The rock is around here somewhere, I just know it.
It was here last week. Bud picked it up and asked me about it.
“No,” I said, “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the Klan.”
Scratched on one side of the smooth rounded dark gray rock, the kind that’s flat enough to be perfect for skipping, were the letters “KKK.” On the other side “1945”.
My father spent many summers working there as a counselor.
When he and my mother were dating, and the camp was in need of a nurse, he put her touch with the director and she was hired for the summer.
But some of my favorites pieces from the scrapbook are these. A scored rifle target —
Kamp Kill Kare is now a Vermont State Park. The Main House, shown in the first picture, still stands, and has been renovated.
If it was just a little closer, it might make for a nice day trip in the summer to see what he still remembers.
But it probably isn’t the same without that nurse.