I didn't write about the most historical (god how I hate that word now) presidential inauguration in American history, for which I was physically present.
I didn't write about my playing Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream, a performance I have dreamed of delivering my entire life.
I didn't write about my internship at CBS, or my stint with KCRW, that's landed me everywhere from the East Wing of the White House with the Obama transition team to the Senate building with Tom Daschle.
I'm choosing to write about death. And community. And meaning.
Not about making sense, or faith, or belief.
But about death on earth.
I work at a day camp. I work at the same day camp that I went to as a kid, that all my brothers went to. Not only did it define my childhood, but I have had the best summers of my life working there. I'm not going to try and describe how the camp works, what an overnight is, Tournament Day, Gus' Games, Scoobedy-doo, staff broomball, or Family Night. I'm not going to try and tell you about the best day of last summer, when I participated in a foot NASCAR race, complete with a George Bush cut out, men in sleeveless shirts, and a pit-stop where I got Pop-Tarts shoved in my mouth and sparking cider sprayed all over me. By not being able to explain it, by not being able to capture in words the effect this place has had on me, I hope that only acts as a testimony to how incredible, in the truest sense of the word, the community is there. For 6 weeks, you are inseparable from the 50 other staff memebers and the 250 campers, you become friends with the unlikeliest of people, and for 6 weeks you let go of inhibition and let yourself jump in a kiddie pool in front of hundreds of parents, singing about pool parties and dancing with intertubes; but for the rest of your life you are part of a family. This past summer, there were days I'd show up to work and feel more at home than when I woke up in my bed that morning.
That family just lost two members.
I feel strange detailing it all here. I don't know the ethics of naming these people and how they died.
There's something I can say though. Curt and Nick were as vital, as cherished, as loved as any father or son in a family. Day camp is a place made not by a few people, but by everyone who has and does work there, by every camper and counselor who has sat at Big Tree, hated watermelons after Tournament Day, knows all the words to "Magic Penny" including the fact that you have to sing the chorus repeatedly even when asked to stop, and can find their way to Jolly Roger's Cave in the dark. These men were two of those people. They were a kid's counselor, they were a counselor's mentor, they were a staff member's broomball teammate, a superhero, a screaming banshee, an expert at pie-ing others, and themselves, in the face.
As a camper, I mourned the loss of my favorite counselor as he moved on to bigger and better things, i.e. law school, and could not understand why someone would rather spend their life pursuing an actual career, when they could be playing Wild Kingdom with me in the Little Hills. I was an odd camper-most of the 'cool' girls from my class were in my group, and considering how strange they thought I was during the year, I figured summers wouldn't change that, and took to bringing books to camp so I'd have something to do.
All it took was this counselor giving me a killer nickname and sitting next to me at lunch, and I put the books down, ready to jump in the pool for Sharks and Minnows.
He might not think that meant anything to me, although I still talk to him from time to time, and he still calls me by the nickname that gave me enough confidence to make friends. To this day, when I get emails addressed to Sweet Shrimp, I can't help but smile. All it took was six weeks, one counselor, and two words.
Curt and Nick did the same for countless campers. Made them feel part of a family, part of a whole, gave them a place to be entirely themselves and entirely comfortable with that. Cliche? Maybe. Wildly important to anyone between the ages of 6 and 11? Absolutely. Camp is somewhere you are loved no matter what, accepted no matter what, and have the time of your life no matter what. While people graduate from camp, they never really leave. They visit, they have awards named after them, they have kids of their own and you see them in the carpool line.
Curt and Nick have left camp. And while they never will be forgotten, there is a huge hole that cannot be filled. When I picture the overnight, I see Curt sitting by the fire, talking about his days on staff, and the importance of day camp. I can see Nick directing the cars through the carpool line, kids draping off of him like a human jungle gym.
I can't see camp without them. It's like trying to picture home without my mom in it. Impossible. Heartbreaking. Unsettling.
It is hard to be so broken up thinking about a place that has brought me so much joy.
This is the first summer I won't be working, the first summer I won't be an active part of the family. But my younger brother will be on staff, and my youngest brother will (hopefully) be a camper for the first time. Camp will be different without Nick and Curt. But, knowing the camp family, we will be stronger. We will continue to create memories, to build a family, and to have the best summers of our lives.
Nick and Curt, I miss you both, and I hope wherever you are, there's an abundance of rubber animals and a good game of peaceball going. I hope you left for the same reason my favorite counsleor left-for things bigger and better. We'll hold down the fort, even when the Suprisingly Untalented but Rad try and invade. And we will remember that the kids come not for the hills, not for Big Field, not for the all camp waterfight. They come for the counselors, for their camp family, and for the best summer of their lives.
And for you, we will keep giving it to them. And ourselves.
How's the Weather?
14 years ago
