Fifty years ago, Dad and carpenter-in-residence Grandpa could-have-should-have built an Ark. They did not. They built our campground. Pity. We could have used an Ark. May had been unusually rainy, soaking the ground and slowing our progress. Then came June 1972.
(as I remember it)
*read after Gone Girls post.
“Hurry up girls! We are going to be late,” urged Mom, her normally melodic voice sounding anxious. I finished tying my beat-up Keds and carefully zipped…
“If we’re so smart, how come we aren’t rich?” came the conversation starter from Dad, as he cracked open a beer. A ripple of giggles and a few guffaws…
Father Joseph Patrick McDonough strode to the podium, robed in shamrock green, sweating profusely. It was a warm spring late morning Mass. He opened the…
Excerpts from my forthcoming memoir, Kampground Daze.

Kampground Daze