When I was seven years old, I liked living in my house and being responsible for nothing. When we traveled, my mother packed for me, unpacked for me, and told me what to wear. At eight, my father informed me if I made my bed every day, he would give me fifty cents every Friday after dinner.
Saturday’s meant baseball cards with that big pink stick of bubble gum and one comic book. Life was good.
But then something happened. The summer came around and, along with my brother and sister, I was shipped off to upstate New York. Camp Lakota in Wurtsboro. Summer camp. I was on my own. Nine other boys who looked like me living in a cabin for the next two months. I had to unpack my trunk and make a bed that looked nothing like the one I was used to.
I was scared and had no social skills. I had no idea who anyone was and wanted to go home. Oh, we played softball and basketball and went swimming, but all I wanted to do was leave. Why would these people who made my life so great for eight years ship me away for those warm summer months and then continue this practice for the next seven years?
The next summer, I was sent away to Camp Brookwood (or to be politically correct Brookwood Camps) in Glen Spey (not terribly far from Wurtsboro) that forced me to interact with boys, (and girls), and learn how to sail, swim, and grow less dependent on my parents.
Funny thing about that time. Social media has allowed me to engage with many of the people I spent those summers with. Ya know? The summers I hated.
Of course, as I sit back watching the tumult of riots due to a white cop killing a black man in handcuffs, waiting for the COVID vaccine, watching Trump clear a path for a photo op proving he’s a tough wartime president, I am reminded of those days.
It’s a few days past Memorial Day weekend. If I had remained in New York, school, or online or distance learning as it is now known would still be in session. In Palm Beach County, school officially ended last Friday. My younger son graduates virtually from High School this Friday.
That was another thing about summertime. Memorial Day. Summer was unofficially here. That last report card was coming. “It all counts now,” teachers told us. “Colleges look at everything.” Oy vey.
In Florida, my kids looked forward to Memorial Day. The school year was over. Done. Finished. Hello, summertime.
I have grown to enjoy the summer. The streets are quieter. Families take vacations. Everyone seems to be in a generally good mood.
Oh, did I mention summertime in Florida is also known as hurricane season? Did I mention that if just one these babies get close enough, everything I own could be wiped out? People could be trapped (hello Katrina) or worse. The latest technology allows weather experts to tell us where the storm is going, although I still don’t get why the European model differs so drastically from the American model.
Shutters could be in place at a moment’s notice. Outdoor furniture can be taken inside. Regular programming can be preempted to show us where the hurricane is every waking second. We can smell the fear. (Thank God for Netflix).
But for me? I’m looking at my Brookwood Facebook page. Campers and counselors have become teachers, doctors, lawyers, parents, and grandparents.
The weird kid became a successful businessman. The guy who used to hug his radio is an attorney. The guy who used to talk backward (you read that correctly) can still do so as I watched him on Youtube. One of my all-time favorite counselors is a doctor on the west coast. Some people have retired, like the counselor who became a New York City public school teacher. He used to walk into our bunk and inspect us before leaving for the first activity. I hated it, but I must say to this day, I fold my shirts properly and NOBODY can do better than me when it comes to hospital corners! The pictures that were vivid in my mind are now staring me in the face.
I didn’t know it at the time but sending me away to summer camp enabled me to learn how to interact with others. There was nobody to cry to when I struck out with the bases loaded or when somebody took the last piece of cake at dinner. You learn to make the best of it.
When I became a little older, one of my counselors told me something. “Never get upset at camp. Always be happy. One day, you will look back and the memories will bring a twinkle to your eye.” Of course, he went on to become a gynecologist.
This advice came in 1975. There was no way he could have known about social media, which enhances what I remember. But, he was right. I love summertime. I loved watching my kids when they weren’t worried about tomorrow’s test or the project due next week.
So while I sit, waiting to see what P.T. Barnum, masquerading as our president, will do next, I am in front of my computer, coffee in hand, looking at photos of a camp in the 1970s that was, well, filled with the greatest memories of my life.