Family Camp

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.