Carl died recently at the ripe old age of 93. I knew him way back when I was in my 20s and we had summer camp and our church in common, both of us trying to save the world.

Carl was always on committees searching for ways to help youths, as well as other lost souls.

I moved away, retired from teaching and moved to Parlin Township. My husband and I opened a remote campground in western Maine, in a town with a population of seven.

I lost touch with Carl, who continued to serve his church and the beloved camp where I served as counselor, waterfront director and cook.

Margaret was our mentor in the camping business and after she sold, I paid a visit, sharing wonderful memories.

Our last get-together was followed by a tour of the area and all the preserved thoughts she expressed of long ago. My favorite story was of the statue in the center of York Village.

But time marches on and the next time I listened to the stories of Margaret’s life it was as told by her son-in-law at her funeral. I wish I had visited one more time, but I was too late.

Cal was a different story, as his niece called telling us he was near the end of his life. We scheduled an immediate visit, dodged all the oxygen tubes and spent a delightful day reminiscing, no talk of death but of life well spent.

This time we weren’t too late.

Now in my 70s, I hope people come visit me to relive our memories. One such visit was from a nurse just wanting to say thanks for teaching her to swim so many years before.

There have been other contacts from “kids,” now adults, from my beloved camp, hoping I would attend the 50th reunion.

I didn’t go, being on a cane, pride wanting them to remember me as a vibrant young person.

My loss, as it may be too late for another one.

I encourage everyone, young and old, to make contact with special folks in their lives. My list is still long, and this time I hope I won’t be too late.

— Special to the Telegram