A Toast for Camp

by Jule Brouwer

To the Pine Grove, where sun dances on the needled floor as the wind whispers its secrets through the trees. Where chipmunks play an endless game of tag, and birds joyfully sing in the silence of the morning.

To the lake, as clear as glass that we swim, play, and boat in hour after hour. Where fish dart amongst the reeds and loons dive to greet the whale.

To the cabins, where four walls and a tin roof house our deepest secrets, endless hours of late night laughter, and our most precious of dreams. Where names etched in the shelves above our beds and spring doors squeak as we swing them wide, as if to welcome you to the cheer inside, are a refuge and a home.

To the fires that blaze and burn, but occasionally fizzle and fail, that keep our spirits warm and our alleys welcoming in the dark quiet nights.

To the mountain and river trips that prove just how far we can carry ourselves when surrounded by our sisters.

To the songs that fill our dining hall and our hearts.

To the quiet mornings snuggled in the bung.

To the friends who can sit and chat, or simply sit when it comes to that. The sisters to whom you exist only as yourself. To the girls who know you better after four weeks than many who have known you forever. To the ones who are mad to live.

To Camp, a place of magical delight, of unbreakable friendships, of long and winding roads, of mountains, of fairies, of trees, of you.