When I was fifteen, I spend my summer vacation on a farm in Arkansas. It was owned by our neighbors in Detroit and I played with their boys. I was excited when my mother said I could go.
The farm house was very comfortable. The family that worked the farm were friendly, warm, and happy to let me become involved in picking corn from the field, gathering tomatoes, and other easy farm activities. I learned how to churn butter.
Then the boys’ mother arrived. I hadn’t noticed back home how mean and terrifying she was. She told me I was “there to work!” There was no talking allowed while we painted the walls in the farmhouse. No radio, no running around, no fun.
When I was stupid enough to get up on a horse and, of course, fell off, she yelled at me for my injuries and told me I was being punished by God. God came up a lot that summer as we were forced to attend bible services regularly.
I stuck it out and never complained.
Many years later, I went to Arkansas again. This time it was to Hot Springs. I loved the baths. There was gambling. The devil won me over.
Somehow all my stereotypes of that time and place suggest that a responsible parent might have had second thoughts about saying yes. When my daughters were that age in a different time and place, I was digging moats and feeding the crocodiles.
ReplyDeletethe closest activity i can remember is camp maccabee in eagle river. my parents came up once and i asked to go home. they didn't go for it.
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