Perhaps I am spoiled–very possible–but everyone should have a camp. A “camp” in the New England sense is really a lake house. Sometimes these are full of amenities with cable TV and powerboats, or in the case of my aunt and uncle’s camp it’s a wood frame with a privy outdoors and a few gas lanterns. Fortunately, my great-aunt and uncle have the former, set on a little spot in Western Maine called Worthley Pond.
The purpose of camp is to relax. One can accomplish this by eating oneself foolish on summery foods. There were a few summers where the adults gorged themselves on fresh picked strawberries, conveniently blended into a portable daquiri form. In other fruit action, Maggie displays her watermelon technique here:
Sadly, camp is not at ALL relaxing when you’re single-parenting a small child. There are a billion ways to kill yourself around the water, so I spent much of my time chasing her and only a sad few moments sneaking a sip of my blackberry wittbier on the swing.
When I was a much younger monkey, I spent a LOT of time attempting to waterski. I made it up and around the lake a few times, and if I could live in the moment where I let go of the rope and glided into the camp area, I would. It did NOT happen often. My cousin Mark got up on skis ALL THE TIME, though, and made it to one ski rather often. Jerk.
Mark also once came upon me asleep, sunbathing on an inner tube I had tethered to the dock with a rope with my bikini top on but untied. He then untied the rope, tied me to the back of the powerboat, and I awoke to being jerked through the water and I had to choose to take the ride or expose myself. So I rode across the lake with one hand on the tube and one on my suit. Good times.
But what a pretty lake it is!
In short: everyone should have a camp, or know someone who does.