Some of my notebooks predated the start of my journaling. One, for instance, covered day camp policies, program guidelines, songs, good storytelling guidelines.
All of these song titles, the words and tunes I’ve long forgotten.
We had so much responsibility! (And life itself was still so fuzzy. Largely a blur, I’d say now.)
“Any injury multiplied 10x by the time it reaches mother or father. Injury may be word or action.”
Taste buds: sweet, salt, sour, bitter … just four.
“All right, kiddies. If you get lost, stay there. I’ll come and find you (I hope).”
The most innocent looking kid bit another in the eye, tried opening the emergency door on the bus, hit kids over the head with a tote bag, waits for the counselors to look away, lies, swimming (?)
(Last time I was “home,” meaning my father’s funeral, I tried locating the camp along country roads, to no avail. No clue to its site on satellite maps, either. Summer camp as one more victim of shortened summers off for kids, as well as economic realities facing families.)
Those were two summers I had a remarkable tan. My hair turned nearly blond, too.
~*~
From Spiralbound Years with commentary from now.
Jnana's Red Barn 