We have had a week of dry, after a summer of wet. Now, as August closes the door on summer, our enormous tomato plants, bent in fruit, are just reddening – even as the cool creeps in to rest for the evening. Finally the cellar door is flung open – the dry air meanders in and pulls out wet scent of basement and curls around the stacks of firewood. This spring we heard the sad news that the Wesleyan Bible Camp was closing. It started in the 1890’s with platform tents in open fields. Now, burly maples tower over an odd assortment of little cottages, dorms, a cafeteria and a tabernacle. But, for the last decade the camp has been slowing down, and last year the news spread through the town that the property would be put up for sale. All of the little cottages are owned by families, but the land itself is owned by the church. Members were given two weeks to remove their possessions, and with a few inquiries I was able to acquire some things – one of my favorites is a set of mission oak furniture – painted a light chartreuse-summer green. The back of the big rocker towers over my head – and it dwarfs the girls if they climb into it. I worry about the camp – Bodoni and I walk through every day and play Frisbee, there is no example of great architecture here – but little buildings. Built in a new England vernacular. Small and strong, built, moved, added on to, taken off of – and moved again to be coupled with another structure. There are aluminum sided trailers here – air-streamed and port-holed appearing ready to be launched out to sea, if it weren’t for the plywood additions growing off the back-ends at odd angles, and antennas propped up on the roof.
In the great rush before closing, roofs were removed, doors taken off hinges, stoves and windows ripped out – even enormous old enameled sinks. Other cabins stand forgotten. As if people forgot they even existed – peeking through the windows you can see blankets folded on the beds and sheets draped over dishes and chairs, waiting for another summer to come. But a big FOR SALE sign sits at the front of the property, and so do two “NO TRESSPASSING” signs, but Bodoni and I have special dispensation, entering through our gap in the stone wall, we pass no signs. We walk around the property and pull shut the doors the wind or the curious have pulled open, and I wonder what will happen to the little bible camp behind us.
30/08: Bible Camp
We have had a week of dry, after a summer of wet. Now, as August closes the door on summer, our enormous tomato plants, bent in fruit, are just reddening – even as the cool creeps in to rest for the evening. Finally the cellar door is flung open – the dry air meanders in and pulls out wet scent of basement and curls around the stacks of firewood. This spring we heard the sad news that the Wesleyan Bible Camp was closing. It started in the 1890’s with platform tents in open fields. Now, burly maples tower over an odd assortment of little cottages, dorms, a cafeteria and a tabernacle. But, for the last decade the camp has been slowing down, and last year the news spread through the town that the property would be put up for sale. All of the little cottages are owned by families, but the land itself is owned by the church. Members were given two weeks to remove their possessions, and with a few inquiries I was able to acquire some things – one of my favorites is a set of mission oak furniture – painted a light chartreuse-summer green. The back of the big rocker towers over my head – and it dwarfs the girls if they climb into it. I worry about the camp – Bodoni and I walk through every day and play Frisbee, there is no example of great architecture here – but little buildings. Built in a new England vernacular. Small and strong, built, moved, added on to, taken off of – and moved again to be coupled with another structure. There are aluminum sided trailers here – air-streamed and port-holed appearing ready to be launched out to sea, if it weren’t for the plywood additions growing off the back-ends at odd angles, and antennas propped up on the roof.In the great rush before closing, roofs were removed, doors taken off hinges, stoves and windows ripped out – even enormous old enameled sinks. Other cabins stand forgotten. As if people forgot they even existed – peeking through the windows you can see blankets folded on the beds and sheets draped over dishes and chairs, waiting for another summer to come. But a big FOR SALE sign sits at the front of the property, and so do two “NO TRESSPASSING” signs, but Bodoni and I have special dispensation, entering through our gap in the stone wall, we pass no signs. We walk around the property and pull shut the doors the wind or the curious have pulled open, and I wonder what will happen to the little bible camp behind us.