End of Summer

While uploading links for my page I discovered that my best friend, henceforth known as K, has a blog. How did I not even know this? Sometimes, more lately than previously, I feel a great sense of disconnect from the world and people around me. Half the stories I tell involve something that has happened on a television program. Nothing happens to me in life, I work, I sit, I watch, I read, and I think, but so very often I do not do.

It’s so easy to do nothing, to wait for things to happen, and much harder to make things happen.

I spent the past weekend in New Hampshire at the camp where I passed fifteen summers of my life. It was a reunion for those whose summers there had ended, in other words, alumni. Reunions sort of terrify me. Seeing people from the past is inherently brilliant, so long as they are people you’re happy to see. It’s the accomplishments that stagger. People from the past have, presumably, done things since you last saw them. You ask, they respond, they ask, you respond. And then you feel inadequate.

It’s a thing about camp that is so much better than the real world; no one cares who you are out there, what you like, if you’re popular, have money, the right clothes. None of that matters. But with reunions it’s different because the real world seeps in. Camp is no longer the whole world and you have to ask. I am not ashamed of my life. I don’t want the same things that other people want, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. But when my few accomplishments are hung up and posted on a wall against researchers and business women and mothers and scholars I feel like I’ve failed.

They made a gift to everyone, bricks that will be implanted into the ground, with engraved names of everyone who registered for the reunion. 80 years of Fleur-de-Lis Camp, 80 years of fresh faced campers that grow into jaded women who still see the beauty in a patch of woods in New Hampshire. It was a lovely gift. But, seeing my name carved into a stone with dates felt permanent. It felt sad. Like, someday some child was going to be skipping over them, look down, and notice my name and wonder ‘Who’s she?’ I wondered why this bothered me. Being forgotten at camp was always something that terrified the wits out of me. How could something so important to me not see me in equal light? I only ignore how completely possible that really is. 1992-2005, 2007. Past tense. Even though I know that it’s over, it’s hard seeing it literally carved into stone.

It feels like the first day of autumn. It’s nippy and sort of grey and even though I like fall the best out of all the seasons it always feels like the end of something. But, still, maybe the beginning of something else.

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About Lindsay

I have a C'est Moi page, you should probably just read that.
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One Response to End of Summer

  1. Lauren says:

    At least bricks ensure the following scenario will never come to pass:

    “Would you rather do registration naked, or be forgotten completely?”

    As I have no brick – naked registration it is!

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