By Helen Coxe

Drive down that rutted road past the shaded spot where Dot always parked the beloved Woody. Eventually you reach the spot once occupied by the Lodge, the heart of this place that for two Julys was my summer camp.

The sun was directly overhead and hot. “Welcome! Have some bug juice!” I took the small paper cup of pink liquid from an outstretched hand. Bits of fruit pulp languidly floating on the surface must give it the name, I thought, as I took a tentative sip.

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