When we were in New England last week, I worked up the courage to visit my old summer camp. I hadn’t been back in almost ten years, so I thought a visit was overdue. As we drove through the leafy, rolling hills over to the river valley, I had some time to worry. I wasn’t sure I should go back. Would anyone at the camp still remember me? Would they want to see me? Would they think it was strange that I wanted to visit? I looked at the late afternoon summer storm clouds pursuing us overhead. Would it start to rain?
And why was I so worried??? After all, I spent thirteen straight summers at this camp. This place was like my home away from home. For me, camp was a placed to be young, healthy, confident, and most of all, myself. Sure, most of the staff were seasonal college students and wouldn’t know who the hell I was. But I knew the director and her family were still there. They’d remember me.
But what would they remember? Or should I say… how much would they remember? These people watched me grow up. And it was a bumpy process. So many good memories and so many things to be ashamed of. Sometimes, at this time of year, at midsummer, I lay awake, thinking about camp and how intense each day felt.
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There was a click and then the noise of a needle being placed on a record. Two seconds passed then a recorded bugle playing reveille bounced through the ancient loudspeakers. God, I loved camp. Last week, some of the British counselors hijacked the loudspeaker and played God Save the Queen. I slid out of my slippery sleeping bag and into my clothes. I didn’t even comb my hair; it just fell in place. Everyone moved slowly, especially the counselors who’d had the night off. I’d been awake when they came in at one in the morning.
I was the cabin waiter that day so I’d be spending a lot of the day at the dining hall. I headed out early, letting the cabin door slam behind me. I walked to the dining hall along the lake. The water was still and the cool air made the hairs on my bare legs stand up. At the dining hall, I grabbed my busboy bucket full of plates and silverware. I picked up sugar and syrup and butter from the kitchen. Outside, the flag raising song played. Everyone pushed in and the giant room filled with noise. When it was quiet and we were standing around the big round tables we sang grace. I omitted the words God and Lord as usual.
I munched on my frosted flakes and studied the names of foreign counselors that covered the walls. Each of their flags hung from the ceiling. I liked the symbols on the Korean flag. My counselor was going to be on lifeguard duty so I asked if anyone wanted to be buddies for free swim – just so I could be near her. After breakfast, I cleaned the table and ran back to my cabin. We had inspection today, so we took the towels off the rafters and shoved our clothes in our cubbies. At least I didn’t have to clean the bathroom.
My first class of the day was Jewelry. We braided strands of metal together to make bracelets. Then the noise was everywhere as we pounded them flat with big, wooden smacking mallets. I made one and spent the rest of the time wandering around the room; looking at all the cool stuff people had left behind. The arts and crafts building was built into the side of a hill and back by the kiln there was a huge boulder that protruded into the room. On the rafters, someone had painted old logos from 70’s rock bands I’d never heard of. My next class was windsurfing so I had my bathing suit under my clothes. I’d taken the class so many times I knew how to rig my own sail and board. I’d get the sail up and glide for a couple of minutes. Then when I lost my balance I’d leap into the cool, deep, water.
Lunch was gross and I almost got Sloppy Joe sauce on the card dad sent. After we ate, I cleared the mess and we stood up to sing “Father Abraham.” At each refrain we flailed part of our bodies until we were leaping around in spasms. After lunch I dozed on my bed. It was peaceful, listening to the small waves lapping outside the cabin door. If everyone was quiet, you could hear the kids yelling at the public beach across the lake. Sometimes, a motorboat would pass nearby and the waves would get slightly louder.
After the hour-long siesta was over, I ran across the soccer field to the rifle range. My 22 caliber bolt-action rifle had bad sights but I got two bulls-eyes in the prone position. Paul, my Kiwi instructor, tapped my foot and asked me where I learned to shoot like that. From you, of course, I answered, grinning, careful not to turn my torso to look at him. I was too tired by free swim. I sat by the water watching the raft rock and sway as the swimmers jumped off the diving tower.
At dinner, everyone was starving and I had to go back to the kitchen for thirds. We waited, watching for the chef to come out and hang the giant fork or spoon. Today was a spoon so we’d have pudding or Jello for dessert. When everyone had left, I wiped down the table one last time and waited for my turn with the broom and mop.
I found my counselor on the beach with the other girls, dragging a huge aluminum war canoe. My counselor sprayed us with bug spray and we climbed in. The mosquitoes could be vicious in the evening. Eventually, we got our paddles in unison and we sped across the lake, echoing repetitive camp songs. When we got close to the mouth of the river, we picked up our paddles and the canoe slid through a patch of lily pads. Noiselessly, we floated along, looking for turtles and lizards. A few years before, I’d walked through the swamp. I never forgot the feel of the knee-deep mud, the fear of the snakes and the leeches. We had a campfire on the beach before bedtime. Rob, the shaggy-haired counselor played guitar and sang folk songs. Michael told a story with sound effects and different voices.
By the time the bugle sounded the call to quarters it was past dusk. Everyone made their way back to their villages by flashlight. I went the other way, across the empty fields to the infirmary to get my nightly vitamin. When I got there, the kids were lined up, joking around as they waited for their medications by the light from the screen door. Once, when I was very little, I had passed out in the dining hall from heat exhaustion. My counselor brought me to the infirmary and I spent the day in the quiet screened-in sick room laying in bed and reading old MAD magazines.
After I got my vitamin, I headed back into the dark night. Halfway back to my cabin, I stopped and lay down on the dark soccer field. The sky was a clear expanse and I could feel the earth spinning underneath me. I wanted to hug the dirt - to embrace it - and never leave this place.
I got back to the cabin, climbed in my sleeping bag and pretended to fall asleep. The counselors crept over to my bunk and whispered how sweet I looked. After they left to go hang out on the picnic tables by the field, I pretended to wake up so I could talk to the other girls.
After an hour or two, everyone else was asleep. I lay there, searching my mind for the courage to go outside and talk to my counselors. I wanted as much of their attention as possible without seeming like a needy brat. I just wanted someone to hold me and take care of me. Last year, I told them I didn’t want to go home. They rubbed my back and sent me back to bed. I could tell them again but I doubted anything would change. They never believed me.
Instead, I lay there and tried not to think about all the snaps and creaks coming from the forest outside. I was supposed to be a brave and fearless wild-woman. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone to protect me.
Next: Part 2 - the fire
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