And, Death, once dead there’s no more dying then – William Shakespeare, Sonnet 145

One of the worst things about getting older is that we attend more funerals

Cancer

Cancer

Heart attack

The causes of death of three lovely people whose funerals I have recently attended

The last one came as a shock

No warnings with cardiac events

As news spread of my pal’s death, people began to call, to text, to message, to ping

“What happened?”

Not helpful

The person is gone

Would have been kinder and nicer to just say, “I’m sorry”

Everyone says “sorry for your loss”, which, personally, I despise.  I am still struggling to know why that kind expression of sympathy flies all over me like the cheapest of suits

Why does it bother me so?

A friend tells me I think it trite

Another friend tells me I think it cliche

Will have to pray about that

Everyone says, “You’re in our thoughts and prayers”

That’s lovely, too, but, similarly, it kind of drives me crazy

A friend tells me I think it trite

A friend tells me I think it cliche

Will have to pray about that, too

But, I won’t send emoji prayer hands

That really drives me crazy

As I recently told the deceased closest’s relative, if anyone says, “It’s God’s will” or “God has a plan” then I’m available to throat punch those speakers

I am re-reading Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking for the umpteenth time

It’s such a powerful exploration of that land we all know and go to time and time again

Grief

“Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eye and obliterate the dailiness of life.”

Mrs. John Dunne got it right

We don’t

In her book, she writes a history of mourning.  We don’t mourn any more. We don’t offer broth and toast and quiet and stillness.  We don’t leave people alone for six months. We don’t say, “They’re in mourning.” A century ago, we all knew it meant not to bother them or invite them anywhere.  In mourning also meant that we knew as a society that they were going to be out of their minds for a while, crazed with grief

Our only nod to mourning, black or dark clothes worn to funerals

In the South, mourning used to be strictly observed e.g. Mrs. Wilkes in Gone With the Wind advising Cap’n Butler that Mrs. Hamilton will not dance as the family were still in mourning.  When Mrs. Hamilton accepts the dance, her aunt Pitty Pat faints in shock

Now, we say, “She’s handling it really well”

Now, we say, “He’s a rock”

Now, we say, “She’s keeping it together for the children”

Now, we say, “Oh, life goes on”

Does it?

Handling it?

She wants to scream her head off and tell you all to leave her alone

He wants you to know that he will never love anyone again

When there’s a death, we should just let the family be, and we should just be with the family

Just be

Just be

Sit

Hold a hand

Don’t engage in inane conversation, just be

In our age of constant entertainment and distraction, we think we should take the family on a vacation somewhere wonderful ASAP

“It will get their mind off it”

Why?

Why would they want to have their mind off their loved one?

They don’t

Ever

See, e.g., Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden, not repeated her because Auden’s Estate did not give me permission

As I write in every single condolence letter, if Jesus wept at the loss of a friend, then who are we to not?

Why do we need to move on?

How awful

As some of you know from an earlier missive, my Eighth Grade English teacher was the wife of the long time minister of the Baptist Church of Beaufort.  Mrs. Spears taught us many things, but, when a classmate’s father died, she took a group of us to the house. Before we arrived, Mrs. Spears told us to follow the lead of those closest to the deceased and let them talk.

“Just tell them you’re sorry,” said Mrs. Spears, “They’ll talk when they want to talk. If not, just stand or sit with them. They’re glad you’re there”

In the receiving line for another friend, I told her husband that I was just so sorry that she was gone

“Fifty plus years of marriage, and, now, just me”

“I’m so sorry,” was all I could say again and again as he talked

After a minute or two, he said, “I’ll miss that laugh”

“Oh, she had such a great sense of humor,” I responded. Then, I told a funny story about the deceased which the widower had forgotten

He beamed

“Thank you, Hamlin. She thought y’all were just wonnerful”

“We thought she was wonnerful, too”

Be close to those who mourn

They shall be comforted

May be by you

Stand with them

Just stand with them

Put your arm around their shoulder

Hold their hand

Just be

Bring some food

Bring a cooler of ice

Bring your grandmama’s award winning pie

Bring a sad pound cake, and, if you know what that is, then you should totally bring one

Bring a casserole that can be frozen for later use

Bring a bag of paper products, including toilet paper

Bring prepared sandwiches

If you live in Charleston, call Miz Hamby’s for same

Don’t bring that slick ham platter from the grocery store deli department

Offer to help write the obituary

Offer to call anyone to spread the news

Bring flowers

I always bing cheese straws

I’m a one trick pony

Years ago, when someone died at home, a friend’s mother was overheard talking to the local florist, “Yes, that would be fine but nothing funerally like glads or carnations, hear?”

