A Word In Edgewise: Those Long, Long Summers

The recent flash flood in Texas consumed over a hundred lives, including 27 Camp Mystic campers, two counselors and owner Richard “Dick” Eastland, striving to save his charges from the Guadalupe River. It brought anguish to a nation and my own camp memories.

Four summers in the early 1950s, Dad drove me up from Connecticut to Winthrop, Maine, and Penko, an all-girls camp located on the shores of sparkling Lake Cobbosseecontee. One could elect a four- or eight-week stay, and I was always inscribed for the full eight.

I never thought of Penko as elite — I’m not sure what would have entailed in those days, though two months’ room and board required appreciable investment. Each camper was allotted a wooden fruit crate (with a fabric curtain) for our toiletries and small items. Your suitcase or trunk was tucked under the metal frame bed for clothing.

We weren’t forbidden iPhones or other digital devices; in 1953, they were just a flicker in the comics or 25-cent science-fiction paperbacks I’d buy on local drugstore racks.

I don’t recall anyone owning one of the colorful trunks viewed recently in post-flood news photographs. I don’t believe retailers yet targeted little girls for such things in 1953. Mine, like my sleeping bag, was Army-surplus drab since my Dad bought many items and machinery from the recently-ended WWII surplus for use on the campus at the school where he was principal. (I later learned to drive on an army Jeep.)

I took a lot of photos, not instantly viewed, rarely in color, nor with today’s sharpness; just my teeny Kodak Brownie. I still have them. Those news photos of the Texas girls’ bright little trunks lined up, spattered with mud and debris, are heartbreaking. Never to be packed on their chattering, laughing, last camp day, crying as we did, as they promised to stay friends forever with new pals.

My main love at Penko was horseback riding, something I was seldom able to enjoy at home. There were the usual activities, swimming, canoeing, archery, softball games, along with arts and crafts, braiding colorful lanyards, glazing and firing ceramics. As an only child, it was a treat to be around other kids, but I always brought books for comfort. My particular school required summer reading (“Jane Eyre” and “Anna Karenina” were two, plus my own Ray Bradburys and Robert Sheckleys).

Each of the cabins’ residents, housed by age, were taken into town for movies (“Marty,” uniquely, among Ma and Pa Kettle fare) and once a summer, a trip to Boothbay Harbor for a boat ride, with souvenir collecting (I still wear one silver skull ring) and ate boiled lobsters (then 25 cents each). I was always willing to help out the squeamish who “wouldn’t eat bugs.”

There were little cliques and tiffs, but they were few and far between and didn’t tarnish the many bright spots in a summer away from home. Older campers put out (with adult supervision) a purple-ditto Penko Post every week (I kept those as well). I can still smell that ink…

Three-quarters of a century later, the Camp Mystic girls were experiencing an equivalent joy in a vastly different world. Many of their mothers had attended in their youth and knew the value of learning, gaining agency, bonding with friends.

That area of Texas rivers is historically known for flash floods, but humans are drawn to water, seeking rivers and lakes or ocean beachfronts for respite. Accept or deny, weather patterns have changed globally since the 1950s. While old recreational locations may now be unsafe and bear rethinking, I fervently hope that the spirit found in summer camping for youngsters will carry on.

My summers at Penko remain embedded within me. I’ve kept my papers, photos, my souvenir ring — my memories — over all these years. Given the opportunity, would I live those summers over again? In a heartbeat!