The Pitman Family Camp: A Timeless Memory

The Pitman Family camp.  It is engraved in the history of my childhood.

 

A small little 2-bedroom cottage that sits on the water of beautiful Lake Elmore, VT.  A place that time didn’t matter, where the water brushed softly against the shore, where my father’s side of the family enjoyed timeless, vibrant memories. 

On sunny days, my cousins and I would run in bear feet, up into the woods and down the dirt road with sand buckets to fill with round, plump raspberries from the bush in the field next door.  We would hop off the screened-in porch, leap across the grass, and jump off the dock into the fresh, chilly, and clear water of Lake Elmore.  We’d wade on the rocks, and look for empty crafishw shells, and throw our fishing lines in the water, to hope for the occasional sunfish. 

In the back of the cottage, close to the foundation, we'd dig in a high pile of sand to find worms to catch our fish.  We’d count until we found about 10, or sometimes even 12, and then bury them in an old pickle jar filled with fresh, dark soil.  We’d hop in the blue, 4-person motor boat, and drive it into the middle of the lake, just to cast a line.  

I’ll never forget the day that my cousin Shawn finally drove the boat all the way over across the lake, to the Elmore store.  It took us 10 stressful minutes to dock the old 1979 blue motorboat.  I’d balance one leg inside the boat, and one on the dock, shaking and worried that we couldn’t quite dock the thing.  I’d tie It down to the wooden dock, in a triple fisherman’s knot, just to be triple sure it didn’t float away while we were in the store.

 

We each had a dollar to spend.  On the days we didn’t buy an 89 cent ice cream, I’d buy a $1 bottle of cherry coke, with a pop-off top.  The store had a bottle opener attached to the cashier’s counter.  The cashier would always offer to pop the top for me, but I’d turn him down every time.  I purely enjoyed the success of doing it myself, at 10  years old. 

Across the street was a one-room schoolhouse, with a pure silver metal slide, that reflected the bright light of the sun so it blinded our view when we looked at it the right way.  We’d run across the street and jump onto the swings, pumping as high as we could one-handedly, with our soda bottles in the other hand.  We wouldn't dare try the slide, it was way too hot on the sultry, sun-filled days.  The swingset and play set overlooked the lake, and we’d try as hard as we could to swing high enough to see our family’s camp across the way. 

Elmore camp days, they were long.  When the sun set, we’d roast marshmallows over the campfire, and shine a flashlight all the way up the path from the cottage to Pit’s Pot.  Pit’s Pot was the outhouse, that always smelled sour, but was a great alternative from peeing in the lake. We’d duck under the power line with the small lightbulb hanging that lit the way, and run inside the small structure with the door cracked open, because there was no light otherwise.  I used to say to my sister, “Hold the door open a crack, but don’t you dare look!”

There were 3 double beds out on the screened in porch of the cottage, facing towards the lake.  I’d slowly fall asleep in whichever random one I fell into that night, and wake to the gentle sound of waves crashing upon the shore.  On countless days, we would wake up before the sun rose, and watch it as it climbed slowly across the sky. 

In the early mornings, my Grandma Claire would make fresh Oatmeal and Grits with berries that we had picked from the day before.  The smell always filled up the camp.  We’d sit sprawled across the brown checkered couch with our warm bowls of cereal, and watch the channel 3 news.  I remember watching the Clinton election on that TV, with all of the adults and their opinions in the background. 

My cousin Katelyn would run an extension chord to her boombox out the front door of the camp, and we’d listen to Mariah Carey , En Vogue and Tiffany.  We’d create dance routines, and line up the lawn chairs in front of the lake so our parents could watch our performances.  We’d sit at the picnic table and paint our toenails, we’d swim out to the raft and ask our uncle to drive us out our latest editions of 17 Magazine to read as we covered our skin in baby oil to tan us in the sun.

And the raft, oh, the infamous raft.  Never more than 20 feet from the shore, every year we swore my uncles placed it further out from the year before.  I’ll never forget the year I was able to swim out to it without a life jacket.  I must have been 9 or 10 years old. It took me a whole week of build up just to gain the courage to jump off the back of it, into the deep water.

 

I clearly remember my first plunge of the wooden structure, balanced by 4 plastic, blue hollow jugs.  I spread my arms out like an eagle, curved my toes over the edge of the wood, and heard my oldest cousin say, “C’mon Alice, if you can’t do it today, then you never will.” 

And with a wisp of air under my legs, I dove in.  I dropped under the water, my toes filling with seaweed, my nostrils burning.  I slowly floated back to the surface, and with a ray of light as I took my first breath out of the water, I had done it.  I had finally overcame my fear that existed over the past decade or so of summers.  Something about jumping off the back of the raft made it seem so much deeper than facing the shore, but it was nowhere nearly as frightening as I thought it might be. 

As I became a teenager, camp became different.  I’d join my family there less and less.  I became more conscious of my body, and because of it, I went in the water less and less.  The boat just wasn’t as exciting anymore, as I was learning to drive a car, and I could get to anywhere across the lake I needed to go.  I was busy at summer camp, at the community town pool with my girlfriends, and locked in my home bedroom talking on the phone.

And when I did go to camp, I’d walk the mile to the Elmore store, and meet up with a boy lived his summers down the road.  We’d walk down to the state beach, and he always bought me a slush puppy to drink while we waded in the water, to watch the tourists pass by on kayaks and party boats. I even tried a drag off of his cigarette a few times, and sips of his strawberry wine coolers.  I’d stay at his camp until the evenings, when my parents would send my little sister up the road to tell me to come home. 

There were even a few nights where I’d sneak out after midnight just to join him again, right up the neighbor’s path to the lake.  I clearly remember the tree on the side of the road that we’d meet.  I also remember the day I snuck out to the tree and waited for what seemed like hours- just to be disappointed that he never did show.  I still find myself wondering what he’s doing now, and when I drive by his family’s old camp, I can’t help but think of him. 

Those summer days at camp, they slowly faded, and became memories. I spent my late high school and college days busy with other things, busy in part-time jobs, busy in studying, busy in new relationships. 

For a number of years in time, I was busy being engaged, and getting married, and having babies, and maintaining my own home.  And in those years, I left camp.

 But the funny thing is, camp never, ever left me.

 It remained there, silent and somber, deep within my heart. 

And now, with my own children, I go back once or twice a year to visit.  As I watch my son run up and down the dirt road to the raspberry patch, as I watch my daughter jump off the raft, I can’t help but remember those good old days out at camp. The smell of boat fuel, the sound of the lake waves crashing upon the shore.  Those memories of camp, they’re engraved in the history of who I am. 

And today, as my 4-year-old little girl jumped off the raft for the very first time, I’m reminded that there are many, many more memories to come out at camp. It’s a part of me, a part of my family, a part of my children, and a part of my sole that will never leave me.  The kid part of me, the fun part of me, the part of me that I sometimes forget, will always exist at the Pitman Camp.