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| Bucky, me and our grandchildren |
Long legs pushed hard on bike pedals gliding across grass so green it didn’t look real, surely the result of an abundance of Spring rain. Quickly, more bikes, pedaled in similar fashion, crossed the lawn and entered the woods. Slender maples became slalom poles and while young legs pedaled, tan arms guided handlebars through a course of live poles.
My daughter in law’s flowered tablecloth fluttered in the warm breeze. Plates of sausages, burgers and hotdogs were accompanied by homemade salads and beckoned to me. Those who really know me, know my love of hotdogs! The resident goats peered with soft brown eyes from behind their wire fence, while chickens scratched the dirt at their feet. Everyone was enjoying this first taste of summer and Father’s Day.
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| Our fathers, Sutton, Bucky and Levi |
All too soon, the June sun slipped behind the maples calling for more wood to be placed on the fire. Strawberry shortcake and whipped cream were added to the tablecloth’s palette of bright colors while cans of whipped cream replaced bicycles as the main attraction.
Growing up, Father’s Day was celebrated at “camp”. School was out, our station wagon was packed to the roof, dog at our feet and we hurried from town to the lake. I loved everything about camp, the sandy sheets, the endless card games, washing dishes along side my grandmother, calloused bare feet and painful red sunburns.
Camp was freedom!
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| South Hero, VT |
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| My father, brother, me standing, my sister and a friend. |
Father’s Day at camp marked the beginning of summer. We gathered at the long kitchen table, passed our drug store cards to our Dad and Grandfather. My mother and grandmother would have prepared a summer meal complete with garden fresh vegetables and ending with strawberry shortcake. No canned whipped cream! Later in the summer we’d pick sour cherries and they’d fill my grandmother’s excellent pie crusts. I’ve yet to taste a crust as perfect as hers.
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| Camp today with Bucky, my brother and sister in law. |
My grandparents drove from Pennsylvania to spend the summer on the lake with their only daughter, my mother. Together we lived a carefree multigenerational life in what felt like an endless summer and I dreaded the day we had to return to “town” and school. Our seasonal move from the suburbs to camp can only be compared to post war baby boomers returning to the farm life of previous generations. After Labor Day, our station wagon was repacked and Karboy reluctantly took his place on the floor. He showed his dislike in leaving as strongly as I did. My grandparents packed the Pontiac with my grandfather’s tools, fishing poles, items purchased at summer farm auctions and headed home. We wouldn’t see them again until they migrated east the following summer.
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| The Pontiac! |
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| Not Father’s Day, but a typical camp meal. |
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| My Grandparents sitting outside camp and Grandpa’s shop with our collie, Karboy. |
This year Father’s Day was not only memorable because it included all our children and grandchildren, but it was also our goodbye for the summer. From the time the winter snow melted and turned to Spring rain, we’d debated when to leave. It was finally decided that right after Father’s Day made sense. Separating from family is always difficult for me. However, unlike my grandparents, we’ll reunite with our family in the Fall and enjoy the company of our youngest daughter while in Alaska this summer.
I didn’t get to see my peonies bloom, but maybe next June!
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| Ripton |
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