My Unconventional Lakeside Campground

"Bob.... bob... the phones' for you it's your daughta' " I hear multiple voices bickering. "Get Bob" "It says Robert Williams... It's Felicia, get Bob." Memee, I say, hello how are you. And the next thing I know, my dad is on the line.

My parents went to visit my grandparents in New Hampshire this weekend. I love my grandparents’ house almost as much as I adore them, but not quite. Their house sits on a lake in the valley of pine covered mountains. It was built by hand. I don't quite remember whose, but I do know that the men in my family, grandfather included, built it before I was born.

I used to go up to "camp" every summer for a week. I don't know who started calling their house "the camp". But, other than being in the middle of the woods, 45 minutes from any store, their house was not like any camping trip I have ever been on. The three-story country house was equipped with all the modern amenities. Beds, running water, a screen house, satellite, computers, internet, cars, bikes, boats, and more recently a hot tub. They did have a camper in the backyard for a while. It was the pop-up kind that you tow behind you car, or as in their case, truck, or SUV. And there was a circular brick well, that had been cemented over, in the middle of their front lawn. These things reminded me of a "camp". Piles of wood stacked in the basement, a dock that turned left into an L-shape, pond scum. My younger cousins and I used to rake up pond scum. We would scrap the soft sand with garden rakes trying to pull pounds and pounds of dark green sludge from the bottom of "our beach". When we weren't raking or swimming, we would go out in the canoe or be shipped off to Camp Morgan.

Camp Morgan is their local summer camp. I used to attend for just long enough to make a few friends and then say goodbye to them. I was always a good swimmer so I used to love taking my swim test on the first day. There was one part of the Red Cross multi-part test were you had to hold your breath under water for 30 seconds. I used to try to scare the lifeguards by sitting at the bottom of the lake and holding my breath for minutes at a time. Once, a lifeguard jumped in to the frigid, 68 to 70 degree water to pull me up from the bottom. I would laugh and they would get angry, but in the end, I always got my deep water pass. It wasn't really a pass, more like permission to swim the 250 ft. out to the floating wood dock. As a whole, there wasn't much to do at Camp Morgan besides swim to the square dock, where we would fight with all the boys and try to push them off. Otherwise, you were limited to capture the flag, four square, and volleyball. Such games have potential. They can be fun when played in numbers. But, without deep water access you would be for own competitor. Thus, making you, the epitome of "lame" or anti-cool at age 13.

I haven't been up to the "camp" in four or five summers. Once I started working and trying to save money for my life after college, I "didn't have time", "couldn't get the time off" or "had to take this complete inconvenient shift mid-week" Thus, ruining my efforts to attend camp.

When I called this morning, my family was in the middle of breakfast. I was do jealous. My grandfather makes the best eggs and potatoes. He adds tones of salt, grease, and bbq sauce, but not enough to feel your arteries clogging with every bite. Not wanting to disrupt the savory goodness, I told my dad I would call back.

"Hello Flea" my Pepee belts out with his usual sarcastic wit and enthusiasm. My grandfather has always been the only person I allowed to call me Flea. I was not a bug that bites you and your sleep. I did not leave an insatiable, uncontrollable itch for anyone but my grandfather.

I talked to my father for a half an hour of so. Ever since I left for college, its been the common understanding that he puts me through college (Though I do have a few loans and work enough to support a New York life style). So I must call him once a week to "check in". I hated this at first. I never wanted to call because my dad put so much stress and unneeded pressure on my future. Actually, most of this was in my head. I knew that he wanted me to be success for and he only got on my case about stuff to "keep me in line". But, I was having a hard time keeping afloat.

The adjustment to NYC life was hard. Especially since I had been living here for no more than three weeks, when the skyline crumbled half a mile from my dorm. So now, three years later, I actually accept his commentary and converse with him. Rather than listening, hanging up the phone, and freaking out, I will logically and "professionally" speak about my plans for my uncertain future.

I miss my grandparents and the "camp". It makes me sad, knowing that in this "uncertain future" it will be a long time before I regain the luxury of summers on Lake Ashlot.