Cyokamo.
The name
brings to mind so many things: images,
sounds, tastes, and smells.
I remember
the sight of a scummy pond and a row of tall swings. There is the chapel that was really nothing
special, but it was the location of many a transformation.
Then there
were the sounds: splashing in the
swimming pool, the creaking of the cabin door.
And the sound of worship, teaching, and prayer.
There is the
taste of kool-aid turned into snow cones
on a hot afternoon, and who could forget the smell of homemade campmade
cinnamon rolls on Saturday morning.
