Campfires and clove cigarettes

I took shelter underneath the tiny huts they provided for us as we ripped tickets and wristbanded the drunken masses as they made their way into the Dave Matthews concert. Rusted Root had already taken the stage and the people just kept coming.

I loved being a ticket taker at SPAC that year, it was a great opportunity to hear bands I wouldn't have otherwise paid to see... John Fogerty, Willie Nelson, Tony Bennet, B-52s. And on the good days, I'd get invited into the amphitheater to help usher. I'd apparently made the right friends as the house manager always assigned me to the orchestra pit... Dave Matthews, Beck, Ben Folds Five, Natalie Merchant and the Lilith Tour, Barenaked Ladies... all within 20 feet of me.

That night, it was hard to stay warm. Even though it was late July, the rain just soaked through your bones. After I'd had my fill of the concert I headed to my beloved Chevy Cavalier, Remi, and pointed its nose in the direction of my second home for the summer, a camp on the river.

When I look back at my youth, that would be the summer that I could imagine seeing on the big screen as a coming-of-age movie. Day camp counselor in the mornings; concerts, ballet and orchestra at night; time spent with friends in the real world; the exhilaration of spending weekends away from the adults and surrounded by nature.

I was never a huge Tom Petty fan, but many of my friends were. That summer, Wildflowers became our anthem.

It was a cast of rotating characters with a few of us serving as the regular core. Those that were lucky enough to score some alcohol would drink and share with everyone, but there was never pressure to take part if you didn't want to.

Campfires and clove cigarettes, swimming in the river and Wildflowers on endless repeat.