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Tony Lawrence: The Fire
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Friday. The end of the week is welcome any time of year, but
during the all too short New England nudist season, it is also
the beginning of our Renaissance weekends.
We pack the car as quickly as we can, and get on the road. It
is a long trip, made longer by Linda's back problems, which
requires frequent stops to stretch and walk a bit. These
trips are painful for her, but she won't even consider the
thought of not going. I've suggested that we might consider
closer camps; Solaire is much closer, but we have too many
years invested where we are. Too many friends, too many
memories. She'll grit her teeth and tough out the ride.
We are always in a silly mood these Friday nights. We joke
about a sign that we will pass on the return trip:
"Westfield 3, Boston 102". Why does Westfield advertise their
losing basketball scores on the Mass Pike? We pretend that
every camper we pass contains fellow nudists, silly stuff,
childish stuff. The tension of the work week slowly
leaves us.
I watch the mileage signs, constantly recalculating when we
will arrive. If we stop in Ludlow for a fifteen minute
break, it will be 9:15, but then if we stop again beyond
Westfield, it will be 9:30. If Linda's foot doesn't back
off the accelerator, a uniformed representative of the
Massachusetts State Police may affect my calculations
very badly.
Eventually we will turn off the Pike, and know that we
are a half hour or less from camp. It's usually dark
by then, but we've made this trip so many times that
we will have no problem spotting Kittle Road.
At some point coming up the road, we will catch our first
glimpse of the Ghetto camp fire. Even if hard rains are
pounding the mountain, that fire is usually lit. It is
a beacon for us, the sign that we are almost there.
The fire is the focal point of the Ghetto, the place
where everyone gathers at night. As we pull into camp,
and drive toward our trailer, dark figures are outlined
against it's flames. People yell "Hello!" and "Hey!",
and wave, and we wave back, not always sure who we are
waving at, but glad to see them anyway.
We will unpack as quickly as we can, turn on the water, the
electricity, swear at the furnace and finally coax it into
life. Though we are tired, and ready for bed, we'll
get naked, walk over to the fire and after more hello's
and hugs and all that, we'll spend a few minutes sitting,
talking, listening to jokes and gossip.
The wind usually blows down mountain, and most nights you
can sit or stand in one place until the fierce heat forces
you to move back. Some nights the wind is fitful, unable
to make up it's mind, and sparks and smoke cause us all
to constantly shift around the fire in a slow motion dance.
People come and go. New friends, old friends, we've probably
made more acquaintances at the fire than anywhere else.
Sometimes tent people from the upper fields come down, and
unfamiliar faces are always welcomed warmly, drawn into
the fire's circle, offered snacks and drinks, questioned
as to where else they have been, given hints and suggestions,
made to feel welcome and warm. On our very first visit
here, when it was Birch Acres, we had wandered down to
this fire, and been made to feel like part of the family,
like we belonged.
Now we do belong. Our trailer is only a few dozen yards from
the fire, and there will be people there long after our
yawns have made us go to bed. You'd think that the laughter
and occasional singing would disturb our sleep, but it
doesn't. Those are happy sounds, safe sounds, and we
are not disturbed at all.
Wed Aug 10 19:49:17 2005 anonymous
great story i was actually a princess of brich acres as a child
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