Tuesday, July 26, 2011
I love the moment when I open the car door and step onto the grounds of Camp Lake Louise.
The aromas dance into my nostrils and it feels as though the very granules of sand, blades of grass, and droplets of water spontaneously sprout strong, tender arms and rush to enfold me in a warm, lingering embrace.
I hear the voices and feel the countless memories of all four of my grandparents -- all passed away now -- who volunteered their time at Lake Louise alongside our family, and the onslaught transforms my countenance into a tapestry of delightful reminiscence.
I see the house on the hill at the entrance, where my family lived when my father managed the camp for seven summers, where I shared a room with my two brothers and spent hours lying on my bed, reading preteen literature and listening to pop music on cassette tapes.
The camp itself is akin to a member of our family; a powerful adhesive of our heritage in past, present, and future days spent on its sacred grounds.