Camp: Day 2

I slept pretty well last night. I had some trouble going to sleep, but not too bad. That doesn’t make today any easier, though. I’ve spent most of the day wondering what’s going on at Camp Trico.

I wonder if she’s up yet?

I wonder how she slept?

I wonder if they had anything she likes for breakfast?

I wonder if it’s raining?

It’s lunchtime. I wonder what they’re having for lunch?

I wonder if they’ll have “flat time”?

As you can tell, I’m feeling a little neurotic today. With cause if you ask me.

I went to camp a few times as a child. I’m not talking about Sumatanga. I went there to work as a counselor in high school. I’m talking about going to camp as a camper. I was no older than 7 or 8 the first time I was shuffled off to summer camp.

For at least 2 summers, maybe 3, my parents sent my brother and I to Woodmen of the World camp. Woodmen of the World, as you may or may not know, is an insurance company. Somehow our being customers granted my parents the privilege of disposing of their two boys for a week.

Sometime after the thermometer hit 95° I would notice a fresh spring in my mom’s gait, a newfound pleasantness in her voice. With a “whistle while your work” effectiveness, she would direct us as we packed a week’s worth or clothes and toiletries. A day later my brother and I were wrangled into the car for the short drive to the Royal Avenue Recreation Center. Once there we boarded a Joiner Bus headed to a barren spot in the woods somewhere south of Cullman, AL.

Most of my memories of WOW camp are vague. More like a faded watercolor painting than HDTV. Maybe a faded Polaroid snapshot is a more accurate description. Shooting targets at the rifle range. Missing targets at the archery range. The swimming test. Playing in the pool. Paddle boats in the lake. Moments more than memories, really.

I remember a couple of moments in more vivid detail. Full color digital motion picture quality. One is not terribly traumatic and only slightly disconcerting as it relates to my daughter at camp.

I remember wanting desperately to be liked, especially by my counselors. I realized early on that being funny often equaled being liked. Unfortunately it took me a little longer to learn to be funny. (Honestly, I’m still working that one out). I came up with a short (less than a minute) one-man show designed to win the affections of my counselor and cabin-mates. (Don’t read too much into the word affections. I never had one of those camp experiences.) I’ll spare you the details, but sum up my comedy routine as this: a profanity laced (because when is profanity not funny?) barely chuckle inducing homage to Lloyd Bridges’ character in Airplane! (“Looks like I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue.”) It flopped.

My other vivid memory is much more troubling for me now as a parent of a child at camp. I grew up a “Momma’s Boy.” I didn’t like being away from home, especially for an extended time. It took me a long time to grow out of that. (If I ever did.) This particular year my fellow campers were making the week especially difficult. I don’t remember what happened or when it happened, but somehow I alienated the entire camp.

A lack of friends leads to a lack of distraction. A lack of distraction quickly led to thoughts of home, and more specifically to Mom. Finally after dinner one night, I’d had enough. I remember sitting in the damp grass and crying uncontrollably. I went as far from the other campers as I could. I have no idea where I was supposed to be, but I ended up outside the cabin of the camp director. His cabin was built on stilts. It looked more like a beach house than a camp cabin.

I noticed lights on inside. The front door was open. Through the screen door I could see our director and another staff person milling about and talking. I found a large propane tank in front of the cabin that was positioned almost directly in front of the stairs leading to his front door.

I climbed atop the cylinder and continued my crying. I watched the director and cried. I waited, hoping he would come down and witness my plight. At the very least he would let me call home so I could hear my mothers voice. Let her assure me that I would be all right for the few days left at camp. But she would hear the tortured nature of my voice. She would know the heinous acts of exclusion I had been subjected to, by my own brother. Then the guilt would set in. She would know my pain, and her guilt would equal, or better yet, exceed that pain.

But he wouldn’t come down. He didn’t even look outside. It was getting dark now, and, in a rare stroke of luck, the propane tank was located directly under a security light. Still he did not notice me. Since his door was open, I knew my only hope was sound. I sobbed. More and more. The volume of each blubber surpassed that of the prior sob.

That’s where the memory ends. Tiny Scott, perched on a large silver cylinder filled with liquid accelerant. Alone. Heart-broken. Sobbing. Hoping to be seen or heard.

God, I hope she’s having a good time.