I hate Nostalgia. Today I tried to lay outside in the hammock. The warm summer air and summer smells got me into my memories. As I dozed, I was a kid again, bored to death at grandma's house in Hot Springs, AR. I was so bored, I rolled acorns down the driveway and thought it was a blast.

Then as my mind drifted. . . I was at Camp Spofford. And I got stuck there. You see, I spent four summers working at Spofford. And living so close, I worked there through three winter retreat seasons. I practically lived there every weekend. Then my family moved and I went to college. After my freshman year I worked one more long summer and I have NEVER been back since. I wanted to go. But I've been half-way across the country. I had college life to occupy me.

But to think: I was a fixture there for four years, then I dropped off the face of the earth. Does it make a difference to the people I knew there? People are what matter most in this life (outside of God's glory, blah blah blah). Do any of my Spofford friends remember me? Do any of them care? I look back through pictures and see people I felt strongly for: girls I had crushes on (Katie), guys I laughed with (Matt), leaders who encouraged me (Darrell). To be honest, there were lots of bad times, but the good times definately outway them. And what about the times I screwed-up, or said the wrong thing, or treated someone lousy? Do those times define me, to the people I left behind, more than anything positive I may have done? I wish I knew.

I know I must go back there. Not just for the people, though few of those I knew may be left, but also to see the beach, the dining hall, the kitchen, the staff cabins, Knute's Cafe. I need to see that these places still exist, that the places that housed so many memories still stand. Why? I don't know. After all, it's the people who matter most. I guess I'd rather have my nostalgia quelled and my questions left unanswered.