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09/22/10 - (3)
The Fountains of Youth
This luxuriously breezeless Lake Nebagamon afternoon, The boys' summer camp is a wide, beguiling silence. Not even the pileated, hairy, or red-headed woodpeckers Are hammering their favorite trees, for insects. Even I, wandering these acres, am captivated by its breathlessness,
Which is fine, since I'll not be distracted from my mission Of seeing if I can find all of camp's scattered drinking fountains, Using orienteering skills I learned from the Danish counselors Who came here, every summer, to instruct us kids In reading maps and compasses, making our way safely, in the wild.
By the Lumberjack Village restroom, near the waterfront, I locate the first of what I'll discover are seven water sources. Memory's coordinates, exploring back to my fourteen summers, Remain surprisingly reliable, homing me in on the other fountains, Installed in the Axeman Village, on the lower diamond, Swamper Hill,
And by the cement walk between the rec hall and Big House (All but the two new ones, in the CNOC ring and on the upper diamond, Still outfitted with familiar chipped-white-porcelain basins And nickel-plated handles and spouts I recognize from sixty years ago). Naturally, from each, I draw a rejuvenating sip,
As if not doing so would be a cataclysmic sacrilege, A desecration of spiritual proportions, Punishable by a Biblical plague or sudden phage of terminal forgetting. Back at the cabin, I open a bottle of purified water and swig. It just doesn't taste the same, doesn't taste nearly as pure.
09/22/10 - (3)
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