No glads

No carnations

No sprays with a toy telephone that says, “He Called.”

That is a real arrangement that I’ve seen with my own two eyes

Add the deceased and the family to the prayer list

Write the family a note on your stationery, which, I hope you have purchased from Arzberger’s in Charlotte, NC

When my sister-in-law died in 2014, the most wonderful note we revived was the most simple

Dear MP, Hamlin, Margaret, and Perrin

I am so sorry. There are no words. None. I love you all

That was it

Impactful

Perfection

Elegant

In four months, when no one is knocking on the widow’s door or asking the children how they’re doing, or telling the widower that they’ll check on him, or remembering to call, take them supper, talk about the loved one, ask them to coffee, tell them how much you, too, missed the deceased

Let the tears flow

In those quiet moments months from now, when they can’t sleep, when they hear a song that reminds them of the deceased, they need friends

We should bring back mourning, complete with black arm bands and heavy crepe

Instead, we will say

“They’re holding up so well”

“They’re so brave”

I have heard dear friends, people whom I adore, say “Well, she never got over his death”

Nor should she

Nor should he

Nor should we

We don’t do death well anymore

We need to mourn

 

 

From 1959 until 1985, The Yankee Tavern occupied almost a full city block on Boundary Street in Beaufort, South Carolina

A dive

A greasy spoon

A hole in the wall

Good food

Fair prices

Ice cold beer

Not that I was ever old enough to have one there

 

Pearl and Manny Palmer were tough New Jersey folks who opened a restaurant in downtown Beaufort in a one-story cinder block building with a brick facade.

They were damned Yankees

The kind we Southern kids know who come South and stay

I loved them

The Yankee had two entries, one on Boundary Street and one on the side facing Newcastle Street

Everyone entered from Newcastle Street

A long bar

Pool tables

Dim lighting

Cigarette haze

Pin ball machines

Bathrooms in the back corner that could have used a little bleach

Manny was the impresario in a white t-shirt

Sometimes that t-shirt had the Playboy bunny on it

Think of Mel of Mel’s Diner fame from the t.v. show Alice but with a Joisey accent and a lot cooler than Mel

Pearl was the enforcer with a tight perm, short fuse, dangling cigarette

Everyone in Beaufort went there

I mean everyone

Politicians

Shrimpers

Doctors

Lawyers

Businessmen

Families with small children

Singles looking for a good time

Marines from Parris Island and the Air Station

Young people playing pool

Movie stars filming either The Great Santini or The Big Chill

Migrant workers in town to pick tomatoes during the tomato harvest season in the summer

The one demographic not represented were ladies who lunch, but they would come in with their husbands at night or on the weekend

The late Hedy Williams used to drape a paper napkin over the seat before she sat on any of the  naugahyde cushioned metal framed chairs, most of which had a tear or two in them

No one gave her a second look

A local attorney ate there so often for lunch that they named a sandwich after him.  I can’t remember what was on The Bruce, but I know it was on the menu forever

Their soup was Damn Good Chowder

Our father would take us there on Saturday mornings to sit at the bar and eat breakfast while watching cartoons

There were always fathers and children at the The Yankee on Saturday mornings

You know who you are and were

Bill Bowden, the Palmers’ most trusted employee, would emerge from the back and ask if we wanted him to turn the channel while confirming our standing order of pancakes drowning in syrup with a side of bacon cooked on the griddle.  It was he who made sure the cooks put M&M’s in our pancakes if we asked.

Bill, as we called him, was a gentle giant.  He cleaned, mopped, bussed tables, wiped down the bar, all while clad in bib overalls.  He never stopped moving

We lived five minutes from The Yankee

My parents would order takeout from there, and it would be at our house in no time

What a treat to see the foil wrapped package of perfectly fried mushrooms with a small plastic container of ranch dressing in which to dip those battered fungi

The motto at The Yankee: “The Customer is Never Right”

But, the customer was always right at The Yankee

When the drinking age was 18, young folks in town would go to The Yankee to shoot pool, drink beer, and smoke cigarettes.

One evening, a group of teens, may be some of legal drinking age, may be some not, cavorted around a pool table. Some were barefooted.  Anyway, they got too rowdy and Pearl told them to leave

They refused

Systematically, Pearl began to smash beer bottles on the hard concrete slab floor of her own establishment

The teens hightailed it before they had to walk across broken glass in bare feet

I’m sure Pearl had Bill sweep it up as she moved on to the next issue

Older locals told us the story that The Yankee stayed open during Hurricane Gracie.  Manny and Pearl kept serving food and drinks in ankle deep water

Pearl was quoted in the Beaufort Gazette saying, “It was a riot!”

