blondes was more in evidence than previously. The good news was that nasty Kathleen had been replaced by Lena Howard, a stocky, warm-hearted, middle-aged woman who knew how to smile despite her bad teeth. Lena and her husband lived in Watertown. I loved Lena. On one of her weekends off, she asked if she could take me home with her.
No. We don’t mix with the servants.
That summer I was packed off to Sky Hollow Farm in Rochester, Vermont, for the whole summer. Sky Hollow was run by a teacher from the Brearley School in New York City, from which my mother had graduated in 1931. Sky Hollow was a more serious operation than the New Hampshire camp: twenty-five campers, several bunkhouses (no plumbing—only chamber pots in the bunkhouses and privies in the wild), a barn with horses to ride, hiking, campfires, and songs. Annette said I would love it.
Many of the campers were Brearley girls from New York City. All in my age group had completed second grade but were in every way stronger, braver, and more self-confident than I. Plus I had the wrong accent—Boston, no r’s—and the wrong clothes. I had pinkish-red denim jeans, shorts with pleats like mini culottes, and shirts with collars. The others had real blue jeans, gabardine shorts with white stripes down the sides, and tee shirts. My fellow campers taunted me. Because I capitulated to their torment, they gave me more.
Annette sent me long and loving letters full of sweet endearments which I cherished. One was headed “Dearest Laley Princesse Cublet Darling Bunny Gaga”—all her affectionate nicknames in a row with Gaga added for good measure. One of my bunkmates got hold of the letter, and for days all I heard from all corners of the camp was the sound of little girl voices derisively chanting “Laley Princesse Cublet Darling Bunny Gaga” until the storm spent itself, leaving that sweet intimacy shattered on the shore.
Early in August I received another long letter, telling me that I would not be coming home to Boston.
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