Summer Camp
I will resist the temptation to, in a cliched way, ask where the year went. But June marks a significant moment in the year, end of school and beginning of summer. (I don't think there is a comparable day to "the last day of school" now that I am an adult. Too bad). Summer can only mean one thing, for me at least: summer camp.
I spent much of my growing up years at a Camp my parents founded and ran for years. Here is a tribute to it and my father.
A Handsaw and a Dream.
I own a handsaw. The handle, carved out of a single piece of hardwood feels warm, natural in my hand. It fits. Not like leather gloves that cover, hide and protect. It fits intimately – inside my hand, fingers and carved wood in an embrace. It belongs. My hand is exposed and given purpose. A work glove protects the other hand, but the saw is made to be used by my naked hand.
The blade is a single piece of steel. It flexes and gives off a metallic moan. Its chisel teeth, bent at opposing angles, bite through the gold-brown lumber. They spit out fibers leaving a clean kerf and musty aroma.
My father owns a handsaw, too. I have a picture of him standing atop granite bedrock his saw at his hip. He rests his hand on its handle like a cowboy with his Winchester. A pile of lumber stands, square, uniform waiting to be used. Dad envisions cabins, campers and campfires by the lake. His hand, given purpose by his dream and saw, will create community from a pile of two-by-fours.
The lumber and dreamer stand amid barren, rough, black landscape. A recent forest fire left naked scorched trees like black skeletons reaching for the sky. Young saplings timidly grow in the sparse earth, reluctant to replace the old, the dead. Hands will grip cold, steel saws with long, sharp, angry teeth and cut away the blackened dead-stand. A new fire, controlled and contained, will finish the burning its rogue cousin started.
With the purging fire burning in the background, my father surveys the cleared area. Again he sees beyond the denuded granite, scraped clean ready to be a foundation. He sees a simple rectangular building to serve as a kitchen, dining room and chapel – the heart of the new community. The first piece of planed lumber rests on the sawhorses. The pencil, after leaving a precise mark, is returned to its perch between ear and peaked cap. My father, hand holding handle, freshly sharpened teeth resting against pencil mark, stops – to pray.
Simple, even primitive tools – saw, pencil, sawhorse – and simple, even primitive material –cut, planed pine lumber – produce simple, even primitive buildings. When complete, the buildings meld into the landscape. Green poplar, white birch, brown-black pine trees grow around, embracing the new buildings. Wooden structures, slick with linseed oil protection, left raw and real. Granite founds them, new growth embraces them and children inhabit them.
The building stands, 45 years later. It’s been expanded. Hands wielded saws and shovels found new granite on which to rest extensions. A stand of white birch grew in front of the building, providing a measure of shade from the noonday sun. It germinated, matured, died and was burned as generations of kids inside ate – and learned.
I own a handsaw. The handle, carved out of a single piece of hardwood feels warm, natural in my hand. It fits. Not like leather gloves that cover, hide and protect. It fits intimately – inside my hand, fingers and carved wood in an embrace. It belongs. My hand is exposed and given purpose. A work glove protects the other hand, but the saw is made to be used by my naked hand.
The blade is a single piece of steel. It flexes and gives off a metallic moan. Its chisel teeth, bent at opposing angles, bite through the gold-brown lumber. They spit out fibers leaving a clean kerf and musty aroma.
My father owns a handsaw, too. I have a picture of him standing atop granite bedrock his saw at his hip. He rests his hand on its handle like a cowboy with his Winchester. A pile of lumber stands, square, uniform waiting to be used. Dad envisions cabins, campers and campfires by the lake. His hand, given purpose by his dream and saw, will create community from a pile of two-by-fours.
The lumber and dreamer stand amid barren, rough, black landscape. A recent forest fire left naked scorched trees like black skeletons reaching for the sky. Young saplings timidly grow in the sparse earth, reluctant to replace the old, the dead. Hands will grip cold, steel saws with long, sharp, angry teeth and cut away the blackened dead-stand. A new fire, controlled and contained, will finish the burning its rogue cousin started.
With the purging fire burning in the background, my father surveys the cleared area. Again he sees beyond the denuded granite, scraped clean ready to be a foundation. He sees a simple rectangular building to serve as a kitchen, dining room and chapel – the heart of the new community. The first piece of planed lumber rests on the sawhorses. The pencil, after leaving a precise mark, is returned to its perch between ear and peaked cap. My father, hand holding handle, freshly sharpened teeth resting against pencil mark, stops – to pray.
Simple, even primitive tools – saw, pencil, sawhorse – and simple, even primitive material –cut, planed pine lumber – produce simple, even primitive buildings. When complete, the buildings meld into the landscape. Green poplar, white birch, brown-black pine trees grow around, embracing the new buildings. Wooden structures, slick with linseed oil protection, left raw and real. Granite founds them, new growth embraces them and children inhabit them.
The building stands, 45 years later. It’s been expanded. Hands wielded saws and shovels found new granite on which to rest extensions. A stand of white birch grew in front of the building, providing a measure of shade from the noonday sun. It germinated, matured, died and was burned as generations of kids inside ate – and learned.
posted by David Donaldson @ 1:47 PM
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