We took tennis lessons from a man named Ben Owens at the municipal tennis courts about a block away from The Yankee.  It being the late 70’s and early 80’s, Ben smoked like a chimney as he taught us to be the next Bjorn Borgs and Tracy Austins

Often, Ben would have us drill or play practice games and say in his Winston Light graveled accent, “Y’all keep practicing. I’ll be right back.”

We all knew that Ben was walking down Boundary Street to The Yankee for a cold beer

We introduced Blythe Danner and her husband Bruce Paltrow to The Yankee

They loved it

The night The Great Santini premiered in Beaufort, my father took the Paltrow children, including a future Oscar winner, her brother, my brothers, our dear pal Hugh Patrick, and me to The Yankee for pizza.  All of our parents had a premier to attend!

We all jumped on the tables, ran around the place, made a bunch of noise

Our favorite game at The Yankee was jumping form chair to chair, table to table

We did it all the time

We taught the Paltrow children the art of behaving badly in The Yankee

While we were standing on the tables, Pearl yelled at us across the joint, “Hey, sit down, kids!”

The future Oscar winner looked at us and said, “Who’s that mean old lady?”

My reply, “That’s no lady. That’s just Pearl!”

We sat down

We saw said Oscar winner last year; she asked if The Yankee was still in business

When I told her it closed in the mid-80’s, she sighed and said, “Oh, that’s too bad. Remember the lady who yelled at us?”

Of course, GP

I will never forget her or her husband

Those of us lucky enough to have gone there know it occupies a big place in our hearts

For years after it closed, we would see folks who worked there

They and we would say “I haven’t seen you since The Yankee”

It was a place and time none could replicate

None

 

I think Heaven will be a lot like The Yankee

Full of all types of people

All glad to see you

No judgment

Fair dealings

A place to never leave

Great food and drink

Full of laughter

So much laughter

While all are under the watchful eye of an owner who may have to pull you up short a time or two

So, all you fans of The Yankee, if you get to Heaven before me and see Bill, please tell him that Hambone wants to know if he can to turn the t.v. to Bugs Bunny

I’m sure he’ll say yes

 

 

 

Enough

Enough already

Stop

Quit

Leave it alone

Really

Stop

About what am I speaking?

That most representative dish of Lowcountry cooking

Shrimp and grits

Shrimp and hominy

Breakfast shrimp

Shrimp gravy

It’s not hard

It’s not complicated

But, for the love of all that is, chefs from Key West to Campobello, from Charleston to Los Angeles, from Seattle to Jacksonville, from New Orleans to Detroit and everywhere in between have to mess with it time and time and time again

A chef in Asheville, North Carolina, espoused her creative use of foraged bounty in making her version

Foraged?

In the mountains?

Who eats seafood in Asheville?

Mountain trout?

Yes

Shrimp?

No

Just quit

In glossy food magazines, there are paeans to plates of muddled messes of shrimp cooked with olive oil, garlic, tasso, mushrooms, red pepper, sherry vinegar, jalapeno peppers

It ain’t right

Growing up, the now highly exalted Shrimp and Grits were simply, well, breakfast on the weekend or supper on nights when moms were too tired to make much else

It’s easy fare

Peeling the shrimp is the hardest part

On weekends at our fish camp on Pritchard’s Island, the dads would saute a chopped onion, may be a diced bell pepper, in butter or a little bacon grease, they would throw in some Worcestershire sauce, perhaps a bit of sausage, may be make a roux, may be not,  and then they’d add some water to make a fairly thin and wan colored gravy.  Lastly, they would cook shrimp in the sauce, then sprinkle it with bacon

Definitely not Instagramable

The Junior League of Charleston’s venerable old Charleston Receipts has “Breakfast Shrimp” by Mrs. Ben Scott Whaley (Emily Fishburne), late of Mrs. Whaley and Her Charleston Garden fame.  Her version is almost the one I grew up with in the 1970s and 1980s.  She adds a little ketchup.

Mrs. Whaley advised serving breakfast shrimp “with hominy”

I’m sure her hominy was simple boiled grits. No heavy cream and chicken stock to be found. Just water, salt, and grits.

In the heading of the section with her receipt there’s an explanation called “Shrimp for Breakfast.” The editors of the cookbook wrote that shrimp have long been a breakfast favorite in the coastal region.

