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In a previous column I shared the "love letters" from 1918 that I bought at a flea market in Maine and my surprise when they mentioned Eagle Camp on Lake Champlain in Vermont.
The writer, Vi, kept her beau, Seth M. Kalberg, who was back in Boston, informed of her every move and expectations. She had fun with friends but also wasn't used to the outdoors:
"Just a line for I am feeling quite miserable. I think I stayed out in the sun too long "¦ I had a nose bleed and I never have one "¦ I'm just going to stay up long enough to see if anyone has brought the mail tonight for I didn't get a letter from you this A.M. We are going to AuSable tomorrow morning and will be gone all day. I do hope I have a letter from you tonight."
The next morning: "I'm all right this A.M. but didn't get a letter from you "¦ I will send you a wire if I should come home Friday for I will have company if I want until Saturday "¦"
Take that — no letter!
Most activities weren't too taxing however: "Every time I go out to sit down I take Lorna Doone (a novel) with me. First I read a line, dream a line and then sleep a line, then I start all over again."
The food was good and fresh: "We had the dandiest chicken dinner this noon and we have strawberries from the garden. I do hope I shall be here when their peas are ripe. Everything is put on the table and you help yourself and as soon as the dishes are emptied they are re-filled and everybody up here eats just as much as I do — and I eat more than ever!"
BACON BAT
After seeming a little miffed that she didn't get his letters, on June 21 Seth redeemed himself: "You can't imagine how I appreciate these letters in the morning, so you see I do look for them!"
For a twist on a cookout, the campers did something I've never heard of before: "Tonight six of us took our supper and went down on the rocks near the edge of the lake and had a bacon bat. We built a dandy fire with the drift wood around and it was very smooth and dry so it burned up nicely and then we cooked our bacon on sticks and it certainly tasted good."
Vi went on to report that when they were stuffed with bacon, some girls read, some knitted and some did nothing. Vi kept the fire burning.
On June 22, 1918, the heavy rain drove the campers out of their tents and into a bungalow where the camp manager, Mr. Perry, played the organ. —¦ there are lots of hymn books around. Mr. Perry was a minister once upon a time and usually (goes) on Sunday to a little place he built in the woods. He has an altar made out of stones. I understand this morning he was asked to preach in the village so we didn't have the pleasure. I hope we hear him tonight for he is a character "¦ sixty-five and there isn't a thing he can't talk about intelligently and just think, he answers all the correspondence himself on a typewriter "¦ and does a very neat job of it."
The cozy fire must have given her a fit of homesickness. She closes with how she is looking forward to going home for the Fourth of July: "Have you made any plans as to where you would like to go? You know any place you say will be perfectly agreeable to me. Goodnight dear, Vi."
There are three more letters, so stay tuned for the continuing story of "Vi and Kal" coming in future columns.
One last thought: Please be kind to each other. The world needs more kindness.
Susan Tobias lives in Plattsburgh with her husband, Toby. She has been a Press-Republican newsroom employee since 1977. The Tobiases have six children, 18 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. They enjoy traveling to Maine and Colorado, and in her spare time, Susan loves to research local history and genealogy.
Reach her by e-mail at: writertobias@gmail.com
