I’ve offered to show them the routine, but can never pin them down. Little do they realize the work that goes into keeping a camp in shape. On the other hand, why should I worry about it after I’m gone? It’s their problem if they wish to inherit it. Days later, when the last acorn is retrieved and the remnants of summer and fall are in repose, I look around and dwell upon the memories I shall leave behind.
Listening closely, I can hear the voices of the young spilling from the lakefront. “Papa, watch me swim. Papa, I just saw a fish as big as your boat. Papa, can we play Frisbee?”
I watch a blue heron take flight and a loon drifting by. I reflect upon all the good times that such a place has rendered and wait impatiently for spring. It never seems to come soon enough.
Photographer and writer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.