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?