What We Take for Granted
Music in the Mountains


Last week, we vacationed near Camp Becket in the Berkshires in western Massachusetts.  Because our grandchildren go to Becket (as did our sons Seth and Jeremy more than 35 years ago), we planned our trip to coincide with the camp’s Dad’s Weekend.   Both of our sons were there, Jeremy as the dad of two campers, Seth as a surrogate dad.

As we drove into camp on Sunday, when grandparents were allowed to visit, it could have been thirty-five years ago. Nothing seemed to have changed.

We had just met up with our two generations of boys when we heard, “It’s the Kugels!!!” A handsome middle-aged man approached us. He introduced himself as Michael, a former neighbor of ours who is a bit older than our sons and whose mother had recommended Becket to us long ago.

We remembered Michael as a handsome young boy with a full head of curly dark hair. Now a closely-cropped gray-haired law professor, he still has the same huge smile. He and his wife were at camp visiting their junior- counselor son. He said he recognized me because I hadn’t changed. (Thank you Michael!)

We talked about the many Thanksgiving dinners our families had shared before his family moved away. (His mother and I always held our Thanksgiving menu-planning meeting as soon as the November issue of Gourmet Magazine landed in our mailboxes.) We also caught up on his brothers and sister.

It was great to see our grandchildren and re-visit our kids’ camp. But somehow, seeing Michael, a member of the next generation, now in his 50’s, is what I will remember.


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