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As summer wanes, I’m chasing flickers of nostalgia by the campfire

When I think about my carefree childhood days at a campground in northern Minnesota, I’m hit with a sense of nostalgia.

Early summer mornings, we squished blueberry pie filling between bread in the campfire sandwich-maker for a gooey breakfast. The adults parked themselves at the campfire pit, chitchatting all day while the kids ran circles around the grounds. We bounced from the old-school arcade to the swimming pool to the lake, melted ice cream from the canteen dripping off our elbows. At night, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers mingled with bug spray and laughter; we kids begged to sleep in each other’s accommodations as the parents chuckled at the din. Each year, we had at least one long weekend dedicated to pure summer bliss, and we were determined to make the most of it.

Nostalgia is a funny, mysterious thing. Sometimes a particular sound or smell will transport me back to a time and place, almost instantaneously (to this day, the smell of strawberry shampoo teleports me right back to being 8 years old, rushing to finish my shower at summer camp). I often find these moments charming, endearing, but they are also laced with a hint of sadness and longing. There’s something about those memories that triggers the feeling that something is missing in the present. Now that I live in a city, I often feel nostalgic outdoors. My childhood memories of being in nature are grounded in a sense of freedom and the endless possibilities of wide-open spaces, a feeling I now yearn for in my urban environment.

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