Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, July 26, 1994 TAG: 9407280055
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Allison Blake
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Some had known each other for years; some had only heard of the others. All were awed, at some level, by the long-forgotten spirit of girlhood rediscovered not only in ourselves, but in four generations of women who shared a common childhood place.
In a horse field below Gathright Dam, as we parked our cars, the sensation began to dawn.
My harried worker's crust built up over the years, another woman's worries for her child's health, an unemployed friend's frustrations from chasing an artistic dream - all of these facades and weary feelings started to melt. We watched ourselves become the people we were when we were younger and filled with life's potential.
It was the momentous occasion of Camp Appalachia's 50th anniversary reunion, held not in a soundproof hotel hall but smack-dab in the middle of an old-fashioned summer girls' camp - our personal nirvana.
Camp Appalachia sits along the Jackson River between Hot Springs and Covington - built long before Gathright.
My grandfather, now 91, bought the camp in 1945 because, as he says, ``I couldn't afford to send my five daughters to camp.'' He and his wife, Helen, still run it.
For those of us who are members of what camp folks used to call ``The Family,'' it was a dual reunion. My sister and our two like-age cousins, whom we now catch only for fleeting Christmas moments, hung around and giggled and gossiped just like we did for a dozen girlhood summers.
Since ``The Family'' members get to go to camp whenever we want, last weekend was more a chance to revisit the people. And the past.
Camp tradition encouraged competition.
Tiny girls knew they couldn't really swim until they could cross the Jackson. A girl hadn't lived until she'd done that half-hour swim to pass Senior Lifesaving in the freezing river at 7:30 a.m.
Riflery was always popular, and we spent hours perfecting our aim, racking up those National Rifle Association certificates. We didn't just stop at the Marksman level; we went all the way past Expert.
I haven't ridden in years, but we all still dissolved into hysterics recalling the madcap, packed runs down farmers' lanes.
And I still love to run the rapids in a crusty aluminum Grumman canoe. In recent summers, I've been canoeing more weekends than not. Always, I think of the time about six of us teen-age girls went off to explore a "tributary" of the Jackson. We must have hauled those canoes down that dry creek bed for two hours.
All of these memories were dredged.
Oh, there were a few hints that time had passed, mostly on account of the sleep deprivation suffered by those of us who tried out our old bunk beds in the cabins. Cranky backs just don't take to those ticked mattresses like they once did.
I spent only 24 hours at the reunion, and arrived home in a drenching rain. But two nights later, as I talked to an aunt by phone, we found ourselves reflecting not only on the good time we'd had, but also on the good vibes that stretched into the week.
``I'm just a little calmer," she said.
We talked for a while, and my gaze drifted down to my cluttered desk, to two black-and-white photographs I rarely even notice. One was taken my first summer on the planet. My mom and her closest-in-age sister hold their tiny new daughters. In the second, my cousin Shawn and I are about 3, toddlers holding hands.
Both were taken at Camp Appalachia.
Like Mom and Dad, camp's always been there. And though I hadn't thought about it in recent years, I realize that communing with the place and its people makes me feel a little more peaceful. Just like I feel after a good talk with Mom or Dad.
by CNB