Margaret Allen's Reflections

I was one of the people referred to the night of the root beer floats, i.e. "iffy" about coming because I thought I would not know anyone. WRONG. What a treat!!! Seeing folks who had shared my two summers at the camp, plus meeting folks in the "before" and "after" years. Stories shared; memories shared; traditions that passed down through the years. I had so much fun learning things I had not known before, like the old ice house and how cooling was accomplished long before refrigeration.

I'd struggled over this past two years trying to remember those summers, you know. It was a long time ago, and lots of life has happened since, not all of it made up of wise choices. Even when Jim contacted me, all the way from Brazil, I could not dredge up much from the memory banks. Yet, when I stood on the point watching the boats and feeling the breeze, those summers came back very quickly. I remember sitting there with a friend and dreaming the dreams that only the young can dream: of working miracles as a adult, of changing the world, of making a better place in which to raise a child.

I went to the old pump house, wise enough at my age NOT to climb down on its roof, and remembered trying to resolve the turmoil that was part of my world at the time. I stood on the porch of the chapel and thought of the remarkable speaker from the Friends' Meeting camp who changed the way I viewed my part in life's play. I sat with all of you in the ice cream parlor and remembered the shared laughter in the evening, when work was done. I walked past the cottages and remembered our supervisor whose guidance helped me learn a kind of organization to work that I've kept with me through the years (too bad I didn't translate it to home, too).

One of the gifts I received from this gathering of "family" was completely unexpected. You see, from the selfish viewpoint of that adolescent, I'd only seen the turmoil in which my adolescent group lived when we arrived at the camp. As I talked with each of you, heard your stories, sang songs together, and looked at the joined hands etched into the fireplace at Tipi, I began to put the puzzle together. From my dad, who was the oldest attending member, right down to the youngest, I realized that each group of adolescents arrived at the camp at a time of turmoil: depression, post-depression, WWII, Korean War, Vietnam War, McCarthy Era, Cold War, Cuban Crisis, Civil Rights Movement. We all were trying to make sense out of a world that seemed, in many ways, senseless; we each faced a future frought with uncertainty, fear, and distrust. Yet, we all managed to learn and grow in this wonderful place, bolstered by the love of joined faiths and shared work/laughter/tears/joy. Each of us, in our own way, went from CPC to make a positive difference in the world, and as a group changed that world for the better.