Summer Camp

“Well color me happy!” Grampa said. He held the rock up to the light and it shnined through, accentuating the rock’s lacy layers.

“It sure is red,” I said.

“This is a Lake Superior Agate. Don’t usually find ‘em this part of Lake Huron.”

I slid my cold hand into his large one. He wrapped it around mine and said, “You’re awfully cold, honey.”

I reached for the agate and he gave it to me. I held it up to the sun and watched the light play in the translucent layers of the thin rock and set the red on fire. Grampa found beautiful rocks effortlessly. “It’s a rare find,” I said, echoing his words from other rock hunting trips.

“Sure is! It’s yours.”

“Really?” Grampa didn’t usually part with rare finds.

“Sure! Your cousins are greedy. You appreciate the beauty.”

“I’m greedy. I’ve never seen anything this beautiful. I want it all for myself.”

Grampa guffawed. “You and me both, honey.”

I clutched it in one cold hand while Grampa held the other cold hand. Warmth from his hand penetrated my icy fingers and crept through my hand. We clunked through the pebbles on the beach, me in my sandals and Grampa in his waders, his sack of rocks slung over his back. It was late August and the water was cold and the sun was setting with a cool breeze blowing in off the lake. I shivered again. I relished the cold wind across my face and Grampa’s warm hand.

“Tomorrow we’ll go into Roger’s City,” Grampa said.

That meant ice-cream! I smiled up at him and nodded. The best part of summer was Camp Grampa on the shore of Lake Huron.

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “color/colour”. 

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