Wenonah Writes

 Wenonah Specials


Our Camp Wenonah Reunion - 2007

Judy “Counselor” Cole
In August ’07, we traveled to Maine.
Most bunked at Camp Tapawingo, thanks to Jane.
The weather was perfect throughout our stay.
Surroundings were reminiscent of wonderful “Wenonah days”.

Whether rekindling old friendships, or starting new ones,
 We enjoyed porch conversations and playing some Newcome.
Singing in the dining hall at the top of our lungs,
 Each meal together was just loads of fun.

It was good to journey to “Wenonah, the camp we loved best . . .”
We shared special memories of Herman, may he peacefully rest.
Some of us walked the grounds while others waded in Tricky Pond.   
Too soon “dock lunch” was over, oh, where had the time gone?

Forties, Fifties, or Sixties, no matter the year,
        Wenonah for Girls, Inc. will forever be dear.
Was it the people, or was it the place?
It’s your turn now to fill in this space _______________________


Trickey Pond
      by Kena Milberg September 4th ,2007
 (upon returning from the reunion)
It must be the water,
We're all infected.
Though the symptoms vary
From an ache for perfection,
To an insatiable thirst for knowledge,
A hankering for independence,
And a need for interdependence,
A fever for competition
Yet an acceptance of loss.

Some display a nausea
When justice isn't served,
And then there's the itch for freedom
That won't go away
An urge to be heard without yelling
And to sing at the top of our lungs.

Palpitations awakening our hearts
With unconscious love of life
Some pine for the forests,
Some gasp for clean air,
And others crawl to swim in clear waters.

All are yearning for a clean planet
To leave to our children's children.
Even though they will probably
Never gulp the water of Trickey Pond
They have imbibed it through osmosis
Which is all we can ask.
The symptoms are varied ,
Yet point to one thing,
The need to make a difference
To build a healthier world.
So let's blame the water
And just say we're a part
Of a loving community of beating hearts.
We say we're infected
And that's a good thing
Infected to laugh and play and sing.
To be powerful women
Members of a group
Who haven't been duped
By the oft swallowed waters of Trickey Pond.



by Ruth Passweg Dunkle



I don't weep.

I can cry; my eyes do well up,

But rarely more than a tear or two falls

For September 11, drowned kittens, a stubbed toe.

I have not had a solid liberating, blubbering,

Slobbery, sniveling sorrow in years.

No wild ululation, rending of clothes,

Scarring of flesh bewails the departure of loved ones.

No need for closure for I feel no loss.

I don't laugh.

I smile, chuckle, chortle or snicker,

so genteel and restrained.

I write funny; I make jokes where others laugh,

But I miss the belly-shaking, "Omigod I gotta pee" guffawing,

The snorting milk-out-of-nose 

" Stop you're killing me!" snarfing.

I am often tickled but only briefly,

Then I revert to even keel.

Holding "steady as she goes”, bound for nowhere.