The Keene Valley farmers market had amazing heirloom tomatoes this year; bright yellow, green, and red and purple. On my way home from yet another trip to the Adirondacks, I stopped in and bought fresh beans, corn on the cob picked that morning, and the biggest yellow tomato I have ever seen.
By Holly Kennedy
The Keene Valley farmers market had amazing heirloom tomatoes this year; bright yellow, green, and red and purple. On my way home from yet another trip to the Adirondacks, I stopped in and bought fresh beans, corn on the cob picked that morning, and the biggest yellow tomato I have ever seen.
The heirloom tomatoes brought back memories of summers past. It used to be my summers revolved around my young children’s local day camp drop offs, swim meets, and tennis lessons. Now they revolve around sleep-away camps, summer jobs, and summer school.
Thirteen summers have passed of driving to the Adirondacks and Vermont for camp drop offs, parents’ weekends, and pickups.
That first summer I was a very nervous mom sending my then 10-year-old son to sleep-away camp for the first time. I remember leaving him happily playing ‘laundry lacrosse’ on the campus with other boys his age. While he was engaged and smiling, I was fighting back tears walking back to my car. Pulling out of the parking lot after drop off, one of the staff waved to me and said, “Thank you for sharing your son with us this summer.” It was the perfect message, but it tugged at my heart and I had to pull off the road and have a good sob.
In the ensuing years, my younger two children, both girls, also went to sleep-away camp, first in the Adirondacks, then in Vermont. Over time I’ve developed my own routines and traditions. The drop offs and parents’ weekends have created my own sense of summer rhythms. I have my favorite driving routes, rest stops, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, and ice cream purveyors. Friends now own lake houses that I can visit. My summer is never complete unless I have taken the ferry from Grand Isle across Lake Champlain to return home.
Flash forward to summer 2012. My youngest is now 18. She is a leader at the sister camp her brother started attending 13 years ago on the other side of Lake Champlain. She has her own cabin full of 10 and 11 year olds. Now she is the one who waves to parents and says, “Thank you for sharing your daughter with us this summer”. When I watch her greet the parents of the 10 year olds, I stand in the distance, amazed that my baby is now that camp cabin leader. How time flies.
The traditions, the camp songs, and the friends made along the way, have defined the rhythm of my summers for over a decade. I can’t stay away, because it is as much my summer as it is hers. Now, when I visit I’m in the company of parents with their own 10 year old, reminding me of myself many summers ago. I see the young campers through other parent’s eyes, and hope that my daughter has created a wonderful summer for someone else’s young child.
My tomatoes are heirloom, and so are my summer memories. I still cherish the rhythms of summer, even though they have changed over the years as my children have passed from pre-school to college. I’m not the camper parent, but I’m a parent just the same. Only my baby is 18, and I no longer choke up when I drive away. Well, maybe a little.
