering pinecones, slapping mosquitoes, eating ice cream at wooden picnic tables—everything a kid could want out of summer. I so wish we could bring Olivia there. How adorable is a pudgy baby sitting at water’s edge, wearing a bathing suit and ruffled sunbonnet, playing with a plastic bucket and toy shovel, tiny feet covered in sand? So cute it kills me, and it kills me even more that she won't have the same idyllic experiences I had there.
I was so overwhelmed with nostalgia for camp, I made a photo collage. See?
The rest of these are pictures of actual camp:
2 Comments:
I need that camp. I'm so fucking cold I can't even feel my toes anymore. I don't know who was colder, my uncle or the people attending his funeral.
Mmm, Lake George. I was there briefly and by mistake with Steve last June but it seemed awesome. Also, great pictures.
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