When I was a kid, each summer my family would load up my mom’s green Chevy Vega or my dad’s Tradesman 100 van and take a camping trip to Speculator, New York. Those trips usually involved a stop at the Red Apple Rest.
Going out to eat was a treat back then. Something special. Perhaps that’s why 35+ years later I can still remember sliding a tray along the silver railing, looking at the food displays and marveling at the magnificence of cubed jello in a sundae glass.
A few weekends ago when Kenny and I pulled up in front of the Red Apple Rest’s crumbling facade, I felt a dull ache somewhere deep inside. There is a strange sensation that bubbles up when you see a happy part of your childhood disintegrate. Something like a panic sets in and you want to reach out and grab hold of everything that is slipping away. It’s probably less about the actual thing and maybe more about a piece of yourself. All that is left are wisps of memory.
Time indifferently marches on.