I’d never been to
camp until last week. I was a town
pool/Jersey Shore kid in the summer, so, to me, camp was a vague compendium of
friends’ September stories and the coming-of-age angst and hijinx of movies like
“Dirty Dancing” and “Meatballs.” I
had a spotty knowledge of something called color wars and understood the
desperation for care packages but that was about it. There seemed to be an awful lot of sneaky behavior that took
place at camp, and many firsts—cigarettes, kisses, shaved legs-- but I had to
take it all with a grain of salt.
Who knew what really went on?
These tales were legend, but my imagination only went so far.
Don’t get me
wrong, I love the town pool and the Jersey Shore, but it was time to mix things
up a bit, show my son a variety of the panoply of summertime options that our
great nation has to offer. Last
year I heard my California cousin talking about something called “family camp.” Apparently she, her husband, and three
kids all went to sleep-away camp together and had a blast. So in June, I Googled “family camp New
England” and found three options.
Of course they were booked back in January, but I cold-called them all
and asked to be put on a wait list in case anyone cancelled last minute. Someone did.
Off we went to
YMCA family camp on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. Wow, was it beautiful! 60 or so cabins dotted the edge of the
lake so that everyone had a view of either the sunset or moonrise. Ours was teensy—just big enough for 2
twin beds and a small night table between us. Our amenities totaled 1 lamp, 1 fan, a broom and 2 blankets
each—plus all the spiders you could successfully ignore. The windows opened easily and the
screens had no holes; the cross-breeze was cool and lovely. The lodge and dining hall buildings
were large, shingled, wooden affairs with high, beamed ceilings and long, wide
porches with ample tables and chairs.
Footpaths crisscrossed the tree-shaded grounds connecting every possible
camp game you can imagine from shuffleboard to air hockey and all the leisure
and competitive ball sports in between.
The tiny store sold requisite ice cream, swag and candy bars and loaned
out ping-pong balls and board games.
None of the courts were closed for repair and all the games had all the
parts.
For meals, campers
were assigned to a table for the week—like a cruise—and took turns picking up
platters of family style camp food and taking each other’s dirty dishes up to
the window. The salad bar was varied
and could augment any craving for greens beyond the typical parade of
carbs. We got to know the other
families at our table, who had been coming to this family camp on the same week
every year for 41, 37 and 16 years respectively. We learned that after the first year, a family is
grandfathered in if they choose to return and might have the same cabin, year
after year until they die, at which point it’s offered to their kids. The older gentleman next to me pointed
to a thirtyish mom with three young kids and told me that he’s known her since
she was an infant—for one week a year, for her whole life.
After dinner on
the first night, my son and I signed up at the big board for some tournaments:
backgammon, chess and mother-son bocce, ping-pong and shuffleboard. There were others, but we were going to
ease into things. There was also a
talent show sign-up on Thursday night.
My son took off to join a gaggle of other pre-tweens lining up for
foursquare and I headed to the craft shop. Just behind the outdoor lending library, a one-room building
stood—the front facing wall completely made of windows. Inside were 6 long, wide tables, loads
of little stools, and on the walls every conceivable color of bead, gimp, paint,
dye, kind of leather, metal, pliers, hammers, brushes, chisels-- all the craft
supplies you could imagine. I’d
died and gone to heaven.
I learned that in
the mornings, after breakfast, the kids would be heading off to “program” where
they would be swept away by peppy counselors to do camp stuff with other kids
their age until lunch time when they joined their parents again. They might swim or kayak, water ski or
canoe, tie-dye, play tennis or hike.
It was at that time that parents took a yoga class or did boot camp, and
when the craft shop was blissfully quiet.
I made a beeline for the soldering tools and leather stamps, where time
flew by for me until the lunch bell rang and I ran back to meet my son.
The afternoons
were free to do as much or as little as you wanted and after dinner the counselors
organized games of capture the flag and softball, movie nights and dances. By Tuesday I met a violinist,
clarinetist and guitar player who had brought their musical instruments. We rehearsed a few times then performed
a song as a seasoned quartet for Thursday night’s show, which by then had a
robust line up of annual favorites—hams one and all. Some of the tournaments fell apart-- which was fine with
me—and my son won the chess after beating out only two others. We watched the end of the week triathlons,
cheering on our new friends, and then packed up our cabin and swept.
Our week of camp
was as exciting as it was relaxing.
The sound of the lake lapping just feet from my pillow has followed me
home and lulls me to sleep. I know
that my son’s experience was not the same as being away from one’s parents, but
he may still do that someday. And
I know that as a parent at camp with my kid, I missed the “real camp” boat and
that it’s nothing like what my friends remember. But now I have camp memories, too, of dirty hair and bug
juice. I think we’ll go back. And back.