Good enough remains good enough

No mousselline sauces

No beurre blancs

No oyster mushrooms

No sugar

No tomatoes

No stock made with shrimp heads

No diced green onion garnishment

Just simplicity on a plate on a Saturday morning

That’s what we knew

Beaufort, South Carolina’s own Larry Taylor, who cooked at the Beaufort Yacht Club and his now shuttered restaurant, L.T.’s, made the absolute best shrimp gravy

My mother would order from him and take him containers to fill with that velvety goodness to be reheated slowly in a pot and served with hominy.  He put cooked sausage in his. There was nothing fancy about it, though

I get that chefs want to…

…wait for it…

…my least favorite expression which is overused by everyone in the culinary world…

…wait for it…

…you can’t un-hear it once you hear it…

…wait for it…

…riff on the classics

Stop it

Really

Stop it

Back in 2018 at this amazing party weekend, a friend who lives in Denver of all places challenged me to a shrimp and grits cook off.

She said that she would crush me

Dahlin, where you get your shrimp in the Mile High City in the middle of the country?

Bless your heart, Sweet Pea

She will probably add ghee and lemon juice and parsley and cheddar cheese to her version which would most likely derive from Brooklyn’s own Bobby Flay or Long Island’s Ina Garten.  She will probably roast the shrimp in a convection oven or something else amazing

My version will be so simple and will highlight the fine creek shrimp we get around here, especially in late summer

I have a great pal who is a damned fine cook.  Recently we were all together, and he said he was going to make shrimp for breakfast to go with his grits. No, he didn’t call it shrimp and grits.  He just said he was making shrimp for the grits.  He’s an umpteenth generation local.  He knows the deal

All he did was melt some butter, add the shrimp and saute, add a little salt and pepper and a bop of Worcestershire at the end.  He crumbled a little cooked bacon over and spooned over warm hominy.  Perfection.  Not a hint of fish stock or andouille sausage, which is from New Orleans and not from South Carolina

Here’s what I make when the shrimp are running

I don’t charge $25.00 a plate, either

Again, really, just stop with the silliness and make you some true Lowcountry shrimp and grits, shrimp and hominy, shrimp gravy, breakfast shrimp

It’s the real deal

Shrimp Gravy

1/2 stick butter, salted, unsalted, it does not matter

1 small yellow onion, diced small

1 small green pepper, diced small (optional)

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp black pepper

2 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

A dash of hot sauce

1/4 c. flour

1 cup water

2 lbs shrimp, peeled, devein if you wish, but I don’t bother

5 slices bacon, cooked crisp, crumbled, reserved

Cooked grits

Melt the butter in a frying pan and add the vegetables. Add salt and pepper and saute until the vegetables are soft.  Add the Worcestershire and hot sauce.  Add in the flour and cook for 1-2 mins to get the raw taste out and then add the water and make into a smooth sauce, using a whisk.  Bring to a boil slowly. It will thicken once it boils. If it gets too thick, add more water.  Once the desired consistency, add the shrimp and cook until shrimp are pink. The water in the shrimp will thin out the gravy.  Do not overcook the shrimp.  About 3 minutes is all it takes to cook the shrimp through. This is a super fast receipt.  You can cook it and then let it sit.  Add some more water if you want to reheat it that way

Serve the shrimp gravy over the grits and garnish with crumbled bacon

Don’t garnish with lemon juice, or parsley, or sous vided anything

It doesn’t have a hint of pretension, though, and truly represents that simple dish now highly exalted in fancy kitchens around the world

As Dorothy Parker was fond of saying, “An ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure”

This is no manure

Bring back the humble hominy of my youth

Really

Just stop it, Chefs

Stop it

Enough already

I posted this one after camp drop off last year….sadly….no Junior or June Camps at Greystone this year…..we all shed some tears over it as we all love that place….see you next year … it will be GR8!

 

 

I loved Camp

Camp High Rocks in Cedar Mountain, North Carolina

My wife loved Camp

Camp Greystone in Tuxedo, North Carolina

The mountains and hills around Flat Rock, Hendersonville, Brevard, Asheville, Cashiers, are full of camps

Once and former spend the night camps for youth include and included:

High Rocks, Greystone, Carolina, Keystone, Green Cove, Mondamin,  Greenville, Ton-A-Wandah, Rockbrook, Kanuga, Illahee, Green River Preserve, Merrie-Wood, Merri Mac, Blue Star, Rockmont, Arrowhead, Pinnacle, Cheerio, Gwynn Valley,  Falling Creek, Ridgecrest, Deep Woods, Bonclarken, Lutheridge, Wayfarer, Glen Arden, Hollymont

Each has its own loyal following

Some attached to certain religious denominations

Some non-religious

Spend the night camp isn’t cheap.  Children of privilege fill the bunks. They have a leg up by virtue of their ability to attend such wonderful places.  I know that I would have never considered going to boarding school had I not had such a wonderful camp experience in Western North Carolina.

