ARTHUR TANNEY - BUNGALOW LIFE


WHO REMEMBERS BEING YOUNG?

There was a certain stillness to the mountains. A quiet unlike what we'd ever known in the city. You felt it the first moment your parents opened the car door in the small town to pick up a few things, maybe milk, juice and rolls, on the way to the colony that first weekend. You and your brother, or sister, piled out of the back of the sedan, from under a mountain of pillows and blankets, and you waited a moment while your mom went into the store. All the while the excitement bubbled inside you, like a geyser, so eager to get to the colony to see friends not heard from in almost a year. Would there be new kids this summer? Would your name still be where you wrote it on the big rock under the tree near the handball court? Would the pool, by some miracle, have given birth to a diving board during the winter? Who'd be your counselor in camp? Hopefully not the dweeby guy with the glasses and the acne....

Then back in the car for the last five minutes to the colony. The anticipation unbearable. The car windows are open wide, because a/c just didn't exist, and you can smell the jasmine and the honeysuckle and the fresh cut grass, and the small hint of pollen, and then, around the bend, through a clearing in the stand of pine and birch, you get your first glimpse of a bungalow, peeking through the branches.

Has anything since been as much fun?

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