An Anthology of Campgrounds

Today I walked out of my house in Weymouth, looking for a walk around town before settling down to work on a somewhat tedious and torturous paper. I walked outside and it felt so much like fall that I had no choice but to walk down to the beach, listening to the music that brings me back to my camping days.

Back when I camped in northern New Hampshire, even the middle of August felt like fall. I grew up doing these same type of walks, immersing myself and finding enjoyment in nature, being a Taoist long before I'd even know what it was, or even how to spell it. So, even though fall signified the end of summer vacation, and ultimately the end of staying at the campground for the year, and now, indefinitely, I always fall into a weird nostalgic trance whenever the weather is just so.

I went down to the beach and read by the deserted sand, like I had many a time before at King's Campground when most of the other summer residents were already in school and no longer swimming by the docks. I kept Vanessa Carlton, Michelle Branch and Our Lady Peace constantly playing in my iPod, because, for some reason, the songs they sang somehow summarize my 8 years in Sutton, Massachusetts without ever even speaking one word of what actually happened. I closed my eyes and thought of Lake Manchaug, and King's: the bands, the dances, the BINGO nights and the deserted Tuesday nights; the times I tripped over roots and the times I just fell for the guys too fast; the way the night looked on cold May nights and the way Blueberry Island looked from my dad's boat. I found myself in three different realms of consciousness: reality, the one portrayed in "Oedipus Rex," and the one playing like a madman in the back of my memories.

Eventually the winds got the best of me and I walked up the hill to Great Hill. On one end of the park, a small group of people in tuxedos and gowns were gathering together for wedding photos. I stayed on the other end and continued reading. I looked out at the magnificent view of Boston as I have so many times before, and the sense of longing and love for this city of mine was completely overshadowed with the longing for living out of a camper-trailer, for campfires as a source of warmth, for the days when I spent the afternoons in the hammock, reading as the light fought through the trees and scattered around me in tiny columns, the days when, even though my heart was being played, or had just truly been broken for the first time and friends weren't really friends underneath it all, everything was still alright. Because I had the water, I had the boat, I had the swings by the beach and the road to the stables; I had hiking with my sister and waterslides with my parents; I had my headphones, I had my music, I had my muse.

Now that part of my life has been finished: the camper trailer sold and the campsite now rented out by someone else. I plan on going back some day soon, with friends in tow, and stretch out on the floating dock in the center of the cove the same way I had so many times before.

For the past year, I have been too consumed with living in the city. I had forgotten how amazing it was when I spent summers living in the middle of nowhere, in living quarters too small to actually stay in for more than rest, enjoying life through the rustling of the leaves, the waves of the water, the beams of sunlight through the trees.