The other day, I realized that I was approximately 8 minutes and 31 years from Camp Arrowhead--where I was packed off in 1979. I remember it distinctly because Vivian Vance died that summer and it was the first time I was away from home for an extended period of time.
NOT THE BEST IDEA...
When you're twelve and your concept of team sports extend only to brunch and shopping--and hormones are doing what hormones are gonna DO at that age--to be surrounded--in the freakin' wilderness by a bunch of other feral, sports loving boys is an invitation to abuse, terror and confusement.
Paraphrasing-- it was a horrible experience but for winning a horse show and learning how to sail on Lake Summit. I was never more homesick in my life. And there were spiders... BIG SPIDERS... the kind with visible, unblinking eyes, fangs... and HAIR.
GOD!
So, cut to 2010--thirty one years later, I am doing a play at an Equity theatre here and realize that I am closer than I ever wanted to be again to this place, but seeing as how I was here, I thought--well, might as well go and put the demons to bed.
I drove off the highway, on to a state road.. then on to a county road, then onto some gravel... Turning up the radio VERY loud to a current station, I tried to remind myself that I am a 44 year old, grown man. A few deep breaths, then a turn onto the property to find that NOTHING HAS CHANGED THE SLIGHTEST BIT IN OVER THREE DECADES. Holy crap.
The current and very kind staff (who had seen our show here in Flat Rock) allowed me carte blanche to roam as long as I was long gone by three as that was when they locked the gates. As that scenario was far too Dante-esque to contemplate, I turned pale, gulped and quickly agreed.
I started by heading to cabin 5... my cell-- I mean home for five long weeks. Surprise led to complete shock when I saw that there was still graffiti on the walls and ceilings going back to 1957. I found my old bed and laid down on it. When I saw, "Preston Dyar. 1979. I HATE it here!!!", on the wall I jumped to my feet and high-tailed it out the door.
Walking all over the place, I tried to come to grips with what had been an unusually scrappy and miserable summer. I realized that it was not the place... The place was idyllic and absolutely charming... nor was it SOLELY the other kids. I knew that I was ... well... an UNUSUAL child, so I had to take some responsibility for it all.
Roaming every square inch of the place, smelling long gone scents of trees and cedar that made the logs of the cabins, I forgave the others... the place... and myself.
Joining me on this little uphill schlep on Memory Lane was an Irish Setter puppy that truly refused to let me be alone until I got back to my waiting car.
It was lovely to have the company, because frankly, I could see this turning into a Stephen King movie at any moment.
As I drove away--knowing that I would never see the place again, I locked myself more firmly in the present knowing that the distant past was just that. Remote and VERY past.
Then I pulled into Umi and ate my own weight in sushi and raised a glass to old wounds, new lessons and the grace that unites them both.
Then I took a VERY long nap.
