From the Archives
Poetry from the Camp
Northrop campers and their families found words for what the Berkshires gave them. Here are some of those words.
Poet
Harvey J. Gardner
Harvey was a camper at Northrop in 1943 and 1946. He later became an audiologist and speech pathologist in Huntington, NY. His poems revisit the specific textures of camp life — the well, the wash house, Mt. Everett — and weave them into a meditation on what those summers became in him.
The Well
A well? No,
A hole in the grass
Around 5 feet across
Cold Water for dipping
Dodging water striders
Our tin cups waiting
Among the touch-me-nots.
Our counselor said,
"The Health Department
"Comes each year
"To find that something's
"Wrong with it but their
"Analysis always shows
"The water is just fine!"
The Wash House
Brown, old, small,
Damp wood flooring
Bouncing with our steps
Slop sink along each wall
Stained with toothpaste
And rinsing cups.
The one window viewing
Marsh life noisy-green
Mt. Everett above the reeds,
And mercifully mindless of us,
Ruby throated hummingbirds.
Mt. Everett
Like worshippers we gazed upon it,
Drawing tablets on our laps,
Sketching one scene--
The water hole,
The wash house behind it
And, seizing the horizon,
Mount Everett,
Its smoky green summit's
Seeming small steel fire tower
Searching for smoke.
Days later
We hiked the thirsty roads
To that mountain.
Fortified with trailside blueberries
And egg salad sandwiches,
Flushed with canteen water,
We climbed the fire tower,
Looking far down
To turn our drawings
Inside out.
The Rabbit Killer
Long before Jimmy Stewart and Harvey
I was bound to rabbits.
Our pails of blue berries
Swinging through grasses,
Our shoes buffed and polished
By swishing the tufts,
Suddenly, under my foot
Shrill squealing -- and there
A baby rabbit broken leg
And I crushed too.
We tried to feed it milk.
And when it died the kids sang,
"Harvey, the rabbit killer!"
Thank you Mary Chase and Jimmy
For bonding us forever.
And Now
I have become a well.
A water wholly yours
For kneeling down
And dripping dripping
Cool and wet refreshed.
I have become a wash house.
My wondrous window
Opening to nature's buzz,
A marsh mallow hummer hangout
To hover-nurse on nectar.
I have become Mt. Everett.
Risen, comfortable, silent
My fire tower yours for seeing far.
I have become a rabbit.
Smooth muscled milk snake, indian pipe,
Unulating goldfinch, peeling paper birch,
Towhee, quaking aspen, daddy-long-legs,
Saffron cap moss dust, proud puff ball,
Spore scattering Christmas fern,
Hermit thrush singing silvery sad song,
Free wild strawberries in pungent right field,
Borrowed box turtle, garter snake,
Sweet soft red eft on drizzle day damp,
Hatpin head tracking moon shadow,
Pregnant pods of touch-me-not
Leaves turned silver in the stream
And bunny eyes to see you seeing me.
Poet
Enilda Lozada
Enilda was a camper at Northrop in 1961. Her poem recalls the daily rhythms of camp — the bugle call, blueberry picking, the dirt road leading out — and the literary world that seemed to hover just beyond the treeline.
Do You Recall
Do you recall how we sat by the smokily burning fire-camp logs
Singing "The Ash Grove", our favorite song?
Or how we awoke to the bugle call every morning,
Rushed to wash-up in the icy fresh splashes, brush our teeth after dressing,
Ran to the house for breakfast -- where there was Central Plumbing?
Under the watchful and caring eyes of Mrs. Mollie Ruden we were inspected,
But lots of listening and talking about the daily chores were mixed with our chatter.
Eagerly we took on the day,
Meeting all new challenges without dismay.
Do you recall the Blueberry picking, or the sweet smell of honeysuckle by the pool,
The crawling 'round the grasses in the meadow,
As we hid going deer-watching in the evenings,
Passing by the mushrooms under the white pines, along with some Indian pipes peeping.
And that dirt road brown dust of the broad road leading outward
To a world forgotten, between the lines of Frost, Millay, and some hanging vines?
Poet
"Flamingo"
This poem was found in 1999 in a trunk in the cellar of the late Dr. Rose Mayor. The author is evidently the mother of a Northrop camper, but there is no other clue to her identity. Judging by the ages of the surrounding geologic strata in the trunk, the poem seems to have been written in the early 1970s.
Northrop Mother
There's a tadpole in the pantry
(He'll be there for quite a spell),
In the kitchen there's a mollusc
With a very funny smell.
On the window sill, a spider
Weaves her web, quite undisturbed.
In a Northrop camper's household,
Nature must proceed uncurbed.
In a bottle, Mrs. Mantis
Rears her 47 pups,
We must drink our tea from saucers,
There are snails in all our cups.
There are grasses in our glasses,
There are mosses in the sink,
There is something in the bathtub,
Possibly the Missing Link.
Rocks of geologic glamor
Still encumber the back stair,
Seaweed, birds' nests, gulls' wings, lichens,
Get into the family's hair.
For the last two months a gypsy
Has encamped upon our sill.
(He's a moth, a sloth that slumbers,
Two months hence he'll be there still!)
Yet, though Nature crowds our mantel,
Preempts pots and pans and dishes,
Though fat worms live in our basin,
In our jam jars, little fishes,
Though each corner has its "treasure",
Some strange natural surprise,
At this clutter, who would mutter,
Who would have it otherwise,
Having glimpsed the pure and glowing
Stars in Northrop campers' eyes.
Do you have a poem to share?
If Northrop Camp inspired you to write — a poem, a song, a few lines — we'd love to hear it. Share your memory and it may find a home here.
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