And it's One, Two, Three. . .

I tried to ignore the fact that it was Women's Weekend at Camp Chingachgook. Several times a year, our home camp hosts these fabulous retreat weekend for ladies only, complete with themed parties, boating, rock climbing, hiking, and arts and crafts. It's summer camp for grownups. In a cruel twist of fate, Toby inevitably has to work. With Eliot attached to my side, the best I can do is show up at the dining hall for mealtimes and listen with longing to the raucous female laughter while I negotiate carrots for french fries with a bull-headed toddler.


This weekend, I pretended I did not know that the sun was shining through the crisp morning onto Lake George, and that gaggles of women dipped paddles from kayaks or hiked in garrulous clusters up the trails past our house. I blocked out the knowledge that the weekend's theme was Woodstock, and that in the arts and crafts area, women were stringing glass and wooden beads to wear to the evening's love-child extravaganza. Toby had to head down to Wa Wa Segowea for a volunteer work weekend. Eliot and I made our own fun on Saturday morning, attending the Apple Festival at the Glens Falls Farmer's Market, sampling cider, jumping in the bounce house.


So, I was thrilled beyond measure when Irish Michael came knocking around 5:30 on Saturday. He announced he had a couple hours off, and I was free to be free. Michael is a burly, bearded fellow who likes to toss Eliot over his shoulder and bellow, "Come on, little man, we're going on an adventure." Eliot immediately began to climb his friend's sturdy trunk. I donned voluminous orange bell-bottoms and my mood ring and strolled on through the woods with nary a backward glance.


Dinner in the dining hall was some delightful combination of breaded fish and steak and almond-crusted green beans and heaps of young lettuces. I savored my carrot cake. I did not have to share a single crumb from my plate with anyone. I did not have to get up once to retrieve ketchup of a clean fork. All I needed to do was sit with my flower-bedecked new friends and talk about any old thing that struck my fancy. And not be interrupted.


After the lazy, delicious dinner, we wandered over to the Rotary Lodge for dancing. A woman who calls line dances at local Senior Centers had adapted her repertoire to the music of 1969. For a few precious moments, I forgot that somewhere else in camp, Eliot and and Irishman were donning deer antlers and stomping around in the woods. I grooved in a kind of giddy ignorance, kind rainbow sisters all around draped in love beads and crocheted accessories. We whooped and giggled in unison while doing the grapevine to Janis Joplin and Country Joe McDonald. Kick, stomp, kick, turn, Whoopee! We're all gonna die.