When I was kid we were the caretakers of a large Catholic day camp in central New York State. Apparently Babtists were better at this than Catholics. At nights in the summer when august was full on us we'd go down to lake and build driftwood fires. We'd sit and go blind with the flames and sparks rising high over Cross Lake . Sometimes we'd swim in the dark water just beyond the arc o f light that the fire would afford us. Mom and Dad would sit and watch while six kids scared hell out of each other in the near dark. When we were to cold to swim we'd come on shore and shiver in the front while we roasted our backside against the fire. WE told ghost tales of the Banshee that was said to live on the Little Island in the middle of the lake. My sisters to this day ask me if I can still remeber the tell. My father would tell us of Hiawatha who was a real historical character and was said to have been born on the shore of Cross Lake. Not Gitchie Goomie as a poem might suggest. We always cooked hot cocoa, even in August. Cocoa against the cool of the night was always a welcome warmth. We sang songs that we all knew. "Clementine", "The RailRoad runs Through The Middle of the House", "Dunderbeck". Mom and Dad would sing "Goldmine in the Sky" in what I now know was harmony. Dad would recite "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and " The Cremation of Sam Magee". At some point we'd do "The Old Rugged Cross" and "In the Garden". The quarter mile back home after the fire was out was a star gazer's heaven. No light polution to obscure the heavens and even once the Northern Lights. Some of the six kids still sing hymns for no apparent reason. And while I'm the only one who breaks out in epic poems at odd moments. We all still have a fondness for fires by the lake. Midnight swims, only now with our various children, and Mom sings "Gold Mine in The Sky". I'm sure that she still hears the harmony.

Don