Having a "traditional" 9-5 (which in New York translates into an 8-6) job means that summer doesn't mean what it used to.
As a kid I went to camp. For 11 amazing years I spent my summer time sleeping in cabins, forgetting to wash my hair or change out of my swim suit, writing letters home, building fires, looking at bugs, playing capture the flag, riding horses, canoeing, swimming, drinking orange-aide and boondoggling... so much boondoggling. I was so lucky.
My first sleep away experience was for two nights. It was a church camp and I went with my sister. That summer was so hot that they made us drink salt water so we didn't get dehydrated. There was a pool. I made 8 gods-eyes. I slept in a cabin with other girls and looked at stars and ate marshmallows and sang. We sang a lot. I loved it.
I was 8 the next summer, and my parents agreed to send me to camp for two weeks. The deal I made with my mother about it was if I could learn to do my own hair, I could go to camp. I am certain there were more contingencies to this agreement, but that is the one I took to heart and still remember. I learned how to put my own hair in a pony-tail and I felt like the smartest person in the world. Those two weeks I was so home-sick I was actually sick. I cried every night. I wept and sobbed and missed my mom and dad. But only at night. During the day I ran and played and sang and crafted like a champ. But at night I ached for home. A friend who was also at camp stayed only one week and apparently (I have no memory of this) when her parents came to pick her up they took one look at my ratty crumpled appearance and called my mom immediately, telling her that I was homesick and struggling. I remember my counselors names from that summer - Marsha and Bridget. I must have driven them crazy, but they were always kind. They always held my hand and told me it would be fine. Those two women (they were probably 19) were champions and I will always be grateful to them. I cried every night to go home, but on the last day of camp I did NOT want to leave.
That was the beginning. The next ten summers were spent on the shores of Stoney Lake in middle of nowhere Michigan, and they were awesome. When I got too old to be a camper, I started working as a counselor. In college, when my friends worked summer internships I worked at camp. The first year I didn't pack all my belongings into a smelly too-small trunk was so hard. And now, almost 15 years later, I still miss it. I don't miss the $200/week paycheck or only having 6 hours off a week, or the dirt and mold or the yelling or the camp drama - but I miss the moments. I miss the peace that comes with routine, I miss the simplicity of raising the flag each morning and lowering it each night before dinner. I miss singing loud repeat-after-me songs with kids who cannot wait to scream Boom-Chicka-Boom right back at you. I miss walking thru the woods to get where you're going. I miss sitting at a campfire with someone playing guitar. I miss making arts n crafts. I miss laughing about nothing with people who in the real world I would never laugh with. I miss the isolation and detachment from reality. I miss being comfortable enough with people you can pee next to them behind a bush.
Summer camp changed and molded who I am. I am so thankful for the independence, the compassion, the strength and the creativity that going to camp taught me.
Right now, as I sit at a desk in the middle of Manhattan, I pine for the days of simple joys. Sounds so lame - but it is the truth. I couldn't work that job now. I am too different. I am too changed. But I am grateful for that time every single day.
boom chicka boom.
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