This afternoon I treaded along with my partners in crime along different sideways and backlanes of my youth. We visited East Floral Beach, which is the location of the Hill Family Camp. The Compound, perhaps, if that's what you want. I can see myself as a four year old boy running around the camp.
There I am right there, but just barely.
A child swimming along the shores of a bitter cold Lake Superior. Fearless, and curious. He swims towards the beach that his grandparents spend every waking moment of their lives keeping clean. There's a dock that extends out in the water, not too deep though, and he moves on up to the stairs. The sun reflects purity in his eyes, water dripping off his ribbed chest. He runs around the storage garage, and on to the front lawn of his family camp. This child has cousins who are building a sand castle, and he runs over to join them.
He jumps from the grass, free in mid-air, and onto the soft sand. It's one of the greatest feelings in the world, and he knows it. There's nothing like warm sand underneath bare feet. He looks up towards the green camp, and his aunts and uncles are enjoying a beverage under the umbrella of the patio furniture. They yell his name, ask how the water was, but he ignores them. It's sand castle time.
Using buckets is essential when putting together a masterpiece, especially if there is some sort of indent design of flowers or animals in it. This group of cousins, as young as they are, could very well have grown up to be architects. The sand castles are beautiful. there's a moat, and sticks out of the top of each castle.
The child who is me that I can see in my memory is excited. He is happy to be with his cousins, to be with his aunts and uncles, to be with his grandparents, to be with his parents. It is summer, and it is warm. He is ready to go up to the deck, where a towel waits for him to use. I can see this child, clearly, but just barely...