Had I not gone to camp for years, I would not be writing all of this down for your reading pleasure

I went to High Rocks because boys from Beaufort went there

My wife went to Greystone because she had friends there

My girls have been attending Greystone for the last nine (9) years

Our eldest aged out two summers ago by her own volition

Our youngest is on her fifth summer and will probably go until they tell her she’s too old

Greystone is in her 100th Summer

It’s kind of amazing all that happens there

It gets a bad wrap as being the country club of the camps of North Carolina.  We did spy a famous country artist at Opening Day this year.  I attended camp with the children of the famous, too.  It’s no big deal. But, again, there is an element of privilege and familiarity that these children have that non-campers don’t have by virtue of attendance.

We are wild about Greystone. It’s a place where Jesus comes first, and everything else is secondary.  Really.  The directors’ family has been focused on the Christian aspect of camp for five generations. The founder was an ordained minister who wanted girls to have the same experience as boys, enjoying God’s creation as a form of worship

Opening Day is our Christmas in June

For almost a decade we have had the same experience for the Opening Day at Greystone

The Sunday before, we load up the stuffed trunk, the laundry bag, the toiletries, the bunk decorations early in the morning.  We then hightail it up I26 to Little Charleston in the Mountains a/k/a Flat Rock

Our ears pop as we climb up the Saluda Grade just over the border in North Carolina

Our ears pop again as we hurtle down into the Green River gorge

We always take the Saluda Exit and mosey through downtown Saluda where Mr. Pace’s store stands strong

We head on over to Lake Summit and drive around that damned river water to spy the lake that borders Greystone, Mondamin, and Green Cove

That’s where it first hits: the North Carolina mountain smell.  If green had a smell, this would be it all fecund with new growth and earth and the slightest tinge of mildew.  Any of you who have been to the North Carolina mountains know that smell

I love it

We circle to the north side of the Lake and pass the main entrance to Greystone and Apple Tree Hill.  From there we go straight into Flat Rock

That summer retreat was named Little Charleston in the Mountains due to the sheer number of Lowcoutnry folks who migrated there in the summer. They still migrate there in droves. America’s poet, Carl Sandburg lived at Conmerra, a house built by the Memminger family

We usually eat at the Village Bakery and always run into someone we know

Our beloved former Charleston neighbors moved to Flat Rock five years ago (See? Charleston people LOVE Flat Rock).  We always get in a good visit with them every year

We take a turn on Main Street, Hendersonville, after our visit with our neighbors. The Mast Store. Kilwins. The old trips to the The Fountainhead Bookstore were epic. We miss that place.  Local bookstores continue to head the way of the Dodo. Yet, there’s that Antique Mall that never goes anywhere and never seems to ring up any sales. We wonder how it stays in bidness

On the way back to Flat Rock we stop at The Fresh Market for snacks.  I call it the Cocktail Party Store.  Plenty of items for cocktails but no real groceries.

For years, we have stayed at the Highland Lake Inn.  Our favorite rooms are in old camp cabins as that Inn on Highland Lake used to be an old Roman Catholic summer camp, the only vestige of which is a statue of the Virgin Mary watching over one of the fields

We have a good friend whose parents, from Charleston, met as camp counselors at Highland Lake.  See what I mean about Charleston and Flat Rock?

I always take a walk down to the lake to look at the lily pads and reflection of evergreens in the water.  We hear the shrill call of the resident albino peacock

 

 

We’ve gone swimming in the lake and in the pool.

We have stayed at Highland Lake in past years with all manner of camp drop off friends.

Our girls love the swings on the old oak tree

 

 

There are rope hammocks for reading.

Lightning bugs come out at twilight

We often have cocktails on the porch of the cabin

This year, our pal Stephen Gaddy requisitioned our ironing board to set up as the buffet table for cocktail hour

Every year, we walk over to suppers at Seasons at Highland Lake.  We have broken bread there with the Gaddys, the Allens, the Davises, the Lucases, the Givens, and other Charleston Greystone families.

