Home is where the heart is.

Wellesley is not my home. It never was. Neither is Worcester. When I think of home, when I think of the the place where the happiest moments of my life took place, where I first began to allow myself to feel, and where I first started discovering there was more to myself than I had thought, I think of none of these places. I think of the sun setting on Lake Winnepesaukee. I think of what it's like to open your front door in the morning and step out onto a baseball field. I think of the midday sun filtering through the forest, shining on the trail before me. I think of the only time in my life when I got to sit down and have great company at every meal. I think of going to bed at night and hearing a lone bugler play Taps and it still makes me cry.

When I think of home, there is no question in my mind where my home is. My home is Camp Belknap in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. I'm going home Labor Day weekend to visit my good friends the lake and the trees and the baseball fields and the tennis courts and dining hall and the cabins. Any of you who want to join me, or just get more info, drop me a line.