It's that time of year again. Time to remember fondly my summer vacations and countless weekend experiences in the village of Burlington, West Virginia, from the late 1940's to 1974. For most of those years I stayed in a very comfortable three-season cottage on property maintained by my father's fraternal lodge. We called it "the camp." In addition to providing recreation for its membership, the property also served as a regional park, complete with a playground, ball field, and large two-story pavilion for entertainment and picnicking. It was often rented for the day or weekend for family reunions, company picnics, church functions, and other gatherings.
The place was paradise for a young boy. A creek bordering the property offered hours of fun. You could explore the woods and fields forever. The frequent social events made the playground a great place to meet new friends. But "camping" at Burlington was by no means a wilderness experience. Next door was a drive-in theater where I enjoyed the snack bar as much as the movies. Across the road was a small airfield with several Taylorcrafts and Piper Cubs, and a hangar that gave birth to many "homebuilts" over the years as well as my interest in airplanes and flying. When I was a boy, some pilots there strapped into a fuselage on a lathe and spun me nearly senseless. Loved every second. I can say with confidence that Burlington was never boring.
Over the years, membership in clubs and lodges declined across the country. It was no different at Burlington. The lodge members grew older and passed away. By 1974, the few survivors could no longer maintain the property and elected to sell it and dissolve the organization. It was not only the end of a wonderful experience but also the end of two activities that had become rituals of opening and closing the cottage.
For me, there was no Spring at Burlington in 1975, and after thirty-five years the place is a foreign country. There is a new generation there these days, all strangers. The cultural imprint I knew continues to fade away. The gleaming white post and rail fence surrounding the grounds is all but gone. The pavilion where I played for hours on end, observed the Westvaco picnickers enjoying their Labor Days, and listened to local old time music and fire and brimstone preachers is near ruin. All the shining blue, yellow, and red playground equipment - massive and unsafe by today’s standards - is gone. The Baker's Drive-In theater, Sonny's Place - great pizza - and Thrasher's Restaurant - unsurpassed desserts - are memories. And what was Baker's Air Park is now a massive regional office for the West Virginia Department of Highways.
Only the nature endures.
Today, the sycamores along the river may be a bit taller but they still explode in yellow this time of year along with my favorite walnut trees. And the young maple I climbed every year until long after I matured has itself matured into a massive Fall fire tree. Sixty years ago, I watched when the men brought in their bulldozers to reshape the creek bank and channel. The stone beach they graded was much safer for the generation of bathers who enjoyed it, but the creek remembered this affront. Over time, its flow restored the original course and bank into a scene my grandfather enjoyed in the 1930s.
Today, the sycamores along the river may be a bit taller but they still explode in yellow this time of year along with my favorite walnut trees. And the young maple I climbed every year until long after I matured has itself matured into a massive Fall fire tree. Sixty years ago, I watched when the men brought in their bulldozers to reshape the creek bank and channel. The stone beach they graded was much safer for the generation of bathers who enjoyed it, but the creek remembered this affront. Over time, its flow restored the original course and bank into a scene my grandfather enjoyed in the 1930s.
Bits and pieces of this post have appeared over the past five years.
No comments:
Post a Comment