I spent eight summers in Waupaca, Wis., as a boy at camp. As I drift in a rowboat on the shallows of Old Beach, with chestnut velvet reeds and willow catkins scraping and thudding the boat bottom, I watch fish dash in and out of an old sunken tree-this is the first memory I recall when stressed.
Sometimes I need to concentrate on a banal task, but a sound or smell sends me back.
If you were to see the sun glisten on the lake near dusk or hear the crackling of a camp- fire among the cricket strains or smell the pine floating on the warm air, you'd have trouble concentrating, too. What a nice problem to have.