LOCALadk Magazine

M y earliest memory is certainly a pleasant one. I am standing on my toddler legs at the latch-locked screen door. A warm breeze envelops me, while the aroma of pine, earth, and lake taunts my nostrils. I have just woken from a nap, and I hear both the leaves' soft clapping and the echoes of people of all ages active on the water and shore. I am enchanted by sailfish sails in a rainbow of hues, and the spectacular dancing and jumping of light. The sun sparkles both hazy and crystal clear, as it can only on an Adirondack lake in the summer. My dad is probably up in the office fielding phone calls from nervous parents; my siblings are among those old enough to be manning the different boats at the waterfront. I spot my mom just off the porch. She is soaking up both the slivers of sun falling through the trees and, more importantly, respite from tending to dozens of bug bites, scraped knees, and sunburns. "Mommy!" I call to her. And so begins another blissful afternoon at the YMCA Camp Gorham on Darts Lake in the central Adirondacks. My father was Camp Gorham's director from 1973-1996. When I was two weeks old, I arrived at what would become my summer home for the next twenty years. I started out as the baby who screamed with terror in the dining hall when her dad was surprised with a pie in the face. I cried, but the campers exploded in roaring laughter. During those awkward years between needing constant supervision and being of camper age, I was known as a "staff kid." There was only a handful of my kind. We were always either vying for the attention of the camp counselors and the ranch camp horses or we were leading one another on adventurous day hikes. It seemed to take forever, but when I was eight years old, instead of stalking cabin groups from afar, I was able to make it official: I was a camper. This meant that I got to bunk with my peers, not my parents. I ate all three meals at the 12-foot-long rectangular tables in the dining hall along with my new friends, either frowning at chicken a' la king or cheering for chicken patties. I participated in village clean-up, which involved scanning the ground for litter. That was my first taste of earth consciousness, and it left a lasting impression. Cabin clean- up was organized with a crafty and colorful job chart that motivated even the "pig pen" camper to do her part. I credit those daily cleaning rotations (now featured on the chart my own kids scoff at) to my forever after having borderline OCD. Camp was tidy in time for the first bugle of the day, alerting all that it was time to head to first-period class, of which we had four. Classes ranged from archery to drama, tennis, skin diving, and sketching. So many choices! The best part was that they were taught by counselors I hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting. It was also intriguing to be with campers who were not in my cabin, let alone my "village." In particular, there were the Lumberjackers, from a village of older boys. Many would fall victim to a crush and be chased at the widely- anticipated camp dance later in the session. Ah, the camp dance: one of the staple evening programs of the summer camp experience, but not my favorite. No, I far preferred the counselor hunt. The counselor hunt was just what its name suggests. Counselors were assigned varying point values, and campers spent close to two hours searching for them in the deepest, darkest depths of camp and surrounding woods. It was thrilling. Especially so because, since our counselors were all hiding, we had a delicious dose of extra freedom while on our quest. Good Morning Campers! Story by Maggie Pardue 8 Summer 2014 LOCALadk

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