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Every week or so, unless it was too cold, there was a campfire after dark. Murray Phillips, the swimming counselor, played his guitar and sang songs lik» those the Mammas and the Pappas made popular many years later. A few of the older boys, 14 or 15, sat on blankets with their girlfriends under the watchful eyes of the counselors. It was the last campfire of the year, and I was sitting on the other side of the fire freezing in my shirt. Murray was singing; “Roll on, Columbia, Roll on* when I saw Ginny crawling up to the fire, not 15 feet away from me. My heart stopped. She paused, and sat on the ground - no blanket - for a minute or maybe two. Then, still on her hands and knees, she came crawling over to my blanket. She brought her head over to my left ear (I’ve kept that, too) and whispered, “Pm cold.” I thought I was going to die.
“Here," I gasped. “Take my shirt.” She put it on and gave me a sort of funny look. Then she leaned her gorgeous body, breasts and all, against me. As I remember, I did nothing at all...except die. Like I said, what did I know about love back then?
The last week of camp that year was one of the happiest weeks of my life. Ginny held onto the shirt, and every time I saw her in it, my heart gave a little jump. She wore it all the time. We went everywhere together - walks, the waterfront, the craft house. The camp director, God bless him, even put us at the same table in the dining hall. Of course, I never touched her, other than to hold her hand whenever we walked anywhere together, she in my shirt, and me walking on air.
And then it was all over. The camp hired two buses to take us
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