I went to camp.
A normal adult would say, "I went to the cabin", and for a weekend, that statement would be true. But I was there one day short of a week and the days and nights rolled into each other until I wasn't sure what day it was anymore; all I was sure about was the next fun thing.
This, my friends, is camp. I made a daisy chain, for heaven's sake.
Swimming. Sun. Sunsets. Bugs. In that order.
We screened an outdoor movie and slapped mosquitoes away. I ate s'mores until I was sick. I went to bed every night in a tangle of campfire smoked hair and I washed it in the lake the next day only to do it all over again.
What day is it, again?
The boys tromped in the woods, picked out felled trees, and chainsaw crafted those suckers into fire pit benches.
The girls busied with beads and leather crafts and conversation that has no start or stop, only long familiar pauses.
And this is all before lunch. That can't-stop-won't-stop-but-I'm-so-starving kind of lunch. And on to the lake.
A challenge to swim across the bay. Check. A paddle around the big island. Check. Go, go, go, then stop. Read.
Then look up for the next fun thing.
We took these pictures right before a thunderstorm. A magical, electric, bring the towels in honey, thunder storm.
I'd be lying if I said I always look like this at camp. I don't. I wake up and put my swim suit on, then go straight through to campfire time and add fleece. Occasionally, I decide to be a semi-normal human being around dinner time and put on clothes: cut off denim, cotton tees, a layer (or two). This is the camp packing list. This is camp.