Oh to be here.
Cambridge and the snow coming down over the river. No sleighs with jingle bells anymore but still pretty. Well, on cards they are, but not real. That back in the Shenandoah the year mother took everyone home to Virginia.
No hills now, well what they call hills. But knowing nothing. Little hills, not ones that roll on forever and ever, nearly all the way to Florida in shades of blue as they recede along.
But grandchildren, all the embroidery silk one could want, enough for one hundred projects. That different. Harder to get in Virginia. Not as many colors. Too far from the city for the shop to have thirty shades of yellow.
Too old to run far, but memories in leaps and bounds. Another cup of tea and a little bourbon, and an album from father’s cousin Lily in the mail. From her son, it said, something about the house being broken up and things in the attic gone through and shared around.
Camp Choquita they are from. From 1913, they must be. No camps for girls before. No, baby of the camp the cousins owned and in the front row of the pictures with boys on ponies on each side. But nowhere for girls. Not considered to count.
But that summer no. Archery and that all day . . . .swimming . . .canoeing and everything else . . . free.