My mission to get my parents to send me to overnight camp began when I was five years old. I would lay, curled up on the couch for hours, and listen to my dad’s stories of his fondest childhood memories. Nine times out of ten, it began with “At Camp Seneca…” His stories included crazy adventures through the outdoors chasing snakes, belting campfire songs at sunset, learning the constellations, and bonds with friends you just can’t form at home.
I counted down the seconds until it was my turn. The thought of packing up my clothes in those big old duffels, being on a color war team, and having a seven week long sleepover, sounded more than right up my alley. I could picture my bed, the one with the soccer pillow, and orange everything. I just could not wait to march off to the dining hall arm and arm with my CBFF (camp best friend forever). You could say I was a camp girl from the get go.
I was eleven years old when my dream became a reality. I popped out of bed, took my last hot shower of the summer, threw on my camp shirt, and marched out the door. I had absolutely zero hesitation about boarding a bus, filled with complete camp obsessed strangers, bound for a destination over two hours from my home. As the Greyhound bus pulled away and the smiley, upbeat college aged counselor took role, my parents were emotional wrecks. I just had no time to focus on the fact that I wouldn’t get a hug from them until visiting day.
That summer I fell in love. I fell in love with every single aspect of overnight camp. Waking up to revelry and having breakfast in a dining hall filled with chants, cheers, and announcements was a great way to start my day. The mornings that I shivered my way into the pool for instructional swim, or the time I had a complete and utter nervous breakdown at the top of the zip line tower were traumatic at the time but memories I will tell my children about. I played gaga and dodge ball with girls from other bunk’s every single day for afternoon activity. My job was literally to be a kid, do kid things, and have the greatest weeks of my life. I fulfilled that task and still to this day, pack up my over-sized duffle and roll into camp every June.
When most of my other friends are suiting up for a day at the office, fulfilling internship number five, I am rolling out of bed, bun head and all, moseying down the hill for flag raising. I spend my summers in a bubble, also known as Camp Manitou, in Oakland, Maine. My mornings are spent attempting to make a bunk, home to fifteen 10 year old boys, look pristine for when the judges come in for inspection. I become the sunscreen police before sending the boys to their morning activities and getting off to mine. Intense college league events, comforting a homesick camper and getting the pickiest of eaters to eat dinner, are just a few of the challenges a camp counselor faces on the daily.
Having camp as my summer job has given me more than any pay check will ever be able to match. It’s given me a second family, a role, and a home away from home. Not to mention a wardrobe filled with sweatshirts, color war t-shirts and a dorm room filled with camp pictures, signs, and mementos. Anyone who knows me knows I am borderline obsessed with camp. August doesn’t mean camp ends, it means the countdown to next season begins. Texts from camp people can make the darkest day brighter and walking down memory lane camp edition is my favorite past time.
So for all those camp-loving college folks bogged down with exams, papers, and snow for miles; it will be here soon. Summer days by the lake, watching intense water basketball games, ending evenings with taps, cookies and milk, and flashlight time, can’t come soon enough.
