When I was a kid, Moose Mountain carried mythical qualities.  My family went there every summer and every Christmas vacation.  My parents threatened us with not going if our grades weren’t up to snuff, and by the time I figured out this was a ruse, I was too old to worry — I made sure my grades were good enough for other reasons.  But I would have hated to miss a trip to Moose Mountain.
We sledded and tubed down the mountain in the winter.  We ice skated.  We made S’mores around the fire.  In the summer, we swam and hiked the trails and made S’mores around the fire.  I’ve never had S’mores anywhere but Moose Mountain.
Our cheeks were red from the cold in the winter and red from too much sun in the summer.  Moose Mountain didn’t have organized activities.  We kids got up when we got up and met the other kids out in front of the lodge in the morning, and we played outside all day in the summer time, periodically stopping back at the lodge for Kool-Aid and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (or just peanut butter or just jelly, but if anyone didn’t want the crust, they had to take that off themselves — the moms weren’t interested in catering to fussiness; they were on vacation, too).  In the winter, we met in the lodge’s lobby in the morning, headed outside to sled or tube down the hill until we got cold, then we trooped back into the lobby for hot cocoa around the big circular fireplace before heading back outside again.
Who knew or cared what our parents did all day or all night.  Certainly not me or my siblings.  We were left to our own devices and had to solve most of our several squabbles with other Moose Mountain kids on our own.  We “regular” Moose Mountain kids, the ones like us who came back every year, were cliquish around the first timers, but that was more of an initiation thing.  After the first day or two, they were judged on their own merits.  Most of them did okay.  We weren’t a tough crowd.
Then there were the “little” kids.  I started out as one, as did my younger siblings behind me.  We had a definite pecking order.  I didn’t know this until it was my turn, but each year the oldest kids, who were going to be too old to return with their parents the next season, indoctrinated the next younger kids into the ways of Moose Mountain.  In that way, the traditions passed from generation to generation.  I hadn’t noticed it, but this was true with all age groups.  They oriented the “new” kids, and then they kept orienting others coming up, because while I made it sound like we all played together, it wasn’t quite that way.  There was an etiquette, and you didn’t go against the grain.  We kids would talk to our parents, and some families didn’t return.  We wanted only the right kind of people at Moose Mountain, and it didn’t have anything to do with the color of your skin or your religion or how much money your father made.  It had everything to do with whether you could follow the etiquette or not.
I almost forgot that the summer I turned thirteen.  I guess I got a little full of myself and thought I should be able to hang out with the high school kids on their trails.  There’s a price for such things, and the older kids made sure I paid it.  A huge floating dock was in the middle of the lake.  That dock was high schooler domain.  It was a little further out than I could swim, but I commandeered a canoe and slipped out there to join the older kids.  They seemed to accept me, but by the time I found myself all alone on the dock without a canoe, it was too late.  Turns out they’d distracted me and made off with my canoe and all the other canoes they’d used to get out there, leaving me with the strongest swimmer, who said, “I gotta’ run.  See you later” as he dived into the water and swam back.  I knew I couldn’t swim back.  I hollered for him to come back or to bring me a canoe, but all he did was tread water long enough to yell back, “You little kids need to not try to hang out where you don’t belong. Now shut up and stay put.”
They left me to stew for an hour.  Finally, around dusk and the time parents began wondering where their kids were, one of the older kids slipped up behind me in a canoe and scared me half to death when he said from behind me, “Get in, punk.” I had to sit facing him all the way back to the lakeshore, and he glared stonily past my shoulder, clearly pissed that he’d had to come out and get a little kid who was too big for his britches.
***
I recently returned, anticipating wonderful things.  The lodge and grounds seemed small and shabby.  The dock?  It couldn’t have been more than thirty-five yards off shore.  I was shocked.  This? This was the place I couldn’t wait to return to every summer and Christmas vacation?  I couldn’t believe it.  I almost turned around and left, but I’d made reservations and paid in advance.  Non-refundable, of course.  I stepped inside.  This lobby was where we’d crammed all of us around the fireplace?  So small.
Then Mr. Moose came out from the office behind the counter.  Yes, Moose Mountain was named for the proprietor.  We’d always laughed about that when watching Captain Kangaroo back home.  “Matthew Evans! Finally made it in from the dock, I see.”  He winked.
I shook my head.  “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
He laughed, “Nope. Welcome back.  I’m happy to see you here.”
“Thanks.  It seems…smaller than I remember it.”
“You’re taller.”
“True.”
Mr. Moose slid a key across the counter.  “You’re pre-registered and pre-paid.  I think you’ll find this room very familiar.  Dinner at six.  Enjoy your stay.”
***
Dinner was always family style.  Everyone came down to the dining hall and sat at tables for ten, and big bowls of vegetables, potatoes, and platters of meat were passed around the table.  Nothing had changed, but I was still in for a surprise.  I was the last one down for dinner, but I didn’t pay much attention to who else was there until I heard, “Matty!”
I looked in the direction of the voice, then I looked again, “Charity?”
Charity gave a mock look of surprise, “You did remember. See anyone else you remember?”
Only then did I look around the dining room. “Wha…” Nearly everyone from my age group from all those summers and Christmases growing up was there. “What are all you guys doing here?”
Dana chimed in (like he always had growing up), “We figured it was time for a reunion.”
“Yeah, we want to see you find your way back in from the float.”  Byron.  Moose’s son.  Count on him to not let me forget the float incident, too.
I shook my head.  “You guys can’t get enough of that, can you?  Did you know it inspired me to become a competitive swimmer?”
Dana called out, “How competitive?”
I shrugged.  “Didn’t get selected in the Olympic Trials, but at least I got asked to compete.”
Charity tugged on my arm, “Come on!  Sit down.  Dinner’s getting cold.”
We sat down to eat and hash over old times.

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