Lying in bed that night, I burned with the indignity of the situation. That which by right was mine, or at least partially mine, had been taken away without warning. I had chosen those Pop Tarts especially and wanted to have one before I left to go to camp for a month. Not having been before, I could not anticipate actual camp, but I could feel the disappointment of my delicious plan being disrupted. As I pulled the crazy quilt up around my neck, my brother told me I was silly for being pissed about the Pop Tarts when I had such a great adventure ahead. Easy for him to say; he had gotten Pop Tarts.
I got a cheeseburger and a coke at the McDonald’s in Cookeville. It’s possible that I got a Happy Meal. I’m not sure when kids grow out of getting Happy Meals. This was the last chance for cokes and cheeseburgers for a month. That knowledge combined with a couple of hours in a 1971 Chevrolet Town & Country station wagon makes the McDonald’s taste extra sweet. It was as if Cookeville were the last outpost of civilization.
More good evidence for this was found in the town of Monterey. The only chain story was the Dairy Queen and there were, as far as I know, no traffic lights. To this day, I believe I can navigate through the town by muscle memory. I doubt I could write out directions. The car just goes under it’s own power at some point. The state road out of town must go somewhere, but as far as I know it goes to the edge of the world right after you turn off to go up to camp.
A person who has not done it a bunch of times could easily miss both that turn and the turn into the camp property. They took some of the fun out of it when they took the old iron bridge across the iron polluted river down. Sure, a two-lane concrete span is safer and more convenient, but it kind of takes out all the fun. Not much as changed, though, about the ride up from the bottom gate.
The entrance through the gate leads into a canopy of trees which make a twilight on the road at any time of day. A steep initial climb serves as a warning to anyone who has simply gotten curious that this is not a place to just wander into. At the top of that climb, a trail splits off to the right along a power line. The first time I came to camp, I wondered where that trail led. At the end of the year, I knew.
The winding road offers few glimpses of what lies on either side, although most of what is there is woodland anyway. There is a point during every trip down that road at which it seems like the road will not stop, that we will never get there. This is the point at which cabins and stables appear at either side. A pasture of donkeys and a stable of horses flank the road.
In a few more yards, the trees part and a field appears — bookended by two large buildings. One was for eating and the other was for singing. From the porch of the nearer one came a tall man with a John Riggins afro. He did not know me, but he seemed to think I was ok. That was all I needed to know, because now I felt like I had come home.
all my bags are packed, and i’m ready to go.
you can go back, too, you know.
this line is only here to establish that i am not writing a poem.
Yes, one day perhaps, when I have accrued sufficient PTO. For now I will live vicariously through you.