We log an early bed time and set the alarm

Much like Christmas Eve as a child, I cannot sleep. I wake every hour. I am in the shower  by 6:00 a.m.

Highland Lake serves a hearty buffet breakfast right at 6:30 a.m.

We leave for Camp by 7:15

No later

We arrive at the back gate, the staff entrance, along with the hundreds of other SUVS loaded with trunks, bags, crates, pillows, stuffed animals, upholstered “husbands”, lap desks, posters, fans, bedding

Greystone has it down to a science

The counselors greet the car, ask the child’s name, slap a sticker with her cabin on her shirt, and tag the trunks and the cabin.  From there, a legion of young folks load trunks and bags into carts to go up the hill to be unloaded and delivered to cabins for the next three hours.  We arrive early to ensure the trunks and bags are on the porch of the cabin by 8:30 a.m. when the tape drops and the girls run up the hill

 

 

In past years, there was an actual bunk run where girls would stampede to get to their assigned cabins to get a bed.  There were fewer deaths on the bunk run than in Pamplona, but it was pretty chaotic.

There was always a trampled lovey left in the dewey grass

The Camp changed that policy a couple years ago, but the girls still run as soon as the 8:30 bell rings

Bunks are now assigned and counselors stand ready to greet their charges

We arrive and make the beds

Our pal from Atlanta, Land Bridgers, taught me a great trick about making bunks.  Take the mattress off the bunk and make it fully on the floor of the yet to be soiled cabin.  Make said mattress. Then, lift and tuck it right back into place

This year, as I made the bed, I said, “Time for the Land Bridgers’ maneuver”

It should be taught to all camp parents

We put towels in bathrooms, arrange shoes on porches, unload clothes, dance around with other parents calling out questions to their campers

 

 

 

We head over to the welcome reception on the porch of the Dining Hall with fresh baked scones, coffee, water, and an almunae table with stickers marking decades, the number of generations, and gifts for those returning.

Every year, we run into someone we know on the dining hall porch, waiting for the bunk run, unloading the trunk

My friend from Beaufort, Chandler Bailey, who now lives in Birmingham, has a theory that you could connect every college educated person in the South if you could interview all the parents dropping off at Greystone or its former brother camp, Falling Creek

He has a valid point

 

 

Our youngest returns to Greystone with other Charleston girls who go but who don’t bunk together.  This year they have decided to take at least one activity/class together

Our eldest and her best friend always requested each other as cabin mates for years

There’s only been one year with a bad counselor

Not all sweetness and light, she played favorites and did not live by the Camp’s ethos

She was not invited back the following year

The place improves itself yearly and takes criticism to heart

But, it can be kind of overwhelming for the uninitiated and kind of intimidating for new campers where everyone else seems to know everyone else

This year, we received our daughter’s schedule via a PDF emailed to us after the first full day

No kidding

The traditional summer camp activities reign

Riflery

Archery

Canoeing

Kayaking

Sailing

Swimming

Hiking

Horse back riding

Ceramics

All manner of sports

Fishing

Ropes courses

Over night camp outs

 

There are talent shows, evening programs, big events, including an end of session banquet with a theme.  We hear that there are fireworks this year to celebrate the 100th Season

Oh, and it takes about two years to get in off the waiting list…really…at least two

Once you’re in the system as a family, though, you’re in forever

We try to write a letter a day or at least send an email

The camp does a great job communicating with parents

The counselors do make the children write their parents

We could hire a full time assistant to cull the pictures posted on the Camp’s website to find our daughters

The best letter we ever received from camp was written by our youngest. It read as follows:

 Dear Mom and Dad:

I don’t miss you. I love it here. The food 

Love, P

I think she meant she loved the food

Last year on Fathers Day, I received a missive that said she didn’t miss me as she was “somewhere better right now”

It’s worth every penny just for that

Several years back, the camp shared a video of all the girls gathered in The Pavilion for Vespers.  To the sounds of a lone guitar strumming and a lead from one of the Camp’s counselors, those assembled softly sang “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”.  As they sang, they deliberately and reverently passed on the flame of lit of candles from one camper to the other.  By the time they begged God to take their hearts and seal them for His courts above, well, I couldn’t even look at the screen as they finished that melodious sonnet

Even though we pay for this privilege, it warmed the cockles of my heart, which is a direct quote from the Greystone songbook.

And, so to the Miller/Hanna/Sevier Family, we give you  all our thanks and appreciation for 100 years of Witness and Faithfulness to our girls and young women.

Thank y’all for making 36,500 GR8 Days